Looking at Viserys, Daenerys felt her resolve slowly harden.
"I… understand." She nodded firmly, trying to give her words more weight, but the motion was so eager the crown nearly slipped from her head. "I won't forget any of it. I swear!"
Viserys reached out quickly and gently steadied the golden circlet.
"Careful with the crown, Daenerys. When you wear it, don't shake your head like that. Keep your grace." His handsome face softened. "Otherwise if it falls in front of everyone, we'll have to explain to those idiots that you were just clumsy—not that the gods have abandoned us."
"Exiles don't wear it in public anyway…" Daenerys forced a smile, fingertips brushing the crown. "The gold will tarnish, the gems will fall out along the road. In the end, nothing but cold metal will remain."
"But not forever." Viserys placed his battle-hardened palm on her slender shoulder, the rough calluses grazing her skin. "If we truly defeat that horse-lord khal, our days of wandering will finally come to an end. Inside the Black Wall we'll have our own estate. You'll be able to leave these dusty camps behind and rest properly for a while."
Daenerys sighed softly, a trace of bitterness in her eyes. "It still won't be home."
Ever since she could remember, Viserys had told her stories of their homeland.
The Red Keep in King's Landing, the black stone walls of Dragonstone, the mountains, rivers, and seas of the Seven Kingdoms—she had first heard them all from his lips.
Later, the books and the tales from his men made Westeros clearer and clearer in her mind.
Ser Jorah spoke of the frozen wilds of the North. Wood could talk for hours about the trees and plants of the Kingswood. Ser Tristifer had walked every inch of land south of the Neck.
The more she heard, the more she read, the deeper the ache in her chest grew.
That entire land should have been hers by right, yet it had been ripped away.
"But it's a good beginning," Viserys said, refusing to let her sink into melancholy. He turned her shoulders so she faced him. "Think about it, Daenerys. Male and female slaves to obey your every command. The finest food in the world—honeyed wine, sweet cakes, roasted venison, smoked fish. Entertainments and performances instead of listening to Merrytongue Martin's terrible tunes. Honestly, the captains and I are sick of him. If we could find a replacement, we'd have fed him to the ravens long ago."
"Don't say that," the princess laughed lightly, knowing he was joking. "If you drive him away, who will sing for us? Eleonora?"
"That would be even worse," Viserys chuckled. "Eleonora has a thousand virtues, but the gods forgot to give her a singing voice."
All those virtues of hers… you've tasted them with your own hands and eyes, and more.
Daenerys swallowed the thought, too embarrassed to speak it. She twisted the hem of her dress between her fingers, the tips of her ears burning.
Merrytongue Martin loved to brag that he'd forgotten more songs than other minstrels ever knew. He carried his nose high, acting like he owned the world.
Yet Daenerys and everyone in the Dragon Claw loved the rough singer. His talent was real, and his skill with words was astonishing.
The poor man had been a wanderer from Westeros, forced into exile after sleeping with one of Lord Walder Frey's granddaughters. With nothing but his harp, he pleased the sellswords with cheeky ditties, mournful ballads, and rousing epics.
Those rough men had no interest in the elegant sorrow of "The Dance of the Dragons," but Daenerys loved that piece more than any other. She knew no one in the world could sing it better than Martin.
"And, little sister," Viserys's tone suddenly changed, carrying a gravity she had never heard before. "Volantis still keeps the old Valyrian ways. Those families of the old blood—even though Eleonora despises them—still fiercely guard the shared memory of our common ancestors with those merchants. Inside the Black Wall, living according to Valyrian custom is considered an honor: eating, drinking, resting, speaking, even breathing…"
He paused, his gaze falling on her crown. "And of course… marriage. Inside the Black Wall there are priests who understand our rites and ceremonies—not the mixed-up cults of the Free Cities."
Daenerys's breath caught. Her heart suddenly hammered.
Viserys had touched the most secret corner of her heart.
She knew Targaryen tradition well—close-kin marriage to preserve the purity of the Valyrian blood. Only that way could they control dragons.
It was the most terrifying weapon of the Targaryen dynasty.
And Viserys had always loved ancient things. He defended the family's values and traditions fiercely.
But between them there had never been any formal promise, never even talk of… their possible marriage.
She had always imagined herself becoming his queen, his wife, his Alysanne—standing beside him as their ancestors had.
But was he truly talking about her right now?
Or was she just imagining things?
"It will be interesting to see such a ceremony with my own eyes," Daenerys said carefully, trying to keep the waves in her heart in check. "The books only mention them, never describe the details. Now I'll finally get to witness one."
"Just witness?" Viserys raised an eyebrow, the mockery in his words clear. "For a girl bold enough to put a crown on her own head, that ambition seems a little too modest."
He stepped closer, locking eyes with her. "Perhaps… you want to take part in it yourself?"
"With whom?" Daenerys blurted out in shock, immediately regretting it and wishing she could bite her own tongue off.
Viserys watched her clumsy reaction, amusement blooming in his eyes.
He closed the distance in two strides, leaned down, and kissed her.
It was a swift, firm kiss—possessive even—pressed full against her lips.
The way one kisses a grown woman. The way one kisses his wife.
That was how kisses were described in the songs. And Doreah had told her about the things between men and women when Daenerys pressed her with questions. She had plenty to compare it to.
A wave of burning emotion crashed over Daenerys.
This was her first kiss, given to Viserys—her future husband.
In that moment, she believed more strongly than ever that they would stand together like their ancestors, return to Westeros, and claim the thrones that belonged to House Targaryen.
She didn't know how long the kiss lasted—a heartbeat, an hour, a year, or eternity.
Only when Viserys straightened up and his lips left hers did she come back to herself. Her cheeks burned like fire as she stared at him, dazed.
"Go to sleep, Daenerys." Viserys gently ruffled her silver hair, his fingertips leaving warmth in the strands. "At first light tomorrow, we march."
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