Daenerys Targaryen took the golden circlet crown studded with rubies out of the travel chest, her fingertips tracing the cold metal.
It had belonged to her mother, Queen Rhaella. She always hoped that in the gleam of the gemstones she might catch a glimpse of her face.
She had never seen her mother alive.
No portrait of the queen could be found anywhere in Essos, and her father had never allowed overseas artists to paint her.
All she could do was stare at this crown and pray the gods would grant her a fleeting vision.
Today, the gods stayed silent.
No shadow of her mother appeared in the rubies' red light.
Perhaps Viserys was right. She was only fooling herself. Those brief smiles and caring glances were nothing but her own imagination.
But she had her own way of chasing those thoughts away.
Daenerys carried the crown to the bed, picked up the small Myrish mirror, and looked at herself.
It was loot from one of Viserys's smaller skirmishes. She couldn't remember if it came from the Shield Company, the Brothers-in-Arms, or the Mummers—she only remembered the enemy fleeing in panic and leaving this delicate, beautiful mirror behind.
For the past year she had stood in front of it often, studying her own face, wondering when she would finally grow into a woman who could truly captivate Viserys.
He was her protector, and by family tradition, he would one day be her husband.
Daenerys knew that day would come. She simply wanted the mirror to show her when.
She placed the golden crown carefully on her head and smiled at her reflection, pleased with what she saw.
She loved wearing it. Loved imagining herself as queen.
Viserys would sit the Iron Throne, and she would sit beside him on a throne of weirwood and dragonbone as they ruled Westeros together.
From the Wall in the North to the deserts of Dorne, the people would love them. Traitors and criminals would be punished.
The Starks, Lannisters, and Baratheons—families the dragons had once raised up—had betrayed them when the dynasty weakened. They would pay for that betrayal.
Her dreams weren't only fire and blood. They also held justice.
Those loyal to the throne would be rewarded. Ser Jorah would regain Bear Island and its wealth. Allyn Wood would become a lord with his own castle and forest.
This poacher's honor was stronger than that of many great lords of Westeros.
She and Viserys cared only about merit and loyalty, not blood or sigils.
They wouldn't need a Kingsguard either.
The white cloaks of song had been wiped out during the Rebellion. What remained were either traitors or cowards.
The Lannister father and son's betrayal had driven them into exile. Only a fool would repeat that mistake.
Their guards wouldn't be limited to seven. A woman like Eleonora would never surrender the Red Keep. She would fight to her last breath.
Daenerys let out a soft sigh.
She knew reality was never this beautiful. Her brother and Eleonora had taught her history—the long chronicle of betrayal and crime. She understood the world's cruelty well.
The conversations in the sellsword camps and her childhood in the Free Cities had taught her the same lesson.
But no one could stop her from dreaming at night. Dreaming that she would become Queen Alysanne, helping Viserys rule with justice.
She was so lost in her fantasy that she didn't hear anyone enter the tent.
Outside, Ser Tristifer Lancer stood guard. The knight from Harrenhal had fought and bled for the true dragons and still chose to follow them across the grass sea.
No stranger could enter her tent.
She only snapped out of her thoughts when she heard the familiar voice.
"There is no one in the world more beautiful than my princess."
Viserys wore a gentle smile, but the compliment somehow felt painful to her ears.
"You're lying. You've seen plenty," Daenerys replied with annoyance. She was just a little girl playing dress-up with her family's treasure. She looked nothing like a queen.
"If I say there is no one in the world more beautiful than my princess," Viserys continued, "then it is the truth. I never joke about such things. Daenerys, when have I ever lied to you that you would doubt me like this?"
"You haven't," Daenerys admitted. "But…"
"We promised each other we would never hide secrets, didn't we?"
"Yes." Daenerys knew Viserys was deliberately making small talk to give her time to calm down. She took a deep breath and forced herself to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again."
"I hope not." Viserys sat down on the bed and patted the spot beside him with a gloved hand. "Sit. We need to talk about something serious."
Serious again.
Daenerys felt a pang of disappointment.
Life with a sellsword company meant long stays always turned into long marches.
