ASOIAF : Creed

The air in Lys was thick and wet, like a hot, damp cloth pressed against the skin. It smelled of salt, sweet perfumes, and the faint, cloying scent of decay that seemed to cling to all the Free Cities. From the balcony of their lavish rooms, Daenerys could see the city spread out below, a beautiful tapestry of pastel-colored manors and lush, overgrown gardens. It was beautiful, but it was a cage. A beautiful, gilded cage.

They were the guests of a magister who dealt in silks and spices, a man whose name Dany could never remember. He was kind enough, in a distant, polite way. He gave them these rooms, clothes of fine silk that felt strange and slippery against her skin, and food that was rich and cloying. But his kindness had the cold, hard glint of a business transaction. They were not guests; they were assets, investments in a future that felt more like a dream than a possibility.

Her world was the size of these three rooms. She spent her days reading the few books the magister provided, practicing her stitches, and, most of all, trying to remain invisible. Her life was a constant, quiet prayer that she would not do anything to wake the dragon.

Viserys, her brother, was pacing the room, his movements sharp and agitated, like a caged shadowcat. He was handsome, she knew. He had their mother's silver-gold hair and their father's violet eyes, the features of Old Valyria. But the beauty was twisted by a constant, simmering rage that lived just beneath his skin.

"He insults us," Viserys hissed, his voice a low, venomous whisper. "This fat magister, with his greasy smiles. He thinks he can buy a dragon with soft beds and sweet wine. Does he not know who I am?"

Dany kept her eyes on her needlework, her needle moving in and out of the silk in a steady, practiced rhythm. She did not answer. To answer was to risk his wrath.

"I am the blood of the dragon!" he continued, his voice rising. "The rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms! And he treats me like a beggar." He whirled on her, his violet eyes blazing with a sudden, familiar fire. "And you! You just sit there. Do you even care? Do you even remember the home they stole from us?"

"Of course I do, Viserys," she said, her voice a small, quiet thing. She didn't remember, not really. Her only memories were of a red door in Braavos and a lemon tree outside her window. The rest—Dragonstone, the Iron Throne—were just fragments from her brother's bitter, oft-repeated stories.

"You say that, but you do nothing," he sneered, crossing the room to stand over her. He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. "You are a dragon, Daenerys. Not some meek little mouse. You should have fire in your heart."

She flinched, a small, involuntary movement. It was a mistake.

"Don't flinch from me," he snarled, his face close to hers. "You don't want to wake the dragon, do you?"

She shook her head, her eyes wide with fear. "No, Viserys. I'm sorry."

He held her for a moment longer, his eyes searching her face for any sign of defiance, before he finally let her go with a shove. He went back to his pacing, the storm inside him passing as quickly as it had come, leaving only a tense, fragile silence in its wake.

Dany rubbed her arm, the ache from his fingers still lingering. She remembered a different Viserys, long ago. A boy with silver hair and a laughing voice who had carried her on his back through the streets of Pentos. A boy who had whispered stories of dragons and kings into her hair at night, who had promised to keep her safe, always. That boy had wept when he sold their mother's crown, the last beautiful thing they owned. Not the angry tears he shed now, but quiet, broken ones. After that, something in him had changed. Hardened. The years of exile had worn him thin, scraped the kindness from him bit by bit until only the hunger for a crown remained.

The boy was gone. In his place stood a man twisted by loss, by pride, by dreams that had curdled into delusion.

Outside, Lys glowed in the fading light. The sun sank low over the sea, casting the city in gold and rose. Lovers strolled beneath flowering trees. Musicians played in distant courtyards. The world felt alive—so very alive—and yet utterly apart from her.

She did not dream of thrones or crowns. Not truly. In her heart, she dreamed of a house with a red door, a lemon tree in bloom, and sunlight that did not burn. A place where she could breathe. Where no one would raise their voice, or their hand. A place where she could be Dany, not Daenerys Stormborn, not Princess, not blood of the Dragons or Sister to a King. Just a girl.

But that was a child's dream. And she was no longer a child.

The door creaked open, and a servant girl entered quietly, her eyes downcast. She placed a tray of food on the table—grilled fish, purple olives, a honeyed fig tart—and left without a word. Dany moved to the window, away from her brother and his pacing, and let the warm breeze brush her face. It smelled of the sea and lilies, and something faint beneath it all—smoke, maybe. Or memory.

Behind her, Viserys poured himself a cup of wine and downed it in one long swallow. He was quiet now, but she could feel his thoughts churning, sharp and restless. He would not be still for long.

"One day they'll see," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "All of them. The lords, the kings, the fat magisters. They'll kneel when I take back what is mine. The dragon will wake, and they'll burn."

His voice was soft, almost tender. That frightened her more than the shouting.

Daenerys closed her eyes and imagined a far-off shore, waves lapping at a peaceful cove, a lemon tree rustling in the breeze. A dream. A lie. But for a moment, she let herself believe it was real.