Viserys's residence in Myr—though dignified by that name—was, in truth, little more than the confiscated estate of a rebellious merchant. It had been "loaned" to him by Gendry, a courtesy that carried the sharp aftertaste of humiliation.
The manor itself was undeniably beautiful. White marble pillars stood carved with flowing Valyrian motifs, fountains whispered endlessly in the courtyard, and carefully tended gardens bloomed with foreign flowers. Yet despite all this splendor, the place felt hollow. Its corridors echoed. Its rooms were empty. Servants were few, and laughter nonexistent.
What pained Viserys most was not the loneliness, but the location.
The estate lay far from the Governor's Mansions—the true center of Myr's power. That distance was not accidental. It was a message.
He was tolerated, not trusted. Sheltered, not respected.
Only Unsullied guarded the gates, their presence a reminder that they were not merely protectors—but watchers.
"How do I look?" Viserys asked abruptly.
Beside him stood a woman, reclining against a carved marble column. Her name was Daelo, a courtesan from Myr.
Though called a courtesan, she had once been a bed slave in a high-class brothel. In the Free Cities, such places were inseparable from trafficking and quiet cruelty. But after the fall of Myr's old ruling elite—many executed, others defecting—the brothels collapsed. Without patrons or masters, the former slaves were left to survive as best they could. Some fled. Some starved. Others, like Daelo, learned to choose their own clients.
Since Daenerys had left Myr, Viserys—armed with a modest supply of gold dragons—had surrendered entirely to drink and indulgence. Wine dulled his fears. Women dulled his rage. Neither brought peace.
Daelo studied him carefully.
Viserys stood before a mirror, clad in a bright red silk tunic. A black velvet cloak draped over his shoulders, gloves to match. A longsword hung at his waist in a leather sheath, worn more as a symbol than a weapon.
He was still handsome. The blood of Old Valyria showed clearly in his pale violet eyes and silver-gold hair. Yet madness clung to him like a shadow. His frame had grown gaunt. His fingers twitched restlessly. His gaze burned with feverish intensity.
"You are the true dragon," Daelo said softly.
"Unmatched. Incomparable."
Viserys laughed bitterly.
"True dragon? Look at me." He gestured around the room. "Look at where I live."
"The Governor's Mansions belong to that bastard and his sellswords. Even traitors like Jorah Mormont live better than I do. Even that corpse-lover Qyburn enjoys more comfort."
His voice dropped, trembling with hatred.
"And Daenerys…" His eyes flared. "That traitor is no longer my sister. She's forgotten everything we suffered."
Daelo said nothing. She knew better than to speak of such people.
Viserys turned toward the window, where a quartered banner fluttered in the wind.
"Black and red," he snarled. "Those are our colors. Not this mongrel banner."
"One day," Daelo said quickly, "the dragon banner will fly again."
His mood lifted slightly.
"The true dragon never forgets," Viserys said. "That bastard deceived me. I will reclaim my birthright."
He turned sharply toward her.
"Does this place suit a king? He beds my sister, yet refuses to lend me an army."
"I'm afraid for you," Daelo said quietly. "There are Unsullied everywhere. We are watched."
Viserys's hand shot out, gripping her chin painfully.
"What did you call me?"
She trembled.
"Y-Your Majesty," she whispered. "Forgive me."
"Don't forget your place," Viserys hissed.
Then he released her, pacing.
"The bastard is fighting horse savages in the wilderness. His defenses must be thinner now. This is my last chance."
"You have food, shelter… me," Daelo pleaded. "Is that not enough?"
"A king without land is no king," Viserys said coldly.
"Westeros belongs to the dragon."
"May I follow you?" she asked.
Viserys sneered—then paused.
"…Very well," he said at last. "Historians will say my reign began today."
Daelo touched her belly instinctively, but said nothing.
Viserys demanded to see his sister.
The Unsullied complied.
They escorted him through Myr's streets—clean, orderly, untouched by war. Markets bustled. Children laughed. The city believed in Gendry's victory.
Viserys believed in none of it.
Dany's residence stood atop the old Governor's estate, its towers visible from half the city. She stood high above, near a brazier, writing letters for wounded soldiers.
She looked healthier now. Taller. Stronger.
When Viserys arrived, something twisted painfully inside him.
She wore their mother's crown.
"When will your husband march?" he demanded.
"I will speak to him," Dany said carefully.
"He promised me a crown," Viserys snapped. "The true dragon does not wait."
"You haven't changed," Dany said quietly.
"And you've forgotten everything," Viserys screamed.
"Dragonstone. King's Landing. The Iron Throne. They are ours!"
"I haven't forgotten," Dany said. "But I won't destroy everything for a dream."
Viserys stepped toward the cedarwood chest.
"Give me the dragon egg."
"No."
His eyes went wild.
Unsullied closed in.
Viserys drew his sword, shaking.
"I am the king!"
Daelo cried behind him.
In his fury, Viserys lashed out.
Steel flashed.
Blood spilled.
"Let him stop!" Dany shouted.
The Unsullied advanced.
Viserys stood alone, screaming into the fire.
"You are nothing!" he roared at Daelo.
"Just my whore!"
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