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Viserys. Daenerys. Gen. Pre-series.
1190 words. PG13.
Summary: He makes Daenerys learn all of the names of their ancestors and the order in which they came, their summers and winters. Viserys makes her recite their wives and sons. Viserys makes her recite the names of all the dragons and when she does, he gives her a sweet.
Note: Thanks to Juliette for fact-checking and Alice for the beta, as per usual. I know Viserys is horrible and creepy and mean and cruel but…I just adore him. Judging myself, but oh wells. I'm super interested in how Viserys and Dany kept themselves busy pre-series and what they got up to and the ins and outs of him taking care of her – especially because he's the last person that should be taking care of anyone. Veeery interesting. Possibly will revisit them at some point.
They show the infant to Viserys as though the trade is something he is meant to be satisfied with. All he wants is his mother.
The child looks like a hairless cat, he thinks, tiny and red.
Unhelpfully, they say, "Your mother passed before she could give the child a name."
She had already told Viserys. As the storm crashed around them, before the worst of the labor had begun, his mother had pressed his small hand against the swell of her stomach and said, Here is your sister, my darling. Her name is Daenerys and she will be beautiful, like you. Like you, Viserys had countered.
Later he watches the infant in her cradle and realizes she is all that is left.
He makes Daenerys learn all of the names of their ancestors and the order in which they came, their summers and winters. Someone must make sure she knows and it is his duty as her guardian and prince. He watches intently as she recites, her confidence growing less shaky with her age, her father and her father's father and the one before that and the one before that, as far back as memory goes. Viserys makes her recite their wives and sons. Viserys makes her recite the names of all the dragons and when she does, he gives her a sweet.
He does it to pass the time at night when there is thunder and she cannot sleep. It amuses him; she was born of storms and yet she cannot abide them. She will clutch his wrists and sleeves with grubby fingers and beg him not to leave until she's asleep. Viserys does not want to spoil her so he maintains his distance and says recite.
She learns all the other Houses too. It's important to know one's enemies.
"That is the man that killed your father," Viserys says. "Your brother, your nieces, your nephews. Now we have nothing and you have them to thank."
Daenerys nods, peering up at him with those guileless eyes, eyes that would look like just his if not for her innocence. Once she asks, "Who killed our mother?"
"You," he replies. It's only the truth.
Her face crumples and, even as he feels guilty, Viserys is repulsed.
Dany tattles to Ser Willem, as she is wont to do despite Viserys' threats. Ser Willem very nearly boxes his ears. It is appalling and so Viserys hits him, hits him with all the ungainly fury in his tiny body and screams, "I am your king!"
Ser Willem catches his arms. "You are indeed, little lord, but that does not mean –"
"I can do as I please!" Viserys snarls, trying to jerk free. "I am the king of these seven kingdoms!"
"You are on free land now," Ser Willem says. "And do not forget yourself in front of one who offers you aid."
He releases Viserys; Viserys tears off to his room and sulks and sulks.
Vhagar, Viserys said, nestled against his father's side. He curled his fingers in his father's hair, the same color as his own. Meraxes. Balerion.
The skulls were terrifying as they were beautiful, aged through the centuries until they were as gray as the stone walls. The teeth were long and fearsome, practically the same size as himself, and when he tried to touch one once, it sliced his hand.
When he remembers his father, he does not remember madness.
"Clever little boy," his father said with a laugh. He pressed a kiss to Viserys' forehead. "My clever little prince, have a sweet."
Daenerys sobs and twists in his arms, nearly causing him to drop the few bags they have containing their precious things, their relics. "We have to go," he says loudly and sharply. "There are those who do not see fit to aid their rightful rulers and so we have to go."
She just weeps, nails digging into his skin as she tries to break free and, in all likelihood, make a run for the place that is not (nor had it ever been) their home. He sets her on her feet and twists a handful of her hair roughly. "Daenerys," he says, patience long ago worn thin, "you stop your incessant wailing or I will stop it for you. Do you want to wake the dragon, little sister?"
Her eyes grow round and fearful; he smirks in satisfaction. "Good. Now shut up and carry this." He thrusts a bag into her hands.
In another borrowed bedroom, Daenerys is just a small moon face peeping out over borrowed blankets. The rain comes down in sheets and the streets look like a dark sea; lightning cracks but thunder does not follow.
