Chapter 4: Daenerys
"This is beautiful," her brother said, "Yet." He paused, frowning over the pale, silken fabric. "I am sure Illyrio purchased it too dear. He'll hold it over me. Some Master of the Coin he'll be. Careful with his money, but sometimes--"
He trailed off, looking annoyed. Dany stared at him, remembering his hand stinging against her face, and flinched.
Viserys looked baffled for a moment, and said, "What is it, sister?"
She wanted to ask how he couldn't know what it was. Two years, two years since he'd changed. Not that he was kind before, not entirely, but for two years he had beat her and let her live her whole life and fear, from hovel to hovel, until at last a merchant, Illyrio, set them up in a house. And when she'd finally fled, after he revealed he was going to marry her off, "Dragons don't rut with beasts, but you're hardly a dragon, and your maidenhead will purchase us a return Home, dear sister" she had somehow found her back there.
But, but the house looked different, in subtle ways she couldn't figure out, and all of the books Viserys had sold off were still in his room, under lock and key. The whole thing puzzled her.
"Why are you afraid of me?" he asked, looking at her. She could almost imagine there was the slightest flicker of concern in his eyes.
"I am not, Viserys," Dany lied.
He looked at her for a long, disbelieving moment, and then said, "This cloth, it will bring out your violet eyes. And there are other things Illyrio can provide, gold and jewels. You must look the part of a Princess, as I will a Prince."
They'd called him the beggar prince, but also other things. Dany looked at him and nodded. Deep inside her, there was a sort of cold acceptance. This was a trick, his concern, he'd played tricks on her like that before. Things didn't make sense, but nothing ever did, not for years.
"Why does he give us so much? Why not...why are we living separately from him," Dany asked. Viserys had told her, a few months ago, that it was because he wanted to fuck her, stupid cow, fat merchant that he was, but this time Viserys didn't give that answer. "Is it so hard to believe that blood, the blood of dragons, of old Valyria, has worth? Yet, it is also written that blood cannot be sullied, it cannot be brought down or bought. Illyrio can content himself with providing the largest part of the income for our manor."
"But how do you afford it?" Dany asked, and waited for the blow to come.
And, truly speaking, it was the closest he'd come to acting like he normally did. There was a brief moment of fury and madness before he let out a breath, "It is no matter to a girl, where the money comes from. Illyrio is generous, and I am well-liked among many. Who would not, when before too long I will be on the throne. And you shall be there as well, when the time comes."
Liar, Dany didn't say. Dirty liar. He meant to sell her, to take her away, when once she had loved him, had even expected in some naive way--the way of a girl who didn't know the world--to marry him, and that it'd be like having a big brother, no different. He'd sell her off, and think nothing of it.
Viserys was no different than Illyrio. The man sold and bought everything, including friendships. He'd made friends everywhere, though he apparently prized them for nothing. The two were made for each other.
Viserys reached out a hand, and this time when she flinched he darted forward, surprisingly agile, to hold her shoulder. And here it comes, Dany thought, and it was sick, the way she almost hoped for the punch, because at least then he'd stop pretending to be the brother she could like.
"Something's wrong. If there's something, you can tell me," Viserys said, his lilac eyes seeming almost to flash. Guant, pale, he looked always on the verge of sickness, yet she'd never seen him ill a day in his life.
Of course she couldn't tell him, because of course he already knew. So she shook her head and said, "It's nothing, brother."
"I suppose it isn't," Viserys says, "Illyrio tells me women sometimes get jitters before the wedding." Viserys snorted, shaking his head perhaps at the folly of women, "Just think of Westeros, think of the land we'll reclaim before too long." He left, and as soon as he was gone, Dany walked over to the window and tried to picture that realm of green hills and deep rivers, of great stone fortresses and high mountains and long summers and long winters. A land of knights and jousts and feasts that he spoke of often with longing. Everyone had a name for it: Rhaesh Andali, the Sunset Kingdoms, or her brother's favorite, 'Our Home.'
Even if he was temporarily acting differently, that same urge was there, and it's how she knew he was the same. "It is, you know," he'd lectured once, lectured a thousand times really, though even more once he'd changed, "Our birthright, our land by conquest and by the blood of Valyria and dragons. And you don't stint the dragons. Dragons remember."
