On a fog-heavy morning, a merchant ship flying the colors of Illyrio Mopatis, the so-called Cheesemonger of Pentos, fell into their trap. The pirates swarmed her decks, cutting down guards and offering the crew a choice: piracy or death. The younger sailors bent the knee; the older ones spat defiance. The captain dared invoke Illyrio's name, only to be met with laughter.
"We'll be long gone before that fat fucker comes," one pirate jeered.
In the lower deck, the plunderers found two unexpected treasures: a pale young man with fever-bright lilac eyes, and a slender girl in loose silk that barely hid her frame. The pirates' gazes lingered far too long on the girl.
The young man drew his sword at once, though his stance betrayed inexperience. Surrounded and mocked, he proclaimed himself King Viserys Targaryen and demanded his freedom. The deck roared with laughter.
"King? Where's your crown, boy? Your throne?"
The girl, Daenerys urged caution, but Viserys shoved her aside and lunged. He was quick enough to cut a cheek before an axe head slammed into his ribs, dropping him to the planks. Kicks followed, heavy and merciless, until a voice reminded the attackers that a Targaryen was worth more alive. Even so, the last blow to his head left him unconscious.
Daenerys' pleas meant nothing. She was told she would fetch a fine price in a pillow house. Her brother's limp body was dragged away. The pirates took all they could carry, set the merchantman aflame, and drank stolen wine as they watched her sink.
Locked in separate cells, Daenerys curled into herself. Rats kept her company. When food finally came, it was brought by one of the men who had captured them. She asked after her brother. The man only smiled and said he might check, if she "showed him a little."
Pride warred with dread. The thought of Viserys dying broke her. She loosened the strap of her dress, eyes wet — but before she bared herself, the ship shuddered violently. Shouts rose above deck. Her would-be tormentor fled, leaving the latch ajar.
She hugged her knees and listened, heart hammering. Someone was running overhead. The wood groaned under the weight. Another voice roared something she could not catch, followed by the splintering crack of timber. She smelled smoke, or thought she did.
The din came in waves: the rush of many feet, the slam of something heavy overturned, curses spilling like blood. Then, silence. A stillness so sudden she felt it in her bones. No stamping boots.è No ringing steel. Only the sea, its endless hush and sigh.
Her ears strained for some sign of what had happened, but the quiet was unbroken save for the soft creak of the hull and the steady drip of water somewhere in the dark. In that hush, the air felt colder.
Footsteps pounded below. Hope surged, but the man who opened her cell wore the grin of another pirate, not a rescuer. She bolted past him, desperate to reach Viserys' cell. What she found there stopped her cold: a pirate standing over her brother's body, stiff and colorless, blood dried at the corners of his mouth.
Her scream tore through the hold. Two pirates closed in. One lifted her bodily, readying to strike when she fought back, the other stopped him.
"Don't bruise the merchandise."
He chained her and led her topside. "He your husband?" he asked.
"My brother," she sobbed.
"Well, if it helps, the ones who did him are dead," the man said.
The deck above was slick with blood. Corpses, her captors and strangers alike lay where they'd fallen. The new pirates wore armbands marked with the gaping maw of some great beast. In the center knelt the surviving crew, heads bowed before one man.
When he turned toward her, his gaze was the deep, cold pull of the tide.
Daenerys stared.
"The Ocean," she whispered.