The garden was quiet.
A marble fountain trickled somewhere nearby, pouring clear water into a pool shaped like a coiled dragon. Braziers burned low, their orange light casting long shadows against high walls.
Viserys stood near a pillar wrapped in flowering vine. His hair was tied back, his coat fastened in perfect symmetry, and Blackfyre hung at his side like a second spine.
Footsteps echoed along the stone.
She appeared from the archway—Talisa Maegyr.
Younger than he'd expected. No older than Daenerys, perhaps a year more. She wore a high-slit blue gown lined in green silk, her dark hair braided with silver pins that caught the firelight. Her expression was unimpressed.
"So," she said flatly, folding her arms beneath her chest. "This is what a dragon looks like."
Viserys smiled politely. "Only when he's bored."
Talisa raised a brow. "My father says you'll be a king. You certainly dress like one."
"And your father says many things," Viserys replied, stepping forward. "But you didn't come here to admire my coat."
"No," she said bluntly. "I came because he told me to. The 'Last Dragon' and all that. A legend in silk boots."
Viserys tilted his head. "You don't believe the stories?"
"I believe that half of the people who identify as royalty were simply fortunate enough to be born into a family with greater social status."
Viserys's smile didn't waver. "And what does that make you?"
Her eyes narrowed. "A bargaining tool."
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
"Do you want me to lie to you?" he asked. "Tell you this is fate? That I dreamed of a Maegyr bride while I watched my family burn in silence?"
She stared.
"I'm not here for love," Viserys continued. "I don't need it. I don't even expect it. I need power. You're part of that. And you—" his voice lowered slightly, "—you want freedom. I can see it. In how you walk. How you breathe in a place your father controls."
A flicker of something—annoyance, curiosity—crossed her face.
"Freedom comes with price," she said coolly.
"And I intend to overpay," Viserys murmured.
They walked a short circuit through the garden. Talisa kept her posture regal, but every word she gave him was tested, weighed.
"You don't want me," she said eventually. "You want my bloodline, my name, and my gate keys to Volantis."
Viserys didn't argue.
She stopped by the dragon-shaped fountain, resting her hand on the stone wing.
"But," she added quietly, "I'd rather be wife to a fire than another caged bird."
He stepped closer.
"And I'd rather bed a storm than a shadow."
They didn't smile. But for the first time… there was understanding.
When the guards returned to escort him back, she didn't say goodbye.
She only said, "You'll be trouble."
Viserys replied, "Always."
⸻
Later, back at the inn
Daenerys sat by the window, her hands resting atop the wooden box of dragon eggs. The room was dimly lit by a single oil lamp. Viserys entered and shrugged off his coat.
"You were gone long," she said without turning.
"I was talking."
"With her?"
He looked at her. Her face was in shadow, but the tension was unmistakable.
"Yes."
She turned to face him. "Do you really have to marry her?"
He raised a brow, unbuckling Blackfyre and setting it gently beside the bed.
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
Daenerys looked down. Her fingers curled around the edges of the box.
"I don't know," she said. "I just… I thought you were going to take back the world. Not get wrapped in their politics."
Viserys studied her. Then stepped closer.
"Are you jealous?" he asked.
Her cheeks colored instantly. "No. I just—"
"Because you're blushing," he said softly, tilting her chin.
"I'm not—"
"You are."
He leaned in, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Jealousy's not a bad thing. It means something matters."
Daenerys met his gaze, eyes wide, breath shallow. "I just don't want you to become like them. Cold. Scheming. Hollow."
Viserys exhaled through his nose.
"I already was," he whispered. "But I'm trying to change."
She blinked once. Then smiled faintly.
"You're doing a terrible job."
He grinned—and just as he turned toward the washbasin—
CRASH.
The door splintered inward as a cloaked figure burst through it, dagger drawn. The blade gleamed silver in the lamplight—
—and went straight for Daenerys.
"DAENY!" Viserys roared, lunging.
He intercepted the blade mid-air with his forearm—searing pain—before he drove his knee into the assassin's ribs. The figure stumbled back. Blood dripped down Viserys's arm, but he didn't slow.