For her part, she knew none of it. Wouldn't have been able to tell Casterly Rock from Highgarden, but Viserys was old eight, eight, for young memories.
She pictured the midnight flight to Dragonstone, the battles between Rhaegar, the greatest prince mankind had ever crafted, as Viserys had once said, and the Usurper, the daftest monster that had ever called himself a lord. He'd died though, and Baratheon and Lannister and Stark had pulled apart the corpse, killed Father and murdered Rhaegar's heir, ripped him from his mother's bosom.
She remembered the storm at her birth, which had smashed half the fleet, and led to half of the rest deserting. Yet they'd fled, their small force, and if half of that went mercenary or was sold off, no doubt refitted as pirates, it was a start. In those early days, Viserys said, everyone had opened their doors and their pocketbooks, and Ser William Darry had raised them in that house. The one with the red door and the lemon tree, that she could still smell all those years later. Her brother had fled the house with the red door with a few servants, a few books, and enough coins and supplies to make do.
But they were always moving, fleeing from the Usurpur's knives that Viserys always insisted was close. And yet despite this fear, he had gathered books, had taken himself to reading and not telling Dany what he was reading. And sometimes when they were running short of money, Viserys would disappear for a day, leaving her in the care of a servant, and then reappear sheepishly with a bag full of silver coins.
"I'm a cunning dragon," Viserys always answered, and then he'd smiled and laugh and remind her, wryly, of when she'd been so young he'd blown raspberries, his 'fire breath' across her stomach as she giggled.
He'd been strange, smart, mysterious. She'd always wanted to know what secrets were in those books, and how they opened doors. Opened doors that his status no longer would, for she heard how they called him "Begger King" behind is back and cowered to his front, she knew how he met with learned scholars and charlatans and nobles and walked in and out without a guard and with clothes that were not fitting of a Prince, even if they were of a lord.
She didn't know how they still had mother's crown, how they still had the Targaryan treasures. She hadn't known where the money had come from, and he'd refused to answer, instead talking always about the future or the past, never the present.
And then he'd changed and the books had disappeared, she'd run away, and when she returned the books were back and he pretended like he'd not beat her and threatened to kill her, had not muttered about, "awakening the dragon" all the time, though it was a phrase that before he'd gone mad, she had heard before. Always a little wry, a little uncertain.
Until it became a certainty.
There was a knock, surely Illyrio's servants. Viserys had deigned to accept them, slaves even though Pentos had outlawed slavery a century ago at Braavos behest. "Come," she said, and in came the old mousey slave woman, and the young, blue-eyed woman, who chatted continually.
They filled her bath with hot water, with oils and helped her into the tub. She liked the warmth, scalding though it was, and she turned to ask, "What's your name?" to the girl who had not yet stopped talking.
"Me? I'm Maeralla, and I'm so jealous of you. You're lucky, to marry someone as rich as Drogo."
Dany had heard this and other words before, and merely said, quietly, wondering if she were a spy, "I don't...I guess so."
"I know you're well-born, but trust me, there are worse matches than a young warrior-King. Or Khal, whatever you want to call him. He's so rich his slaves wear golden collars, and he has a hundred-thousand warriors and he's handsome and I'm sure he can give pleasure in bed, and--"
The girl paused, "Why are you frowning so? It's not good for your complexion."
Dany looked over at Maeralla, and thought about it. The girl surely was a slave, and if one was, then would not being the wife of a Khal be better than that lot, as beautiful as she was? She knew that for some men, that would only be inducement towards more abuse. She was younger than the girl, and perhaps--
"I suppose it is not," Dany said. She could see why Maeralla thought as she did, but that didn't mean she had to be glad of this.
And they certainly did their work well, stroking her hair until it looked like molten silver, while the old woman dabbed spiceflower perfume, a rare bit of beauty from the Dothraki, on each wrist, behind her ears, on the tips of her breasts, and one last between her legs. They dressed her in a deep plum silk gown, slid sandals onto her feet, and her mother's crown in her hair, golden bracelets encrusted with amethysts around her wrist. And last of all the heavy golden torc, the collar emblazoned with ancient Valyrian glyphs.
She looked at herself as Maeralla cooed, and for a moment she could almost believe she looked like a princess. Yet she remembered bruises and scars, even if when her fingers traced her skin she couldn't find them. She didn't know how much it cost Viserys to make her look like this, but she shivered when she thought of how even Khal Drogo's slaves wore gold.
