Essos, the city-state of Veserys (once called Kantis), the Governor's Palace.
Today was the fourteenth name day of Daenerys Targaryen—Princess of Dragonstone, Breaker of Chains, Stormborn, savior and protector of Kantis.
She received a press of strangers in a small audience hall, all come "to offer blessings."
Her gown was ivory silk; the only jewelry at her throat was a simple, elegant silver chain. She sat straight-backed with a practiced smile, Osaena and Borona—the sisters of her guard—faithfully flanking her chair.
"Honored true-dragon princess," said a merchant from Lys, bowing, "I come at another's behest with a gift, and the blessing of the Lord of Light upon you."
At his signal two slaves hurried forward with a cedar chest banded in bronze. When the lid came up, Daenerys' pupils tightened: within lay three great eggs.
They were the fairest things she had ever seen, their patterned colors so rich she thought them crusted in jewels. Each was so large it took both her hands to lift. She cradled one with care; beneath her fingers the shell was scaled fine as mail, and as she turned it, the dying sun played upon it like light on polished metal. She had thought to find porcelain, enamel, or glass. Instead it was heavier—stone-hard.
Each egg was different: one a deep green, dusted with motes of bronze; one pale as cream with threads of gold; the last black as midnight seas, alive with swells and eddies of dark red.
…
Catching herself, she eased the egg back into its bed and looked to the Lysene with violet composure."My thanks, traveler, for so rare a gift."
He bowed again."Highness, I am only a messenger."
"I am grateful. Tell me the name of this generous friend."
"He dwells to the west, across the Narrow Sea," the man said, earnest. "A loyal friend to the true dragon—hidden beneath the usurper's shadow. When the hour is right he will come before you, to serve House Targaryen again."
A faint tremor passed through her eyes. She inclined her head."Tell him I shall treasure them—always."
…
Later, exhaustion pinned her to a chair in her bedchamber; all day she had sat the same, repeating the same courteous phrases to different faces. She turned toward the three eggs on their stand—and blinked.
A blade of red sunset fell through the window and struck them. For an instant, a swarm of blood-red sparks seemed to leap before her eyes.
Only stone, she told herself. I am overtired—that's all.
She set her palm to the black egg, fingers following the soft curve of its shell. The stone was warm. Almost hot.
"Sunlight," she whispered. "The sunlight warmed them."
She sat beside the stand, one hand on the egg, and gazed out the window.
The dragons were gone. Viserys had told her the last of House Targaryen's dragons died a century and a half ago, in the reign of Aegon III, for which he was named Dragonbane.
If only Viserys had a dragon… She sighed, thinking of her brother.
He had always burned to rush back to Westeros and seize the Iron Throne. Lately the fire had become a frenzy. To soothe him, when he insisted on renaming Kantis after himself, she did not gainsay it.
Kantis was ancient; no one accepted the new name, yet Viserys was delighted—too delighted. A small concession, and he called it submission. He imagined all folk bowed before the Sleep-Dragon's Wrath he fancied in himself.
Why the sigh? Because she feared for his safety.
He was the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms, yes—but not a strong one, and swift to make enemies. She feared that some day an unexpected foe would slit his throat.
In the palace hall he had given mad judgments; resentment spread like rot. More than once she had seen the hate in their eyes. For his safety she had halted public petitions and thickened his guard—only to be accused of stealing his power.
She, with her loyal protectors, could not easily be harmed; and still she was aggrieved.
Her eyes stung. In that moment she missed Gawen fiercely. She longed for his company, his gentle voice, his warm smile.
…
She brushed her eyes with a knuckle and moved to the window. Under the lowering sun the sky was a painted dream, all colors melting; the warriors on watch below were veiled in gold.
Still she worried for Viserys. Her thoughts turned to Aegon the Conqueror's founding of the Kingsguard—no lands, no wives, no sons, sworn only to guard the king.
Viserys needed such loyal white cloaks. At least, he… Daenerys shook her head. The Kingsguard had proved themselves unreliable.
In the songs they were noble, valiant, true—yet her father Aerys II had died at a white cloak's hand, the handsome knight the world now called Kingslayer; and Barristan the Bold had borne his sword beneath a usurper's banner.
Why were those storied white cloaks so false?
