Essos, the Free City of Qanthys, Governor's Palace.
In the great hall, Viserys stood beside the governor's chair, surveying the chamber with a slow, mocking smile.
"Daenerys, my dear sister, you are truly fortunate."
Daenerys turned her face away, her sorrow plain to all—save Viserys.
At her side, Jorah Mormont could not hold his tongue.
"Your Grace, no city can be won by luck alone. It was Princess Daenerys's resolve that allowed us to stand here today."
But Viserys was in rare good spirits, and so Jorah's words of "defiance" did not rouse the sleeping dragon's wrath.
Viserys seated himself upon the governor's chair, towering over the gathering below.
Raising his voice, he declared:
"In the name of Viserys the Third—King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm—I proclaim: the Free City of Qanthys shall henceforth be renamed the Free City of Viserys."
"In the name of the true King upon the Iron Throne, I bestow glory upon this city."
His words rang out, but the hall fell silent. Faces stared, dumbstruck.
When no one answered his proclamation, Viserys's handsome features twisted.
"Are you deaf? Do you mean to defy the commands of your king?"
He shrieked, springing to his feet.
"How dare you resist the orders of your rightful king?"
Still, no voice was raised. No man begged for mercy as Viserys imagined. Blood still stained the tunics of many who had fought in the streets only hours past.
They were neither cowed nor enraged. They simply stood, quietly gathered around Daenerys.
Their eyes were calm, devoid of emotion—and that quiet unnerved him more than any open defiance.
His face reddened. Fear stirred deep within him, but he cast it aside. He was the true dragon. A dragon does not know fear.
His body shook with rage, seeking release. At last his gaze fell upon Daenerys, her head bowed.
His twisted smile grew cold.
"Daenerys… little sister…"
His voice sent a shiver through her slender frame.
She lifted her eyes, still wet from grief for the soldiers she had lost. For days her brother had not struck her, nor cursed her. They had lived in a fragile "peace" rare since childhood. Yet the memory of the brother who once played with her and told her stories was fading, slipping further away.
She had prayed for that brother to return. Why was his face now so blurred in her mind? Had he abandoned her?
A hot tear slid down her cheek.
Viserys saw her weep at his words, and excitement flashed in his eyes. This was the fruit of awakening the dragon's wrath.
He gave a harsh, mirthless laugh, then sank back into the chair.
"My sweet sister—did you hear your king's command?"
Jorah saw her blank stare, her silent tears falling one by one. His heart ached. He turned toward her—only for Viserys's voice to cut across the hall.
"Daenerys, why do you not answer? Do you mean to wake the dragon's fury?"
Her body trembled again. Slowly, the emptiness left her violet eyes, a faint light returning.
She raised her hand, gazing at it as it shook against her will. These were her hands—yet they bore the memories of her brother's blows.
Closing her eyes, she understood.
The gentle brother of her childhood was only a memory of the heart. The man before her—their lives of fear and abuse—was the truth etched into her flesh.
That brother had not abandoned her—he had simply smiled and faded, leaving her behind to endure.
…
Jorah's great bulk shifted, stepping between them.
"Your Grace, I remind you—this is Essos, not Westeros. Such a claim will only bring stronger foes upon us."
Viserys seethed, but Jorah met his glare without flinching.
"Sooner or later, Mormont, I'll take your head," Viserys spat.
Why did he press his claim upon Qanthys now? Because he had grown bitter at how all men obeyed Daenerys while slighting the true King. He deemed today the moment to seize his sister's power. He needed no reason beyond this: he was the dragon, and the dragon's will was law.
…
At his side stood Dick Rivers, who now enjoyed Viserys's confidence. He was, in truth, the only retainer who lent the king the semblance of majesty.
While Viserys raged against Jorah, Dick stole a glance at Daenerys. She dabbed her tears with a cloth, then gave him the faintest nod.
Taking the cue, Dick bent low beside Viserys.
"Your Grace, petitions from the people must be answered. Let them see for themselves who rules this city."
The words gave Viserys pause. Yes—if he sat in judgment, all would know him as their master. A wiser way to claim power.