There were no slaves in Pentos, that's how the lie went. But there were plenty of bondsmen and women, and plenty enough of wives.
Down in the small but regal reception hall, her brother was waiting with Illyrio, who must have arrived not long after Viserys had left her. He was a huge man in scarlet silk, fat jiggling with his every motion, gemstones on his fingers, and a forked, oiled blond beard. It was, Dany had been told, a fashionable look, yet this only confirmed Viserys' story once of how ridiculous Free City clothing was.
"And you know, they tripped over their own feet as they were leading me out," Viserys had said, and then grinned teasingly, fondly "Though the women, some of their finery was nice. When we're back home, you can have all of the gowns you like." He'd told that to a nine year old girl, and she'd believed him, liar that she now knew he was.
"You look lovely, dear sister. Regal. Young, so young for marriage," Viserys said, frowning, "Are you sure, Illyrio, that Khal Drogo will not think her too young? You yourself said that a year's ripening could change opportunities."
"Nonsense," Ilyrio said, "She looks a vision of delicacy and grace. And it's rather too far in for that, my friend."
Viserys smirked, his gaunt features made worse by the brooch which pulled back his hair.
"Think on it. She has had her blood, and she has purple eyes and silver-gold hair, all of the--"
"Beauty of old Valyria," Viserys said, exactly in time with Illyrio's words.
Illyrio started, and said, "Kings are, it seems, so wise that they know what I would say."
"It is a talent," Viserys said, and Dany could hear the barest, subtlest hint of menace in his voice, before he turned to her and said, "Come closer. Here's a mirror," he reached down to pick a mirror off a counter that he must have been using to examine himself, and back at herself stared Daenerys Targaryen.
"Do you think, yours is the face that might have stood at the topless towers of Valyria? Shall you launch a thousand ships filled with horse barbarians and their slaves, to reclaim our home?" Viserys asked, sounding almost curious.
"I, I will try to do my duty, brother. I do not w-want to disappoint you," Dany said, honestly. To disappoint Viserys Targaryen was to be hurt.
Viserys paused and said, "I hope it is enough. We're late, though, we'd better get to moving on."
*****
It was dark as they wound through the streets of Pentos in an elaborate palanquin, two servants lighting the way with blue-glass oil lamps, and a dozen strong slaves carrying them along. It was warm, and she could smell her brother's perfume, and the stench of Illyrio's flesh beneath his perfume.
"Would you say, we won't need the whole Khalasar? Just ten thousand Dothraki screamers? Ten thousand, to sweep the whole Seven Kingdoms. That the realm will rise for its rightful king, the peasants of Dorne take up arms all at once? That the Tyrells and Greyjoys, and many other houses will flock to my glorious banner, and that the smallfolk all cry out for their true King?" Viserys asked, his voice by the end thunderous, as if pronouncing judgement.
"Yes, of course," Illyrio said, amicably, "In holdfasts all across the realm, men lift secret toasts to your name and hide dragon banners. My spies say they are ready when you call."
There was a look of hope on Viserys' face as Illyrio spoke, and then he laughed, long and bitter, "And if I asked you whether the moon was made of gold, you'd have said 'why of course, my King'? You'll make a courtier yet, and the Book of Kingly Wisdom says that Kings are oft told of what they wish to hear. No, ten thousand won't be enough, not unless we bolster it with mercenaries. Cavalry cannot win battles on their own, even with good bows. We'll need to sew up companies, and we'll need agents that are willing to do more than just sew banners and drink toasts."
He half stood up and said, "You wish to be the Master of Coins, do you not?"
"I would be honored to hold any position you wish of me," Illyrio said smoothly, though there was a startled look on his face. Like a fat calf struck with a club, though she only knew that comparison out of a book.
"Well, then start thinking logistics. The Dothraki can't take cities or castles, and Stark and Lannister and the Stormlands and King's Landing are the Usurpers. Ask your agents to look into Dorne. Yet if we get Dorne...I remember, the histories said that the Reach hated Dorne. So if we get one, do we get the other? We need mercenaries, we need supplies, we need logistics, we need to call an army about ourselves, not leave them waiting and drinking over us. We can promise the Ironborn everything, for a promise to such scum, traders and raiders, means very little. There are Ironborn islets on the narrow sea, yes?"
