c8: Dany's Abnormality
The steward returned promptly with a maid, who knelt beside Daenerys and began tending to her swollen ankle with practiced care, gently cleaning the area before applying a mint-scented salve likely sourced from Myr or Lys. It was a common ointment in the Free Cities, used to reduce swelling and dull pain.
Viserys didn't spare them a glance. With his hands clasped behind his back, he stood by the window, seemingly absorbed in the hazy view of the Narrow Sea. The silk gauze curtains fluttered in the breeze that carried the scent of salt and spice from the harbor.
But he wasn't looking at the sea at all.
His face was unreadable, his lips tight, eyes narrowed with thought. He wore the same expression he often bore in the Red Keep gardens as a boy when scheming about how to reclaim the Iron Throne. Now, it was planning of a different sort.
The gentle rustling behind him signaled that the maid had finished her work.
Without turning, Viserys listened in silence as she softly offered advice. "You must rest, my lady. Do not put weight on it until tomorrow."
Dany replied in a whisper, "Thank you."
The maid smiled politely and packed her supplies with care, leaving the air tinged with the scent of lavender from her apron.
Viserys's eyes didn't follow her immediately but as she walked toward the door, his gaze flicked up and tracked her movement across the room before landing squarely on the steward.
The butler caught the look and gave a shallow bow. "Honored guests, if you need anything, call for me. I will take my leave." He stepped back and gently closed the door behind him.
Viserys remained silent for a moment longer, pacing a slow arc around the room. He stopped by the table, uncovered an overturned clay cup, and poured lemonade from a brass kettle chilled, with a thin slice of sour fruit floating inside.
He approached Dany and offered the cup. "Drink."
Then, after a long pause, he asked quietly, "How do you feel, Dany?"
Startled by the uncharacteristic concern, she blinked. "I… it doesn't hurt as much anymore."
Viserys nodded once, then added, "Tell me the truth did you feel anything else?"
He crouched beside her now, his eyes searching hers with sudden intensity. "Any strange sensation? A tingling? Cold? Heat?"
Dany shrank back slightly, confused and uneasy. "What?"
Viserys's gaze dropped to her arm the one he had gripped earlier. He pointed to the spot with careful precision. "Here. Right here. Do you feel anything unusual?"
She felt her breath catch. Nothing he said made sense, but his tone was sharp, urgent. Dany shook her head slowly, eyes wide with growing fear.
Viserys watched her reaction closely, as if confirming something only he could understand. Then, without warning, he seized her hand the one not holding the cup and spread her palm open.
"What?"
He drew the slim dagger from his hip with the practiced ease of someone used to wearing blades. Its edge was Valyrian steel—Illyrio had gifted it to him just days ago. With a swift motion, he nicked the pad of her finger. A single drop of blood welled up.
Dany gasped in horror.
Viserys touched the blood to his fingertip, then brought it to his tongue. The taste of copper and something else something sharp spread across his mouth.
Boom.
The cup fell from Dany's trembling hand, hitting the mattress and splashing lemonade across the sheets. It rolled to the floor, spinning on its side.
She snatched her hand back as if burned, recoiling with a soft cry and scrambling backward on the bed. Her mind was reeling.
Before Viserys could move again, a knock came at the door.
No one responded immediately.
Then the maid's voice filtered through, gentle but clear. "Forgive the interruption, honored guests. I believe I left something behind. May I retrieve it?"
"…Yes." The voice that answered was Dany's small, shaken, but determined. Her fear of Viserys had grown like a tide crashing ashore. She needed a barrier. Anyone else in the room would be safer than being alone with him.
The maid entered briskly, pausing in surprise as she saw the mess. "Oh! My lady, your bed is soaked." She moved quickly between Dany and Viserys, retrieving a rag to blot the sheets. "Are you alright? You don't look well."
She reached out and touched Dany's forehead.
Viserys's voice came low and flat from behind her. "Is she sick?"
The maid turned, startled. Her eyes widened as she saw the dagger still in his hand. "Seven save us my lord, what are you doing?"
He didn't answer. His expression was hard, lips pressed into a thin line.
"What's going on here?" The butler had returned, appearing at the doorway like a shadow. The tension in the room hung heavy in the air.
Viserys gave no explanation, only muttered, "My sister is unwell."
The butler bowed his head slightly. "Shall I summon a healer?"
"No." Dany's voice was firm this time, though she still trembled. Her face was as pale as snow on the Blackwater. "I only need rest."
"But your bed is soaked, noble lady," the maid interjected gently. "You must change. Let me fetch fresh bedding and something dry for you to wear."
"…Alright," Dany whispered. Then she sagged back onto the bed as if the strength had left her bones.
Handmaids were rarely to be trusted spies often wore silks and sweet smiles but at that moment, Daenerys was far more terrified of Viserys than of anyone else in the room.
The maid supported Daenerys gently, then turned to Viserys with caution. "Will you be staying, my lord?"
Viserys's lips curled in a sneer. He slid the Valyrian steel dagger back into its sheath with an audible click but didn't offer a response. Instead, he turned on his heel and stormed out, ignoring the butler's hesitant glance that all but begged to speak.
Only when he had rounded the corner and put distance between them did he raise his voice, sharp and cold as steel drawn in winter air: "Take care of my sister!"
