c10: Dany is Sick
As usual, Viserys remained in his room until the sun had climbed well past its zenith, only rising to wash and leave once he confirmed that Illyrio Mopatis had no intention of meeting him today.
The man was always scheming, Viserys didn't trust the silence.
Outside his room, the corridors of the mansion were quiet. Only a single maid moved through the halls, brushing dust from the stone walls adorned with tapestries of Valyria's doom and Essosi trade emblems.
Viserys stopped her without preamble. "Where is the housekeeper?"
The maid bowed quickly. "Wait a moment, honored guest." She set aside her broom, walked to the stairwell's shadowed corner, and rang a small bronze bell.
Soon, the house steward approached an aging, hawk-nosed man in layered silk. "Would you like lunch, my prince?" he asked in the overly polite tone Illyrio had trained into all his servants.
Viserys didn't push the matter further. "Yes."
"The dining room or your chambers?" The question again, always the same.
"The dining room," he replied curtly.
The steward bowed slightly. "Please wait inside. I'll see to it." With that, he turned and left.
Viserys paused in the hallway, absently listening to the muffled sound of plates being arranged beyond the far door.
But Daenerys hadn't come.
He frowned. Not like her. She always joined him for meals. Even when she had nothing to say, she lingered, unwilling to displease.
Ignoring the cleaning maid still at work, Viserys strode toward Daenerys's door, knocking once, hard.
"Daenerys?"
No answer.
He raised his voice. "Daenerys!"
Still no sound.
Frowning, he grasped the doorknob. Unlocked.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
"Daenerys, didn't you hear me calling" His voice caught mid-sentence as his eyes landed on the bed.
She was there, still curled beneath the embroidered quilt, but unmoving.
Viserys hurried closer. Her cheeks were flushed a deep red, her lips parted slightly as she breathed with a faint rasp. Her brow was furrowed in uneasy sleep.
He touched her forehead.
Burning hot.
A fever. A deep one.
"Is she truly sick?" he whispered to himself, then narrowed his eyes.
No. Maybe not. He remembered the dream the dragon soul. The tendril of purple smoke. He had devoured it in the dream, but if it had first entered Daenerys's body... Could the act of consuming it have affected her?
He withdrew his hand, mind racing.
He stood at her bedside, motionless for a long while. Outside, the corridor was still quiet.
Eventually, he turned, opened the door again, and barked, "Come here!"
The maid scurried forward at once. "Yes, honored guest what is it?"
Viserys didn't hide the irritation in his voice. "Fetch warm water. My sister is ill."
The maid blinked. "What are her symptoms? Shall I send for a healer?"
Viserys hesitated, lips parting but no words coming.
In Westeros, illness was handled by maesters, trained in the Citadel of Oldtown. They understood fevers, knew how to mix healing draughts, even perform surgeries if need be. But they were loyal to lords and politics.
Here, in Pentos, medicine was a mess of trade and tradition. The so-called doctors were often herbalists, leeches, or charlatans pretending at magic. They would bleed a fevered girl, give her flowermilk for the pain, and send her to sleep it off. If that failed enemas, curses, even amputations.
Viserys had experienced a bloodletting on the first night after his arrival, and he would not subject Daenerys to the same.
"No," he said stiffly. "Not yet."
The maid looked confused but nodded. "As you command."
As she hurried away, the steward appeared again, drawn by the commotion. "Ani said something was wrong, my prince. Can I be of assistance?"
Viserys glanced at him. "I need... hot water. To drink."
He had wanted to ask for willow bark, to brew something for the fever but the words caught in his throat. His host body didn't have such knowledge. In truth, neither he nor Daenerys had ever known how to treat illness. When they fell sick on the streets, they simply endured. Youth and luck had always carried them through.
The steward inclined his head. "It shall be brought."
Once the man had gone, Viserys returned to Daenerys's room and gently took her hand. Her fingers were clammy but warm. With practiced ease, he pricked the pad of her index finger with a hidden pin, just enough to draw a droplet of blood.
