Pentos, 297 AC – Ninth Moon
Three moons is long enough for a man to learn every creak in a marble floor, every cough of a guard changing shift, every lie hidden behind a magister's smile.
I spent them smiling.
In the mornings I broke my fast with Viserys and Illyrio, laughing at my brother's jests (thin, cruel things that passed for wit in his mouth of a beggar king), praising his wisdom, calling him "Your Grace" with just enough warmth that he never noticed the mockery underneath. I let him crow about the coming khalasar, let him slap my shoulder and call me "good brother" while his eyes measured me like a butcher measures meat. I bowed my head when he spoke of Daenerys's duty, murmured that of course the dragon required a horde, that of course our sister would be honored.
Illyrio watched it all with the lazy contentment of a cat who believes the cream is already lapping itself into his bowl. He had set servants to spy on me (three maids who lingered too long when they made my bed, a one-eyed steward who always seemed to be polishing the same balustrade outside my door, a kitchen boy who followed me to the training yard with wide, frightened eyes). I gave them nothing. I rose at the same hour, ate the same portions of a growing youth, trained with the same castle-forged sword until sweat soaked the sand, then bathed and dressed in plain black linen like a good little exile prince.
At night, when the manse slept, I walked its veins.
Barefoot, silent as shadow, I mapped every corridor, every locked door, every loose tile that might betray a footstep. I learned which guards drank watered wine and which pissed behind the lemon trees at the third bell. I counted the steps from my chamber to Illyrio's solar, from the solar to the strongroom two levels below, from the strongroom to the postern gate that opened onto the stables. I learned the rhythm of the house the way a headsman learns the rhythm of a neck.
And every third night I slipped into Daenerys's rooms through the servants' passage behind the tapestry of the Doom.
She never startled anymore. The first time I had come she had nearly screamed; now she simply turned from her window, moonlight silvering the shift she wore, and smiled the small, fierce smile that belonged only to me.
"You are late," she whispered the first time, the second, the tenth.
"Never too late for you, little storm."
We spoke in the old Valyrian, soft as silk, so no eavesdropper could understand even if they pressed an ear to the door.
I told her of the stars I had seen from Snydor's back (though I never spoke the dragon's name aloud, not yet). I told her of the wind that tasted of snow and smoke, of a sky so wide it made the world feel small. I told her she would ride it one day, that I would place her before me on the saddle of shadow and flame and we would fly west until the sea itself bowed.
Her eyes grew bright at that, bright and unafraid.
"I used to dream of dragons," she said once, curled against my side on her narrow bed, head on my shoulder. "When Viserys hit me I would close my eyes and pretend I was high above the clouds where his hands could not reach. I thought the dream was dead. You gave it back to me again."
I pressed my lips to her hair. It smelled of lemon and myrrh and something that was only her.
"Soon," I promised. "Soon the dream wakes."
Sometimes she traced the new lines of muscle along my arm with wondering fingers.
"You are changing," she murmured. "Growing into the stories."
"I was always meant to be this," I answered. "The world only now notices."
She laughed then, soft and startled, the laugh of a girl who had almost forgotten how. I kissed the corner of her mouth to taste it, and she let me. Not the kiss of children playing at courtly love, but something older, something that tasted of salt and promises and the future we would carve with fire.
"Āeksio ñuha prūmia," I whispered against her lips.
She answered without hesitation. "Āeksio ñuha zaldrīzes." Master of my dragon.
We never spoke of the wedding that loomed. There was no need. She knew I would not allow it, and I knew she trusted me with every beat of her heart. That was enough.
The day Khal Drogo came to look upon his bride, the manse stank of fear and horse-sweat.
The khal rode at the head of a hundred bloodriders, bells chiming in their hair like funeral knells. Copper skin, oiled mustaches, arakhs curved like smiles. The courtyard rang with hooves and the low thunder of Dothraki voices. Illyrio had ordered every slave into their finest silks; even the lemon trees had been hung with crimson ribbons.