He cast Dick a pleased look, then turned back to Jorah.
"Mormont, I give you a chance at redemption. Go announce to the people: beginning tomorrow, I shall sit in judgment here and hear their pleas."
Jorah's face darkened. He had been lord of Bear Island—he knew well what it meant to hear petitions. Daenerys had bled to win this city, yet Viserys would strip her of its rule without shame.
"Step aside, Ser Jorah," came Daenerys's clear voice.
His fists unclenched. Bowing, he yielded.
…
Under Jorah's counsel, Daenerys had extended aid to the governor of Qanthys, who had waited in vain for allies.
The cost had been great: half the slave-born recruits and many of the Crab Claw Peninsula guards were slain. Even Osanna and Anguy had been grievously wounded.
Together with the governor's forces, Daenerys had driven off the invaders. Mortally wounded, the governor entrusted the city's defense to the silver-haired princess before he died.
Thus, Daenerys Targaryen—Princess of Dragonstone, Breaker of Chains (so named when she freed the slave galleys), Stormborn—took rightful charge of the great city as its savior.
…
She stepped forward, her gaze brushing against Dick's.
He gave her a subtle nod: Trust me, my lady.
In King's Landing, he had once slipped into the Red Keep to watch the Hand of the King judge petitions. Those endless disputes had baffled him. If he could not master them, how could Viserys?
Gawen Crabb had told him plainly: he was the bridge between House Crabb and the Targaryens. Their wager lay not upon Viserys, but upon Daenerys.
So Dick remembered his task. By appearing to aid Viserys, he would only ensure the king earned the people's hatred. Then Daenerys could reclaim their hearts.
The city needed a villain. And who better than Viserys, with his rages and delusions?
But for that, Dick would need men of the sword—executioners at his side—to keep violence from spiraling into chaos.
…
Daenerys looked to her brother.
"I will see that the people are summoned. Tomorrow the hall shall hear their petitions."
She could not guess Dick's schemes, but she trusted him. And she needed time to fortify Qanthys's defenses.
She recalled Pentos—the man of summer warmth who had once told her: armies are the foundation of power, and the only true safeguard. His gentle voice, so easy to understand, still echoed in her ears.
Viserys beamed.
"Daenerys, my sweet sister! You truly are loyal. When I reclaim the Iron Throne, I shall reward you richly."
She inclined her head and turned to go, only for him to call out once more.
"Daenerys, do not forget the renaming!"
She frowned faintly, not recalling his earlier words.
Jorah explained,
"Princess, His Grace means to rename Qanthys as the Free City of Viserys."
Her brows knit as she glanced at her brother, lounging smug upon the chair.
"My lady," Jorah said gravely, "such a move will only provoke hatred. We are in no position to fight so many enemies."
Her violet eyes softened.
"Thank you, Ser Jorah. Come—we must see the wounded."
Viserys watched her leave in silence, fury rising. Before he could explode, Dick whispered again:
"Your Grace, this trifle need not trouble the princess. In time, once you have heard their petitions, you may declare it yourself."
Viserys nodded. Yes—better still.
…
In her chambers, Daenerys rushed to the bedside of Osanna, pale as death.
"Osanna," she whispered, clutching her hand, tears welling in her eyes. "Forgive me—it is my fault."
Her companion's cracked lips moved.
"Your Grace… no war is without death. I am but wounded. A few days' rest… gods damn it!"
The curse came as Borona pressed a finger into her injury.
Osanna glared, and Borona glared back. Daenerys could not help but smile faintly through her tears.
…
…
In the Tower of the Hand, in his bedchamber—
The pounding on the door ripped Ned Stark from his sleep, his heart thundering.
"My lord Stark!" someone cried.
A deep unease seized him. Rising, he crossed the darkened room and pulled the door wide.
Outside stood Tomard, his fist raised to knock again, beside the guard Cayn with a candle in hand, and the royal steward behind them.
Expressionless, the steward intoned:
"Lord Hand, His Grace commands you to attend him at once."
Had Robert finally returned from the hunt?
.
.
.
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