Only a droplet.
He had no specific spell, but he felt compelled to examine it—something about the soul transfer still nagged at him. He was careful: he had always been precise with his experiments, never leaving marks. The skin on the fingertip would heal without scarring.
And still, part of him wondered—had he taken something from her to gain his power?
Was this the price?
Was he the reason she burned with fever?
He did this because, although he had a growing suspicion, Viserys needed to test it firsthand he had to confirm whether the dragon soul truly could not be reused, or if a part of it remained lingering in Daenerys.
Soon the maid returned with a brass basin of steaming water. "Do you need assistance, honored guest?"
"No," Viserys replied, his tone firm but quiet. "I'll do it myself."
The maid hesitated, concern flashing in her eyes. "Are you certain, my prince?"
"I said, I'll handle it," Viserys repeated more curtly.
The maid bowed and left without another word.
Viserys noticed it instantly her attitude had changed. She was no longer as deferential, her gaze no longer as attentive. Whether this shift reflected Illyrio's subtle displeasure, or if it stemmed from something else, Viserys couldn't tell. But either way, it served him well.
A disinterested host gave him space.
A host that stopped watching could no longer interfere.
He carried the basin inside, closed the door, and tested the water temperature. Still a bit too hot. Without hesitation, he poured the lemonwater from Dany's silver pitcher into the basin, diluting the heat to make it suitable.
Then he soaked a towel and began gently wiping Daenerys's skin.
First her forehead where the heat was most concentrated.
Then her arm the same one he'd touched yesterday when she startled from the dream.
Afterward, her other hand. Then her feet, cold compared to the rest of her.
Though careful, Viserys could glean no clear cause of her illness. This wasn't a Westerosi fever. Her lips weren't dry or cracked, her heartbeat was steady, and though her breathing was deep, it wasn't labored. Her brow twitched in sleep, but she showed no signs of pain.
She wasn't writhing in discomfort.
It was more like a deep, enchanted sleep.
Of course, he couldn't entirely dismiss the idea that she had simply fainted from exhaustion and fever, but it felt... wrong.
Not long after, the house steward returned with more hot water.
Viserys opened the door just enough to receive the pitcher and declined any assistance.
He poured the water into a goblet and waited until it cooled slightly before trying to help Daenerys drink.
Though unconscious, her throat moved when the rim touched her lips. She sipped the warm water slowly, as if guided by instinct.just as someone might swallow in their sleep.
When he lifted her carefully to aid her drinking, he noticed something odd her back wasn't even damp. No sweat. No chills.
Daenerys was hot, but not sick.
He placed a damp cloth over her brow and took a seat beside the bed, watching closely.
The steward returned once again to inquire about lunch. Viserys told him to bring it here. When they hesitated at Daenerys's condition, he waved it off with casual arrogance, not bothering to explain.
After that, no one came.
Viserys used the time.
With no one watching, he resumed his quiet vigil. Every twenty minutes, he tried waking Daenerys gently, checking her temperature again each time.
Six times in total.
He judged, by the sunlight slipping through the latticed window, that nearly two hours had passed since he began his record.
And finally, finally her temperature began to drop.
By the seventh check, she stirred faintly beneath the covers.
Moments later, Daenerys's violet eyes opened.
She blinked slowly, vision blurry. The first thing she saw was Viserys seated by her side, the concern clear on his face—so unlike his usual self.
She pushed herself up slightly. The damp towel slipped from her brow.
Her voice was hoarse. "What happened to me?"
"You were sick, Dany," Viserys answered. "Didn't you feel anything?"
Daenerys blinked again, her thoughts sluggish. "I'm not sure," she said softly. "My head aches a little."
She didn't seem frightened as she had been the day before, though her complexion was pale and her gaze distant. Her voice was nearly the same, calm and quiet, but unfocused.
A headache. Was it from fever or from something deeper?
Viserys leaned forward, his tone careful. "Did you dream of anything?"