From Ser Jorah Mormont she had learned that the Dothraki khals kept bloodriders, sworn as the khal's guards, brothers, and companions—blood of my blood. They vowed to live and die with him, to keep all peril from his path. By old custom, when the khal died, they followed him into death.
When Viserys sat the Iron Throne, she would see him ringed with such sworn men—blood-oath guards to shield him from Kingsguard treachery.
…
Clamor rose in the corridor and broke her reverie. She could make out Viserys' voice, and a smile crept to her lips.
It was her name day, and he had sulked all day over the halt to petitions, keeping away.Not angry any longer? He was all the kin she had; yes, she craved his blessing.
He still loves me… She hurried, smiling, and opened the door.
…
Viserys Targaryen was being held back by the guards. He saw her and, reeking of wine, barked, "Dany, sweet sister—such a sweet sister! You dared steal my power, set spies upon me—such courage!"
Her smile broke. Heat burned behind her eyes.
"Out of my way!" he shrilled at Borona and the others. "Do you not see? Dany has come out!"
Daenerys steadied herself on the little round table within the door; the pretty vase upon it wobbled. She wanted to make him understand.
"Borona," she said wearily, "I will speak with my brother."
The woman glanced at the pale princess, then stepped aside.
A strange smile crawled over Viserys' handsome face as he strode in. Daenerys opened her mouth—to find his hand reaching for the opening at her collar.
She shoved him, hard, without thinking.
He stared, incredulous, lilac eyes wide. His face twisted. "You dare? Will you wake the Sleep-Dragon's Wrath?"
His fingers bit into her upper arm—hard enough to make her a child again, shrinking from his rages. With her free hand she stayed Borona, and with the other she seized the vase.
The crack rang bright as steel. Porcelain met cheekbone; Viserys went down screaming, blood running in sheets.
"Do not wake my true-dragon wrath, Viserys!" she flared.
He sat, blood-slick, staring up with a venom that did not seem to notice pain. Pity flickered through her, and died.
"If you would draw ten thousand swords from my hand to take back the Iron Throne," she said, steady and unafraid, "there will not be a next time."
He lurched up, snarling. "Little wretch. When I return to my realm, you will beg."
He clutched his face and stormed away.
…
Not long after, Ser Jorah came striding in."Your Highness," the big man said, all concern, "are you harmed?"
She shook her head. "You saw Viserys? That was my doing. I woke my brother's sleep-dragon wrath."
Seeing she was whole, his shoulders loosened. "None of this is your fault, Princess. Can you wake the dead?"
She looked at him, puzzled.
He hesitated, then spoke plain. "Your elder brother, Rhaegar Targaryen, was the last true scion of the dragon. He died upon the Trident. Forgive me—our King Viserys is not so much as the shadow of a snake."
"But he… he is the lawful heir," she murmured. "The true king."
"Even if he took the throne," Jorah asked softly, "do you truly think he could keep it?"
Color left her face. "He would not be a good king, would he?"
Jorah weighed her pallor, then forced himself on. "There have been worse kings than Viserys… but not many."
Gawen had said much the same in Pentos, she remembered.
"Ser," she asked, "do the smallfolk of Westeros stitch dragon banners in secret—praying King Viserys will cross with an army and save them?"
"The smallfolk pray for fair winds and rain, healthy children, and summers that never end," Jorah said. "If they can live and eat, they care little how the high lords play the game."
He added, almost to himself, "Only… they have never had their prayers."
…
After he left, her knees wobbled and Borona caught her."Thank you," Daenerys whispered. "I would rest."
Borona shook her head. "Princess, I know a better place."
…
The full moon rode high.
Daenerys eyed the reedy lake. "Borona—this is your 'better place'?"
The woman nodded. "Aye…"
She scratched her head, then grinned. "You need to loosen your heart, Highness. This is a good place to swim."
Daenerys' smile was gentle. "Thank you, Borona."
"Heh." Borona patted the sword at her hip. "I'll be close. You're safe."
…
Night lay quiet over the water; moonlight paved the lake with silver. Peace itself seemed to breathe.
On the grassy bank Daenerys folded her garments and slipped a cautious foot into the shallows. Mud pressed between her toes; coolness wrapped her calves, her waist, her shoulders. She slid out among the reeds and drifted there, letting the hush soak into her bones.
Above, the stars winked like bright companions, bathing with her.
For a while, Daenerys' heart unknotted, and all her troubles fell away.
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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