Chapter Text
Viserys Targaryen stared down at the dragon eggs, nestled together in a womb of sand.
There were three; siblings each. Perhaps if their births had happened when they were supposed to, they could have singlehandedly saved their species from extinction. In any case, it did not matter any longer, for they were petrified and dead, and if there was a way of hatching them he did not know it. His ancestors had been trying for over a century.
Slowly, gently, he extended his hand out over them and skimmed his fingers along their surfaces, first the ominously coloured black one with its irregular red ripples, then the jade-green flecked with bronze, and finally the striped one in cream and gold. He closed his eyes for a moment as he held the last, imagining his touch waking them, of giving them life. When he opened his eyes, though, they were as silent and stony as ever.
He had been beyond frustrated with Illyrio that night, the night of Dany’s wedding, demanding to know where the Pentoshi magister had gotten such a thing from and why he had not bothered to inform Viserys of them. Dragon eggs were precious, and symbolic of their great House. Moreover, why had he given them to Dany? Surely Viserys had been the one deserving of that reward, after everything. He was the one giving Illyrio what he wanted, after all. The manipulative bastard had just laughed at him. He was crushingly fat and fucking reeked, and his breath smelled like cheese. Viserys was sick of him.
He had been gladdened to leave Pentos with the khalasar at the time, thinking that there were three clear benefits to this choice: one, he didn’t have to deal with Illyrio, two, he could keep a sharp eye on his whiny bitch of a sister, and three, he could get the army he had been promised faster. Now he was not so sure that he had decided correctly. That tormented him.
Even now he could hear the savage yells of the horselords from clear across the vast city of Vaes Dothrak as they cheered Dany and her unborn half-breed, which made him shiver as he opened his satchel. He furtively glanced behind himself to ensure he hadn’t been followed. Apparently, his sister had successfully performed the gruesome ceremony of consuming the bloody horse heart. The mere idea of watching had made his own stomach turn. His time was better spent here instead, getting the fuck out of the great grass sea.
How the Dothraki must enjoy the last Targaryen princess lowering herself down to these dirty grasslands so eagerly, melding into their savagery in the most abhorrent of ways. These clannish beasts would offer her a crown a hundred and one times before they even so much as glanced at him now. And where did that leave him? The Dothraki hated him. He could feel their heated stares when he was at the front of the procession, smouldering with resentment. They had mistrusted Dany too for a time, for being a strange foreign whore that had sunk her claws into their greatest Khal, but now she was accepted.
More than that, she was beloved, and this had caused her to become infuriatingly uppity. She had punished him relentlessly throughout the long journey to Vaes Dothrak, first demanding his horse be taken away, and then letting her guards wrap their whips around his neck and using bed-girls to order him about. It made him utterly furious to see her looking down on him so.
Even worse was how Khal Drogo would act, as though he was truly in love with Dany, and yet he would blatantly ignore either of them every time they requested the army that had been negotiated for in the first place. At least for her he would look at her in the eyes when she timidly brought it up stammering and stuttering. To Viserys, he only smirked.
Viserys had done as much as he could for his pathetic little sister, truly. He had taught her how to sit so that she would draw a man’s gaze to her legs, how to pick things up off the floor in order to tempt a man’s hands to reach for her rear, and instructed her on all manner of tricks of submission of the sort that anything with a cock would like even though it grated at him to teach her such things for a stranger’s sake. Yet she was worthless at temptation too, otherwise Drogo would have already been doing their bidding by now. Heavens! Viserys would not flatter the brute himself. That was the purpose of having her.
What dreadful fucking irony that he had made this marriage bargain thinking it would at last put an end to his begging only to go right back on his knees, just as the magisters of the Free Cities had once mocked him, this time pleading for an army instead of coin. Obviously, not a gods-damned thing would change in his life now unless he took dramatic action. So as awful as the idea of fleeing without his Dothraki army was, he would simply have to cut his losses and buy himself another one. This time, he thought to himself, gritting his teeth, I will have the contract drawn up on paper, whether that is considered offensive or not.
The three dragon eggs would purchase his new forces. Mercenaries this time, perhaps, or Unsullied. At least the latter group had no cocks, so he would not require another sister to sell to whichever soldier had the most spikes upon his cap. Quickly, he carefully placed the first egg in his satchel, then moved to the second. As he did, he heard the slightest sound. Somebody else had slipped into the tent to watch him. His heart rate spiked; he whirled around, hands flying to the sword at his hip. He had never liked being walked up on from behind.
Gods. It was only that useless Northman that was sworn to him.
“Don’t let them see you carrying that sword in Vaes Dothrak,” Jorah Mormont said unsmilingly. “You know the law.”
Now he was lecturing Viserys too? Heavens above. It was like being insulted by a hedge knight. He sneered and turned around, returning to his task. “It’s not my law.”
“Those eggs do not belong to you,” Mormont said. “They are the princess’s.”
“Which means that they are also mine.” Viserys arranged the final egg into his satchel and stared down at them with feverish eyes. He must guard them with his life; even the merest of chips upon them or a singular loose scale would seriously diminish their value. With two dragon eggs he could purchase a large army and generals to feed and water them; with the third, enough ships to take them all to Westeros. “I am the last hope of the greatest dynasty that ever lived, Mormont. She sits upon these pretty things and squanders them with ignorance. I alone can make use of my talents and put them to a greater purpose!”
“Is that so? Tell her what they are. She’ll certainly keep them from you then.”
What a presumptuous bastard this man was to speculate on the nature of his and his sister’s relationship. “Listen with your ears, you fucking idiot! Can’t you hear them chanting her name throughout this wicked place? Twenty-two years I have been alive and no one has ever given to me what they gave to her in that tent! Never. Not a piece of it. Who can rule without wealth, or fear, or love? It is clear. This plan has gone to ruin and now I must find another.”
Mormont stood there like a brick wall, his dark eyes searching. Viserys doubted that any of the words he had just said had gotten through his thick skull. It would all be beyond his understanding. He himself didn’t know why he bothered to try and explain it to such a dullard. Scoffing, he hefted the bag higher over his shoulder and walked forwards, toward the exit, and was even further outraged when Mormont simply stepped slightly to the side and blocked him. The two collided.
“Let me leave, Mormont! I am your King!”
“You can leave. But you will leave the eggs too.”
“Gods, man, who are you sworn to?” Viserys cried angrily. He nearly stamped his foot on the floor like a child. “Where do your loyalties lie? Perhaps Eddard Stark was right about you all along, to exile you! Perhaps he should have cut off your head after all! Tell me, who are you truly loyal to, you dishonourable dog?”
Mormont did not respond, though his face tensed with quiet hatred. He did not need to. They both knew the answer was Daenerys. Disgusted, Viserys gave over the strap of the satchel to Mormont, then shoved past him viciously, hard enough to make him stagger, and out into the disorienting daylight.
To still be considered second to Dany, even now…he wanted to scream and tear out all his hair. More than that, he wanted to collapse and never get up, finally give in to those hounds that nipped at his heels wherever he went and let himself be torn apart. After the first hundred times that he had felt this way, though, such dramatics always lost their lustre fast in his noisy, busy mind. Instead, Viserys found his aimless feet quickly pointing towards the bazaar, where the traders from different lands came to sell their wares. They had alcohol, copious amounts of cheap liquors in every colour from poisonous purple to cool celadon. He could drown himself there among people who spoke his language.
When the first tankard passed his lips, as he wanted, the voices of his ancestors in his head that always nagged and cursed and hissed their disapproval of him blessedly went quiet.
