"Mars damn it," Viserys muttered under his breath, eyes still locked on the corpse of the pig-faced brute sprawled in a pool of his own blood and filth.
The hall stank of it—burned flesh, piss, wine, and hot metal, It was like a cocktail that turned the stomach. But it wasn't the stench that wrinkled Viserys' nose.
It was disgust, deep and personal, the kind reserved not just for the dead thing on the floor, but for everything around him.
And for himself.
'Why can't I get a single fucking break?'
The thought came and was sharp and cold, like steel drawn across stone. No fear in it. Just bitterness. Coiled in the corners of his mind like an old friend who never left.
Viserys bent at the waist, his scorched fingers curling around the hilt of the dead man's sword. Steel, blackened at the edges, still warm. He lifted it slowly, eyes narrowing as he brought the blade closer to his face.
The weight of it surprised him. Too heavy for a common sword, too crude to be Valyrian steel. He turned it, watched the light catch along its edge.
"How did this burn?" he muttered. "Greek fire?" His voice was low, analytical. Detached.
CRACK!
Unknowingly to him, one of the eggs in his pocket cracked slightly… and a faint golden light began to glow from within.
He ran a finger along the spine of the blade, searching for some mechanism, a vent, a hidden chamber—anything that could explain the flame. Nothing. No fuel, no trick, no design he could recognize.
Just steel. And fire that shouldn't have been.
"Magic, then," he said aloud, bitterly. Like the word tasted foul in his mouth. "Fucking magic."
He stepped over to the corpse, boots squelching through blood. The body lay twisted, half-curled like some butchered animal. Face slack, mouth still parted from the last gasp.
Viserys lifted the blade. His hands trembled—not from fear, but effort. The sword wasn't made for someone of his build. But he held it anyway.
Then he brought it down.
STAB.
Steel plunged into flesh with a wet crunch. The corpse jerked, what was left of the neck twitching.
STAB.
Again.
STAB.
And again.
STAB.
Until there was no face. No skull. Just pulp. Bits of bone and brain matted in a pool of gore. The steel dragged through what was left of the bastard's head like cutting into soaked parchment.
Viserys didn't stop there. He kept slashing—shoulders, ribs, arms, belly—cleaving through the corpse like he was cutting a message into the body. A message to the gods. To R'hllor. To Rome. To whatever cursed fire had burned his hand and set this thing against him.
By the time he stepped back, chest heaving, the body was unrecognizable. A pile of butchered meat in the shape of a man.
Viserys exhaled slowly. Blood sprayed up the front of his tunic. It ran down his arms, mixed with the sweat, the soot, and the dirt. He stared at the blade again.
"Now you're mine," he whispered to it, fingers tight around the hilt.
He turned, slowly, eyes scanning the ruined hall.
A place that once was filled with stories. Ghosts of memory clung to the walls, tales of dragons, conquerors, and kings told by Ser Willem as the wind howled outside and Daenerys leaned close, wide-eyed and believing.
Back then, this place had meant something.
They were told their blood had once united Westeros, brought seven kingdoms to heel. Ended centuries of bloodshed with dragonfire and steel. Grand stories, dressed in glory. Too clean. Too pretty. Lies, For sure.
Maybe not.
Didn't matter now.
CRACK!
Viserys stood surrounded by gore he had spilled, and he didn't regret a single drop. Not the screaming. Not the stabbing. Not the look of confusion on the pig's face as his insides gave out.
But something pulled his gaze down.
A shape. Small. Crumpled.
His eyes narrowed.
"Oh, Roma Almighty…" he breathed, the words dragging out in a tired exhale, not reverent, just worn down.
Daenerys was on the floor, one leg twisted beneath her, hair matted across her face, her fingers half-curled near the edge of a blood-slick wine bottle that had rolled under her foot.
He didn't need a sage or a septon to explain it. Anyone with half a brain could see it. She'd tried to move, tried to reach for a weapon, probably the bottle, and slipped. Cracked her head or knocked herself cold.
Viserys sighed, deep and bitter. Not because he was worried. Not really. He was just disappointed...
How the hell is he supposed to rebuild Rome like this?
Viserys stared down at Daenerys' crumpled body and felt the bitterness boil again in his gut. His fingers flexed by his side, nails digging into his palm.
His sister. The last Targaryen girl. The supposed silver flame of a dying dynasty.
Useless.
Then again, not the worst. That honor still went to those fat, treacherous Baratheon bastards, sitting on thrones built from stolen fire and blood.
Viserys rolled his shoulders back and smoothed the expression off his face. The sneer vanished, replaced by a soft, beatific smile. The kind that might've fooled a blind dog on a foggy day. A mask—crafted and polished through years of pretending to be a prince long after anyone bowed to him.