Then he vanished down the hallway and returned to his chambers.
He shut the door with a slam that echoed through the quiet villa. His jaw clenched tightly, face still drawn with that same grim expression. He made for the privy attached to the room a tiled space reminiscent of Myrish design, with marble basins and a polished copper mirror.
He locked the door behind him and sat on the seat, elbows on knees, face buried in his hands.
He forced his breath to steady as he recalled Daenerys's strange reaction.
Even without looking, he could sense it the dragonbone bracelet bound around his wrist, once subtly warm and pulsing with latent magic, now felt inert. Like charred wood after a flame has died. As if whatever dwelled within had been transferred… or awakened.
And all of it happened the moment the artifact had touched Daenerys.
That was why he'd taken the risk conducting a crude test, not unlike something Qyburn might have attempted in secret. But he hadn't expected such a visceral reaction from her.
The implications chilled him more than the sea breeze ever could.
It could only mean one thing: Daenerys possessed something within her some resonance with the ancient blood of Old Valyria. A "dragon soul," perhaps. A slumbering force now disturbed.
Her lineage as the "Mother of Dragons" wasn't just prophecy. It was reality.
But the transfer of energy if it had occurred had left him with nothing. He'd hoped her blood would offer a conduit to reclaim or measure the draconic essence. Blood was the most obvious medium. After all, the Red Woman Melisandre of Asshai had used the blood of kings to fuel shadowspawn, and leeches drawn from Gendry's veins had sealed three deaths.
So if the soul had passed to Daenerys, how could he draw it out?
He couldn't eat her. That line of thought alone was monstrous. Even for him.
Viserys's temples throbbed. She now feared him even more than she ever feared his former self, the petulant tyrant he had replaced. That made everything harder.
He'd meant to play the long game soften his manner, gain her trust, and secure her cooperation. He wanted her complicit, not resistant.
But his rash act had only widened the chasm between them.
Still, her reaction had proven a vital point.
If Daenerys were insignificant, Illyrio's staff wouldn't have intervened. The butler and maid had stepped into what should have been a personal dispute something not worth risking offense over unless they were under strict orders to protect her.
Wrong.
A dreadful possibility suddenly seized him.
What if this world had gods and they were watching?
Not benevolent deities like the Lady of Light in some fairy tale. No. In Westeros, the gods were cruel. R'hllor demanded fire and blood. The Drowned God craved suffocation. The Old Gods were silent, ancient forces lurking in weirwood trees. Even the Seven had twisted avatars: the Stranger, the Crone, the Warrior. All indifferent or dangerous.
And Daenerys… she might be chosen.
The idea that some divine force had "marked" her, imbued her with blessings, or even watched over her, unsettled Viserys to the bone. He was a time traveler a foreign will trespassing in fate's design.
Was this divine punishment? A warning?
Sweat beaded at his brow. His hands trembled. But he gritted his teeth and shoved it down.
When he emerged from the privy, Viserys looked no less furious. But now there was something else in his eyes: the desperate gleam of a man who would not surrender to fear.
He drew his dagger again not to use, but to train.
He stood in the center of the room, feet braced. Then, without ceremony, he began to swing the blade in practiced arcs, slicing through air with quick, deliberate strokes.
Sword forms, he remembered vaguely from childhood those he'd seen practiced in the Red Keep's courtyard. He wasn't a knight, but he was a dragon. And dragons didn't cower. Not before gods. Not before fate.
He couldn't control Dany. He couldn't control magic. But he could control his body. And right now, it was all he had.
As Viserys cut the air, the rhythm of motion grounding him, the maids were quietly finishing their work in Daenerys's room.
They had changed the bed linens, dried the floor, and coaxed the pale girl into clean garments. Dany said nothing through it all.
She lay curled against the corner of the bed, eyes unfocused, lips slightly parted. Like a child lost in a storm.
One of the maids Ani, a girl with flaxen hair and thoughtful eyes lingered.
"My lady," she said softly, kneeling beside the bed. "If you need anything… anything at all, just call my name. I'm Ani."
She was not much older than Daenerys, though she carried herself with a quiet maturity. Illyrio had handpicked her to attend Dany, and she performed her duties with care and discretion.
But her words fell on deaf ears. The girl before her who bore the blood of kings and the dreams of dragons remained still, silent.
Ani hesitated, then quietly withdrew.
Dany, alone again, tried to make sense of the storm raging in her chest.
Viserys was her only family. The last Targaryen besides herself.
She had always thought she could endure his rages, his slaps, his entitlement. That she could let him do what he liked as long as they were together. That nothing would surprise her anymore.
But something had changed.
Today, she had felt something. Not from the dagger. Not from the wound. From him. Something ancient and wrong.
She didn't understand it.
And that frightened her more than Viserys's wrath ever could.
The afternoon passed in silence. Illyrio did not appear at dinner.
The great hall was quiet, save for the clink of silverware. Viserys dined alone at the long table draped in velvet and gold, a sullen figure lit by flickering candlelight. Across the villa, Ani brought Daenerys a smaller meal fruit, warm bread, honeyed wine.
Night fell. Illyrio never came.
Whether he remained in the city or deliberately chose to avoid them, Viserys could not know.
But he was certain of one thing: the magister would learn what had happened today.
And that meant more complications were on the way.
---