-
They started dining without him that night, of course. Bastards. Of course they would dare to presume to eat before the King of Westeros.
When he found out he staggered back to his tent from the bazaar in a haze, stumbling around and nearly falling several times as he tried to put on his finest clothes, one of those sets he had hastily taken from Pentos. He dressed in a long travel-dirtied scarlet silk tunic, slipping it over his head. In his haste, he neglected his woollen trousers beneath; these were an extra step and particularly useful for riding, but the tunic was well-layered. Besides, it was too hot in this hellscape. His half-conscious brain wanted to be ventilated. Following that, he tugged on faded black velvet gloves, and a matching cloak. He smacked at them vaguely with his hands, trying to clean them somewhat; it did nothing. In the end, he settled for clumsily scrubbing his face with a handful of water from the well and then wobbled back to his feet, looking for the massive lifted wooden hall the merchants had mentioned.
The guards outside the hall let him in, sneering with displeasure. They were looking at the longsword Illyrio had lent him as it swung against his hip, and one even seemed as though he would snatch it from him but stayed his hand at the last minute. The muttering of the assembled Dothraki inside began almost immediately when they noticed it. Viserys smirked as he swaggered drunk down the length of the great hall. It seemed that at least these horselords knew not to touch the dragon. Dany would do well to teach her little cronies the same. When the music of the drums died away, he hardly noticed.
“Dany?” he shouted into the sudden quietude, voice slurring as he did so. “Where is my sister? My sweet, sweet sister, the guileless whore? I’m here for your great feast, though you neglected to give me invitation!” No one answered, of course. Though there were nearly five thousand Dothraki there they all looked back at him with the double-blank avoidant stares of anyone who was being spoken to in a foreign language by a strange-looking drunk.
He noticed both Dany and Drogo then, sitting at a high table at the farthest end of the hall in its very centre. Within two further seconds, he realized that every other space at the table of honour also appeared to be filled. How could that have been? His chair should have been there, right? Somewhere in there? What could the Dothraki meant by insulting him like that? He worked his jaw, tense with anger and embarrassed, but Jorah Mormont reached him right before Viserys was about to speak to point it out, grabbing his arm tightly. He whispered, “The Khaleesi requests that—”
Even through his drunkenness there was a natural outrage at being touched; Viserys shoved him hard, wrenching free. “Keep your hands off me!” he hissed. Watching their scuffle, the khals present began to laugh and grin. Once again, his feet started to move, one over the other, planting messily upon the strewn grasses over the hard-packed dirt floor. “Khal Drogo,” he repeated insistently, “I am here for the feast—"
Drogo stood up and pointed far over Viserys’s head, growling something that made Mormont visibly tense. The bloodriders sitting at the foot of the dais also became alert, their black eyes glittering. Standing still Viserys glanced sideways at Mormont’s face, waiting impatiently. The Northman translated tersely, “Khal Drogo says that your place is not on the high bench. Your place is there.”
Viserys turned to look at once, expectant. The vague, foolish hope in his chest of being granted some special seat died at once when ‘his place’ was in the very back of the hall, nearest to where he had come in. It was ensconced within the shadows and entirely filled with cripples and children, some of whom he was certain he had seen before on the cart on the way to Vaes Dothrak. There was no golden chair there, not even a cushion; he would have to kneel at the low table like the rest of them. Seeing this, it became obvious to him that Khal Drogo’s offer to ride in the cart had been nothing but yet another insult. A sharp and small pain lanced through his chest; he bit his lips as his eyes started to smart. “That is no place for a King!” he shrilled.
Drogo laughed and spoke again, his voice boastful. He clapped his hands noisily for emphasis when he was done, and all five thousand Dothraki begin to laugh and whoop and shout their agreement. The noise was a shrilling tone in his ears, beating at him without touching him. Maddened, his fingers slowly crept towards his sword. When Mormont began to shout at him, noticing what he was about to do, Viserys screamed back, eyes glassy. They fought with each other, both going to the floor while the Dothraki cheered at the unexpected violence. Mormont tried to restrain him, but Viserys was too quick.
He drew his sword.
At once, Mormont raised his hands in the air in surrender, his dark eyes bulging as the point aimed at him threateningly. It allowed a moment for Viserys to struggle to his feet, breathing hard, his clothes even more dirtied than before. He could barely stand upright. The entire ground seemed to lurch beneath his feet as he swayed there upon the balls of his feet, lilac eyes glazed over. He thought he might vomit. The sour beer he had last drunk tasted like a grass cowpat and all but burned his throat all the way down to his belly. It was nothing like the fine vintages of civilized places, of the rich and smooth golds and reds that should have been his to savour by birthright, but it was potent. Even though Mormont was now without a method of stopping Viserys, he was at his side still, whispering furious things in his ear. They landed like the feeble buzzes of mosquitos.
Drogo’s black eyes clearly burned with resentment as he stared at Viserys’s sword, which now pointed at him. Foolish as he was, Viserys delighted in finally provoking a reaction out of him and his Dothraki, who openly jeered at the threat. Khal Drogo had been forced to acknowledge the dragon. “Oh? Listening now, brute? How dare you disallow me,” he accused furiously. “Dany sits at that table because of me. I am the head of our household and I granted you rights to her! A seat away from the cripples and whores and children is the very least of what you owe me. You are nothing but a dishonourable dog, a dog to be called and beckoned, and if that is what you are you are easily the stupidest hound that I have ever had the displeasure of meeting! How many months has it been since you fucked Dany the first time, hmm? Pray, what so displeases you about my baby sister? Are her tits are too small? Is her cunt not sweet enough? What in the hells are you waiting for, idiot, for them to be ripe? She has performed all your ridiculous ceremonies now, so…where is the crown you promised?”
“Stop this, you fool,” Mormont snarled, “or he will kill us both!”
Viserys only had eyes on his prize. He stared at him feverishly, his tongue darting out occasionally to swipe at his cracked lips. The Dothraki certainly were not laughing and jeering him now. Drogo’s bloodriders had tensed instinctually, looking to him for guidance as they did not understand the words. The fatter of Dany’s handmaidens translated Viserys’s words into their language lowly for the Khal’s ear. She seemed frightened as though she feared being punished just for repeating him. Viserys waited to see the man’s beady animal eyes narrow with anger and humiliation with an eagerness that bordered on insanity.
How he scorned them all in their little mocking domestic tableau; Daenerys in her hideous garb and with her belly swelled revoltingly with that savage’s seed, the hard-faced Dothraki girls standing beside her like statues. Doreah stood off to one side, her head cast down so that her soft golden hair covered her face. And Drogo, well. He stared back at Viserys for a long moment with that smouldering glare. Muscles flexed underneath his skin, thick and monstrous as he shifted his shoulders and settled his neck. There was a moment, considered terrifying and thrilling to Viserys’s drunken mind, when he believed that the Khal was about to respond.
He had drawn a blade, hadn’t he? If it was truly of the importance they claimed, then Drogo would surely address him now. He waited with bated breath, sweat sheening every centimetre of his skin.
The Khal stared at him for a long moment, grinned dangerously, and then opened his mouth to let an infernal belch escape, one that reverberated off the walls and made all the warriors grin. As he did so he twined his fingers into a length of Dany’s silvery hair, running his fingers through it and turning his wrist to bring it to his nose to scent like some sort of beast, never letting his gaze stray, but did nothing more. There was no anger. Just as usual, he offered the exiled prince only all the ignorant dullness of an ox flicking his tail at a noisome fly and discarded him.
