A song of Fire and Blood

Chapter 14: The Beggar King and the Last Dragon

Braavos – 284 AC

The narrow streets of Braavos were cold and damp, the sea mist clinging to every stone, every wooden beam, every roof. Viserys Targaryen, last oldest living of King Aerys II, walked through them with his head held high—or at least as high as a beggar king could. His sister, Daenerys, no older than one, clung to his hand, her silver-gold curls bouncing with each hurried step.

They had arrived in Braavos after the death of their mother, Queen Rhaella, during Daenerys' birth on Dragonstone. Willem Darry, the loyal knight, had taken them in, swearing to protect them, swearing that one day they would reclaim the Iron Throne.

But in Braavos, they were not royalty.

They were exiles.

The house they lived in, though provided by those still loyal to House Targaryen, was old, damp, and crumbling. The food was poor, the servants few, and gold always ran short. Willem Darry did his best to provide, but the knight was aging and sickly, coughing blood into his handkerchief when he thought Viserys wasn't looking.

Then, one night, the assassins came.

Flight from Braavos – 286 AC

Viserys awoke to the sound of clashing steel.

A scream rang through the halls—one of the servants. Then shouting, the hurried pounding of boots on wooden floors, and the unmistakable clang of swords meeting.

He rushed to Daenerys' room, finding her sitting in bed, her violet eyes wide with confusion.

"Come, sweet sister," he whispered, wrapping her in a cloak.

Then he ran.

As they fled through the dark corridors, the stench of blood filled his nose. He saw Willem Darry's broken body on the floor, his throat cut open, his lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling.

Viserys wanted to scream—but he didn't.

"I am a dragon."

Instead, he tightened his grip on Daenerys' hand and fled into the night.

From Braavos, they ran to Myr. From Myr, they fled to Lys. From Lys, they traveled to Tyrosh.

No city was a home.

No city wanted them.

The once-proud heir to the Iron Throne was forced to beg for aid from minor lords, from merchants who had once done business with House Targaryen.

"You are the rightful king" they would say, offering a few coins, a meal, a place to sleep for a night. "But Robert Baratheon is king now."

Viserys swallowed his pride again and again.

"Not for long," he would always answer.

When they arrived in Lys, Viserys sought out whatever whispers he could of Westeros.

It was there, in the pleasure houses and among the merchants of Valyrian blood, that he first heard the name Aerion spoken in tones of awe.

The Battle of the Red Grass.

A great battle in the Disputed Lands, where a young Targaryen prince—not him, but Aerion—had led the Dragon Company to victory over a Dothraki horde.

They spoke of a red-eyed boy with silver hair who had fought like a demon of old, slaying dozens, earning the loyalty of hardened warriors.

They called him "The Starborn."

Viserys clenched his fists every time he heard the name. A bastard. A pretender. A liar.

The throne was his by birthright. Not Aerion's.

And yet, the sellswords drank to Aerion's name. The merchants whispered of him as if he were the true dragon reborn.

It made Viserys sick.

That night, as he lay awake, Daenerys sleeping beside him, he whispered his mother's last words to himself.

"You must be strong, for your sister."

"You must not wake the dragon."

But the dragon was awake.

And one day, all of Westeros would know it.

One day, as gold ran thin again, Viserys stood before a merchant prince in Tyrosh, hands clenched at his sides.

The man, wealthy, well-fed, and draped in bright silks, inspected the last treasure of House Targaryen.

A crown.

It was not the Iron Crown of Aegon the Conqueror—that had been lost in the youngdragons conquest of Dorne. It was the simple yet elegant crown of Queen Rhaella, the last Queen of Westeros.

It had Valyrian steel and rubies, fashioned in the style of Old Valyria, a symbol of the bloodline that once ruled the world.

Viserys felt sick as he handed it over.

The merchant weighed it in his hands. "A fair price."

And just like that, Rhaella's crown was gone.

Another piece of the dragon lost.

When he returned that night, he found Daenerys playing with a wooden dragon one of the servants had given her.

"Where is Mother's crown?" she asked.

Viserys forced a smile.

"It was a heavy thing," he said. "Not fit for travel."

She only nodded. "Did it have rubies?"

Viserys' jaw tightened. "Yes, sweet sister. It had rubies."

That night, as he stared out at the stormy waters of Tyrosh, he whispered the words over and over again, like a prayer.

"Not yet. Not yet. Don't wake the dragon."

As Viserys and Daenerys prepared to leave the merchant's estate, a young boy in rags approached them in the streets of Tyrosh.

His hair was dark, his eyes full of knowing mischief, and his voice was calm, assured.

"You are Prince Viserys of House Targaryen, yes?" the boy said.

Viserys straightened his back. "Who's asking?"

The boy smiled, his lips curling like he knew something Viserys didn't.

"My master sends his regards," the boy said. "You are awaited in Pentos."

Viserys exchanged a glance with Daenerys.

Pentos.

And so, the dragon's path changed again.