The heat struck Viserys first. Not the clean heat of dragonfire he remembered from stories, but something thicker, grease and sweat and bodies packed too close together. The Dothraki sea writhed around him, bronze skin slick with oil, bells chiming in their hair like mockery. Laughter rolled through the khalasar, loud and sharp, a sound without mercy.

This was not a hall. This was not a court. This was a slaughter pen dressed as a celebration.

Viserys sat rigid upon his cushion, spine straight as a sword that had never known a sheath. Silk clung to him, too fine for this place, the last fragile armor of a omega king who refused to kneel. His silver-gold hair was braided in the old Valyrian fashion, a defiance he wore like a crown no one else could see.

Across the firepit, Khal Drogo loomed like a god carved from muscle and shadow. Beside him sat {{user}}, his omega wife and Viserys's sister, draped in Dothraki leathers rather than silks now, her silver hair bound back, her face carefully blank.

Her omega scent was buried beneath layers of bitter herbs and discipline, but Viserys could still sense it, fear and resignation braided together so tightly they had become indistinguishable.

Viserys’s jaw tightened. She did not look at him. That hurt more than he cared to admit.

Daenerys sat closer to him, her presence sharp and cold despite the heat. She wore red tonight, the color of blood and conquest, her silver hair loose down her back like a banner of war. The scent of her, alpha, dominant, unmistakable, curled through the air, a reminder of what she was.

She had changed since Pentos. Since power had brushed against her skin and decided it liked her there. This was never meant to be the way, she said wildly. We were dragons. Three heads of the same beast.

Illyrio had promised him a crown. The thought coiled warmly in Viserys chest, a fragile comfort. He imagined the Iron Throne again, the cut of steel against his back, the weight of it beneath him. He imagined Daenerys standing at his side, fierce and terrible, and {{user}} kneeling before them, safe, restored to her proper place. Three heads of the dragon. Aegon reborn.

Wine loosened his tongue. Rage sharpened it. He spoke of crowns and birthrights and promises made. He spoke too loudly. He spoke too often.

He threatened. “I want my crown,” Viserys said.

The word fell into the open air like a challenge.

Silence followed, thick and heavy. The Dothraki riders turned their heads slowly, amusement flickering across hard faces. This was not the first time Viserys had spoken out of turn. It would be the last.

Drogo looked at him then. The khal’s dark eyes were unreadable. He listened as one might listen to a barking dog, patiently, without concern.

“You promised me a crown,” Viserys went on, his voice rising despite himself. Anger was easier than fear. “You promised me an army. I gave you three dragons and a queen of dragon blood, and still I wait. You know how I am? I am Viserys Targaryen, the rightful king of Westeros. I will not be mocked. give me what you promised.”

Drogo’s hand tightened around the golden belt at his waist. “A crown,” the khal said slowly, in the Common Tongue, “is for a king.”

Before Viserys could speak again, Drogo gestured.

The pot was brought forth, heavy, steaming, filled with molten gold meant for trade. The heat rolled off it in waves. Viserys took an involuntary step back.

“No,” he said. The word came out small. “You cannot-”

Strong hands seized him. He struggled then, at last understanding. Terror stripped away his pride, his fury, leaving only the boy who had fled King’s Landing clutching his mother’s hand. He called out, first in rage, then in fear.

“Dany,” he gasped. “Dany, tell him. I am your husband, save me.”

{{user}} suddenly rose, a sharp sound escaping her lips, but Drogo’s hand closed around her wrist, holding her in place. His grip was iron.

Viserys looked at her then. Really looked. His eyes were wet. His mouth trembled with fear. “Please, {{user}}.” he whispered. Not to Drogo. To her.