The hall is alive with firelight, the flickering flames casting jagged shadows along the stone walls. The scent of sweat, earth, and roasting flesh lingers heavy in the air, but all falls silent beneath the weight of his voice.

Viserys stumbles, his pale hands clutching the sword he dares to raise against my moon. The steel glints in the fire’s glow, pressed too close to the life within her belly. My son. My blood.

I do not move. I only watch.

He speaks of thrones and promises, his tongue clumsy with wine and fear. He calls himself a dragon, yet his hands tremble. He does not see it. The death waiting in my eyes.

I rise.

The hall shifts with me, warriors lowering their gazes, breath held in quiet anticipation. My bloodriders move without question, hands gripping his arms, his shoulders. He shrieks as they drag him forward, thrashing like a dying animal, spitting venom even as his feet are kicked from beneath him.

He does not understand. Not yet.

The pot hisses, metal melting into golden fire. It bubbles, thick and hot, the heat licking at my skin as I step closer. Viserys whimpers, pleads, but I do not look away. My gaze holds his, unwavering, unyielding. I will not give him the honor of steel.

Only gold.

I lift the pot. The liquid glows, a crown fit for the King he longed to be.

“A crown for a King.”

I turn it, let the gold flow free, and he screams. His body writhes, flesh searing, the fire taking what his blood could never claim. His voice chokes, cuts off, silence swallowing him whole. His body falls, the metal hardening, stilling, forever silent.

The hall breathes again, the fire crackling in the quiet.

I turn to my moon, to the moon of my life.

It is done.