Viserys felt the sudden drop of disappointment and humiliation like a literal wound in his chest. The sight of the Khal touching her so purposefully ignited a deep jealous fury in him that burned so brightly green that, were it visible, would have blinded every Dothraki in this so-called sacred city. Worse was how the thousands of Dothraki in the great hall all immediately roared and jeered at him all over again when they determined that even Viserys’s blatant threat meant nothing, such was the greatness of Khal Drogo.
It lit in him a fire that he had never known. “She is mine!” Viserys shouted again, even as the cripples and children behind him began to giggle among themselves. Heedlessly he waved the sword about, eyes aflame, and took a threatening half-step in their direction. When they were faced down with the blade they gasped and fell silent. “Mine! Don’t you forget, you donkey, that everything here that is hers is really mine! Her whore’s cunt, her Valyrian womb, even the half-breed foal you soiled her with! They are mine! Yet you have not paid me for a one of them!”
He lowered his voice to a hiss, now swinging to point the sword in Daenerys’s direction. Although he was still twenty paces away from her and the table at which she sat, she blinked with incredulity as though he had placed it right against her navel. This was all her fault. If he’d had things according to his initial plan, they would have already been in Slaver’s Bay. He gave her a terrible look, even more irritated when she did not shrink from it as she would have before. “If you do not give me the crown you promised, as the gods are my witness, I will take her womb back for myself with this blade. I will carve it right out and destroy it right in front of all of you! Sacred city.” He spat on the floor. “You cannot shed blood here, but I surely can. Now you will let me sit at your table, or else!”
Jhiqui had fallen silent, translating no longer. She shifted uneasily, her lips tightly pinched between her teeth, her expression aghast. Even Doreah had lifted her head to observe. Drogo shifted forwards on his animal-skin throne, still holding the lock of Dany’s hair aloft, but it had now come away from the hook of his nose; his interest had been roused. Daenerys herself watched the silver of the blade pointing squarely at her exposed belly with wide eyes, covering her abdomen with her hand as if the mere energy of the weapon might cause her whelp harm. It was no doubt one of those worthless Eastern superstitions, which she had been so willing to assimilate to and throw out her own fine Valyrian culture, the one he had so painstakingly taught her, as though it were nothing more than rubbish.
Her rebelliousness roiled in his heart. Did she not realize that her apathy to their cause was sabotage? How dare she look down upon him like he was the crazy one, as though a horse could ever be greater than a dragon? His ancestors had used to feed five horses to their biggest dragons for a single meal. Five! His hands began to shake, and noticing this Dany came down towards him with her hands out in a placating gesture of her own before Drogo or the bloodriders could stop her.
“Viserys,” Daenerys whispered when she was near, voice tense. She walked slightly aside, as if approaching a wild animal. “Stop this act now. Come sit with me…”
Ha! Holier-than-thou Daenerys, with that falsely innocent little porcelain face, acting like a saviour put-upon by his bad behaviour. She had the nerve to try and parent him? He snarled in reply and took a threatening stagger forward to meet her. The sword point wobbled towards her belly and turned away slightly just before cutting into her. The room was hot as the hells from the fires burning to cook the horselords’ watery brews. Sweat dripped into his limpid eyes as the siblings stared at each other; he must stink of desperation that she obviously did not dare to breathe.
“You’re mine, Dany,” he said just as quietly, watching the faint glimmer of fear in her eyes as the flat of the blade pressed firmly against her skin. Perhaps she thought he had it in himself to hurt her with the blade. Not so, but fear was the only emotion that could bring her back to him now. “You always will be; I am a part of you. I made you who you are. So, tell him I want what I bargained for. And I want the eggs, too.”
Daenerys stared back as though she didn’t recognize him at all. There was an emptiness in those purple irises, an awful blankness. Dull as she was, though, even she must have noticed the magnitude of the green light in his eyes behind the drunkenness, for she obediently slowly turned to Drogo and said some words in the Dothraki language, translating. The effect this had was immediate. The Khal’s voice came out low and guttural as he replied to her; she affirmed it with a nod. When he looked back at Viserys, those dull black eyes were now wild. He now came down from the high table himself, each step deadly as a lion’s.
Even in his drunken stupor, Viserys felt his body take a step backwards, nearly tripping over his own feet. There was something about Drogo’s eyes now that drove a stab of fear into his core. “What is he saying?” he demanded of Daenerys. The blade came away.
“He agrees,” Daenerys said calmly. “He has not honoured your gift. So you shall have a golden crown that men shall tremble to behold. You shall receive all that you deserve.”
“Good,” Viserys spit, but again he got that eerie feeling that something was not right here. Daenerys’s eyes were still too blank, and Khal Drogo was beginning to smile, his thick lips stretching into an eerie expression like a leer. “That was all I wanted.”
Surely this must finally be his turning moment, the one that the historians would write of a hundred years from now. Where once more he would be Viserys of the great House Targaryen, the Third of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. He could almost taste it, feel it. Everything he had seen, every hardship he had endured…finally, the pain would wash away from him, and he would be transformed for it into the dragon he had always been intended to be. His years of malnourishment would not go away so easily, and he would never fill a tunic the way Rhaegar had, and even his hair and skin would never be as bright and unwearied as they once were when he was a boy of seven. But if he sat the Throne, if he could take this army and conquer something, anything…
Maybe he would be able to forget the smell of them then. Maybe he would forget the tears in his dying mother’s eyes. Maybe he would forget the rocks thrown at him, and the jeers, and the soles of his feet tearing open when he ran. Maybe he would forget the feeling of that solid golden crown with its seven small rubies chased by dragons, leaving his hands. Maybe he would forget the pain of poverty that never stopped pursuing the both of them, how Dany cried with hunger at night as they lay in alleyways doubled over their own stomachs and he could count her ribs when she lifted her thin arms up to be carried, and when her dirty rags rode up higher than he could mend. Maybe he could forget how every time he heard the Usurper’s name whispered about in a crowd he jumped and looked over his own shoulder like a hunted animal. Maybe he would forget their deriding words when he lingered in their halls too long. Maybe he would stop being so fucking exhausted all night and every day. Maybe the weight of being the last one would leave him, and he could stop feeling so bitterly alone.
His mother had always affectionately said that he instilled pride in her. If he could just get the Throne back, perhaps he would be capable of raising cheers again. Maybe when he saw the jagged black towers of Dragonstone again it would all slide back into place and his miserable life would finally make sense. Maybe there would be meaning to any of this.
Viserys’s arms were trembling from holding up the sword on his weakened joints for so long. He was almost relieved to let it go, to slide the steel back into the sheath on his hip. “Good,” he repeated again, smiling wearily. He wiped his brow with both of his loosed hands, muscles burning. “Good.” Perhaps the barbarian could see sense after all. As he felt a surge of relief and confidence in himself for finally getting his point across, the Khal barked out a few words in that rough dialect.
At once, two of his bloodriders got up slowly from their floor mats. Each was the size of two greatbarrels of Arbor red stacked upon each other and painted with stripes of blue woad across their bare chests. They approached him calmly, but the looks on their faces were unmistakable, even in his drunken state. When they lunged forwards they were quick and graceful like panthers, each of them seizing one of his arms. One ripped his sword from his side and threw it aside. It skittered across the floor and vanished into the crowd.
“Wh—?" Viserys yelped, outraged. “Let go, you fools, you aren’t to touch me! Unhand me!” He looked wildly around to Daenerys. She was already leaving the scene, her slender arm around Khal Drogo’s waist as he carefully led her back to the high table. “Dany, tell them—!”
