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dragons are fire made flesh. she had read that in one of the books ser jorah had given her as a wedding gift.
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they never saw me for a queen, she thought bitterly, only an afternoon's amusement, a horse girl with a curious pet.
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flakes of ash drifted upward from a brazier, and dany followed them with her eyes through the smoke hole above. flying, she thought. i had wings, i was flying. but it was only a dream.
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she was the blood of the dragon, but ser barristan had warned her that in that blood there was a taint. could i be going mad? they had called her father mad, once.
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"if i let meereen's old brick walls defeat me so easily, though, how will i ever take the great stone castles of westeros?"
"as aegon did," ser jorah said, "with fire."
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ser barristan knew no more of dragons than the tales every child hears, but he knew targaryens. daenerys had been riding that dragon, as aegon had once ridden balerion of old.
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“i would give hazzea back to you if i could,” she told the father, “but some things are beyond the power of even a queen. her bones shall be laid to rest in the temple of the graces, and a hundred candles shall burn day and night in her memory.”
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"i know what aegon proved. i mean to prove a few things of my own."
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home? the word made her feel sad. ser jorah had his bear island, but what was home to her? a few tales, names recited as solemnly as the words of a prayer, the fading memory of a red door …
— “you must be my children,” she told the dragons, “my three fierce children.”
— ghost was closer than a friend. ghost was part of him.
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