A tense standoff unfolded atop the tower.
Viserys stood on one side of the brazier, a longsword clenched in his hand. Beside him was only Dylah, the lovesick woman from Lys. On the opposite side stood Daenerys, surrounded by her attendants and ranks of Unsullied guards.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The Unsullied advanced slowly, clad in black breastplates, shields raised, short swords striking iron in unison. Each carried a newly forged five-shot crossbow. One volley would be enough to end Viserys's life.
"No," Daenerys whispered urgently. "Do not shoot yet. He is my brother."
"Whore! Slut!" Viserys shrieked, laughter twisting into madness. He pointed his sword at Daenerys, cursing her with venom.
Waving the blade wildly, he shouted at the night sky, "Give me ten thousand men—just ten thousand—and I will crush the Seven Kingdoms! The great houses will kneel before their true King. Tyrell, Redwyne, Greyjoy—each of them hates the usurper as much as I do! Dorne still thirsts for vengeance for Elia and her children! Even the common folk will rise and roar for their rightful ruler!"
"Brother, we will return one day," Daenerys pleaded through tears.
"I am the King!" Viserys roared. "A King does not beg for pity. Do you think me the Beggar King?" His voice cracked with fury. "Without you, I will reclaim the Iron Throne myself!"
"I will slay the usurper with my own hands," he swore grandly, forgetting that he had never killed anyone. "And I will not spare the Kingslayer. I will avenge my father!"
"You are the King," Dylah sobbed, clutching his arm. "You are the true King."
Daenerys stared at her brother—crushed beneath memories of loss, revenge, and delusion. The Iron Throne had broken him long before he ever touched it.
Once, she had believed him mad. Now, she pitied him.
"Put down your sword, brother," she said softly.
The Unsullied raised their crossbows. Cold steel gleamed in torchlight.
"Silence!" Viserys screamed. "You are no longer my sister. I gave you to that bastard—and how do you repay me? You send me no soldiers, no gold, and now you wish to bear his children, stealing my inheritance!"
"I was abandoned in Myr," he ranted. "Drinking, sleeping with whores. But I am still King. No one will take my crown!"
"My sister died the day you were born," he snarled. "You killed Rhaegar. You killed our mother. And now you want me dead as well!"
Daenerys's tears fell freely. Viserys had always blamed her—first for being born too late, then for their mother's death. The storm that destroyed the fleet at Dragonstone had taken Queen Rhaella's life, and Viserys had never forgiven the child born from it.
"Tell your guards to leave," Viserys demanded. "I am taking the dragon eggs."
He threw open a bronze-bound cedar chest. Inside lay three fossilized dragon eggs—black, green, and cream-and-gold—beautiful and strange, their surfaces patterned like gemstones.
Yet when he tried to lift one, his face twisted.
"They're heavy," he muttered, surprised. "But priceless. Enough to buy ships. Enough to buy an army."
He then pointed at Daenerys's crown—their mother's crown.
"That belongs to me as well."
"Please, Your Majesty," Dylah cried, stepping forward.
Daenerys removed the crown from her head. Her eyes were filled not with fear, but sorrow.
Viserys caught sight of letters on her table—sealed with a quartered banner.
"You use his crest?" Viserys hissed. "You've become his slave. You've forgotten the true dragon!"
With a scream, he slashed at the table. Letters scattered into the air like white butterflies.
"Get out!" he shrieked, poking the brazier with his sword.
"Stop, my King!" Dylah rushed forward, wrapping her arms around him.
"Traitor!" Viserys screamed.
He shoved her away and stabbed her—again and again.
Blood spilled across the marble floor.
"I told you never to think you were my Queen," he snarled.
Dylah collapsed, blood pooling beneath her. Her face grew pale, her breath shallow.
Horror froze everyone in place.
Thwip.
A crossbow bolt struck Viserys's sword arm. The longsword clattered to the ground.
Viserys staggered, snarling curses. Then his eyes fixed on the brazier.
"I am a dragon," he declared hoarsely. "Fire burns in my blood."
With a scream, he lifted the brazier.
The heat was unbearable.
He stumbled.
The brazier toppled, crushing him beneath it. Burning coals spilled across his body, igniting cloth and hair alike.
Viserys screamed.
He rolled, howling like a wounded animal, begging incoherently.
"Save him!" someone cried—but it was too late.
Flames devoured him. Velvet and silk hissed as they burned. His screams echoed until they faded into silence.
Viserys Targaryen, the Beggar King, died in fire.
Dylah watched him with fading eyes.
"I loved him," she whispered. "Please… bury me with my King. And our child."
Daenerys nodded, tears streaming.
The Unsullied placed Dylah's body beside Viserys's charred remains.
He was not a true dragon, Daenerys thought. A true dragon fears no fire.
She placed their mother's crown upon Viserys's head.
"This is the crown you wanted, brother."
Torches were lit. Oils poured. The pyre was built.
When the flames roared skyward, something ancient stirred.
Crack.
Stone split.
From the ashes, three dragons emerged, their wings beating against the night.
Black and red. Bronze and green. Cream and gold.
Gasps filled the courtyard. Knees hit stone.
The age of dragons had returned.
And their roar shook the world.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)