He had a way of blitzing through problems that she'd admired when she was younger, when he'd showed his intelligence and wit and grace, though now there was a hard, frustrated edge to it.
"Yes," Ilyrio said, "We could contact them, and promise...what?"
"Whatever it takes to get them to tie up the Starks. And the Arryns, perhaps their Mountain Men...and then Dorne against the Reach. It's good land, plenty of forraging, yes, so if we had a way to win sieges, once we had Dorne and the Reach, it'd be about the time to rally those who regret their treachery, and I'd even let the Lannisters turn coat yet once more...and then kill them as soon as it is convenient to me. I will enjoy ending them for what they did to my Father." Viserys held out his hand, "But we can't stay in a world of dreams. Men need food, men need money, and the Dothraki are men, their horses eat like horses. What do you think, Daenerys?"
"I think that you are wise, brother," Dany said, carefully.
"Not yet. I am on my way there. It is said that you should never awaken the dragon," Viserys said with a laugh, and Dany shrank back in her seat, and paid little more attention as he interrogated Illyrio on matters of money, logistics, and the Great Houses of Westeros.
The huge, nine-towered Manse of the Khal Drogo was right by the bay. It had been given to the Khal by the magisters, and he made a crack about the Lord of Light and the faith of priests and the lack of fear that Pentos had for barbarians.
At the gate, they were stopped by an Unsullied, and Dany could see Viserys tense, annoyed. "I suppose it is just security, and I understand he must protect his guests, right? You have said this already, yesterday, that we would be stopped."
Despite the warning, he looked annoyed, "I accept it only because the Usurpers knives are close, and the man would give anything to see me dead. He should not rest a single night thinking himself safe until I am dead."
"Quite so," Illyrio said, like a teacher whose pupil has given the right answer. Viserys tensed at the tone, but no more than that.
A slave helped them inside, once they'd been set down. Dany noted that her collar was bronze, and glanced over as two men were required to heave as hard as they could to get Illyrio to his feet.
The manse was richly furnished, smelling of spices, pinchfire, lemon like the Red Door House, and cinnamon. Dany stared down at the Doom of Valyria. The earth itself had cracked, fire erupting, burning all, and it was said that haunted laughts were heard across the world. And many Valyrians overseas went mad or died in that instant, protected not by distance. Many Valyrians, but not the Targaryens or their allies. Something had protected them, and protected the scant few that had come with swords and other goods of old Valyria, where magic was said to have been done openly, where towers split the very sky. She could not linger long, and as she darted forward, a eunuch sang of their coming in a high, sweet voice. "Viserys of the House Targaryen, the Third of his Name," he called in a high, sweet voice, "King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. His sister, Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone. His honorable host, Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of the Free City of Pentos."
Inside the courtyard, covered in pale ivy, the guests drifted. Horselords predominated, huge men with reddish-brown skin, forms dark and almost like their horses, with drooping mustaches bound in metal rings, black hair oiled, braided, and hung with bells. They looked like fools in motley, but territfying fools indeed, and among them slipped bravos and sellswords from across the Free Cities, and a hugely fat red priest who waved, oddly enough, to Viserys, and people from as far afield as the Summer Isles, their skin as black as midnight. And she was the only woman.
Viserys said, "Who are they?" He was gesturing most of all to the Dothraki.
"Drogo's bloodriders, and there is Khal Moron with his son Rhogoro, and the man in the Green beard is the Archon of Tyroish--"
"Perhaps I should talk to him. He is a ruler, if only of a city," Viserys said, and before Illyrio could say anything, he slipped off. Illyrio frowned and said, "And I wasn't done making introductions. The last, especially, I hoped would whet his appetite."
She wondered what Illyrio knew of his sick appetites, the things Viserys had done to her, the way he pretended now that they didn't happen. She felt fear creeping up on her. "Who?"
"Ser Jorah Mormont, a knight himself, and an enemy to the Usurper."
A knight. A knight could be something, it could be rescue from Viserys, though she knew not to trust the chance. She took a breath, "Why an enemy?"
"Good to ask why, for it means quite a bit," Illyrio said, appraising her. Even though he was conspiring with Viserys to sell her off, no doubt he was grooming her as well. If Viserys was to suddenly die, perhaps by the Usurpers hand--and it was sick the way that vision was almost welcome--she would be the only Targaryen in his grasp. "The Usurper wanted his head over nothing, nothing at all. He sold some poachers to a Tyroshi slaver instead of giving them to the Night's Watch."
