Chapter Text
“Dany, please!” Viserys’s cry echoed through the tent, his voice lost in the noise of the Dothraki around him. Khal Drogo’s blood brothers watched, smirks on their faces, eyes shining with malice as they gripped his arm tightly.
“Please, sister!” Viserys begged again, looking at Daenerys for a sign of compassion, a gesture of refusal, but finding none, only a cold, empty stare. The whore wanted this to happen to him; his soul had become an icy wasteland.
Viserys screamed angrily, seeing the red light for the first time. “You kin-murdering whore! May the gods punish you and your horse-worm in your womb!” Pain and humiliation burned within him.
Daenerys’s face twisted into an ugly grimace as her hand went to her stomach. Drogo's men suddenly pulled his head back, forcing him to look forward and face Khal Drogo holding a large boiling pot in his hands.
Steam rose, carrying the smell of death. Viserys knew this was the end. His blood boiled with hatred, when he heard the wildling say. "A crown for a king," he shouted in a Valerian growl, "May the gods punish you, bastard!"
And quickly the man poured boiling liquid over his head, burning his brain like a waterfall. Viserys screamed in pain, feeling the gold melt his body, his vision blurring as he was dropped onto the dirt floor, his head slamming hard into the sand. His eyes, clouded with horror, fixed on Daenerys, who watched him with complete indifference.
"You will pay, Daenerys," the voice in his head said. "I swear you will pay." He was sure of it.
And then silence engulfed him, the world around him beginning to darken.
As a bright vision of a figure of light filled his vision.
And suddenly he woke with a start.
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The memory of the melted gold burned in his mind, the pain pulsing through every fiber of his being. Viserys opened his eyes, his vision blurry, his body aching as if he had been crushed by a giant. The smell of rawhide, coupled with the stifling heat of the tent... made him realize he was back.
The memory of Daenerys’s betrayal hit him like a punch to the gut. The coldness in her eyes, her satisfaction in watching his agony... the image consumed him. He staggered out of bed, pain pulsing with every movement.
“Alive again,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, his throat dry.
Viserys stared at himself in the bronze mirror, the reflection of a broken man staring back at him. But his eyes burned with a different flame, the flame of vengeance. He would not be humiliated again. Death had shaped him, hardened him.
“I will change everything,” he swore, his voice firm, determination emanating from his very being. “I will not let this happen again.” He would remember every humiliation and every ounce of suffering he had endured. He would never forget Daenerys’s coldness as she handed him over to death without hesitation.
He would no longer be humiliated, a dragon ready to set the world ablaze. Viserys stepped out of the tent with a sigh and surveyed the hustle and bustle of the holy city. The thin air of Vaes Dothrak stung his lungs, the air heavy with sweat and dust and the smell of horses.
He had to move carefully in this place, planning every step, like a snake waiting to strike the fatal blow. Daenerys, the ambitious one, must fall.
He watched the Dothraki move with raw, uncontrollable energy, their long hair flying like a herd of savages. Viserys lurked like a serpent in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.
“Daenerys,” he told himself, his face contorted with hatred. “Your reign of horses will soon be over.” He would have his revenge.