Another cloaked form crashed through the window—and a third followed from the hallway.
Three assassins.
One goal.
Daenerys Targaryen.
Viserys drew Blackfyre, the ancient Valyrian steel whispering through the air like a god's exhale.
The first assassin lunged.
Clang.
Their daggers clashed.
Viserys twisted, parried, ducked—Falcon Step—and slashed across the attacker's throat in one fluid movement.
One down.
The second came from behind.
Viserys turned too late—felt a blade glance off his ribs. He hissed, spun—
King's Reversal.
Blackfyre plunged into the attacker's belly.
Viserys yanked it free as the man crumpled, gasping.
And then the third—
A flash of silver.
Too fast.
The blade arced toward Daenerys's chest—
CLANG.
Blocked.
Ser Jorah had stormed through the hallway, sword drawn, face livid.
He met the third assassin's blade with fury, countered, and drove his longsword through the man's heart.
Silence.
The room reeked of blood.
Daenerys was curled on the floor, hands over her head, trembling but untouched.
Viserys dropped to his knees beside her. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head. "No. No—"
He embraced her briefly, then stood and turned to Jorah. "Get Illyrio. Now."
Jorah nodded and vanished.
Viserys turned toward the Praetorian guards outside the room, summoned with a flick of thought.
"Summon: All active Praetorian units."
Five soldiers materialized instantly, shields raised, weapons drawn.
"The inn is compromised," Viserys said coldly. "Secure the perimeter. No one in or out."
Daenerys clutched his sleeve.
"Who would send killers?"
Viserys's eyes narrowed.
"Someone afraid of fire."
⸻
Twenty minutes later, they were packed and gone.
No words wasted.
Illyrio, rattled and furious, had been pulled from sleep by Jorah and dragged into the street still dressing.
Viserys contacted Triarch Malaquo via the system's interface—an expensive function he'd unlocked with DP.
Request: Secure Estate Listing. Immediate Purchase. Price Irrelevant.
Malaquo replied in five minutes.
By midday, the transaction was complete—paid for with Illyrio's gold.
An estate in the Ember Ward, just beneath the Black Wall. Walled, spacious, and secure.
They arrived just after dawn.
A longstone manor with inner courtyards and thick iron-banded gates. Braziers lined the walls. The air smelled of safety and fire.
Viserys stepped inside and immediately summoned more.
System Purchase: Elite Guard – Crimson Phalanx (x10)
Cost: 10,000 DP
Deployment: Immediate
The new soldiers appeared on the inner walls—heavily armored, spear-bearing men with blood-red cloaks and discipline in every motion.
Now the estate was guarded by fifteen elite warriors.
Enough to stop shadows from slipping in.
Maybe.
⸻
That night
They sat in the map room.
A fire crackled in the hearth. The dragon eggs rested in a warded trunk nearby.
Viserys stood beside the table, staring at the wine-dark map of Essos. Illyrio nursed a glass of red. Jorah leaned against the door, arms crossed.
"We need to talk," Viserys said.
Illyrio nodded. "Assassins don't come cheap. Someone paid well."
"I've made enemies," Viserys murmured. "But who knows where I am?"
"Anyone who saw you walk through the city," Jorah said.
Illyrio frowned. "But who would strike now? Malaquo wants you alive. He'd never risk an insult like this."
Viserys tapped the table. "No. This wasn't him. This was Westeros."
Jorah tensed. "Robert?"
"Or one of his dogs," Viserys said. "Varys. Littlefinger. Maybe even the Martells. Word of me survived Pentos, made it back west. They can't afford another Targaryen uprising. So they sent steel."
Illyrio grunted. "We stopped it once."
"And next time?" Viserys asked. "Next time they poison the food. Or bribe a slave. Or find someone faster than I am."
He looked between them.
"This is war. And they fired first."
The fire crackled louder.
Jorah said nothing, only stared into the flames.
Illyrio drained his cup.
Viserys's fingers closed around Blackfyre's hilt.
No more hiding.
No more waiting.
The dragon would awake.
And the world would burn for trying to kill him again.