On the march, Viserys always had endless things to worry about—scouting routes, supervising units, securing supplies, negotiating with local town leaders.
He always wore the face of a tireless commander. If he had come to find her specifically, the matter had to be important.
She was right.
"We're taking on a very dangerous contract. Deadly dangerous. You're old enough now to understand what could happen to me—arrows, arakh blades, falling from a horse, disease…"
He paused, making sure she was listening carefully, then continued. "Listen to me. If I die, this is what you must do."
Daenerys's expression turned serious at once.
"The Dothraki cannot cross the Rhoyne. The river is too wide here, there are no fords, and Volantis is strengthening its eastern walls."
"I'm not afraid of those horse-lords!" Daenerys protested quickly. "I want to help—"
"I know you're brave, but that's not the point, my sweet." Viserys's voice was full of concern. He wasn't arguing, just guiding her. "We carry a responsibility that goes beyond our personal wishes. You understand that, don't you?"
Of course she did.
Every month Viserys and those around him reminded her: she was the last of the Targaryen bloodline. Even in exile, even if Viserys's "kingdom" was only a few leagues around their camp.
"Yes, I remember."
"Then you remember how we are different from the usurper and his dogs?"
The answer came easily.
"A king must master his emotions and desires, never be their slave. Otherwise he ends up like Aegon the Second—betrayed and abandoned by everyone."
"There are many examples. Harren was devoured by pride. Maegor surrendered to bloodlust. Aegon could not control his desires.
An unworthy ruler says 'I want' and the entire kingdom suffers for it.
But a princess worthy of this crown acts differently.
You will stay on the western bank of the Rhoyne because of duty—duty to our ancestors, to the realm, to the dead.
If I fall in battle, you will be the last blood of Aegon the Conqueror. The burden of restoring our house will fall on your shoulders."
"But I will need guards, gold, friends, sanctuary…" Daenerys said.
Viserys looked at her with clear satisfaction. She felt a spark of pride.
"I'm glad you understand. Trust me, I've arranged everything. Ser Tristifer, Ser Kivan, Ser Olivar, Red Darion, and Eleonora will all stay with you.
I trust them. They will protect you and they will not betray you.
I've already spoken with them. They know where the gold and treasures are hidden. They will escort you to Ten-Day Town.
It's a Volantene colony on the western bank of the Rhoyne. They will take you in. When the fighting ends, you can return to my side."
"But if the Dothraki defeat you and cross the Rhoyne, where do we run? That colony can't stop them!"
"Correct. You will go somewhere the Dothraki cannot reach—across the sea. Six riders move much faster than a lumbering horde weighed down by loot. Tristifer will take you to Maester Einar. Don't expect his kindness to last forever. Using his connections, you will take ship to Braavos. Even if the Dothraki win, they cannot challenge the Titan of Braavos. The Iron Bank has an account prepared for you. You can stay there safely."
"I understand, but…" Daenerys gathered her thoughts. "I thought Ser Mormont would stay to protect me."
"Ser Jorah came to Essos because of debt and the slave trade. He once fought for the usurper and the Starks until disaster found him." Viserys's tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. "He is talented and loyal, but if the usurper offered him his lordship and lands in exchange for your head, what would he choose? I cannot take that risk with you."
"Yet you trust him enough to ride to battle with him?" The girl gave a small, teasing laugh. "That logic seems a bit strange, brother."
A faint smile touched Viserys's lips.
"Well said, Daenerys. I trust him in war and council, but I do not trust him to guard you." His face grew serious again. "Right now he is loyal to us because he believes in our cause and knows going home means death. But if I fall, our banners are burned, and the usurper's envoys find him and offer forgiveness and restoration in exchange for one swing of his sword—what would he choose?"
The old gods and the new knew how heavy these orders were for her.
Right now, Daenerys wanted to throw her arms around Viserys, promise him everything would be fine, and beg him to stop talking. But she knew he was right.
The sellsword life could never rely on luck, and this contract was more dangerous than any before.
She would have preferred Jorah, but that was no reason to question her brother's decision.
Just as Viserys said—the usurper could indulge his desires.
They had to be better than that.
---