Aegon V, she says in a tremulous voice. Jaehaerys II, Aerys II, Rhaella, Rhaegar, Viserys, Daenerys. Rhaenys. Aegon.
"Viserys III," he corrects.
"Viserys III," Dany echoes.
"Would you like a sweet before bed?" he asks. A lovely little smile stretches across her face and she nods in excitement. "Well you can't have one. Go to sleep."
Door upon door shuts behind them. They have horses but Viserys sells them; they learn to walk instead of ride. His mother wore so many rings and he can recall exactly which ring sat upon each finger, who gifted them to her, their significance. The jewels buy them nearly six months of shelter.
He sells off things one by one.
How much easier it would be if there were not a whining child to feed and clothe, a little girl always tugging at his arm for attention. He would very much like to sell her sometimes – but in the shape of her mouth is their mother and in her eyes every dragon that came before. She belongs to him, for better or for worse.
Viserys dreams of a throne of iron and steel, dragon-fire-welded swords that speak for every Targaryen victory. He dreams of dragon skulls. He dreams of his name on the lips of every inhabitant of the kingdoms, dreams of his enemies bowing and scraping for his mercy.
He will have it.
He sells Rhaegar's furs that had warmed them through so much winter.
He will have it and every traitor will die.
Robert Baratheon, Daenerys recites. She has grown serious-faced and solemn and she flinches so easily now. Cersei Lannister. Joffrey. Myrcella, Tommen.
Viserys buys not only compassion and refuge, he buys secrets and whispers.
John Arryn, Dany says, Eddard Stark.
Viserys nods, and prompts, "And who have we lost because of them?"
Daenerys takes a deep breath and starts all over again.
His mother's crown is a thing of beauty. When Daenerys is good, and obeys him, he allows her to wear it for a few moments, to catch a glimpse of her queenly reflection.
But Viserys knows a crown is just a crown; it is metal and jewels. It fetches a price. His birthright is something much larger and more effusive; it cannot be caught, it cannot be sold, it cannot be taken.
So they can call him the Beggar King, he thinks, wiping bitter tears from his cheeks. He is still a king.
Viserys. Daenerys. Gen. Pre-series.
1190 words. PG13.
Summary: He makes Daenerys learn all of the names of their ancestors and the order in which they came, their summers and winters. Viserys makes her recite their wives and sons. Viserys makes her recite the names of all the dragons and when she does, he gives her a sweet.
Note: Thanks to Juliette for fact-checking and Alice for the beta, as per usual. I know Viserys is horrible and creepy and mean and cruel but…I just adore him. Judging myself, but oh wells. I'm super interested in how Viserys and Dany kept themselves busy pre-series and what they got up to and the ins and outs of him taking care of her – especially because he's the last person that should be taking care of anyone. Veeery interesting. Possibly will revisit them at some point.
They show the infant to Viserys as though the trade is something he is meant to be satisfied with. All he wants is his mother.
The child looks like a hairless cat, he thinks, tiny and red.
Unhelpfully, they say, "Your mother passed before she could give the child a name."
She had already told Viserys. As the storm crashed around them, before the worst of the labor had begun, his mother had pressed his small hand against the swell of her stomach and said, Here is your sister, my darling. Her name is Daenerys and she will be beautiful, like you. Like you, Viserys had countered.
Later he watches the infant in her cradle and realizes she is all that is left.
He makes Daenerys learn all of the names of their ancestors and the order in which they came, their summers and winters. Someone must make sure she knows and it is his duty as her guardian and prince. He watches intently as she recites, her confidence growing less shaky with her age, her father and her father's father and the one before that and the one before that, as far back as memory goes. Viserys makes her recite their wives and sons. Viserys makes her recite the names of all the dragons and when she does, he gives her a sweet.
He does it to pass the time at night when there is thunder and she cannot sleep. It amuses him; she was born of storms and yet she cannot abide them. She will clutch his wrists and sleeves with grubby fingers and beg him not to leave until she's asleep. Viserys does not want to spoil her so he maintains his distance and says recite.
She learns all the other Houses too. It's important to know one's enemies.
"That is the man that killed your father," Viserys says. "Your brother, your nieces, your nephews. Now we have nothing and you have them to thank."
Daenerys nods, peering up at him with those guileless eyes, eyes that would look like just his if not for her innocence. Once she asks, "Who killed our mother?"
"You," he replies. It's only the truth.
Her face crumples and, even as he feels guilty, Viserys is repulsed.
