"Dany… Dany… please…"
His voice cracked, thin and pitiful, scarcely his own.
"I am your brother… I beg you… forgive me…"
Hands seized him from behind
Iron-strong and unyielding. His arms were wrenched apart, forced wide as if to make him an offering. A kick struck the back of his knees, and Viserys collapsed forward with a cry, the breath torn from his lungs.
The ground was hot.
No, burning.
Before him, flames roared and danced, hungrily licking the night air. The heat pressed against his skin, searing, suffocating. He tried to twist away, but the grip on him only tightened.
"No—no, please—"
The khal stepped forward.
Khal Drogo loomed over him, vast and terrible, his shadow swallowing the firelight. In his hands he carried a heavy cauldron, its contents glowing a molten, hateful gold.
Viserys' breath caught.
"No… no, you cannot—"
Drogo said nothing at first. His eyes were black pits, empty of mercy.
Then, in a voice like distant thunder:
"A crown for a king."
The words echoed, distorted, as if the world itself mocked him.
Viserys thrashed, panic surging. "Dany! Tell him! Tell him who I am! I am the dragon! I am—"
He found her.
She stood beyond the flames, silver hair catching the firelight like spun metal. Her face was calm. Too calm.
Cold.
"Dany…" His voice broke. "Sister… please…"
She did not move.
She did not speak.
She only watched.
The khal tipped the cauldron.
Molten gold poured.
Viserys screamed.
A raw, animal sound tore from his throat as the world became fire—his skin, his skull, his thoughts, all consumed in an agony beyond words. He could feel it, feel it, the weight of it, the heat burrowing through flesh, through bone.
"A dragon," Dany said softly, her voice distant, fading, "cannot be burned."
Her eyes never left him.
The gold swallowed him whole.
---
Viserys woke choking.
Something bitter and foul surged up his throat, spilling from his lips as he convulsed. His body heaved, muscles trembling, as though the fire still lived beneath his skin.
"Ugh—"
He gagged, coughing weakly, the taste of bile clinging to his tongue. His head throbbed. Every breath came shallow, ragged.
For a moment, he did not know where he was.
Only that he was not burning.
Coolness touched his lips.
A hand, gentle, steady, tilted his head, pressing a waterskin against his mouth. Instinct took over. He drank greedily, water spilling down his chin as much as it reached his throat.
It was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted.
When at last the flow ceased, Viserys sagged back, gasping.
The world swam before his eyes, shapes and colors blurring together like smoke. He blinked, once, twice, forcing his vision to steady.
A face emerged.
Dark eyes. Copper skin. A woman, young, watching him with quiet concern.
"So," she said softly, "you wake at last, sheep-head."
Viserys frowned, sluggish and confused. "Sheep… head?" His tongue felt thick in his mouth. "Who…?"
The woman's lips twitched, almost amused. "You are not yet yourself. That is plain enough." She offered him the waterskin again. "Drink, but slowly this time."
He obeyed, though more carefully now. The water soothed his throat, though it did little for the pounding in his skull.
"Where…" He swallowed. "Where am I?"
He tried to push himself up, only to find his strength wanting. His limbs felt like lead.
Beneath him was not hard earth, but something softer—woven mats layered with coarse wool. Rough, yet far kinder than the dry, unforgiving ground of the plains.
A tent, he realized dimly. Not large, not grand, but clean. The air carried the faint scent of herbs and smoke.
"You are in Alzhain," the woman said. "A holy place, for my people."
"Alzhain…" The name meant nothing to him. He licked his cracked lips. "And your people are…?"
She studied him for a moment before answering. "Lhazareen."
Viserys let out a weak, humorless breath.
"Of course," he muttered. "First horse lords… now Essosi Valemen."
The woman arched a brow, though she did not seem offended. "You were found beyond our walls," she said. "Collapsed, near death. Like a beast that has been driven too far."
He remembered.
The endless walking. The heat. The thirst.
The hallucinations.
Rhaegar.
His stomach twisted.
"You should not move," she added. "Your body has not yet recovered."
Viserys sank back against the mats, too exhausted to argue. His thoughts drifted, sluggish and heavy, but one thing refused to fade.
The dream.
The fire. The gold.
Daenerys' eyes.
Cold.
Watching.
His fingers curled weakly into the wool beneath him.
That ungrateful little bitc—
He bit the thought back, though it lingered, sour and sharp.
After a moment, he spoke again, quieter now.
"You speak the Common Tongue well," he said. "For… for a savage."
Something flickered across her face—too quick to name.
"In our village," she said slowly, "we are free to learn what we will, as the Great Shepherd has allowed us to. Knowledge is a thing that can be bought, traded… or stolen."
Viserys turned his head toward her, studying her more closely now.
"Why?" he asked. "Why save me?"
The question hung between them.
For a time, she did not answer.
When she did, her voice was softer.
"My father was a Westerosi," she said. "He came with traders… or so he claimed." Her gaze drifted, unfocused. "He took what he wanted. Left what he did not."
Viserys said nothing.
"I learned your tongue," she continued, "so that I might understand men like him. Their words. Their lies."
She looked back at him then, meeting his eyes.
"You are not the first broken man to find his way here," she said. "Nor will you be the last."
Viserys felt something twist in his chest—guilt, perhaps, or shame—but it passed as quickly as it came.
"I… see," he muttered.
For a moment, silence settled between them.
Then, unexpectedly, she smiled.
It was a small thing. Gentle. Sad.
It reminded him of someone.
His breath caught.
His mother.
"Rest," she said. "Whatever you fled… it cannot reach you here."
Viserys closed his eyes.
The fire still lingered in his mind. The gold. The scream.
But for the first time in many days, perhaps longer…
He did not feel hunted.
Not a king.
Not a dragon.
Not an exiled prince, or a prisoner.
Just a man.
And in the quiet of the tent, beneath wool and shadow, Viserys Targaryen drifted once more into sleep—caught somewhere between the ashes of who he had been…
…and the uncertain shape of what he might yet become.