Third Person POV
299 AC, Uruk – The Golden City of Uruk
The sun was still stretching its limbs, its faint orange glow barely tickling the horizon, when a blaring horn shattered the dreams of Viserys Targaryen, self-styled King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. He bolted upright in his embarrassingly plain cot, silver hair a tangled catastrophe, violet eyes blazing with the fury of a man who'd been personally insulted by dawn itself. "What is this infernal noise?" he screeched, hurling his threadbare blanket aside as if it had spat on his Targaryen lineage. "I am Viserys, third of my name, blood of Aegon the Conqueror! I do not rise at this barbaric hour!"
The horn blared again, louder, as if laughing at his titles. A hulking soldier, Kweku, loomed in the doorway of Viserys's sparse room in Uruk's barracks, his face as lively as a tombstone, his spear gleaming in the dim light. "Training starts at dawn, Silver Prince," Kweku said, voice flat as a steppe. "Orders are orders. Move."
"Training? At *dawn*?" Viserys's voice hit a pitch that could've cracked a dragon's egg. "Do you know who I am? I'm not some filthy sellsword to be bossed about like a mule! I should be lounging in a palace, sipping Lysene wine, not sweating in this sand-infested hovel!" He flailed at the stone walls, which, in fairness, were polished to a shine, Uruk's builders having outdone themselves.
Kweku didn't twitch. "Clothes on. Yard in five minutes. Or I drag you." He stomped off, boots echoing like a war drum, leaving Viserys to sputter in righteous fury.
"Drag *me*? The blood of Valyria, dragged like a sack of rotten onions?" Viserys muttered, yanking on a tunic so plain it was practically an insult—no dragon sigils, no silk, just coarse linen. "When I reclaim my throne, this Kweku will be scrubbing stables in King's Landing!" He fumbled his boots, nearly tripping over them, his royal dignity already crumbling like a poorly baked pie.
Muttering curses, Viserys stumbled into the training yard, where Uruk's common soldiers—freedmen and recruits—were already at it, spears clashing, sweat flying.
"Viserys!" barked a grizzled soldier named Tiko, a freedman with a grin wider than the Narrow Sea, waving a wooden sword. "Grab a blade. We're sparring."
"Sparring?" Viserys's wail could've woken a wight. "I'm a king, not some tavern brawler! My hands are for crowns, not calluses!" He caught the wooden sword Tiko tossed, nearly dropping it on his foot, and brandished it like it was a dead fish. "This is beneath me! I should be commanding legions, not fencing with sweaty peasants!"
Tiko shrugged, his grin unshaken. "Swing or get swung, Silver Prince. Your call." The soldiers nearby didn't react.
For an hour, Viserys flailed through drills, his complaints a torrent that could've flooded Meereen. "This sword's too heavy—defective!" "The sun's scorching my royal skin—where's my shade?" "Why is sand *everywhere*? It's in my hair, my boots, my very *soul*!" His whines were met with eye-rolls or stifled laughs from the soldiers, who found his tantrums better entertainment than a mummer's show. When he tripped over a shield and face-planted into the dirt, a young recruit, Zara, cackled so hard she dropped her spear. "Silence, you wench!" Viserys spat, spitting sand. "I'll have your head when I'm king!"
"Dream on, dragon boy," Zara shot back, wiping tears of laughter as she retrieved her weapon. Tiko hauled Viserys up, muttering, "Up, Your Grace, before you dig a moat with your face."
When the horn signaled a break, Viserys collapsed onto a bench, a sweaty, sandy disaster, his tunic sticking like a second skin. "This is torture!" he gasped, accepting a bowl of porridge and a water cup from a servant who looked ready to throw it at him. "Porridge? *Porridge*? I should be feasting on capon and Dornish reds! This is a crime against my bloodline!"
The servant, a wiry girl named Lira, snorted. "Eat or go hungry, prince. Kitchen's not your throne room." She stalked off, leaving Viserys to glare at his bowl like it had insulted his mother.
