Fire And Blood

Safety

Daenerys I

Viserys had been burnt the same night. Their ancestors of Old Valyria had burnt their dead and Viserys deserved as much.

She was sitting on her bed, her hands folded in her lap as she was staring at the spot where he had taken his last breath.

He hadn't even wanted to defile her. He hadn't done anything of that sort. No, her brother had wanted to kill her because, in his mind, she had cost him his throne.

Why, brother, did you force my hand?

When they were younger, when they were still living in the house with the red door, she had wanted to be his queen. Now, she had his blood on her hands. Had her family not suffered enough? Had it not been enough that the Lannisters and the Usurper had slaughtered her family? Had the Targaryen name fallen so low that they would snuff out the last of their blood themselves?

Why, brother, did you force my hand?

She had always wanted to be a good sister to him. She had always wanted to be loyal to him and had always looked up to him. Viserys had not been a bad man...not at first. She would learn to read and to write with him. He would tell her stories of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives. Or of King Jaehaerys I, the Old King. He would tell her stories of the greatest Targaryens, of their queens and of the legacy their family bore.

He had been a good brother and she had loved him dearly.

Once.

Their lives had changed. He had changed. Her love for him had changed.

She touched her throat. It was painfully bruised, causing her to wince.

All she could do now was to hope that, wherever he was, he was at peace now.

"Pack your belongings, Princess, we are leaving."

Daenerys looked up from her bed, torn from her musings. Prince Oberyn, her good-brother, was standing by the doorframe.

"Where are we going?" she asked, doing her best to not show her pain. Her voice was likely to sound rough for a while yet.

"We cannot take all three of you to Dorne. Hiding Rhaenys was one thing, but hiding a silver-haired Targaryen would be too risky." A small smirk toyed around his lips. "When I left with Rhaenys to come here, my brother told me eight times to not end up bringing every Targaryen to Dorne. I counted."

"I understand. I will be but a moment. I do not have much to call my own."

She pulled out a small bag, frayed at the edges and with small holes here and there, from under her bed. Looking around, she saw nothing she wanted to take. The dresses were not hers but gifts from the Magister. Gifts to make her look worthy of being a Dothraki Khal's whore-bride.

She grabbed her favourite dress, placed it carefully into the bag, then went to the guest room. Jon was the first to notice her – as he always was – and the others present soon noticed her as well.

"I am ready to depart," she said, doing her best to talk as naturally as she could.

"Good," Oberyn said. "Then let us not wait any longer."

"Before you leave, Princess," the Magister said, holding one of his thick fingers up, "let me give you a parting gift."

Rhaenys gave the Magister a suspicious look and she could see the same distrust in Oberyn's eyes, even when his smile hid it. It didn't take long for Magister Illyrio to leave the room and return with a small wooden chest in his hands. He stood in front of her and opened it, showing three rather large scaly eggs, all coloured differently.