A Promise of Iron

Viserys

"Another Targaryen?" he hissed as he opened the letter. "Well, I always figured that my brother impregnated his northern whore, I just didn't know their bastard would live." He tossed the page back at the serving girl and waved her out. He fell back onto the plush mattress, staring at the movement of the sheer silk bed hangings blowing in the warm breeze. Winter came so much later in the Free Cities, and he was thankful for it, he had never been a fan of the cold. Never a fan of molten hot, though, his thoughts reminded him of that terrible night.

Still, a third Targaryen could be useful, with his undevoted sister play-ruling a thousand leagues away on Slavers Bay he would need a new queen to take to Westeros. If there was a Targaryen girl in the other world, even just a half-blood, he could keep the line mostly pure without inviting back the betrayer that was his sister.

The sister that he had cared for her entire life, selling everything he owned so she had food in her belly and clothes on her back. The moment that food in her belly was replaced by a baby, she forgot where she stood. She and her savage husband attempted to murder him, him, and then had the gall to say he wasn't a dragon. When their horde of imbeciles moved away from the patch of dirt and straw they call a city, he struggled to stand with his new, heavy skull.

Now, after a journey that seemed twice as long as the last one, he was back in Pentos, looking at the ruin his face had become. The looking glass had perfect reflection, as expected in Magister Illyrio's home, so he knew the horror that he saw was the truth.

From his nose down he was still the handsome devil he had always been: full lips, perfect, vaguely sharp teeth and a strong angled jaw covered in smooth, pale skin. As you got closer to the gold though, his skin became darker, on the border between the metal and his flesh, the colour was almost black. One violet eye remained, bright and angry, his other eye had not fared so well. Beneath the patch covering the upper left quadrant of his face a mess of cooked, smeared purple and white gell, blackened and veined with gold covered the hollow where his eye had been and dripped down over his cheekbone, baked to the skin. Narrow runs of gold had dripped beside it, like so many raindrops, or better yet, tears. Similar drops framed his functioning eye, irritated red skin met it, making his eye look like it was on fire. He chuckled coldly at this find remembering the last words he heard his sweet sister say.

Fire cannot kill a dragon.

Well, my sweet, it didn't.