c11: Change of Attitude
Viserys silently studied Daenerys's state after she awoke, memorizing her body temperature, expressions, posture, appetite, and hydration habits.
Aside from her clear discomfort at his sudden attentiveness, and the unease she showed when he tested her forehead, she hadn't changed much. She was still the same cautious, timid girl he had always known—haunted by years of exile and silence.
The intense, fearful defiance she had shown during her fever seemed to have dissipated as her temperature returned to normal.
No side effects. No divine sign. No miraculous gift.
Viserys was quietly disappointed though also a little relieved.
He had suspected that her strange behavior the day before her trance-like state and radiant heat might have drawn the attention of the gods, especially R'hllor, the Lord of Light, whose followers often claimed prophetic dreams and flame-born miracles. But after last night's mysterious episode and his continuous observations today, it seemed the risk of divine scrutiny was minimal.
If there truly was a god watching over Daenerys, perhaps he silently approved of Viserys's actions or, more likely, hadn't noticed yet.
But Viserys wasn't about to take that for granted.
This wasn't like the goddess Hylia, who had once guided him in another world. The gods in this realm were fickle and cruel, like the Many-Faced God of Braavos or the Drowned God of the Ironborn. Still, the arcane energy Daenerys exhibited intentional or not had marked her as even more valuable.
Dany watched Viserys closely, her eyes drifting across his expressionless face, trying to read what lay behind it. But since the storm since the lightning that should have killed him Viserys no longer wore his emotions plainly.
Ever since their arrival at Illyrio's manse, she had known that something about him had changed.
After the meal, Viserys instructed her to remain in bed, then sat down again beside her, saying little, making no move to leave the room.
Is he… worried about me?
Dany didn't know what to think.
She remembered him drinking her blood twice and offering no explanation. Now he watched her as if she were a puzzle he couldn't solve. Concern was written on his face, but her instincts warned her that he had deeper motives.
She didn't even trust her own feelings. Was this genuine care, or was she still reeling from whatever strange magic had overcome her yesterday?
Viserys probably knows the truth behind all of it.
She thought this, but she didn't dare ask.
The silence thickened, until Viserys finally spoke, his voice unusually soft. "Dany, I know you're full of questions. I'll give you the answers… one day. But not now."
Daenerys's emotions were always easy to read. Viserys had already decided to play the role of the Riddler, feeding her a little warmth without revealing too much.
Daenerys was the most critical piece on his board. Whether by manipulation or genuine care, he needed her loyalty, her trust.
She was important.
And that message needed to reach not only Daenerys, but also Illyrio Mopatis.
Dany, despite her intelligence, was still a young girl shaped by fear and obedience reliant on the only family she had left. Managing her wasn't difficult.
As for Illyrio, showing affection now was a deliberate move. It revealed weakness but also investment. He wanted to see how far the magister was willing to go, and what secrets Illyrio still kept.
". . ." Dany had no way of knowing Viserys's internal schemes. Her eyes widened in surprise, touched by this unexpected show of tenderness.
She wasn't naïve. She immediately recognized the shift in tone and instinctively tested it. She whispered, almost afraid to be heard: "I don't want to know anything. I want to go… home."
In the past, words like that would have earned her a scolding or a slap.
But instead, Viserys answered calmly: "The 'home' you're talking about… is it Ser Willem Darry's house in Braavos? The one with the red door and the lemon tree?"
A rare sadness passed across his face.
At that moment, Daenerys felt a rush of emotion. "You… remember?"
"You grew up there," Viserys said, gesturing subtly. "From a baby the size of a melon to a girl as tall as this table, I watched you grow."
Dany hesitated, then dared to ask: "Could we go back?"
"Yes, Dany." Viserys responded with unnatural ease.
And just like that, Dany knew it was a lie. Her heart fell.
Viserys continued, voice low: "But that's not your true home."
Dany's shoulders sagged, her lips pressed in disappointment.
"One day, you'll understand," he added. Gently, he brushed a strand of silver hair from her brow. "Home is where your family is."
Dany inhaled sharply. Her eyes welled with tears—not of pain, but of longing. She felt warmth rise in her chest.
"You never said that before," she whispered.
"Before today," Viserys replied softly, "I never realized how close I came to losing you."
Her heart thudded in her chest. She raised her head slowly to look at him—really look.
He didn't look like the cold, irritable brother she had known for years. His eyes were clear, and the expression on his face… was gentle.
". . .I…" she began, but the words caught in her throat.
"Rest now, Dany," Viserys said, laying a thin blanket over her. "Don't overthink it. You've only just recovered."
"Mm." Dany obediently curled beneath the covers, her silver-blonde hair spilling across the pillow. She wanted to protest that she felt fine—but the words never came.
Viserys turned away, his thoughts dark.
He had always known the original Viserys had twisted ideas about family. The boy had clung to the Targaryen doctrine of purity Valyrian blood must remain untainted. From childhood, he had treated Daenerys not as a sister, but as a promised queen.