When Daenerys was seated once more she looked down from her crude chair like a monarch would look down on an utter stranger, unmoving and detached. The realization was bitter and tearing. There was no reward; the Khal was lying to him, and so was she. Instead, she was going to let them harass him. Again! A frisson of fear ran down his back. However drunk he was, he realized that though she was the Khaleesi, her obvious acceptance of the situation meant that none would bother to save the Khaleesi’s brother. Instead, these beasts would all sit around gleefully watching him be beaten, cheering all the time.
“Dany!” he shouted furiously. “What the fuck is this? What is the meaning of this? You answer me right now!”
She was ignoring him. When he looked to the bloodriders who were now surrounding him he saw horrible intent in their eyes. The panic that ripped through him was immediate. He had never learned to fight. Never. He had been too young, and even when he had been in Braavos, Ser Willem had been too old and weak to teach him the proper ways. When Drogo’s men began to push and shove him, laughing maliciously, he swiped his unrestrained limbs out in any direction possible. Kicking out hard, he caught one brute in the leg only to feel pain rocket up his own shin from the site of contact as though he had struck an iron bar instead. The very scent of them was disorienting, harsh and musky and hot.
Growing more frantic by the second as he realized how futile the situation was, he snapped his teeth indiscriminately, uncaring of how undignified it looked. Somehow, he made contact with something fleshy and rubbery near his lips, which he bit down upon with all his might and was rewarded with a chilling howl and a partial release of one of his arms. Viserys clamped his teeth down until he tasted blood, locking his jaw like a rat trap. In the motion of the fight the chunk suddenly ripped free, leaving a piece of acrid, warm flesh in his mouth. He yelled out in disgust and spit, which the other brute took advantage of, and it took all of two seconds for the man to pull him in close and then make some sort of sharp motion using the leverage of his body that created an audible and sickening snap.
The agony of his broken arm registered immediately. Suddenly, he was no longer drunk but horribly sober; Viserys screamed piteously, his other hand instinctively going to clutch at the site of the injury in his elbow only to meet the brute’s unmoving muscled arm, which then backhanded Viserys, sending an electric pain splitting across his cheek and into his teeth. The one Viserys had bitten had now recovered enough to slam his fist into his chest, knocking all the air out of him.
They forced him wheezing to his knees. Still he fought, gone feral from the pain, brain emptying. He clawed at their faces so hard that his white nails came away stained red. When they wrenched his broken arm again, Viserys could see the edge of a gristle-stained bone emerging from the torn sleeve of his tunic. The pain sent black spots skittering across his vision; he dry-heaved but forced himself to stay conscious. A horrible gurgling scream tore out of his throat.
“Dany,” he begged, voice raw, “Dany, please, make them stop—AAARGH!”
The Khal’s brutes had knocked him to the floor. One stood upon his wrist and rolled it under the flat of his sandaled foot so that the break of his injured arm began to tear. The other ripped the faded black velvet cloak from his back and tore it in two. Tears and snot ran from his eyes and nose, coating his cheeks in layers, his blubbering words incoherent and ignored. Through the haze he saw Jorah Mormont emerge from the shadows at the rear of the hall now, whispering urgently to Daenerys and telling her to look away. She did not; neither did Drogo. Their eyes, one set pale like the sun and the other dark as the new moon, bore into him.
Khal Drogo growled and spoke more words in his foul dialect. Viserys could barely hear over the sound of buzzing in his own ears. His stomach lurched unpleasantly as the men holding him down laughed. He could see now that he had ripped the earlobe off of one of them; from the way they roared at him the wound was little more than a bug bite.
“Dany, please,” he wept, quivering and soaked in sweat. “Dany!”
Apparently this suffering was not enough for her; she did not speak on his behalf. He looked at her with utter disbelief and betrayal, shrieking and begging her in a higher and higher voice until he was kicked in the face with all the strength of a horse’s hoof and his head snapped backwards, momentarily silencing him. As the world spun around him he spit out a broken tooth fragment and a mouthful of blood, wondering in terror how much of this he would be able to take before he died, and if she would stop them before it could happen.
Khal Drogo was moving now, towards one of the three large fires, upturning a bucket and dumping its edible contents out. He heaved his belt of golden medallions into it with a hearty clang. The women that had been cooking scrambled to mind it instead, several adding more logs onto the fire as he barked out his orders.
It was only then, as the five thousand Dothraki around him hooted and hollered with joy, that Viserys came to the realization of what they meant to crown him with.
No. To kill him with.
A pure primal fear rushed through him, the response instinctive and horrible. Faced at last with the finality of an imminent death at the hands of the Dothraki, his body reacted naturally. With tears streaming down his flushed cheeks and blood oozing down his chin from his cut mouth, the soft and unmistakable sound of liquid releasing sounded deafening in his ears even among all the chaos around him. He realized before anyone else could what was happening to him, crying in humiliation at the shameful dark yellow stain streaming down his legs and creating a wet patch down his dark tunic beneath his small, flaccid cock.
He tried to clench his pelvic floor, trying to keep it in, but the natural biological instinct was insurmountable. He wet himself so strongly that his piss began to silently make a divot in the dirt beside his knee. Just when he thought he had spent it all, one of the brutes seized the long tail of his hair and yanked it upwards, causing a painful searing sensation that he thought might remove his entire scalp, and his cock spurted another weak outburst of urine at the rough handling.
Then it started to harden.
This time, however, his terror was noticed. The bloodriders holding him crowed out victoriously, smelling the bitter scent. One dragged him backwards, his fist still netted in Viserys’s tresses, to reveal the darkened spot of dirt on which he had just been kneeling to Khal Drogo and the crowd, who openly jeered at the display. “Dirty,” he snarled roughly in the common tongue. “He! Dirty!”
Viserys nearly greyed out from the remounted pressure on his scalp and almost landed face-first in the damp dirt again when they suddenly released him, so closely he could all but taste his own piss, sour with fear and dehydration. Both hands landed in it, and a desperate keen escaped him when the other brute reared his foot back as if to kick him again. “Damn you,” he wailed, desperately trying to shield his face with soiled hands, coughing on a mouthful of blood. “Get away from me, you beast—hhh!”
His scalp was yanked straight up by the hair again, the bloodrider holding it using it to puppet his head to come face-to-face with Khal Drogo, who was now crouching above him. The fierce Khal leered down at him with vengeful eyes. Viserys saw fires dancing in them, great ones that would scorch him until nothing was left of him. He seemed impossibly powerful to the pitiful prince who had nothing left in his arsenal to stop him. No, less than nothing, after his shameful display of urination. Viserys and Drogo both knew it for what it really was: submission.
Drogo smirked, and Viserys flushed with hate and spite, ignoring the strange way that he felt in his skin with one man pinning his arms behind his back, another with fingers knotted in his long hair, and a third in his face close enough to bite. Their bodies were warm. His was hot. All he could do was clench his thighs together, try to breathe through the miserable fluids oozing from his face without suffocating himself, and pray that he could face the hissing gold death in that pot with whatever little dignity he could maintain. But the pain was too great. When the bloodriders laughed and jostled him around he moaned pitifully and whimpered like a kicked dog.
Seeming satisfied with the state of him, Khal Drogo seized Viserys by the chin, fingers digging painfully into the flesh of his tear-strewn cheeks. He began to speak in Dothraki. Jhiqui spoke up, translating in a quiet voice. “For too long you called my Khaleesi, the moon of my life, as a captured slave whose only purpose is to warm the bed of their conqueror; you treat the sacrifice she has made to bear my sons with cruel levity. You are wrong. I will teach you the meaning of this word whore, that you do not know the meaning of. I will make sure you know. I will make it the last and only thing you know.”
