Lysa Tully first sat Little Robert down by the hearth, then looked to her sister.
"Isn't he beautiful? He's strong too—don't heed wicked rumors. Jon knew it; he told me himself—'the seed is strong.' Those were his dying words. He kept whispering Little Robert's name, clutching my hand until he drew blood. He wanted me to tell them all: the seed is strong—his seed—so everyone will know my sweet boy will grow into a strapping man."
Catelyn Tully glanced at Little Robert's small hand tugging at Lysa's robe and said gently, "Lysa, I am your sister. I want to help you. I need to know the truth."
She steadied her voice. "Whatever it is, I will help you."
"Silence!"
The sudden bark made Little Robert drop his ragged doll onto the carpet and cling tight to his mother.
"You frightened my son, dear sister."
Lysa scolded once, then cooed to her trembling boy: "My precious love, don't be afraid. Mother is here. Nothing will happen to you."
Is this still my sister? Where is her grace? Catelyn fought to master her rising anger.
With practiced ease, Lysa lifted her robe; Little Robert latched on eagerly.
Catelyn found herself speechless. This is Jon Arryn's son? She thought of little Rickon—only three, half Robert's age and twice as lively. She prayed her nephew would grow healthy, but felt grim about his future.
Stroking her son's hair, Lysa said proudly, "Cat, Little Robert is Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the Vale."
"Lysa, given the times, there may well be war," Catelyn tried again.
Lysa's softness vanished. She glanced at the child in her arms, then lowered her voice, hot with fury. "All because of your husband's plotting. My son and I could have lived in peace—he ruined the Vale's calm."
She went on, "Spare me your false concern. Your scheme will fail. No one can reach us here."
"There is no castle that cannot be taken," Catelyn snapped despite herself. "Let me help you."
"No one will take my son's Eyrie," Lysa shot back. Then, "You will help me—no—"
Her eyes turned poisonous as she looked at her sister. "Now I shall judge you. I will grant you a chance to atone."
"You're mad, Lysa!" Catelyn stared, incredulous.
Ignoring her, Lysa looked down at her boy and murmured, "Sweetling, you like your aunt, don't you? Let's have her stay here… shall we?"
"St–stay… here…" Little Robert stammered.
Lysa patted his head, then lifted her gaze to Catelyn. A strange smile crept across her face—cold enough to chill the room.
"Dear Aunt Catelyn, you will live here from now on. We shall take very good care of you."
Before Catelyn could answer, the smile vanished. "You will not refuse the hospitality of the Lord of the Eyrie, will you?"
Little Robert peeked out, excited and urgent: "Make her fly! Make her fly!"
Lysa ruffled his hair, muttering, "A fine notion… a very fine notion."
Catelyn's pupils constricted. Her mouth opened, but no sound came.
Essos, the city-state of Viserys (formerly Qantis).
"Goose, goose, goose…" Reading the letter, Daenerys Targaryen suddenly burst into laughter—clear as silver bells, brightening the room.
She laughed until she doubled over, one hand at her belly, the other over her mouth, trying and failing to stifle it.
Borona and Osanna stared at first, then caught her mirth and smiled despite themselves.
"Help—no more," Daenerys pleaded through giggles. "I can't keep laughing."
Whose letter? One from the King of Grind, Gawen—sent after Lord Eddard reached King's Landing—had crossed the Narrow Sea and arrived today.
Ever meticulous, Gawen Crabb had gathered, during Pentos, that the "poor little princess" liked cheerful tales. So he'd filled the letter with amusing happenings he'd personally witnessed in the Red Keep—real stories, lightly exaggerated—delightful and satisfying to a young woman's curiosity. He used aliases for everyone: "the Merry Duke," "the Iron-Face Duke," "Egghead," "Little Beard," and so on.
What finally undid Daenerys was the tale from the Great Sept of Baelor when Gawen first reached the capital—"Egghead" being the spark that set off her peals (Chs. 117–118).
Daenerys rubbed her cheeks, violet eyes lingering on the letter lying on the table. "Osanna, are the couriers settled?"
Osanna nodded. "Princess Daenerys, all arranged. Please be at ease."
Borona cleared her throat. "Best let them rest—a hard road back if they're to carry your reply."
Daenerys gave her a sidelong, smiling glance. "Thoughtful as ever. Come, a cup—today I am too happy."
I, Daenerys, am the True Dragon—and a True Dragon hides no love.
Knock, knock. After being called, Dick Rivers entered with a wine ewer.
"Your Highness, forgive my boldness," Dick said with a slight bow. "Passing by, I heard laughter. I dared to guess you might need wine."
Still thin, he spoke with the Trade Guild's lilt and a studied elegance.
Silver hair against porcelain skin, Daenerys smiled warmly. "Dick, you are ever considerate. Thank you."
His eyes flicked—habitual—and at her praise he nearly glowed. "Your Highness, to serve you is my honor. I shall work even harder and complete every task you entrust to me, because I am—"
"—clever Dick," Osanna said, expressionless.
