Chapter 135: Viserys
By the time the dinner concluded, the night was deep.
The music had faded and the guests had dispersed, leaving the courtyard in a profound quiet that seemed to echo the twinkling stars in the sky above. In the stillness, Khal Drogo's palace felt cooler, the stone radiating a faint chill.
Drogo himself had already departed from Pentos, returning to his *khalasar*. In ten days, his wedding would be held on the vast grasslands that bordered the city.
For tonight, Ian and the others would remain as guests in the Khal's palace, returning to Magister Illyrio's manse on the morrow.
Ian stood alone in the courtyard, waiting for Illyrio and the Targaryens to emerge from the great hall. Moonlight spilled over the ivy climbing the walls, bathing the leaves in a silvery glow.
Nearby, Khal Drogo's slaves were clearing the remnants of the feast. Ian watched them closely, noting the dull copper collars clasped around each of their necks. It was clear that the freedom mandated within Pentos's walls did not extend to the palace of the Horse King.
But then, he mused, the Sealords of Braavos had little reason to remind a khal with forty thousand mounted warriors to abide by their ancient pact with Pentos. Even the Braavosi ambassador, Olanto, had turned a blind eye to the slaves when he attended the banquet.
"Did Drogo not like her?" Viserys's voice, thick with wine, cut through the quiet. He stumbled into the courtyard behind Illyrio. "Why didn't he take her with him? Is she too young? Will he even want her?"
He had rattled off the same questions no less than ten times already, and Ian could feel the raw anxiety radiating from him.
Illyrio, however, had exhausted his patience for answering. He remained silent, his heavy frame exuding weariness.
Daenerys followed them, her head bowed as always, not daring to speak. She knew her brother was angry. He might be blaming her for her small breasts, for failing to please the Horse King, or for some other imagined slight.
In the end, it was always her fault. But what could she do? She was barely fourteen years old.
Dany was terrified—of awakening the 'sleeping dragon' of her brother's rage, and of the colossal man whom everyone seemed to fear, the man who would soon be her husband.
Seeing Illyrio's obstinate silence, a fresh surge of anger rose in Viserys. He couldn't vent it on the Magister, so his eyes swept the courtyard and landed on Ian. But it seemed even he knew this wasn't something he could blame on his sworn sword. His gaze lingered for only a moment before shifting away, finally settling on his unsatisfactory sister.
Daenerys's silver-gold hair was fanned across her bare shoulders, and the violet dress, chosen to match her eyes, looked impossibly thin in the pale moonlight.
*You useless thing!* Viserys thought, his mind clouded with drink and fury. *Why couldn't you have enthralled him tonight?*
Though Illyrio had explained repeatedly that Dothraki custom demanded a wedding on the open grassland before anything else, and that Drogo not taking her immediately was no sign of displeasure, Viserys was too agitated to listen. He would not feel secure until those forty thousand warriors were his.
He took a lurching step forward, stopping directly in front of Daenerys. He breathed heavily, the sour scent of wine washing over her face.
Dany seemed to sense what was coming. Her fingers curled tightly into her palms, and beneath her thin skirt, her legs pressed together awkwardly.
"Your Majesty, I do not believe you have cause for concern."
Ian's calm voice sounded from behind Viserys, and the prince's slowly rising fist paused in mid-air.
"What Khal Drogo desires most is the noble blood of the dragon kings that flows in Her Highness's veins," Ian continued, his tone measured and reasonable. "Before he ever met the princess, he had already led his entire *khalasar* across half of Essos to reach Pentos. He brought a hundred thousand people on a journey that took more than half a year. He did not come all this way merely to toy with you. He is determined to have the princess."
Ian paused, then added, "Even if Her Highness were to lack some small attraction for the Khal, it is impossible that he would break the contract over it." He instantly realized how that might sound, as if he were insulting Dany's slender frame, and quickly amended his statement. "Besides, Her Highness possesses such a stunning beauty. The Khal has no reason not to be captivated."
"So, I am worrying for nothing?" Viserys asked, Ian's logic cutting through his drunken haze.
Illyrio had offered explanations of Dothraki tradition and other nonsense, but Viserys hadn't been able to hear any of it. Ian's straightforward reasoning, however, struck him with perfect clarity. *Drogo brought one hundred thousand people on a journey of half a year. Would he truly care about such superficial things?*
"Without a doubt, Your Majesty."
A slow smile finally spread across Viserys's anxious face.
Daenerys looked at Ian, her violet eyes wide with disbelief. She had seen her brother's rage countless times. No one—not her, not the maids, not even Magister Illyrio—had ever managed to soothe the 'wrath of the sleeping dragon' so easily, let alone make him smile.
*Ser Ian is like a magician,* she thought. *This is the second time he has saved me from the dragon.*
Noticing her stare, Ian met her gaze. Dany quickly mouthed a single word, a sound only she could hear, and then shyly turned her head away.
Ian had read her lips. She had said, 'Thank you.'
*She is still just a little girl,* he thought with a private sigh. The future Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains. He remembered all the grand titles she would one day hold, the storm-born queen who would liberate Slaver's Bay. But right now, she was only a timid and frightened child.
"What are you looking at?" Viserys demanded, noticing Ian's gaze fixed on his sister.
"The future Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea," Ian replied smoothly. "Your Majesty, your sister will soon win you tens of thousands of Dothraki screamers and the Iron Throne. Please, do not blame her. A true dragon saves his fury for the usurpers and the kingslayers, to burn them to ash. He does not waste it on such trivial matters."
Ian added, "There are too many in Westeros awaiting your return. You need not trouble yourself with these small things."
"Truly?" Viserys asked, affecting an air of knowledge. "I still have loyal lords in Westeros?" He had heard as much from Illyrio many times, and he believed it fervently, but he wanted to hear Ian say it again—to put his disobedient sister and the arrogant Magister in their place.
"Some? No, Your Majesty, that is not accurate. All of Westeros awaits your return," Ian said, echoing Illyrio's well-worn words. "In farmsteads and cottages across the land, men secretly raise their cups in your name while their wives sew dragon banners in secret. The great lords are only waiting for you to return with an army. When you do, they will all rise to follow their true king."
"Who are they?" Viserys pressed, his eyes gleaming with eagerness. "Who are my most loyal supporters?"
*No one at all,* Ian thought grimly.
"House Martell has not forgotten the murder of Princess Elia and her children at the hands of the usurper's dogs," Ian said aloud. "Prince Oberyn, the 'Red Viper,' has never abandoned his quest for vengeance. Your brother Prince Rhaegar's close friend, Ser Myles Mooton, was slain by the usurper himself at the Battle of the Bells. His brother, Lord William Mooton of Maidenpool, thirsts to avenge him."
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