Viserys strutted like a peacock in cloth-of-gold, eyes fever-bright. I stood at his left hand in plain black, hair braided back with a single red ribbon (Dany's favor, hidden beneath the rest of the time beneath my collar). Daenerys came last, dressed in the violet silk Illyrio had chosen, the color of bruises and old royalty.
She did not tremble.
She walked between Viserys and me with her chin high, and when Drogo's gaze fell upon her she met it without flinching. The khal was a mountain of muscle and bronze, eyes black and unreadable. He looked at her the way a man looks at a horse he intends to break (calculating, possessive, already bored).
I felt the bond with Snydor stir, a distant furnace flaring. My dragon tasted my rage and liked it.
Down, I told him. Not yet.
Drogo said nothing. He wheeled his stallion and rode out without a word, bloodriders streaming after him like a bronze river.
Viserys crowed all the way back to the solar. "He wants her! Did you see his eyes? Forty thousand screamers, brother! Forty thousand!"
I smiled the obedient smile I had perfected over three moons. "A mighty gift, Your Grace."
Illyrio's jowls quivered with satisfaction. "The khal returns in seven days with his khalasar. The wedding will be held in the field beyond the walls. A ceremony to remember."
Seven days.
That night I did not visit Daenerys. I stood on my balcony and watched the moon bleed across the sky and felt the hourglass run out.
The next morning Illyrio summoned us to break our fast in the garden beneath a canopy of scarlet silk. Viserys was drunk before the second course, sloshing Arbor red across the table as he boasted of the cities he would sack, the lords he would burn.
I ate honeyed dormice and listened to the sound of my brother signing his own death warrant.
"Will you ride at the head of the khalasar, brother?" I asked mildly. "Or will you follow behind the khal's tail like a good little queen's brother?"
The table went very quiet.
Viserys's face purpled. "What did you say?"
I widened my eyes in perfect innocence. "Only that Khal Drogo is a proud man. He may not wish the true king to outshine him on the ride west. Perhaps it is wiser to let him ride in the place of honor, and you… behind."
Illyrio coughed into his wine. Viserys slammed his cup down so hard the stem snapped.
"I ride where I choose!" he hissed. "I am the dragon!"
"Of course," I soothed. "But the Dothraki respect strength. If the khal believes you weak—"
"I will show him strength!" Viserys snarled. "When I crown my sister I will stand at Drogo's side and he will kneel or I will take his braid myself!"
Illyrio's eyes flicked to me, sharp as obsidian. I gave him nothing but the bland smile of a younger brother who knows his place.
Later, when Viserys staggered off to vomit in the roses, the magister drew me aside beneath a lemon tree heavy with fruit.
"Your brother grows… excitable," he murmured, voice soft as spilled oil.
"He dreams of dragons," I answered. "Dreams make men bold."
Illyrio studied me. Sweat beaded beneath his powdered cheeks despite the shade. "And you, Prince Daeron? What do you dream of?"
I met his gaze and let him see the truth for one heartbeat (just long enough for fear to flicker behind those piggy eyes).
"I dream of keeping my promises," I said.
That night I opened the door to the pocket sky and flew until my lungs burned with cold and joy. Snydor wheeled beneath the alien stars and I laughed into the wind until I tasted blood.
Seven days.
In seven days the khalasar would come. In seven days Viserys would drink and boast and insult a man who had killed for lesser slights. In seven days the Beggar King would die screaming, and no one (not Illyrio, not the Dothraki, not the spiders across the sea) would be able to point to me and name me kinslayer.
n seven days I would walk into Illyrio's strongroom while the manse celebrated a wedding that would never happen, take Blackfyre from its velvet cradle, take the three dragon eggs that should have been Daenerys's birthright, take every coin and gem and ledger that could carry. And when the sun rose on the eighth day, two dragons (one of flesh and fire, one of silver hair and violet eyes) would already be gone across the sea, leaving only smoke and questions behind.
I landed on the highest hill of Snydor's world and looked east toward Pentos. The city lights glimmered like scattered jewels.
"Seven days," I told the night.
Snydor's answering roar shook the stars.
In the west wing, Daenerys stood at her window and felt the bond she did not yet understand stir like wings inside her chest. She pressed a hand to the glass and smiled (small, fierce, certain).