Pentos, 297 AC – Sixth Moon, an hour past dawn
The manse was still half-asleep when I left my chambers. Servants moved like ghosts through the corridors, heads bowed, afraid to meet the eyes of the dragons they fed. The air smelled of lemon blossoms and warm bread, but beneath it lingered the sour note of fear. Good. Fear was honest. Fear could be used.
I wore plain black linen today—no embroidery, no jewels. Just a sleeveless tunic that left my arms bare and loose trousers tucked into soft boots. The serum had done its work overnight; the cloth strained slightly across shoulders that had never been this broad before, and the belt sat lower on hips that had narrowed and hardened. I looked like what I was: a weapon wearing a prince's skin.
First stop: the west wing.
Daenerys's door was painted pale green and carved with little lemon trees—Illyrio's idea of kindness. I knocked twice, soft enough that only someone awake would hear.
The door opened a crack. One violet eye peered out, then widened. The door swung fully open.
She stood there in a simple sleeping shift the colour of sea-foam, silver hair tousled from sleep, clutching a thick, leather-bound book to her chest like a shield. I recognised it at once:Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters, the one with the red dragon embossed on the cover. She had read it so many times the spine was cracked.
"Dae—" she started, and the name died on her tongue.
For a heartbeat she simply stared. The smile that had begun when she saw it was me faltered, then vanished. Her gaze travelled over me—my shoulders, my arms, the new set of my jaw, the way I filled the doorway like I had grown a foot overnight instead of two inches of muscle. Her lips parted, but no sound came.
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.
"Morning, little storm," I said gently, using the nickname I had given her in Braavos when the rain leaked through the roof and she cried because the thunder sounded like Father laughing.
She swallowed. "You… you look different."
"I feel different." I kept my voice low. "Are you all right?"
The book trembled in her hands. She looked down at it as if it might protect her. "I heard them last night. Viserys and the magister. They were laughing about… about selling me to a horselord. Forty thousand screamers, they said. Like I'm a broodmare."
Her voice cracked on the last word. Thirteen years old and already learning the price of silver hair.
I crossed the room in two strides and knelt so we were eye to eye. "Look at me, Dany."
She did. Tears shimmered, but they had not fallen yet. Good girl.
"Viserys told me once that I would marry one of my brothers," she whispered. "To keep the blood pure. Like Aegon and Naerys, or Jaehaerys and Shaera, like mother and father. I thought it would be you, because you were kind and loving." A pause, small and heartbreaking. "I wanted it to be you."
Everything inside me went very still.
"I'm not a child anymore," she continued, fierce now. "I know what he means to do. I heard what the Dothraki do to women. I'm frightened, Daeron."
I took the book from her hands and set it aside, then took both of her small hands in mine. They were cold.
"Dany," I said, and I let every ounce of certainty I possessed bleed into the words, "do you still want to marry me?"
She blinked. Once. Twice. Then nodded, quick and sharp, cheeks turning rose.
"Yes."
"Then listen carefully." I squeezed her hands. "That marriage to the khal will never happen. I swear it on the Fourteen Flames and every dragon that ever flew. But we must play the game a little longer. When they speak of it, you will smile and bow your head and say nothing. You will let them believe they have won. Can you do that for me?"
She searched my face. "You're different," she said again, wonderingly. "Stronger. Like the princes in the stories."
"I am what I always should have been." I brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "One more question, and I need the truth. Do you want Viserys to sit the Iron Throne?"
Her answer came without hesitation. "No."
"Do you want to stay with him? To live the rest of your life looking over your shoulder for his hand?"
"No," she said again, softer but no less certain. "He frightens me. He always has. I only stayed because you were there."
The last piece clicked into place.
"Then trust me," I said. "In three moons everything changes. Until then, be the quiet little sister they expect. And when I tell you it's time, you come to me. No matter what you hear, no matter what you see. Promise me."
"I promise," she breathed.
I leaned forward and pressed my forehead to hers, the old Valyrian way. "Āeksio ñuha prūmia," I whispered. Master of my heart.
She echoed it back, voice trembling with sudden hope.
I left her standing in the shaft of morning sunlight, clutching her book again, but this time like it was a weapon instead of a shield.
The solar was already loud when I arrived.
Viserys held court at the head of the long table, dressed in crimson silk that clashed with his watery eyes. Illyrio lounged opposite him, rings flashing as he tore apart a peach with wet, smacking bites. Servants hovered like anxious birds.
Conversation stopped the moment I stepped through the archway.
Viserys's goblet froze halfway to his lips. Illyrio's heavy-lidded eyes narrowed, then widened. A peach slice fell from his fingers and splattered juice across the white linen.
Gods, the silence was delicious.
Viserys recovered first. "Seven hells, Daeron. What happened to your face?"
I smiled—slow, lazy, the smile of a cat who has found the cream and the key to the larder both.
"Maybe this place is good for me," I said, crossing to the sideboard. I poured myself wine, though it was barely past dawn, and took a deliberate sip. "All that rich food and soft living. A man blooms, doesn't he?"
Viserys's gaze raked over me—my arms, my chest, the way the black linen clung to places it had hung loose only yesterday. Jealousy and suspicion warred on his face.
"You look like a damned brigand," he snapped. "All that muscle. What have you been doing, swinging swords in secret?"
"Among other things," I said pleasantly.
Illyrio watched us over the rim of his cup, small eyes glittering. The smile he wore never reached them.
I turned to Viserys and let my own smile widen. "Actually, brother, I've been thinking about your plan. The khalasar. Marrying our sister to Drogo." I set the cup down with a soft clink. "I've decided you're right."
Viserys blinked. Once. Twice. Then a triumphant grin split his face, all teeth and arrogance.
"At last!" he crowed, slapping the table so hard the plates jumped. "At last my little brother sees sense! I told you, Magister, did I not? Blood understands blood. Daenerys will do her duty, and the horselords will give us an army the usurper cannot dream of!"
Illyrio chuckled, a low, oily sound. "Indeed, Your Grace. A splendid match."
I inclined my head, the picture of dutiful obedience. "Whatever you decide, brother. You are the king."
Viserys preened. Illyrio's smile widened another fraction, but his knuckles were white around the stem of his cup.
I met the magister's eyes across the table and held them.
Three moons, fat man.
Three moons, and your pretty plans burn.
I lifted my cup in a small, private toast no one else understood.
"To family," I said softly.
Viserys laughed again, loud and drunken with victory.
Illyrio echoed the toast, but his hand trembled just enough for me to notice.