Essos, City-state of Viserys, West Harbor.
The marsh-marigold banner snapped in the wind. Blue-clad figures crowded the piers as Gawen Crabb, surrounded by his guards, clattered down the gangplank of the Mermaid.
The harbor guard-captain—one of the twenty men Gawen had assigned to Daenerys via the Crabb trading house in Pentos—strode up and bowed. "My lord Gawen."
Gawen smiled, clapped the captain's arm. "Grit, well done."
No matter a person's station, the Lord of the Crab Claw remembered every soul of his own; he had never grown lax since taking up the lordship.
The captain's lips tightened; he pressed fist to breast. "Grit stands ready to serve."
Near thirty, Grit would pass for a seasoned elite anywhere—though on the ever-bloody Crab Claw he was merely one more experienced old hand. His rarity was steadiness; in that blunt country, that counted—hence Gawen's choice for Daenerys's guard.
Gawen's brown eyes flicked toward the sunrise. "Grit, I need horses. As many as you can find."
He looked to the young under-steward at his side. "Layton—go with him. Pay over market. We ride at once."
"As you command, my lord."
Gawen gazed again toward the sun—the direction of Viserys's main city.
On the road, while they were changing mounts, a handsome youth led up fresh horses. His blue hair caught silver in the morning light.
"Strangers—need a guide?"
Gawen's brows lifted. He tossed the blue-haired youth a silver stag.
Evening, King Viserys's pavilion.
Outside, Jon Snow shot a glance at the stone-faced Ser Jorah Mormont, then turned to Borona. "Is Princess Daenerys still inside?"
Borona looked Jon up and down. "Wait. They do not wish to be disturbed."
Since their bout that night, Borona's attitude toward him ran hot and cold. Jon paid it no mind and nodded.
Shouts burst from the tent—Viserys's shrill fury.
All three looked the same way, worry on their faces.
Thud!
A heavy crash followed.
Jon clenched a fist, took a step—Borona's arm barred his way. "The princess commanded—no one enters without leave."
Another crash. Jon's jaw set. "I'll go in—and answer for it."
He shouldered past.
Within, Viserys—eyes blood-red—upended a heavy table. Daenerys did not move, only watched his rage burn.
Panting, he let a cold smile crawl up his face and turned to her. "You little wretch. Were it not for you, the Targaryen throne would never have been stolen! You are the sinner—the greatest sinner of House Targaryen!"
Daenerys forced her anger down. "Brother, be calm. I will not accept a baseless charge."
"You still dare wriggle?"
He strode close. Daenerys lifted her chin to meet the sleeping dragon's wrath—no fear in her eyes. When his hand rose, her body trembled—old memories of kicks and blows—but her fists knotted with anger, and she mastered the terror that lingered in her bones.
"I will not let you harm me," she warned, voice low and hot.
Viserys paused, glanced at his raised hand, and gave a snort of laughter. He clasped his hands behind him and looked down his nose at the sister glaring up at him.
"As the true king," he said, madness flickering in violet eyes, "it is mercy to list your crimes."
He nodded to himself, pleased. "Your crimes… If you had been born earlier and wed Rhaegar, would the False Spring have come? Had you been his bride, would men have become usurpers for a woman? Because you were born too late, Rhaegar lacked a proper wife, the cursed spring followed, and the usurper stole our throne!"
He pronounced sentence. "Daenerys Targaryen—your crimes are unforgivable. You should die."
How can he think this?Is he mad? Daenerys slammed a side table over with a cry. "You bastard, Viserys!"
He seemed to savor her fury, pointing. "In mercy I spared your life until now. Be grateful to your king. And—"
He broke off, eyes narrowing at a figure striding toward them. A cold gleam lit his gaze. "I knew you'd come…"
Jon eyed the crazed king and went straight to Daenerys's side. "Are you hurt?"
He cannot be my brother, she thought, dazed, and gave the slightest shake of her head.
Viserys watched them and muttered, "All of you… accursed…"
Jon stepped in front of Daenerys. "Your Grace—permit us to withdraw."
Sensing Daenerys was not herself, he did not wait for leave and moved to guide her away.
Viserys barred him with a sneer and clamped a hand on his shoulder. "And you are the bastard—the Usurper's filthy blood?"
Jon glanced at the hand on his shoulder and frowned. "Your Grace, I do not wish to quarrel."
"Oh? Why?" Viserys tittered. "Do you truly fancy yourself a Targaryen?"
"I need be nothing but Jon Snow," Jon said coldly. "That I am, and that I will remain."
"Good…"
Viserys let go. "Wait… let me think…"
He pinched his chin and paced, excitement rising. "Perhaps we can be—"
He stumbled—tripped on something—and pitched straight toward Jon.
