Daenerys smiled faintly.
"Ser, I am grateful for your counsel. I will need you to continue the same, to offer me advice anytime and anywhere. I promise I will always listen with care."
Jorah Mormont, his face lowered, lifted his eyes just enough, placed a hand over his chest, and bowed slightly.
A smile lingered at the corners of Daenerys Targaryen's lips as she inclined her head. Then she turned toward her brother Viserys, who wore his usual look of disdain.
"Brother, Ser Jorah is no wanderer. He was once sworn to the Princess of Dragonstone. I have entrusted my safety to him."
At that, Ser Jorah's head snapped up, eyes narrowing and lips trembling as though to form words, yet no sound escaped.
"Ha!"
Viserys straightened, his face twisting. "Dany—my sweet sister—did I hear you correctly? Are you contradicting your king?"
He sprang to his feet, voice shrill:
"I am the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men! Lord of the Seven Kingdoms! Protector of the Realm! Viserys the Third—true and only King upon the Iron Throne!"
By the end, his cry had become a roar.
Daenerys felt her eyes burn. When had her brother become like this? She could no longer remember clearly. Perhaps it was after he sold their mother's crown—the only legacy she had left. From then on, he had grown ever more violent.
She recalled the gown Magister Illyrio had gifted her—more beautiful than anything she had ever seen. She had put it on at once, overjoyed… until Viserys stormed in and tore it from her body, leaving her maid, who had tried to protect her, dead.
From that day forth, Daenerys never dared accept gifts unless they came directly from her brother's hand. Even Illyrio's tokens had to pass through Viserys. At least, until she met Lord Gawen Crabb.
Since then, so much had happened. She remembered vividly the endless fear, the sleepless nights when she longed to flee her brother. But he was her only kin. She could not abandon him.
Because they were family, she endured—no matter the fear—remaining by his side. But if it had been anyone else?
Once, Viserys's wrath had filled her only with terror. Now it brought helpless despair. Would the people of the Seven Kingdoms ever love such a king?
Daenerys brushed away a tear before it could fall.
"Brother, no one denies you are our king—I swear it."
Viserys's cold smile deepened, mocking.
"My dear sister, I find myself doubting your oaths more and more."
"Viserys," she said softly, earnestly, "you need wait less than a year. Leave it to me, please. You will have the men you need to reclaim the Iron Throne."
"The Iron Throne…"
He murmured the words, then grinned. "My sweet sister, of course I believe you. A king keeps his promises. Only—don't make me wait too long."
He cast Ser Jorah a hateful glare. "One day soon, you will learn what becomes of those who betray their king."
When Viserys had gone, Daenerys pressed a hand to her brow and sighed.
"Ser Jorah, you have never betrayed us. I beg your pardon for him."
Her face was pale, her smile weary.
After a moment's silence, Jorah spoke with grave conviction.
"Princess, it matters not. A Mormont does not waver."
As Daenerys rose from her chair, pain made her stagger. She clutched the armrest and raised a hand to decline Jorah's help.
She wiped cold sweat from her brow and forced a lighter tone.
"I never thought marching could be so exhausting."
Jorah glanced at her, concern flickering in his eyes.
"In the beginning, it is always so. You will soon grow used to it, Princess. You are stronger than most I have ever seen."
That night.
Unable to bathe from the rawness of her legs, Daenerys let her maid wipe her with damp cloths. Later she curled upon her bed, silent tears sliding down.
By day, she had to be the strong Princess of Dragonstone. By night, alone, she could not keep her tears at bay.
Her plans had been well laid, but she now saw that thinking and doing were not the same. Doubt gnawed at her—could she endure this path? For how long?
The pain kept her from sleep until late.
"Dany, don't be afraid…"
The man of her secret thoughts lay suddenly at her side, murmuring comfort, gazing at her with eyes filled only with her.
Shy and thrilled, Daenerys felt her pain dissolve, replaced by sweet warmth.
She reached out, meaning to touch his cheek, meaning to answer his love with her own, to join and never part.
But before her fingers met his face, all around her shattered. She now stood before a dragon.
No bed, no Gawen—only her and the beast. Her hands clenched into fists.
Its scales were dark as night, slick with blood—her blood, she somehow knew. Its eyes burned like molten pits. It opened its maw, flames rushing forth.
Yet as the fire engulfed her, Daenerys heard not a roar, but song. She spread her arms and embraced the flames.
She felt her flesh sear, blacken, slough away, felt her blood boil and vanish—yet no pain touched her. Instead she felt power, strength, rebirth.
At dawn, Daenerys awoke. She turned suddenly toward the empty side of her bed, her heart sinking. Only a dream. Her face fell in disappointment.
Rising, she braced for the familiar agony—yet it did not come.
She walked the room in wonder. Not only had the pain vanished, but her body felt stronger, hardier than before. Her once-soft thighs were firm with new strength. She no longer feared the saddle.
Red Keep.
Eddard Stark strode from the Tower of the Hand with Jory at his side.
It was his fifth day in King's Landing. Outwardly he busied himself with the tourney, but in secret he had begun probing Jon Arryn's death.
His stern face showed the strain. The false courtesies of the Red Keep wearied him. He longed for the North's plain honesty.
Yet retreat was never in his thoughts. A direwolf does not abandon the hunt for hardship.
Eddard cast a glance across shelves heavy with books and jars of medicines.
Grand Maester Pycelle bowed with shaking limbs.
"Lord Stark, I had not expected you in person. I am always at your service."
Ned inclined his head, wondering: whose service, truly?
"Sit, Maester. Please."
The old man feigned gratitude, eyes misting as though moved by Stark's kindness.
Once he had settled, Ned spoke.
"I hear that before he died, the Hand borrowed a book from you. I would see it."
Pycelle's sleeve twitched. "Ah—yes. A work by Maester Mellos, nothing but genealogies of the great houses. I fear you would find it dull."
Ned sat opposite him. "Perhaps. Still, I would read it."
The maester's rheumy eyes scanned the shelves. "I believe it is here. The text so dull I scarce gave it thought. I shall have a servant fetch it and send it to the Tower of the Hand before nightfall."
"You are most thorough, Maester."
"To serve you is my highest honor…"
Pycelle coughed, breath ragged.
Ned frowned slightly. "If you are able, tell me of Jon Arryn's last days. I understand you tended him."
The old man sighed. "His death was a grievous blow to us all. I will gladly tell you what I can."
He straightened with effort, his chain clinking.
"For years he was troubled, restless. I thought the burden of rule weighed too heavily. That was what I believed… but now, I would not dare be so certain."
Ned's heart sank at the memory of his old friend. Jon had indeed labored for the realm his whole life.
"What illness claimed him, Maester? I heard it came suddenly."
Pycelle spread his hands, his tone both sad and helpless.
"Though he once suffered a grave sickness, we nursed him back to health. Yet one morning he awoke wracked with pain, unable to rise. Maester Coleman thought it no more than a chill in the stomach. But his suffering grew worse each day, until I myself was forced to attend him. Alas, the gods did not grant me the skill to save him."
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
📯 Lords and Ladies of the Realm, heed the call! 📯
The saga burns ever brighter—30 chapters ahead now await, available only to those who swear their loyalty on Patreon. 🐉❄️🔥
Walk among dragons, defy the cold, and stake your claim in a world where crowns are won with fire and fury.
🔗 Claim your place: www.patreon.com/DrManhattanEN
👤 Known on Patreon as: DrManhattanEN
Your loyalty feeds the flame. And fire remembers.