Dany tattles to Ser Willem, as she is wont to do despite Viserys' threats. Ser Willem very nearly boxes his ears. It is appalling and so Viserys hits him, hits him with all the ungainly fury in his tiny body and screams, "I am your king!"
Ser Willem catches his arms. "You are indeed, little lord, but that does not mean –"
"I can do as I please!" Viserys snarls, trying to jerk free. "I am the king of these seven kingdoms!"
"You are on free land now," Ser Willem says. "And do not forget yourself in front of one who offers you aid."
He releases Viserys; Viserys tears off to his room and sulks and sulks.
Vhagar, Viserys said, nestled against his father's side. He curled his fingers in his father's hair, the same color as his own. Meraxes. Balerion.
The skulls were terrifying as they were beautiful, aged through the centuries until they were as gray as the stone walls. The teeth were long and fearsome, practically the same size as himself, and when he tried to touch one once, it sliced his hand.
When he remembers his father, he does not remember madness.
"Clever little boy," his father said with a laugh. He pressed a kiss to Viserys' forehead. "My clever little prince, have a sweet."
Daenerys sobs and twists in his arms, nearly causing him to drop the few bags they have containing their precious things, their relics. "We have to go," he says loudly and sharply. "There are those who do not see fit to aid their rightful rulers and so we have to go."
She just weeps, nails digging into his skin as she tries to break free and, in all likelihood, make a run for the place that is not (nor had it ever been) their home. He sets her on her feet and twists a handful of her hair roughly. "Daenerys," he says, patience long ago worn thin, "you stop your incessant wailing or I will stop it for you. Do you want to wake the dragon, little sister?"
Her eyes grow round and fearful; he smirks in satisfaction. "Good. Now shut up and carry this." He thrusts a bag into her hands.
In another borrowed bedroom, Daenerys is just a small moon face peeping out over borrowed blankets. The rain comes down in sheets and the streets look like a dark sea; lightning cracks but thunder does not follow.
Aegon V, she says in a tremulous voice. Jaehaerys II, Aerys II, Rhaella, Rhaegar, Viserys, Daenerys. Rhaenys. Aegon.
"Viserys III," he corrects.
"Viserys III," Dany echoes.
"Would you like a sweet before bed?" he asks. A lovely little smile stretches across her face and she nods in excitement. "Well you can't have one. Go to sleep."
Door upon door shuts behind them. They have horses but Viserys sells them; they learn to walk instead of ride. His mother wore so many rings and he can recall exactly which ring sat upon each finger, who gifted them to her, their significance. The jewels buy them nearly six months of shelter.
He sells off things one by one.
How much easier it would be if there were not a whining child to feed and clothe, a little girl always tugging at his arm for attention. He would very much like to sell her sometimes – but in the shape of her mouth is their mother and in her eyes every dragon that came before. She belongs to him, for better or for worse.
Viserys dreams of a throne of iron and steel, dragon-fire-welded swords that speak for every Targaryen victory. He dreams of dragon skulls. He dreams of his name on the lips of every inhabitant of the kingdoms, dreams of his enemies bowing and scraping for his mercy.
He will have it.
He sells Rhaegar's furs that had warmed them through so much winter.
He will have it and every traitor will die.
Robert Baratheon, Daenerys recites. She has grown serious-faced and solemn and she flinches so easily now. Cersei Lannister. Joffrey. Myrcella, Tommen.
Viserys buys not only compassion and refuge, he buys secrets and whispers.
John Arryn, Dany says, Eddard Stark.
Viserys nods, and prompts, "And who have we lost because of them?"
Daenerys takes a deep breath and starts all over again.
His mother's crown is a thing of beauty. When Daenerys is good, and obeys him, he allows her to wear it for a few moments, to catch a glimpse of her queenly reflection.
But Viserys knows a crown is just a crown; it is metal and jewels. It fetches a price. His birthright is something much larger and more effusive; it cannot be caught, it cannot be sold, it cannot be taken.
So they can call him the Beggar King, he thinks, wiping bitter tears from his cheeks. He is still a king.
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Date: 2011-08-25 06:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-24 03:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-25 06:35 pm (UTC)Thanks for commenting! :)
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Date: 2011-08-25 06:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-24 06:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-25 06:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-25 02:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-25 06:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-04 03:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-07 01:05 am (UTC)I'm happy you liked it! :D