Jon's hands came up, catching both of Viserys's arms to steady him.
"Thank you," Viserys said, lifting his head. Their eyes met. A smile curled his lips.
Thunk.
Agony tore through Jon. He looked down, stiff with shock. A dagger jutted deep from his belly. Daenerys's scream rang in his ears.
Viserys's eyes were shot through with red. "I am the only true dragon!"
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. The dagger rose and plunged again and again into Jon's gut. Blood fountained.
Jon collapsed to his knees with a splash. Pain swallowed him; the boy from the North began to fade.
Viserys left the dagger where it lodged and lashed a kick at Daenerys as she rushed to stop him.
Outside, steel hissed—Borona and Jorah drew as one.
Setting her stance as foes closed in, Borona hissed, "How did they get here?"
"Mercenaries," Jorah answered, tightening both hands on his hilt.
Their eyes met.
"Viserys?"
"Viserys!"
Jorah's fingers flexed and clenched again. "Leave the inside to Jon. We hold the door."
"No problem, old knight," Borona said, licking dry lips.
Jon lay in a pool of his blood. Daenerys curled on the ground, pain tearing at her.
Viserys straightened, bloodied hand brushing his hair, chin lifting high. "I told you not to wake my sleeping dragon," he declared.
Pale, sweat beading her brow, Daenerys managed, "W…hy…"
It was as if she had lost the last of her family. Despair clawed at her.
Viserys spared her a contemptuous look and flipped open a carved chest—the three fossil dragon eggs nestled inside.
"You thought I'd thank you for slipping these to me, sweet sister?"
"What am I to you—a brother who sits beneath his sister and takes his supper nicely? Or did you forget I am your king—have you grown improper dreams?"
He turned toward her, step by step. "When you accepted the Usurper's get, I passed your death."
"You mean to kill me?"
Her voice was level; she was not surprised.
Numb with heartache, she set her jaw and forced herself upright, swaying.
Viserys watched with a smirk and drew his ornate sword, slow and showy.
Daenerys rose and felt the grief fall away. "My brother died long ago," she said flatly. "Now I am certain."
She walked toward the brazier.
Panic flashed in Viserys's eyes. "What are you doing? Stop—damn you, stop! Die properly!"
Daenerys seized the brazier. Smoke curled from her hands—yet she felt no burn.
She did not notice the marvel; despair filled all her world.
Fear crossed Viserys's face; his steps faltered.
Her gaze softened, as though she looked through the man before her to the boy in memory. "Brother—we'll meet again."
She heaved. Coals crashed over him. Flame licked hair and silk and leapt to everything that would burn.
Screaming, Viserys beat the fire out. Burns blotched him from crown to heel. With a roar he snatched up his fallen blade and charged.
As flames climbed the pavilion, Daenerys watched him come. "You said it—true dragons do not fear fire. You lied to me."
She closed her eyes and stood still, waiting for the steel.
Gawen… remember…
"Your Highness!"
Thunk!
Warmth spattered her cheek—blood. She started, farewell dying on her lips.
Dick? She blinked. Viserys clutched at his throat; Dick (see ch. 94) stood with a short blade slick in his hand.
"I… I… I killed the king," Dick stammered, shuddering head to toe.
Blood pumped through Viserys's fingers. Strength poured out of him. His legs failed, and he toppled face-first into the spreading red.
Dick came back to himself a little, though he still trembled. "Your Highness—let me take you out!"
Daenerys's eyes drifted from Viserys to Jon to her own palms.
Not a mark. "He didn't lie," she whispered. "True dragons do not burn. I am the dragon."
Her gaze slid to the chest of eggs. "Dick—I need fire."
Something in her was not right; Dick knew it. "Princess, the blaze is growing—we must go now!"
"I need more fire. Do as I say, clever Dick."
"If you're harmed, Lord Gawen will never forgive me!"
"I'll answer for you. This is your only chance."
"Yes, Your Highness!" Dick sobbed—and ran.
Gawen stared at the flames climbing the night. His eyes trembled. Low on the eastern rim of heaven, a red comet had risen, its long tail painting the sky.
"Such a pity…" breathed the blue-haired guide.
Gawen's eyes slid to him. "A pity—what?"
Before the youth could answer, Gawen went on, mild as frost. "A pity you couldn't stay with them?"
His hand closed on the boy's nape.
"What are you doing—?"
"You called yourself Little Griff, didn't you?"
"Let go—ah—!"
Whsssh—
Against the bright night, a dark shape arced into the conflagration. The fire roared like an enraged dragon and swallowed all.
.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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