Borona burst out laughing.
Daenerys' eyes curved like crescent moons; she bit back her own laughter to keep her dignity.
Dick bristled, but one look at Osanna's bare, corded forearms cooled him.
Osanna's cropped black hair was neatly trimmed, her black eyes bright and keen. Taller and more muscular than most women, her physique fairly radiated strength.
Feeling his glance, Osanna's gaze flicked to him. She had been simmering since losing a spar to Ser Jorah Mormont, and she remembered how loudly Dick had laughed that day. Seeing him look away, she merely arched a brow and let it pass.
Daenerys pressed her lips together, then said, "Clever Dick, I look forward to your performance."
She turned to Osanna. "It was a single loss. I spoke with Ser Jorah—he says you're simply unaccustomed to fighting in full plate. Training will fix that. In truth, he's eager for a rematch."
Osanna might look unchanged, but Daenerys had long sensed the heat she kept corked after that defeat. She liked Borona's bright spirits and Osanna's purity of purpose; having them with her steadied her heart.
Busy days—but pleasant ones. Daenerys' gaze drifted to the map of Westeros upon the wall, fixing on the Vale. She longed for the days after helping her brother win the Iron Throne.
"Next time, I will defeat Ser Jorah," Osanna said, uncharacteristically flushing.
Daenerys nodded with a smile.
Borona took the silver ewer from Dick and poured for them all.
Daenerys sipped summerwine—her favorite flavor, rich with sweet memories of a time and a man.
Her eyes shifted. "Dick—where is Viserys?"
As one of Viserys' close attendants, he usually stayed with the king. Seeing him still here, trading jests with Borona, sparked her question.
Dick sobered. "Your Highness, His Majesty King Viserys is asleep. He… got drunk."
Daenerys looked toward the window; the sunlight outside was harsh and bright.
"Drunk before noon?" She frowned. "Why?"
Dick hesitated. "The matter of the legion's name, Your Highness. He grew angry. The legion is the True Dragon Legion—but in private everyone keeps calling it the Princess' Legion, or the Daenerys Legion."
He added, "He heard too much of it. He also said… he said—"
"What did he say?" Daenerys' brow rose.
Dick glanced up at her calm face and ventured, "He told me—drunk—that I should call him the Puppet King. That he's his sister's toy."
Daenerys drew a breath. Her tone stayed even. "Dick, please—find a way to keep him from getting drunk every day. I know my brother hates counsel that displeases him, but at least keep him from drinking by day."
Dick opened his mouth. He wanted to promise, but doubt gnawed—His Majesty disliked any hindrance.
"I hurt him before. He won't hear a word I say now," she murmured.
"He trusts you," she went on, still not commanding—only asking. "This is a request, not an order. Dick… can you?"
Her voice stayed level, but the last question made him shiver.
He stole a glance at her gentle eyes and forced it out. "Your Highness… I will try—"
He clenched his jaw. "I will do it. Please don't worry."
Daenerys nodded and looked around the room. "I'm a little tired. I'd like to rest."
Silence fell after they left. Daenerys walked to the window with her cup. The sun hung high, pouring endless light across the earth.
A fine day indeed. She stood awhile, then wiped the moisture from her lashes with the back of her hand.
Why could her brother not trust her, not show her a little patience? She even found herself envying Dick—Viserys treated him better than his own sister. Far better.
She dared not forget their pact—not for a moment, not even when she was exhausted.
Since sailing south, her growing experience had shown her better ways to help him.
Nearly everyone told Daenerys that her brother would never make a good king, and his daily conduct told the same tale. Time had brought many quarrels between them; doubt had crossed her heart—but never overthrown her faith.
She believed Viserys had watched House Targaryen's fall with his own eyes and filled his heart with hatred for the Usurper. It was that hatred, she thought, that had twisted him. Once he slew his foes and claimed the Iron Throne, surely he would be the beloved king he ought to be.
Hot tears blurred her vision.
Cruelty… With power, Viserys would become cruel—equally cruel within and without. She was sure of it. Therefore she dared not surrender the reins.
Most of all, she needed time to fulfill her promise to him, not drift into some absurd struggle for power. If she yielded now just to soothe his pride, how would she gather the strength needed to win back the throne?
They could not afford to lose—neither of them. She did not understand why he was so… Daenerys brushed her cheeks dry.
Viserys was her only kin in this world. She feared losing him.
The sunlight stabbed her eyes; she narrowed them. Ser Jorah's warning had truly unsettled her: even with ten thousand men, Viserys might die on the march—perhaps even at the hands of his own.
What army would remain loyal no matter how he was before revenge—swearing to die for his safety?
The Unsullied. She had seen those sworn soldiers in Illyrio's manse back in Pentos.
Yes—this was the best way.
Ten thousand Unsullied would guard her brother's life across Westeros—until he had his vengeance, until he took the Iron Throne.
Daenerys closed her eyes and prayed to the gods, asking only that Viserys might find a little more patience.
.
.
.
🔥 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.