As I approached the hall where my brother and our benefactor were seated, I could already hear their voices and soft laughter and the sound of hollow pride in my brother's tone. The fake and preposterous bearing of the king.
Viserys Targaryen, my brother, was in no manner a man with the bearing of a king. He could not lead even a small group of people, let alone an army across the narrow sea to Westeros. He could not even wield a sword properly. The sword tied to his waist was little more than a decoration.
Apart from his name, Targaryen, he had nothing of worth. Not that Targaryen had some great value. Even that name, once mighty and revered, had long since lost its glory with only two Targaryen alive. Barely alive.
He possessed none of the qualities that could inspire loyalty or respect. No courage. No wisdom. No strength. Nothing but delusion and vanity. Even if some other man fought his wars for him and placed him upon the Iron Throne, Viserys would never be able to hold his kingdom together.
Yet, despite all his shortcomings, he was arrogant to the bone. He lived in his dreams. He believed that he had been born to rule, that the gods themselves had destined him for greatness. He believed that his name still commanded fear and reverence, that the mere whisper of Targaryen was enough to make men bow.
But he was wrong.
And though I hated to admit it, Ser William Darry bore part of the blame for this. From a very young age, he had indulged Viserys's fantasies.
He had never dared to confront him with the truth. Perhaps he had done it out of pity, perhaps he had wanted to protect what little pride remained in the boy who had once been called prince. But by sheltering him from reality, Ser William had only allowed the madness to grow.
Even when we were in exile, wandering from one city to another, Viserys still expected to be treated as if he were royalty. That was the tragedy of it all.
As I approached the door, the guard stationed there pushed it open, and I stepped into the hall. And as I stepped inside the hall, every expression on my face that could have shown that I had some thoughts of my own vanished from my face. I was the same useless girl who could not have any opinion and thought of her own. I was just meant to follow my brother and not wake the dragon.
Seated directly in front of me in the centre of the hall on a luxurious chair, was my brother. Viserys Targaryen. His long silver hair shimmered faintly in the lantern light, and though his face was thin and sharp, there was still a trace of handsomeness about him. Like me, he was dressed in fine silks, the kind of luxury we had not known for some time.
Across from him sat a man whose appearance exuded wealth and comfort. Illyrio Mopatis. He was a magister of Pentos and his yellow robes were gleaming with gold threads. His face was framed with a thick white beard and he was bearing an easy smile on his face. Our relationship with Illyrio had been peculiar… unique.
Before meeting him, we had been drowning in poverty. Every coin, every trinket of worth that had once belonged to House Targaryen had been sold, one by one. And only one thing remained. The last of our treasures, our mother's crown, Queen Rhaella's crown.
Having no other option, Viserys had no other option but to sell our dearest treasure. Selling the crown was a very big decision for Viserys. He had been very frustrated and angry about it but he had no other option. The dragon had been stirring quite a lot because of this.
It was then that Illyrio Mopatis appeared. According to him, he had been passing through Tyrosh on business. We had been in Tyrosh for the last few months.
Illyrio had claimed that he had a fondness for ancient relics and beautiful treasures. He had been very courteous and generous towards us. He had treated us like honoured guests rather than beggars and had treated Viserys like a king. One meeting turned into two. Then three.
And before we knew it, he had taken us under his protection. A house to live in, servants to attend to us, meals to eat, and, most importantly, his promise of hope.
He had told my brother that he was destined to reclaim the Iron Throne. That the time was near when the dragon would rise again. And to my disbelief, he had even returned the crown we had sold.
To Viserys, this was a sign from the gods themselves. He was convinced that his destiny was unfolding, that Illyrio was a messenger of fate.
Illyrio was the one who was again fanning the delusions of my brother. About how the people were waiting for him to take the iron throne back. He was radiant with joy, with delusion. But I was not.
I could not share in his foolish excitement. Everything about Illyrio Mopatis, the ease of his generosity, the perfect timing of his appearance was filling me with unease.
Still, I said nothing. Because I knew what would happen if I did.
To question him, to doubt my brother's destiny would mean awakening the dragon. And every time the dragon woke, I was the one who burned.
"Ah! Sister," Viserys' voice cut across the hall. "Come and have a seat."
"Brother," I greeted politely as I walked towards my seat.
"Lord Illyrio," I greeted our benefactor.
"Princess Daenerys," the man greeted me with a very polite smile.
I sat next to my brother who was grinning from happiness.
"Lord Illyrio here has quite a few ideas about me regaining the throne," he said. "In one of those methods I would have to forgive a person carrying the blood of my enemy. Stark blood in his veins."
"What do you think?" He questioned.
This was not the first time he had asked for my opinion.
"Whatever you decide," I said. "You are the king."
And this was the answer he expected. He did not want me to voice my opinions.
#
#
#
[Add the book to your collection. Send it some power stones. Leave a rating and a review.]
[Access advanced chapter on P@treon. Replace @ with a. One additional advanced chapter each week on P@treon. ]
[email protected]/imaginarywriter