[The prince is in the West.]
That phrase—like a red-hot brand—instantly searing through her decade-long darkness and despair.
West...
A king from Westeros, commanding three-headed ice dragons.
A prince who'd awaken her blood with "ice and snow's kiss."
Not delusion. Not dream.
Ancestral prophecy!
A call from deep within her bloodline!
An unprecedented force—quietly sprouting from her ravaged heart.
She wasn't goods.
She wasn't a lamb for slaughter.
She was Daenerys Stormborn—inheritor of Targaryen blood!
She must meet that Dothraki khal. She couldn't defy Viserys's command.
But—she could choose how to meet him.
Daenerys slowly stood, walking to the mirror.
The girl reflected—swollen cheeks, yet eyes no longer pure fear.
Beneath that familiar timidity—a tenacious flame quietly burning.
She couldn't openly rebel—that would only bring Viserys's more insane torment.
But she could... act.
She could play a weak, timid, unworthy plaything.
A defective product unfit for a khal.
This thought—once born—grew wildly.
Illyrio Mopatis's courtyard—already crowded with guests.
Air thick with spices and roasted meat's charred fragrance.
But all shattered by uninvited guests' arrival.
Drogo and his bloodriders—like bulls crashing into a porcelain shop.
They reeked of leather, sweat, and horses—utterly incompatible with silk-clad Pentoshi nobles.
Khal Drogo himself—like a moving mountain.
Bare-chested, bronze skin covered in scars, black braid reaching his thighs hung with gold and silver bells, jingling with his movements.
His gaze—like a steppe eagle—sharp and filled with wild scrutiny.
Viserys stood beside Magister Illyrio, face wearing what he thought a noble smile.
But those eyes constantly glancing toward the entrance—betraying inner anxiety and anticipation.
Finally—Daenerys appeared.
Supported by two handmaids, slowly descending steps.
Wearing that nearly transparent purple gown, silver hair meticulously combed.
She looked beautiful—like a delicate flower carefully cultivated in a greenhouse.
But... only beautiful.
Viserys's brow furrowed unconsciously.
Daenerys's steps somewhat unsteady—as if about to fall any moment.
Head constantly lowered—not daring to look at anyone.
That appearance—exactly like a frightened quail.
Most infuriating—that face still showed faint traces of swelling!
This idiot!
Doesn't she know to cover it with powder?!
"Khal,"
Magister Illyrio smiled broadly, introducing in Common Tongue.
"This is Princess Daenerys Targaryen. Stormborn. Blood of House Targaryen."
Khal Drogo said nothing—only striding forward before Daenerys.
His towering figure—completely shrouding Daenerys in shadow.
Daenerys's body—uncontrollably trembling, even instinctively retreating half a step.
This motion—clearly falling into Drogo's eyes.
He circled her—like appraising a mare for purchase.
His gaze sweeping from silver hair, across trembling shoulders, to that small face written with terror.
He stopped, extending rough hands, gripping Daenerys's chin, forcing her head up.
Daenerys's eyes—instantly filling with tears.
Not acting.
Khal Drogo's oppressive presence—that apex predator's aura—making her instinctively afraid.
But beneath that fearful tearlight—Drogo saw nothing he wanted to see.
No defiance. No unyielding spirit. Certainly not House Targaryen's legendary flame and madness.
Nothing.
Only weakness awaiting slaughter.
Even a trace of pathetic timidity.
Drogo's brow furrowed.
He released his grip, speaking in Dothraki to his bloodriders behind.
Voice low and hoarse—grating like two stones scraping.
Viserys couldn't understand Dothraki—but he understood expressions.
He saw Khal Drogo's face show undisguised disappointment.
"Khal... what did the khal say?"
Viserys looked urgently at Illyrio.
Magister Illyrio's expression somewhat awkward—facial fat squeezing together, forcing out a smile.
"Uh... the khal says the princess... is beautiful."
"Bullshit!"
Viserys instantly exploded.
He wasn't an idiot—he could feel the wrong atmosphere!
He rushed before Khal Drogo, pointing at Daenerys, loudly hawking his sister in clumsy, Westerosi-accented Dothraki.
"Queen! She is queen! Pure Targaryen blood!"
Khal Drogo only glanced at him.
That look—like viewing a jumping monkey.
He spoke again, voice carrying obvious impatience.
"Me vos save."
(She fears even shadows.)
"Me chek asshekh."
(She's unworthy to be my khaleesi.)
Finished speaking—he didn't even bother looking at Daenerys again, turning and striding toward the food-laden table, grabbing a roasted lamb leg, tearing into it.
The entire courtyard—plunged into deathly silence.
All eyes—focused on Viserys's face turning from red to blue, then blue to white.
Finished.
Everything finished.
His restoration dream. His hope of reclaiming the Iron Throne. Those forty thousand Dothraki...
All destroyed by this useless waste of a sister!
Scalding fury—rushing from his soles to his crown.
Waking the dragon—at this moment—completely awakened!
"You..."
Viserys whirled around—those violet eyes bloodshot.
He approached Daenerys step by step—each step like treading on her heart.
Daenerys retreated in terror.
"You useless waste!"
Viserys grabbed her arm.
Force nearly crushing Daenerys's bones.
He dragged Daenerys aside, lowering his voice, hissing venomously in a tone only they could hear:
"I'll kill you!"
"I'll kill you tonight, you whore!"
"You've destroyed everything! You've destroyed House Targaryen's last hope!"
Daenerys—tears streaming from pain—yet not daring to make a sound.
Her arm pinched painfully—but in her heart rose cold satisfaction.
She succeeded.
She'd refused that savage horse lord in her own way.
The crucial first step—accomplished.
But next—how would she face this "sleeping dragon" who'd gone completely mad?
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