“No!” Viserys screeched. A chill ran down his spine, but his cock grew harder for it. He struggled feebly, cursing as Khal Drogo stood and began to pluck at the strings holding his hide riding trousers together with his free hand, but it was useless. The bloodriders began to whoop, their chilling howls like a pack of circling wolves. Understanding what was to come, the thousands of Dothraki all began to cheer too. Drogo’s trousers barely concealed what lay at his groin, pushing the hide out in a tent as did a maypole hold up a knight’s pavilion. Its size was wicked, that he knew. He had seen Dany weeping as she sat on horseback after her wedding for days afterwards. Now they would ritually force it on him until the gold grew hot enough to kill him.
The fear in the pit of his belly only worsened when the last of the sinews came free and Drogo’s cock emerged. It was like the cock of a monster, at least seven inches long and thick and red and uncut. Worse, the pervert was already firm, grinning down savagely at Viserys’s bloodless face. He took it in hand and gave it a firm rub, saying something that made the bloodriders laugh again. Viserys knew it was about him. Angry tears brightened his eyes that turned into genuine ones when one of the bloodriders leveraged his broken arm to threaten him to keep still whilst the other seized his neck in a grip of unmistakable purpose.
“Open,” Drogo grunted. The drummers began to play music again, strange and rhythmically ominous, striking their hides with solemn thuds.
No, he thought desperately, not in front of them! “Dany,” Viserys gasped. “Dany, I’m your brother, please!” Once more the bitch openly ignored him, and as she held her stomach her eyes gleamed in the firelight as though she hoped her husband’s cock would go right through the back of Viserys’s skull sharper than a sword and kill him outright.
“Da—”
He had not been prepared. The tip of Drogo’s cock slid roughly over his tongue, colliding hard with the roof of his mouth and his soft palate. He jerked his head in pain, but there was nothing he could do. The grip on his neck was so strong that the entire world blurred when he moved against him. The Khal forced his cock in deeper, grunting. The scent of him was indescribable, sweat and smoke and grass and a very familiar something that made every hair on the back of Viserys’s neck stand up.
He choked on it, eyes flaring with panic, and Drogo placed his hand on the back of his head, a gesture that may have been mistaken for romantic if not for the menace in the horselord’s gaze. The thought of biting crossed his mind, but the terror of what they would do to him if he tried it made him comply even as his mind warred against it. It was so unforgivingly blunt, so musky to the taste. When he felt his cock jerk like it would spurt out urine again he was glad his bladder was now empty.
The cock slid back over his tongue, outwards until it left his lips with a pop, now thoroughly wet. Drogo studied its appearance with satisfaction and then took it in his hand again. The soft, moist slap of it thudding against Viserys’s cheek startled him; he gasped with humiliation.
“Dragon?” Drogo asked, tone heavy with mockery that was clear even with the thick accent. He slapped the other cheek too, harder this time, leaving a damp stain upon it. “No. Cry lizard.”
Viserys gasped for air, outraged, and Drogo plunged it back in. This time it went in deeper and deeper, aided by the bruising pressure on the back of his skull. Viserys pressed his tongue back against the tip to keep it out of his throat only to inadvertently dip into the slippery slit at the bottom. At once, the salty, rubbery flavour of precome saturated all other tastes, and Drogo groaned, sounding aroused. “Mm,” he growled, and then said something in Dothraki that that vengeful harlot Jhiqui seemed all-too-pleased to translate: “This is a better use of your cruel tongue, lizard. Any Khal would be glad to take you as a bedslave with this wet hole for a mouth.”
The words did something horrible to him, something that he refused to acknowledge, though it was certainly happening. He gagged, knees creaking as Drogo’s cock pushed down on his tongue and forced past the little resistance it had provided, overpowering him inch by inch. His lips stretched unwillingly, his pale throat bobbing helplessly as it tried to overcome what was being fed to it. Drogo curled his hand in Viserys’s sweat-damp hair and pushed it forwards.
The urge to vomit was mind-bending. He was now close enough to clearly see the thick, wiry dark hair on the Khal’s thighs, close enough to see the large stones behind that carried the potent seed that had made even Daenerys forsake him for its power. Drogo made him choke for a few more seconds before he suddenly reversed direction, sending another sharp lance of pain through his abused scalp. He thought it was bleeding as Drogo used his hair to slide his cock slowly from Viserys’s mouth, scraping over the back of his tongue, then his soft palate, then his hard palate—
Viserys was already feeling the relief of being able to take a breath when Drogo slammed back in without warning. He moaned in agony, his knees lifting up and then slamming back into the ground, head snapping back into the waiting hands of the bloodriders. Deeper and deeper it was buried as Drogo steadily forced the hand against the back of Viserys’s head back towards his own manhood again. The penetration easily slipped past the root of his tongue, filling the back of his throat and almost suffocating him. It felt like it was lodged in his skull. Drogo’s heavy balls were pressed tightly against his chin, forcing him to smell them.
The unforgiving masculine scent sent cold and hot tingles down his centre; he nearly blacked out from the insistent pressure. It was prickly and wet on his chin where Drogo was pressed against him from a mix of saliva and his own sweat. Drogo exhaled, noticeably satisfied with this new pleasure.
“It is like you have done it before a thousand ways,” Jhiqui translated. “Your throat is so deep.” Viserys trembled. He pawed at the Khal’s calves for purchase as the cock began to slide out of his mouth again, keeping his teeth out of the way as best as he could. Though Khal Drogo’s penis was already dark and flushed in colour, it now came out coated from root to tip in red saliva from Viserys’s bloody mouth. When it sank in again, Viserys squealed in agony as the tip battered every previously abused spot in his mouth and throat on the way down, the sound smothered out of him when the Khal’s balls and thick, leanly muscled thighs were once again pressed firmly against his face.
Drogo’s other hand slid around the side of Viserys’s head and stopped against the front of his throat, just under his chin. Ensuring he had a good grip he began to use Viserys’s mouth like a cocksleeve, standing punishingly firm and forcing the spasming throat around him to move back and forth by yanking Viserys’s hair this way and that. It was unbelievably painful. Viserys inhaled and exhaled through his nose like a drowning man trying to clear his airways through the face-fucking, earth-shattering thrusts; tears poured from his eyes as he tried in vain not to choke.
Each one had a downward stroke alone that nearly knocked him flat from the force, and the sparkling pain and accompanying temporary near-loss of consciousness that came with it left him sure that he would see the gods at any moment. His knees slammed on the ground, adding bruises on top of those he could already feel. When he felt the cock thickening and pulsing in his mouth, his eyes flickered shut.
He could not bear it, not the astonished silence that had fallen over the assembled members of the khalasar, the hissing sound of the gold that would kill him, or the sight of Drogo’s stones pistoning against his face and striking him with a noisy clapping sound. The Khal stroked up and down his chin each time with a huge hand, pressing his fingers into the notch beneath the apple of his throat and watching it jump pathetically. Sometimes he pressed in, feeling the shape of his own cock through Viserys’s throat and masturbating it.
Drool rapidly collected down the underside of Viserys’s neck and ran down into the collar of his tunic; he whimpered, unable to stop himself from slobbering like a dog as his overwrought body desperately tried to produce whatever lubricant it could to ease the unceasing intrusion. His throat ached, his thighs clenching uncontrollably; the smell permeated the very air in his lungs. He could barely feel his broken arm at all. Drogo’s cock took up every ounce of room he had in his brain to think, let alone breathe.
