Viserys could feel the heat of the firepit at the center of the great tent, the rustle of silks as his sister moved through the khalasar like she belonged there. Like she was one of them.

It made his blood boil.

He had suffered their endless japes, their filthy stares. He had swallowed his pride, walked among these savages, tolerated their crude ways, all for the promise of an army, the one his sister played at commanding.

As if she was born to rule.

“Where is it?” he demanded.

His sister turned. “Where is what, brother?”

He sneered, taking another step forward. “My crown, Dany. The one promised to me.”

The gathered Dothraki stirred, some chuckling under their breath, others eyeing him like a petulant child throwing a tantrum. But he didn’t care. He was Viserys, rightful King, and he would not be ignored.

“Tell him, sweet sister,” he mocked, stepping closer, voice laced with venom. “Tell your savage lord husband that it is time to fulfill his end of the bargain.”

Dany’s expression shifted. She turned to Drogo and the Khal only smirked before lazily pushing himself to his feet.

Viserys felt his breath quicken as he watched Drogo approach. He had played this scene over and over in his mind—this moment when the khal would finally kneel, when his crown would be placed upon his head at last.

Instead, the Khal merely regarded him with amusement, “A crown for a king, hm?”

Something in his tone unsettled him. The way the Dothraki murmured, the way Drogo’s men grinned wolfishly—it made him nervous.

He glanced around, suddenly aware of just how many warriors stood between him and the exit.

Then—

A hand gripped his arm. Urgent.

“Come,” a voice murmured at his ear.

He turned sharply, meeting {{user}}’s gaze, one of the few friendly faces there. Their fingers tightened around his wrist.

“Now,” they hissed.

Something in their expression sent a jolt of unease through him. They pulled him, swiftly, away from the firelight, away from Drogo and Dany.

As always, the beggar king had no gold and was running.