It sounded like an offense which deserved some punishment, but death?
"It seems...harsh. Death over something like that."
"A man should be able to do as he likes with his own chattel," Illyrio said, and Dany withdrew inwards, glancing at the knight. He was past forty and balding, but he had a strong arm, and he was dressed in wool of leather, with a dark green tunic bearing the likeness of a black bear standing on two legs. She tried to remember Viserys lessons on some of the major Houses, but they didn't match any of them.
"Can we trust him, if the offense is so small?" Viserys asked, and Dany turned in a whirl, and even Ilyrio seemed surprised.
"Weren't you?" Illyrio asked.
"Yes. A charming man, though greedy like all of his kind. Tyroshi. Still, I think I made a...good first impression on him," Viserys said, gesturing over to the man. "We might need even uncertain friends like that in times to come. I shall talk to this Ser Jorah Mormont, see just what is being reported. I should like to talk to the Red Priest as well. But later. Where is the Khal?"
Illyrio pointed at a man, a head taller than anyone else, light on his feet, graceful as a panther which Illyrio had entertained her with once, her and Viserys. It could dance. He was no old man, and was perhaps thirty, with skin the color of copper, and a huge mustachio bound with gold and bronze rings. And then, strangely, a few rings of common iron.
"I shall make my submissions, and bring him to you."
Viserys grinned, "One approaches a King, a King doesn't approach one. Look at his brain, please, sister," he said, taking her by the arm, eyes alight, "Look at its length, look at the ringing bells, look at its length. In any other culture, this would be girlish."
Indeed, Dany had never heard of any Westeros woman whose dark hair pushed almost down to her feet, as he did. It was bizarre, and she imagined him looming over her.
"You see how long it is?" Viserys asked. "When Dothraki are defeated in combat, I've heard, they cut off their braids in disgrace, so the world will know their shame, and yet Khal Drogo has never lost a fight. He is a great warrior, though nothing against the Targaryen bloodline, and you shall be his queen. And we shall regain Westeros."
Now there was a fire she recognized, mad and ambitious, and yet here, of all places, she found her tongue. If he slapped her here, if he tried to murder her, surely Ser Jorah woudl interfere, or the Khal would grow angry at his prize being damaged.
She felt small and petty and bitter and afraid, her knees shaking, terror clinging to her every word. Yet besides a tactic, a desperate ploy, it was the truth. Khal Drogo looked like a cruel, ahrd man, almost as scary as her brother. Almost, yet she might have rather had him than Viserys. "I don't want to be his queen," she said, "Please, please Viserys, I don't want to, I want to go home."
"Home?" Viserys asked, and he raised his hand, palm out, as if he were going to slap her.
"But you won't take me home. You'll leave me here to be bedded by some horse...some horsebedder," Dany said, repeating slurs she'd heard Viserys use not more than two months ago. Well, close. Her eyes filled with tears as she said, "You will."
Viserys stepped forward, and his hard hand grasped her shoulder, whispering, "I won't. I've told you this before, and what has gotten into you? Must I repeat it all twice, a thousand times? Have you lost leave of your wits, Dany, like some simple maid? You shall not be his queen forever. You are of the dragon's blood. Once I have used them, I will steal you away, and any sons or daughters too. You shall live in Westeros with me, and my reign will be great and grand, and I will pick out a suitor there for your tastes, whomever you may like, since my own marriage will be forced as yours will. I must marry someone of Westerosi stock, as distasteful as it is, to cement alliances if I am to rule."
There was fury in his eyes, "And you shall live as a Queen, a Princess, whose children will strengthen the branch of our family line. So don't you dare ever accuse me of not caring for you, my sweet sister. I do not know what is wrong with you, but if you imply such a thing of me again, I shall slap you as one might a child."
He sighed, "And to think, I thought the night was going well."
Dany looked at him baffled, trembling, "What?" she asked. He'd said no such thing, two months ago or ever. She would have remembered if he had.
"What madness is--nevermind. Smile, stand straight. Try to look as if you don't hate him and don't, for some reason, hate me," Viserys said, voice hard and cruel, but also tired, annoyed.
Dany tried as hard as she could.
*****
A/N: So, uh, first huge twist and change based on the new source material!