He shoveled the porridge down, muttering between bites. "No spices, no flavor, no respect. This city's a jail for royalty!" The soldiers ignored him, laughing over their own meals, their easy banter a slap to Viserys's lonely sulking. He eyed a tray of flatbreads, tempted to demand one, but Lira's scowl from across the yard stopped him. "Even servants defy me," he grumbled, sipping water that tasted like betrayal.
A brief rest followed in a shaded courtyard, where Viserys sprawled on a bench, fanning himself with a stolen palm leaf, dreaming of a throne room filled with bowing lords. "Finally, a moment of peace," he sighed, picturing a crown that shone like dragonfire. His fantasy shattered when Kweku loomed again, spear tapping. "Rest's done, Silver Prince. Back to the yard."
"Again?" Viserys's squawk could've startled a flock of gulls. "My limbs are screaming, my head's pounding! This is cruelty unfit for a Targaryen!" Kweku's face was stone, and Viserys, with a huff that could've filled a bellows, dragged himself back, muttering about "tyrannical brutes" and "sadistic schedules."
The afternoon session was worse, led by a burly soldier named Goro, who swung a staff like he was born with it. "Defend, Viserys!" Goro growled, circling like a wolf. Viserys flailed, dodging a blow that nearly cracked his skull. "This is madness!" he wailed as Goro's staff clipped his shoulder, sending him sprawling into the sand.
By the session's end, Viserys was a panting, sand-crusted wreck, his hair a dusty mop. "I'll burn this yard down," he muttered, limping to the mess hall for lunch. The stew and flatbread were hearty, but Viserys called it "slop unfit for a dragonlord." He ranted about missing spices and proper plates, but the cooks ignored him, busy feeding the others. "No one honors my birthright!" he whined, stabbing his bread like it was a Lannister.
After lunch, Viserys was assigned guard duty at Uruk's outer gate, a task he deemed "lower than a Flea Bottom beggar's." In a plain leather jerkin—"No elegance, no dragons!"—he stood beside Tiko, who whistled merrily while sharpening his spear. "How do you endure this?" Viserys demanded, swatting a fly. "Standing in this blistering heat, guarding a gate like a common watchman? I should be issuing edicts, not sweating!"
Tiko grinned, unbothered. "Sun's warm, breeze is nice, and I'm not chained. Better than slaving, Silver Prince." Viserys sputtered. "I'm no slave! I'm a king!" Tiko tossed him a waterskin, chuckling. "Drink, prince. Whining dries you out."
The hours crawled, Viserys muttering about his "stolen destiny" while merchants, freedmen, and a stray dog ignored his complaints. A cart nearly flattened him, and his "Do you know who I am?" earned a shrug and a "Don't care, mate" from the driver. By shift's end, Viserys was sunburned and convinced Uruk was a plot to break him. "I'll pave these streets with gold when I'm king!" he vowed, shaking a fist at the cart.
Evening brought archery, which Viserys called "a peasant's game." His arrows missed the target, one nearly skewering a soldier, who didn't flinch. "This bow's broken!" Viserys cried, tossing it down. "Made by some halfwit!" The archery master, a sharp-eyed woman named Mara, smirked. "Bow's good, prince. Your aim's awful." The soldiers laughed, and Viserys stormed off, muttering about "mockery unfit for royalty."
Dinner was roasted goat, bread, and dates, but Viserys found it lacking. "No wine? No figs? A travesty!" he wailed, spitting out a date pit with a grimace. "The food plots against me!" The soldiers ignored him, though Tiko tossed him another date, grinning. "Chew careful, dragon boy."
Exhausted, Viserys collapsed onto his cot, moaning, "A king, reduced to this—no throne, just sand and scorn." His snores soon echoed, a dragon dreaming of glory in a city that didn't care.
The next morning, the horn blared, and Viserys's "Not again!" was ignored as Uruk thrived, its soldiers training, eating, guarding, while the Dragon Prince grumbled through another day.