He could taste the pre-come on his tongue, thin in consistency yet potent. As awful as it was, at least it was something else to feel, anything besides the insistent weight that was suffocating him. He gagged but swallowed it down. His lips were stretched so wide around the root of him that he felt them cracking open and bleeding again, leaving a deeper, glossier shade of red on their already ruined, swollen surfaces. When Drogo laughed aloud Viserys could feel the man’s satisfaction, reverberating in the roof of his mouth.
It had only took a few moments of this torture for Viserys’s head to go absolutely fucking empty, his only thought for survival and when to breathe and how to convince the brute to stop. All the while, he clenched his thighs and wept silently, praying that none of them would notice what was happening to him, how the wicked treatment was affecting the blood rushing hot through his body and directing it southwards.
But no man was unluckier than Viserys, Third of His Name. “Khal, his small cock swells!” the third bloodrider cried in the common tongue suddenly. “Look!”
“Mmph!” Viserys cried, humiliated. When the man came near, staring at his piss-soaked silks with amusement, he tried to pull away, the first time he had done so, and received a violent blow to the back of his head for his trouble from the other two, who then forced him with firm hands back down onto Drogo’s cock. The pain they had so meticulously inflicted on him and the boneless weakness of his own body after so long drinking and wasting under that cursed Dothraki sun had exacted its toll. Though he coughed and spluttered indignantly, he was far too battered and disoriented to keep them from lifting his garments in front of everyone, exposing him.
“How small!” A rough hand toyed with his small cock, pinching and slapping it. It was full, fat and chubby and pink unlike the rest of him, the sort of genitals that were barely bigger than could be closed over with one hand. The torment on its sensitive surface made Viserys shriek aloud around Drogo’s length, then moan when it was stroked experimentally. His own pre-come was already seeping from it, dripping onto the floor, but it wasn’t quite like Drogo’s had been; it was clear, and it smelled much different. It was a familiar smell, one that had haunted him for years and followed him like yet another one of his phantoms.
While he was in Pentos, Illyrio had given him medicine to make it less obvious while he was travelling with the khalasar. It was clear, though, that for one reason or another, it had failed. The greasy liquid smelled strongly of sweet lavender mixed with heady campfire ash as it trailed down his legs to his knees, with angry tears rolling down his cheeks in tandem. The horselord investigating this strange substance had now noticed that it was brightening the insides of his thighs, and was rolling his fingers in it, frowning curiously. For one mortifying moment, Viserys thought this nobody would continue touching him all the way up, but then he retracted his hand, sniffed his fingers, and announced, “He is wet! Like woman!”
Almost immediately the cock plumping out Viserys’s cheeks was dragged out without warning; his mouth clacked shut unpleasantly, leaving it painfully boneless. It could not close properly with his jaw likely dislocated; he drooled uselessly, cradling his broken arm and weeping in humiliation. Drogo crouched beside him, seeming intrigued and taking deep sniffs of the air. The noise of the hissing gold was growing increasingly apparent beneath the deafening noise of the drums. Following his bloodrider’s gesturing the Khal traced his own fingers against the inside of Viserys’s right knee, and when he felt the strange slick for himself, he exclaimed aloud and held them up to the light of the fire momentarily to admire it, turning his hand this way and that.
There was no unspoken code keeping him from wandering higher than he should, unlike was the case with his underling. When he put his hand back, he moved it right to the source, touching the plump, wet lips nestled between Viserys’s legs outright, and the prince shrieked brokenly. “No!” he managed to get out, trying to haul his knees together with wild eyes. “Please, please...!”
Ignoring him, the savage kicked them back open again and kept his fingers there, rooting around all of Viserys’s shame right there in front of everyone. The surface of him was so disgustingly coated that it made audible slick, wet noises. When Drogo found the opening of his cunt and flicked it, causing the moisture there to splatter out, Viserys half-moaned before he was able to stop himself, face burning with shame.
As he tried to recover, his face stained in a blotchy shade of red, the Khal breathed out in wonder. He said something in Dothraki that visibly shocked the witnesses; Viserys could guess what. To add insult to injury, however, he elaborated on it in the common tongue. “Not man! Not woman. Together!”
The drums fell out of rhythm into a confused, cacophonic series of thumps before going silent. Viserys screamed abuses at him in every language he could think of, spitting out mouthfuls of blood, his gaze on fire.
A new voice broke in, no longer indifferent to the proceedings. Daenerys. “What?” she questioned with wide eyes. “What do you mean by this?”
Even in his half-conscious and battered state, hearing Dany’s shocked tone was even worse than knowing that she had just witnessed him whimpering and sucking a cock. She may as well have reached right into Viserys’s chest and ripped out his heart. He had kept how he had been born all to himself for fourteen long and painful years and now it was gone. Before, in King’s Landing, it had been so easy to hide, so easy to disregard. If anyone in his care had even got it into their heads to mention it, Father burned them; the secret was that strictly kept.
But even afterwards he had kept up the lie, so carefully in fact that not even Dany had known, not even when they were at their most homeless and destitute in the sewers of Qohor. It had been a source of pride in himself that he would always only be her elder brother to her. Why should she have to know? Even when he had flowered and had his occasional moonblood or two (in between the times when stress and starvation halted it), Dany had been clueless to the truth. The power he had felt in his apparent masculinity had been meagre, but he had certainly enjoyed lording it over her nonetheless as he taught her the Targaryen traditions and felt his ego glow when she had looked at him with a hopeful adoration seeing her own future husband.
It all meant nothing now. He didn’t have any time to suffer through this new emotional ordeal, though, before Khal Drogo placed his foot upon Viserys’s chest and pushed him down. Viserys landed on his back in the soiled dirt with a cry of pain as his arm twisted under him, the placement of Drogo’s other leg meaning that his knee was spread wide enough that his pink, oozing flowery shame could be easily seen by anyone who wanted to see. At once, he pulled his other knee in, but it was too late.
The huge crowd assembled gasped in unison. He heard whispers of the word maegi. It was one of the few Dothraki words he did know, which only added to his panic when many of the accusers instantly looked towards the fire hopefully. Dany stiffened in her seat at the sight of him like someone had stabbed her, especially when the third bloodrider stepped in to bring his legs apart again and showed him to her outright. Viserys felt bile in his damaged throat; it burned. His voice came out a wrenched, high-pitched croak. “Dany…!”
She looked away quickly, keeping her face turned to one side. Reading the emotion in the gesture, Drogo motioned his bloodrider to step away and then kicked Viserys’s displayed glistening thighs shut again. When she spoke, her voice was not emotionless any longer; it trembled with tears. “After all the terrible things you would say to me about my body. You’re repulsive!”
“Please,” Viserys gasped again, “please, Dany, you know I had no—”
“Fuck him if you want,” Daenerys said aloud. She stared through him, hardly seeing him but somewhere far, far away instead. “The whole entire khalasar if you want; he is dripping for it. But I want him crowned with the gold. My brother is supposed to be a dragon, after all. I will see the truth of the matter.”
All forty thousand men and their horses too. He trembled, knowing where those words had originally come from. “You bitch!” he shrieked, voice tearing with stress. “You cannot do this to me! No!” The very prospect of everyone in this room with a cock being allowed to rape him made him dry heave; that would kill him for sure. Drogo was watching the utter panic on his expression with a dark grin spreading across his face. He would do whatever his Khaleesi said. He obviously desired it for himself. The warriors were a mixed group of reactions. Some looked lustful like they were already imagining using him there; others who had seemed intrigued before were now recoiling at the idea of copulating with an apparent witch.
