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What if after Jon kills her, Daenerys ended up in the past?
***
Daemon froze. For a heartbeat, he thought it must be a trick of the torchlight.
But the hair spilling down the girl’s back was silver.
Not pale gold. Not the washed-out blond of Lys.
Silver.
Bright as moonlight.
Slowly, the girl lifted her head. Her eyes were pale violet, the color of lilacs in spring, and filled with naked terror. She wore only a thin, translucent shift that clung to her narrow frame. In the wavering torchlight, Daemon could see the bruises plainly: dark finger-shaped marks along her arms, mottled purple shadows down her legs, and even beneath the thin cloth where it stretched across the fragile cage of her ribs.
Too small.
Seven hells, she could hardly be older than five summers.
Something ancient stirred in Daemon’s chest. A strange tightening beneath his ribs, sharp and certain all at once.
Like calls to like.
Blood to blood.
A dragon knows its own. -
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