"I don't know," she answered instinctively, eyes narrowing as she tried to recall. The dream was vague. Shadows and fire. Whispers. But none of it made sense. "I don't remember."
She looked up, finally noticing the intensity in his gaze, the way he was studying her. Her voice rose in quiet confusion: "Why do you ask?"
Viserys's scrutinizing gaze swept across Daenerys, and she immediately lowered her head, unable or perhaps unwilling to meet his eyes.
But rather than pressing her with more questions, Viserys paused, reconsidered, and shifted the subject. "You've been asleep all day. Are you hungry now, Dany?"
". . ." Dany looked up, confused and unsure whether she'd misheard.
Viserys clarified, "It's afternoon already. You've been sleeping the entire day."
"That can't be," she murmured reflexively, her voice almost inaudible. "How is that possible?"
"I told you," Viserys said flatly, "you were sick." He studied her face again before repeating, "So are you hungry?"
Daenerys, still trying to wrap her head around the lost hours, hesitated. Yet despite her doubts, she recognized something unfamiliar in Viserys's voice concern. She nodded slowly.
"Good," Viserys replied, seemingly satisfied. He rose and stepped out into the corridor to summon the steward and request a hot meal.
Meanwhile, as wakefulness fully returned to her, Dany began to process the strangeness of the day. She had no memory of sleeping so long. And Viserys… he was acting unlike himself. Just as her thoughts spun into unease, Viserys returned.
To her surprise, he was carrying a small plate of desserts and a silver pot of steaming tea. With casual ceremony, he placed it on the table by her bed and said, "Here settle your stomach first."
This small gesture, so unlike the older brother she had always known the proud, sharp-tongued prince of House Targaryen who rarely thought of her needs left Dany stunned.
She wanted to meet his eyes, to study the rare softness in his expression, but she dared not. Instead, she reached out timidly for the plate, lowering her gaze. She did not even suggest getting out of bed too dazed by his sudden gentleness.
She began to eat slowly, unsure whether she was still dreaming.
A hush settled over the room, broken only by the quiet clinking of porcelain and silver.
As she ate, Viserys noticed color rising to her cheeks. Her face, once pale, had flushed with warmth. Instinctively, he leaned forward and reached out to feel her forehead.
Dany tensed at his touch, her neck shrinking slightly as if uncertain whether she should speak.
But Viserys, after a moment of checking her temperature, saw that it was just a normal flush. He drew back and asked, "What is it?"
Dany hesitated, then spoke as though asking permission. "I'd like to get up… and wash."
Viserys paused. His face tightened for a breath, betraying a flicker of thought. Then he rose smoothly. "I'll go see how the steward's preparing things," he said with forced nonchalance, adjusting his collar as he stepped out of the room.
Of course, he didn't go to the steward.
The corridor outside was empty, which surprised him. He had assumed someone perhaps Illyrio's spies would be lingering nearby.
Viserys began walking slowly down the hall, tapping his fingers along the stone wall as he moved, searching for hidden alcoves or listening holes. He remembered how quickly the maid had reacted earlier. Someone had to be close by.
But his efforts yielded nothing. No false panels, no watching eyes. Just silence.
Moments later, the steward arrived, pushing a small wooden cart with covered dishes silver lids gleaming, the scent of roast and stewed lentils wafting faintly from beneath.
When they met, it was the steward who spoke first, puzzled: "Honored guest?"
"I was waiting for you," Viserys replied smoothly, stepping aside to guide the steward toward Daenerys's door.
He knocked lightly on the doorframe and called, "I'm coming in." Without waiting for a response, he opened it and gestured for the steward to enter with the cart.
Once the dishes were set on the side table, Viserys dismissed the steward with a subtle wave, remaining behind.
Only then did Dany emerge from the adjoining washroom, face still damp, skin flushed from warm water and perhaps embarrassment.
From her expression, it was clear she had expected Viserys to leave.
But Viserys simply remained where he was, seated near the food, his posture relaxed.but his eyes, sharp.
He had no intention of leaving yet.
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