“Down, lizard,” Drogo ordered harshly. When Viserys did not obey, he was seized by the two brutes again and his weight was pushed forwards over his knees and onto his wrists into the other direction, nearly falling into the dirt he’d released himself into earlier again and sending an agonizing spasm of pain up his broken arm. He only just managed to use his momentum to plant his cheek into some blessedly dry dust, lying prone. Weak curses spilled from his lips.
The one with the bitten-off ear wedged his foot under his stomach and lifted it, dragging Viserys’s hips from the ground and holding them there in a mirror of the way that Viserys had used to make the slave girls at Illyrio’s mansio present before he put his cock in them. A hocking sound was his only warning before his cunt was spit on; he gritted his teeth so hard that his tormented jaw ached, face flaming from the exposed position and the demeaning act. So this was it. This would be the last act he ever accomplished before he would meet his death. He could nearly die laughing and screaming from the irony alone.
“Khal Rhaggat!” one of the bloodriders jeered, and several laughed. It was some sort of wicked nickname they had given him; Viserys had never understood its meaning. He was glad that his silver hair covered his face; he saw nothing but the unforgiving dirt to which he would soon return. Do it already, Viserys wanted to shout furiously. Just do it! With any luck, they would fuck him so hard that the collisions with the ground would knock him unconscious before they killed him. He did not want to be awake when that molten gold touched him. There would be no dignity then.
Suddenly he felt the firm touch of the head of Khal Drogo’s cock between his legs, just grazing the slick opening. It still startled him; he hadn’t heard the man slip around behind him, nor get down close enough to touch him, and he gasped. Without any effort Drogo placed a hot, meaty palm on the back of Viserys’s neck, keeping his head down and still, his other hand sitting on the dip of his waist threateningly tight as if he was ready to break Viserys into thirty pieces if he so much as thought about running. It wasn’t necessary. Even Viserys knew how stupid it would be to try to resist this. For the others, they would expect it, perhaps even be amused by it. Drogo would not.
The Khal never got close enough that Viserys felt his sour breath skating across his skin, but he was close enough that the hair of those strong legs, each as immovable as the columns of a mansio, brushed against the backs of his own and met them. The blunt head experimentally pressed against the liquid-smooth flesh, making Viserys flinch in terror, thinking each time that it would be the moment of entering him.
The horselord seemed to know how he was tormenting him; his chuckles as he leaned his deadly weight onto him, immobilizing him with hardly any effort, shook every ounce of fragile sanity Viserys had left. It was like being cornered by a wolf while standing in a dark forest; every hair on the back of his neck was lifted as the predator nosed at him. There was no trying to entice this dangerous man into not thinking of him as a threat.
Without warning, Drogo let out a warlike yell and surged forwards. He had found the entrance easily. Greased with natural lubrication and blood and saliva, he slid deep into Viserys’s quivering cunt. The girth was unbelievable. Viserys bit into his bleeding lips so hard that they almost punctured through, tears spilling directly onto the dirt, but narrowly managed to keep himself from wailing aloud. His fine patrician nose was squashed painfully into the dirt, his breaths coming out more rapid out of the repeated instinctive fear of suffocating due to the headache-inducing press of Drogo’s hand against his neck. He knew that he should breathe, to relax his vagina or else the next press would hurt far more, but it was nigh on impossible with the intrusion.
Drogo grunted with amusement at Viserys’s silence, then slapped the unimpressive curve of his rear, the way a rider would spur on a stallion, or in his current case, a mare. The stretch was agonizing. It already ached and burned inside of him like the entire length of his vaginal canal had been lit on fire. Split around his manhood, Viserys could do nothing but huff and whimper softly, dripping with sweat, and try not to spasm too much from the way that he had gone from untouched to absolutely, completely full within a second, without even a finger to ease the way. It was brutal, and so he did shudder, inside and out.
His eyes smarted from the grit that had gotten into them. Awfully, though, the gods had made him able to put up with this sort of abuse. The longer he was held there in place upon the monstrous cock, his insides also began to stretch too, deforming themselves around the space Drogo had carved into him, at least until Drogo pulled back slightly and shoved in again, testing the slide of it. It went much further than either of them had expected, due to how wet and slick Viserys had become thanks to the Dothraki’s torments. His eyes rolled behind his eyelids; a quivering moan threatened to rise before he choked it down.
In mere seconds the sensation of fullness increased to the point where it began to press at his insides in a not entirely agonizing way. Drogo stank, his weight oppressive. Viserys struggled to breathe again through it all shakily, senses overwrought with pain and pleasure, thighs quivering and clenching again, and this seemed all the motivation that the savage needed. He began to draw his hips back and forth, pounding into Viserys more like a fierce contraption of iron and wood than mortal flesh and blood.
It was violent and consistent. Dribbles of slick began to flow out of him, around the thick hardness, and he thought he could feel with every deep thrust an accompanying sting of pain as Drogo threatened to slam his cock right into Viserys’s shrivelled womb. He tried not to scream; it felt so good. So horrible, and so good. His nerves were turning into liquid.
It was not in the Dothraki way to hold back. This was known. Viserys’s forehead was mashed into the dirt so violently that he was forced to put his uninjured elbow down on the ground to keep himself from tasting it and to provide some resistance to the furious onslaught from behind. Drogo’s balls were thick and potent, slapping against Viserys’s wetness each time in a way that made him jump. Now fully mounted, he was full, oh-so-full. Each thrust went right down to the root and the mouth between his legs welcomed it with increasing ease. The faster the Khal moved behind him, the more the sparks of shameful dark pleasure began to sink their little barbs into his weak body, infesting his spine and rotting it away.
It was as if Drogo’s cock itself was conveying the kind of heat that forever-unwanted Viserys had always craved so desperately, pumping it into his core and right into his veins, circulating it to his heart and funnelling it into his every gasping breath. He was ashamed that the sound of the man’s growls and whatever sinister words he spoke in his language were only stoking this effect further, but he could not control himself or stop any more than Drogo himself could now. First his fingers curled into claws, then, humiliatingly his toes too; he bit into bruised, puffy lips and choked down his moans.
“Jinak mezhah chonga-k,” Drogo growled into Viserys’s ear, suddenly pressing the full length of his broad chest and abdomen against his trembling back. He took a deep, possessive sniff of the nape of his neck that made Viserys shiver. His braided beard and moustache tickled his hot skin, and a deeply repressed part of Viserys imagined what they would have felt like pressed against him in desire rather than punishment. At once he banished the idea away, disgusted with himself for even letting such a horrible thought inside his head, even as Drogo groaned in satisfaction as their hips rocked back and forth and flames began to stoke to new heights in Viserys’s belly. He tried to remind himself that he was being raped. It did nothing.
The Khal slammed in deeper, faster and faster, and shifted his angle, clearly getting closer to his peak. His cock felt more enlarged, the skin rippling as he began to tense. The slight change pressed against one of the swollen, fleshy surfaces inside of Viserys in a way that ripped a loud moan of pleasure from the prince’s throat; hundreds of people laughed, cruelly reminding him that there were at least five thousand there in the room watching his every debasement with unforgetting eyes and wagging tongues. The very idea alone made him want to scream; he was being witnessed in a way he hated. “Me gizikhiven yot diwae ma theyaven venae me ijela gomma.”
