After a long conversation, Rhaenys had achieved the unthinkable: she had sown calm in Daenerys's restless heart. Word by word, she dismantled the shadows cast by Viserys and elevated the figure of Khal Kerse until he became an inevitable destiny.
"Your brother will never be king," Rhaenys said serenely, without harshness, as if she were speaking of a truth as simple as the dawn. "And Kerse is the chosen one. Like it or not, the world is already moving around him."
Daenerys lowered her gaze, carefully caressing her belly.
"Doesn't it bother you that Kerse has decided to name my son heir to the Iron Throne?" she finally asked, her voice a thin thread laden with insecurity.
Rhaenys arched an eyebrow and smiled.
"Well… you already have so much faith in our husband that you take it for granted he will conquer Westeros," she replied in a teasing tone.
Then she shrugged.
"The Iron Throne has always belonged to the Targaryens."
"But you are also a Targaryen…," Daenerys began.
"A Targaryen who was supposed to be dead," Rhaenys interrupted her without a trace of bitterness.
Her violet eyes shone with clarity.
"It is much easier for the world to accept the son of the recognized Daenerys Targaryen than the supposed surviving Rhaenys Targaryen."
She paused and smiled confidently.
"Besides, Kerse's ambition does not end with a single throne. When the time comes, what he will lack least will be lands to distribute among his heirs."
Daenerys fell silent, stunned by the certainty of those words.
…
That same night, Khal Kerse went outside with his eldest son after the celebration came to an end. The sky was clear, covered with stars that seemed to watch them in silence.
Kerse sighed as he looked at Maegor. The boy returned a wide, carefree smile.
"Son, don't you blame your father for not giving you the Iron Throne?" Kerse asked, with a hint of guilt.
Maegor tilted his head, thoughtful.
"Father, if I sat on that chair… would I have more food?" he asked with genuine curiosity.
Kerse blinked, taken aback.
"Well… not exactly. In fact, you would probably eat less because you would be busy with matters of the crown."
"Then I don't blame you," Maegor replied with complete naturalness, as if the throne were just another stone on the road.
Kerse stood there looking at him, not knowing whether to laugh or sigh.
"Of course…," he murmured, perplexed.
…
A few days later, Daenerys and Rhaenys walked amid the bustle of the market, followed by their handmaidens. At a short distance, Kerse, Viserys, and a group of guards accompanied them.
Suddenly, the scent of fireworks caught Daenerys's attention.
"Look!" she exclaimed enthusiastically, pointing at a stall.
Her smile was radiant, almost childlike. For a moment, she was not a khaleesi nor a promised queen, but a young woman discovering the world.
Rhaenys walked at her side with a calm expression. Those places no longer surprised her, but seeing her aunt laugh made it worthwhile. There was something warm and fragile in that happiness.
Viserys, on the other hand, walked forward with a scowl, muttering bitterly.
When they reached the western part of the city, merchants were unloading goods without rest. Turning a corner, they came upon a wine stall. The aroma was intense and intoxicating.
"Sweet red wine," the vendor shouted in fluent Dothraki.
"From Lys, Volantis, and Arbor. White wine from Lys, pear brandy, firewine, and pepper wine from Tyrosh. Wine of the green god, smoked berry wine, and sour wine from Myr. I have it all."
He was a small, slender man, with a pleasant face and curly blond hair, perfumed and carefully groomed.
Upon seeing them, he bowed with exaggerated courtesy.
"Would you like to taste some wine?"
Kerse remained silent, observing.
Viserys was the first to accept.
The merchant turned to the two women.
"My ladies, I have a Dornish summer wine, made with honey plums, cherries, and black oak."
Rhaenys shook her head. Daenerys, on the other hand, smiled shyly.
"Just a sip, thank you."
The merchant seemed surprised when they spoke.
"Tyroshi, perhaps?"
"I may dress like a Dothraki and speak with a foreign accent, but I am a woman of Westeros," Rhaenys replied.
Doreah stepped forward.
"You have the honor of speaking with Princesses Daenerys Targaryen and Rhaenys Targaryen."
The man immediately fell to his knees.
"Your Highnesses."
"Rise," Rhaenys ordered.
"I want to taste your wine," Daenerys said.
The merchant smiled nervously.
"The summer red is for Dornish pigs. I have something better. A dry wine from the island of Qingting. Sweet and refreshing. Allow me to send you a cask."
Molegro stepped forward to carry it.
Viserys, impatient, was the first to drink. Ser Jorah watched, tense, but did not stop him.
The merchant poured another cup for Daenerys.
Before she could take it, a voice cut through the air.
"Wait!"
Kerse's voice was harsh, laden with fury.
"Molegro, leave the cask."
At that instant, all the pieces fell into place. The sense of familiarity struck him like lightning. He remembered the story. He remembered the book.
He looked at Ser Jorah, who was about to move forward.
In the original story, he was supposed to stop it.
But this time, Jorah had stopped no one.
Not Daenerys.
Not Viserys.
And that made the danger even greater.