He walked over to her slowly, the bloodied tips of his boots leaving red prints on the stone. Daenerys lay still, wine pooling beneath her, her white-blonde hair streaked with dirt and sweat.
CRACK!
"Daenerys~," he cooed, voice honey-sweet and hollow. He dropped to one knee beside her. A practiced motion. Like a knight from the old songs. Except there was no chivalry in him—just mockery.
"Dae-ner-ys," he repeated, sing-song now, dragging the syllables like a tired actor reciting lines in a play he never asked to join.
He reached down, fingers brushing her cheek. The stone floor scraped his knuckles, grime clinging to his palm. He didn't care. Her skin was soft. Too soft. Unscarred, untouched by hardship. Like she'd spent her entire life soaking in luxury while he clawed through dirt.
No wonder Willem and the rest spent more coin pampering her than feeding him. She was the dragon princess. The delicate one.
He pinched her cheek. Hard.
The skin turned red instantly under his fingers.
Still no movement.
So he pinched harder.
"Arise." His voice lost the sing-song now. Flat. Cold. Commanding.
Her cheek burned under the pressure. Viserys twisted his grip just slightly, watching the flesh stretch. Amused, distant.
And then—
"AHHHHHHHHHHH!"
She jolted awake, eyes wide, body flinching. One hand shot up to grab his wrist, too slow to stop him. Her mouth curled in pain as the blood rushed to her face.
Viserys just smiled.
CRACK!
CRACK!
CRACK!
CRACK!
That smile.
That detached, dead-eyed grin of a man who didn't care if you cried, screamed, or begged—so long as you moved when he said to.
He held her gaze, fingers still clutching her face.
"Brother!" Daenerys gasped, lurching upright. Her voice cracked with pain and panic, her hand swatting his away as she broke free from his grip. Her cheek was still red, though the flush had faded into a dull, sore hue. The mark of his fingers lingered there like bruises on fruit.
She blinked hard, trying to focus. And then she saw him properly.
Blood. Everywhere.
Across his chest. Spattered on his face. Drying in patches on his hands and smeared across his sleeves like warpaint. But it was the hand—the left one, burned raw and blackened—that made her breath catch.
Her face shifted—the coldness vanished, replaced by something almost worse: fear. Not fear of him, not yet. But fear for him. As if he were fragile. Breakable.
As if he hadn't just butchered a man with a shattered bottle.
"Br-Brother… are you—" her voice wavered, tripping over itself. She stared at his hand, at the scorched flesh, the way it trembled slightly from the wrist down. "Are you okay?"
She reached out before she could think better of it.
Her lips were trembling. Blood had gathered at the corner of her mouth from the fall, a small cut, but enough to leave her looking like she'd bitten through her own words.
Her gown clung to her, sweat-soaked and stained with grime and wine. The panic rolled off her in waves, body shivering despite the warmth of the room. She looked young, too young for this room, for this blood, for this brother.
But the words were out. Spoken softly, brokenly. The same words she'd probably used as a child when he'd come back from a beating or when Willem had returned drunk and shouting.
"Are you okay?"
She spoke, her voice uncertain, shallow, like it barely made it past her lips. Her body felt numb, knees weak, but somewhere in the fog of her mind something clicked.
Where was the man? The one who had entered before, flaming sword, eyes wild, like some beast that wore human skin. She blinked, looked around frantically—
And then a hand clamped around her face.
She gasped.
Viserys leaned in, close enough for her to feel the heat from the blood smeared on his skin. His fingers dug into her jaw, not hard enough to bruise—not yet—but enough to make her still. Make her listen.
"Don't panic," he said, quiet but firm. His thumb brushed her bottom lip, wiping away the thin line of blood that had dried there. It was a slow, deliberate motion—possessive, almost. His eyes never left hers.
Her chest tightened. Not with fear. Not completely. Something else crept in beneath it. Something she couldn't name.
Her heart was hammering now, far louder than his words.
She opened her mouth. "Vi-Vis…" she whispered, her cheeks warm, her throat dry. She didn't finish the name. Couldn't.
Because that's when it happened.
CRACK.
One of the phoenix eggs—the black one with golden runes—had split clean down the middle.
And then came the fire.
It erupted out of the egg like a geyser, violent and alive. A wall of flame that engulfed Viserys in an instant, wrapping around his body like a lover made of smoke and wrath.
Daenerys screamed.
Or tried to. Nothing came out.
She could only stare as the fire danced over him, devouring the blood on his clothes, swallowing his shadow.
But he didn't fall.
He didn't burn.
He stood inside it.
A/N:Missed an update yesterday, sorry. My MacBook decided to die on me, and typing on an iPhone feels like stabbing stone with a spoon. Bonus chapters will come, just delayed. Appreciate your patience.