“This whore is hard,” Jhiqui translated cruelly as Drogo grabbed Viserys’s hair roughly again and yanked it backwards like a leash, pulling his head up so that he was suddenly forced to look at the sea of all the disgusting horselords’ awed faces as they watched their khal fucking him. “His sweet fruit is wet and pink like his swallowing mouth.” It had never been so hard to keep himself from making a sound. Tears streamed down his cheeks as his body began to spasm from the brutal pleasure Drogo was giving him; he bit into his tongue.
“Tihae,” Drogo grunted. He used his iron grip to turn Viserys’s head towards Dany too, trying to force him to look at her. He struggled not to, fighting the grip on his hair feebly, but it was impossible. He could only close his eyes as his head was guided into place, squeezing them so tight that not even the gods himself could pry his eyelids apart. He refused to hold the memory of his blank-faced little sister watching him like this, fucked within an inch of his life. Still, he felt how her accusatory gaze seared into him too, damaging him beyond repair.
Khal Drogo said something else, this time to Daenerys. She replied, and then Viserys felt the unmistakable sensation of the man spilling inside him. Instinctively he arched his back, body rippling with it, his cunt hungrily squeezing the conquering object like a vice. Pulses of thick, warm seed spurted into him, making him gasp. Overcome by the satisfaction of mating, his own cock squirted out a small burst of thin, watery come the colour of pearls. Drogo let out a deep, guttural, victorious moan, stroking over the fabric of Viserys’s tunic and running his hands along his sides.
Unable to help himself, Viserys panted and whined as he lay speared upon the Khal’s manhood, now dead weight and as emotionally broken as he felt physically full. When Drogo ripped his cock backwards, freeing him, Viserys collapsed, his hips hitting the ground with a heavy thump. His vision swam with nausea, and he once again became painfully aware of his dislocated jaw, bruised neck and abdomen, and broken arm.
When Drogo stood and walked aside, tucking his cock back into his breeches and tying them with the sinew, Viserys instinctively feared that the next horselord would come and repeat all of this again, perhaps one of the bloodriders. But it was not to be so. Daenerys was tired of waiting for him to die.
Lying upon his side, Viserys watched through fog as the Khal went to the covered cauldron which had been cooking steadily in the inferno. Wrapping thick horsehair mitts around his great hands that were offered to him by a slave and securing them with leather straps, he picked the pot up and removed the lid. The fierce glow was immediate. Orange light from the red-hot metal lit the crags of his lion’s face in sharp relief.
“Damn you,” Viserys managed to groan, barely audible. “May your horses all die, may your disgusting food rot with worms when it touches your tongue…” Blood dribbled down the back of his throat, and he fell to coughing. He was too robbed of speech to plead for his life, only spiteful enough to demand that it ended faster. Feeling as though he was already dead and gone, and listening to the tinkle of bells that accompanied every soft step of Drogo’s feet coming nearer to him with dread, he could only think about his mother, his poor mother, who had given her life just so that his wretched sister could murder him.
Such was his final reward for giving a damn. He should have surrendered Dany to death a long time ago, left her body inside the Black Walls of Volantis or somewhere equally as grave and gave up on her. He should have saved himself alone; he knew that now but it was too late.
He stared at Dany with the one side of his face that faced her still. She was watching him back intensely. Waiting to watch him burn. In that way, she was just like their father.
“A crown for Cart King!” Drogo proclaimed, and without warning he upended the entire thing over Viserys’s shaking body.
He screamed out weakly as molten metal, glowing red-hot, splattered gruesomely against him. The majority of the burning weight of it narrowly missed his head when he made a last-ditch attempt to try and crawl away and landed across his back and thighs instead, searing through his clothes and igniting; he thrashed and shrieked. The crowd jumped back almost in unison, watching him die from his third-degree burns in utter agony in a raptured silence.
In fact, Viserys was expecting to perish in so much pain that he did not realize that his flesh was not burning for a full ten seconds. When he realized this, he lifted his head, his screams trailing off into a dizzy, astonished gasp. He was still fully on fire, the sight of the roiling flames agitating him. “Fuck!” he groaned, voice shredded and ruined and gravelly in a way that did not sound like him at all. In a panic he rolled back and forth, thrashing like a wounded animal in the dirt. He tore at his scarlet silk tunic with his nails and shaking fists, ripping it off him before his hair could also catch alight. It smouldered; he stuck the ends in his mouth to quench them and then spit them out, screaming as roaring orange and red danced over his skin. “Aargh!”
Once he was no longer draped in flames and was instead wreathed in great steaming clouds of grey smoke, he struggled to his knees. His skin felt pulled strangely all along his back where bright orange metal had fused to his flesh. It glowed, already beginning to cool permanently. Viserys knelt there, disoriented, staring at it in disbelief. Some had formed a trail of thick drips along his broken arm, gold sewn into the bloody break at his elbow. The sight of it made him dry heave again. And that was when he remembered. Dany.
No longer were her violet eyes unreadable and assessing. Instead, their eyes locked in a mutual horror of careful plans gone wrong, a gaze that was impossible to break.
“Maegi!” one man uttered over the silence, a guttural cry of accusation. How else could this strange freak foreigner survive the Khal and Khaleesi’s divine punishment? Who else would dare? “Maegi!” Several hundred others took up the cry, obviously maddened.
That traitorous dog Jorah Mormont looked discomforted. He had obviously thought Viserys would die in this hall as well as Daenerys had. Had he and Viserys’s wicked sister conspired and agreed that they could never allow him anything he asked for and that they must rid themselves of him? How could he have lived to ruin this plan of theirs? Why had he lived? Viserys panted, his eyes burning from the acrid ash.
He wondered for a moment himself if he was truly the dragon after all. If so, this should be a victory. But as he kneeled terrified on a patch of his own dried urine, skin encrusted with molten gold, his jaw injured, arm badly broken and turning purple with bruises, and his cunt drooling out all the horselord seed that had been stuffed into him, he knew the truth: it was not. Surviving this hall had doomed him. He was the furthest thing from a dragon that existed in this moment. He was a worm speared on a silver pin. He had not grown wings when the fire touched him; he had sprouted chains. There would be no escape from this horrible khalasar now, this khalasar that knew his secret. To die screaming had been his only chance.
Khal Drogo had stood apart from him, looming above with the now mostly emptied cauldron. Seeing the fiery catastrophic display, he now dropped it to the ground, casting it aside. He rushed to Viserys in unmistakable surprise, shedding the protective coverings from his hands and grabbing his face and turning it side-to-side to examine him, making sure he was indeed breathing for someone kneeling so perfectly still in shock. He then checked the bright, lumpy disfigurement of the gold against Viserys’s previously unblemished flesh, being careful not to touch it yet, and made several harsh, hushed utterances in his language that sounded like oaths.
“Zhavvorsa zheana,” he muttered. “Zhavvorsa.”
“Get off me, you brute,” Viserys shrieked as the other Dothraki came near him again, clawing at the back of Drogo’s hand with bloody fingernails. Vomit rose in his throat, and he coughed and choked on it. “Let me go!”
If the horselords wished to kill him now, they must do something equally as wicked to him again, or worse. Perhaps they might have fed him poison or waited until tomorrow to take him outside the city gates to separate off his head. But when Drogo only seemed amused by Viserys’s resilience, and hummed something like approval, Viserys’s instinctive fears were confirmed, and that was much, much worse.
For now that the Khal had seen his cunt and felt it around him, there was no chance of him being executed in Vaes Dothrak at all.