The original Viserys had been shaped by exile and desperation. When he sold Queen Rhaella's crown, he had already made peace with the fact that one day he would sell Dany too.
His love had become something warped. Possessive. Deranged.
Viserysthis Viserys understood the power in Dany's devotion. He also understood the dangers.
He knew full well that if he continued showing affection, Dany might interpret it as more than brotherly. But for now, that closeness could be useful.
Her trust, her dependence these were essential to his plans.
Everything would wait until he truly became a dragon.
At the very least, unlike the Viserys from before, he would not sell her.
Not unless it led to something greater than pain.
…
Illyrio narrowed his eyes, his voice low and probing: "Did you hear it with your own ears?"
Ani nodded solemnly. "Yes, Master."
Illyrio's brow furrowed further, his expression sharpening like a blade drawn across stone: "Did you personally hear him say to Daenerys, 'I never thought I would lose you one day'?"
"Yes, Master."
Illyrio's tone grew more calculating: "Do you think he was telling the truth?"
". . . I think it's false, Master," Ani hesitated, eyes darting. "I've seen men lie to women before. He sounded like one of them."
Illyrio gave her a hard look: "Even after what he did for his sister today, you still believe he's deceiving her? What are you basing this on?"
Indeed, earlier that day, Viserys had displayed surprising tenderness. For two hours, while Daenerys lay feverish and unconscious, he had tended her personally—wiping her face and limbs every quarter-hour with cool cloths, just as Maester Pycelle might've instructed in King's Landing. For a man once known to sell his mother's crown and threaten his sister with blood and fire, this shift seemed almost jarring.
Ani's brows knit. "Uh, intuition, Master."
"Why?" Illyrio didn't betray belief or disbelief—he simply pressed, "Why do you think he did all this?"
". . . I don't know yet."
Illyrio closed his eyes in contemplation, his tone more resigned now: "Ani, find something more than 'intuition.'"
"Yes, Master."
---
There was a knock at the door.
Viserys paused his idle dagger play and walked toward it with controlled ease.
Outside stood the steward, lamp in hand. "Honored guest, the Magister invites you."
Viserys arched a brow and gestured to his nightclothes. "Give me a moment to change."
The steward bowed slightly, waiting just outside.
Inside, Viserys moved with quiet precision. He poured himself a cup of Arbor red from the table, drank to wet his throat, then calmly swapped his loose silks for a fine doublet and breeches. He ran a comb through his pale silver hair, straightened his collar before the mirror, and stepped outside with princely poise: "Lead on, steward."
He didn't ask where he was going or why. He simply followed.
They crossed through shadowed halls and torch-lit courtyards until reaching a lavish study lined with ostentatious bookcases. The room glowed with the soft light of oil lamps far too many for safety. The décor reeked of wealth without taste: golden-edged tomes, gilt-framed Essosi landscapes, and a Myrish carpet thick enough to swallow bootsteps.
Viserys took in the excess with a glance. Illyrio's study reminded him more of Littlefinger's ambition than of old Valyria.
Illyrio stood as Viserys entered, his heavy body rising from behind the desk with effort. He welcomed him with an open-armed gesture: "Your Grace, forgive the hour. These past days have left me little time. Tonight, I finally have the pleasure of your company."
Viserys inclined his head politely. "My Lord Magister, being busy is a blessing. May your fortunes grow ever greater."
He offered only courtesies, without volunteering any topic.
Illyrio cut to the heart of it. "Do you remember, Your Grace, our conversation some days ago about the Dothraki?"
"Of course," Viserys replied smoothly, then said nothing more, eyes curious but calm.
Illyrio pressed forward. "Would you accompany me tomorrow to observe the khalasar riding outside Pentos?"
Viserys raised a brow. "Are the Dothraki waging war on Pentos?"
Illyrio chuckled, flapping a dismissive hand. "Of course not. Merely a show of strength. Khal Drogo is training his bloodriders."
"Then of course I would like to witness it," Viserys said easily. "The Dothraki are famed for their prowess—like the Dragonknight of old, they are legends in the flesh. But might my presence not complicate your position?"
Illyrio's smile stretched wider. "Not at all, Your Grace. I've arranged everything. To avoid attention, I ask only that you dress as one of my attendants."
Viserys gave no sign of offense. "If the Magister has made the arrangements, I see no reason to object."
Illyrio blinked, caught off guard. He had expected resistance. Most kings—especially Targaryens—would have taken umbrage at the suggestion. This calm acquiescence unnerved him more than a tantrum would have.
He had more words prepared, more cajoling if necessary—but instead, he let it go. "Then I shall see you in the morning, Your Grace."
As Viserys departed, Illyrio sat heavily at his desk, the smile fading from his lips. His thoughts swirled.
This was no beggar king. And now he was beginning to doubt Varys's assessment.
---