Viserys's screams—like a beast trapped in a snare—echoed intermittently through the estate's corridors.
Every syllable filled with pain and despair.
Daenerys sat on soft bedding, holding an old book found in a Good Master's study—pages recording Valyrian poetry.
But she couldn't read a single word.
Those screams disturbed her peace.
She knew her brother deserved it.
His madness and stupidity had long worn away Targaryen's last dignity.
Lynn's actions—no problem whatsoever.
Though she'd been sold like a slave.
But... that was still her brother.
Daenerys put down the book, standing.
She knew she shouldn't go, shouldn't plead for him.
She couldn't make things difficult for Lynn.
She just... wanted Viserys to suffer less.
Missandei, though freed from slave status, still worked diligently like a slave girl.
Seeing Daenerys rise, clever Missandei instantly understood what Daenerys wanted to do.
She followed closely as Daenerys left the room.
Soon they found Jorah Mormont.
"Ser, are there physicians in the city?"
Jorah Mormont looked at those purple eyes full of struggle.
"If you do this, Lord Lynn will be angry."
Daenerys's eyes flashed with panic.
"But still... he's my brother."
Jorah fell silent for a moment, finally nodding.
"You must first speak with my lord about this."
"If he agrees, no problem."
"Some slaves once learned medicine beside their masters. I can find one."
Missandei faithfully executed the order.
Hearing Missandei's message, Lynn didn't get angry.
Just waved his hand, indicating such trivial matters needn't bother him.
As long as Viserys didn't escape, however they dealt with him didn't matter.
He had more important things to do now.
After obtaining Lynn's consent, a skeletal old man with a goatee was brought before Daenerys.
He carried a worn wooden box, body emanating herbal scents, eyes full of awe toward these new masters.
Daenerys led him to that room imprisoning Viserys.
Two fully armed Unsullied stood at the door. Seeing Daenerys, they only bowed slightly, not blocking her.
The door opened.
A nauseating stench mixed with alcohol, sweat, and blood hit them.
Viserys curled in the room's corner, face pale as paper, that broken wrist hanging powerlessly, swollen like fermenting dough.
Seeing Daenerys, those cloudy eyes instantly burst with hopeful light.
"Dany..."
He struggled, trying to crawl over.
"Let him examine your injury."
Daenerys didn't approach, just stepped aside, letting the old physician enter.
The physician knelt trembling before Viserys, opening his medicine box, beginning to examine that broken hand.
"Dany, my dear sister..."
Viserys's tears flowed.
He looked at Daenerys, begging in the most humble tone he'd ever used.
"I know I was wrong... I truly know I was wrong..."
"I shouldn't have offended Lord Lynn, shouldn't have disrespected you... jealousy clouded my judgment..."
While speaking, he made suppressed gasping sounds from the physician's treatment pain.
"Lighter!"
"You lowly slave!"
Viserys's curse made the physician's hands pause.
"My lord, Lynn has liberated all the city's slaves. Our status now is commoner!"
Hearing Lynn's name, Viserys's gaze flashed with fear. He turned to look at Daenerys.
"We're the last Targaryens, Dany!"
"We're true dragon blood! We can't kill each other!"
"Talk to Lord Lynn, have him spare me!"
"I swear, I'll be the most obedient dog! Whatever he wants me to do, I'll do!"
"The throne—I don't want it anymore!"
"The army—I don't want it either!"
"I just want to live... please, Dany..."
He cried with snot and tears, pathetic as a street beggar.
Daenerys listened quietly.
Beyond heartache, she felt more an indescribable sorrow.
A true king doesn't beg like Viserys.
Even in death, one must die with dignity.
Her brother, even now, still didn't understand where he went wrong.
He begged not from repentance—only from fear.
"Brother—"
Daenerys finally spoke.
"I won't plead with Lynn for you."
"If you're willing to give up the throne, Lynn will naturally forgive you."
Viserys's crying stopped abruptly.
He looked at Daenerys incredulously, as if seeing a stranger.
"You... what did you say?"
"I said, I won't plead with Lynn for you now."
Daenerys repeated, tone unwavering.
"Lynn is my husband. Any decision he makes, I won't question, much less interfere."
"Everything you're suffering now—consequences of your own choices."
"But I believe, as long as you behave obediently, Lynn won't do anything to you."
"Besides, you never treated me as a sister—only as goods to trade for a throne."
"In your eyes, our Targaryen blood was just a tool to satisfy your desires."
"You don't deserve to be king."
"Be an ordinary person, Viserys. That's the most dignified ending for you..."
Daenerys's words completely stripped away Viserys's last hope.
The pleading on his face gradually became shock, then venom.
"You... bitch!"
His voice turned shrill.
That face just covered in tears twisted with ultimate rage.
"You think because you latched onto a Northern savage, you're a queen now?"
"Have you forgotten who raised you?"
"Everything you have—I gave you!"
"Your life is mine!"
"Now you dare refuse to even plead for an outsider?"
His roar echoed in the room.
The old physician trembled all over, wishing he could shrink into floor cracks.
Daenerys felt no anger—only disappointment.
Deep, bone-chilling disappointment.
"Doctor, please treat his injury."
"If he dares insult you again, don't treat him. He deserves it!"
Daenerys didn't want another word with this madman, turning to leave.
The instant she turned—Viserys's eyes flashed with vicious madness!
He saw it!
In that old physician's medicine box—a small knife for cutting herbs, gleaming coldly!
Now!
Viserys used his good hand, lightning-fast snatching that knife, entire body like a predatory wolf, lunging at Daenerys's back!
His face showed mutual destruction's ferocity.
"Since you won't let me live! Then we'll die together!"
He'd grab Daenerys, use her as hostage!
Lynn cared about this woman!
As long as this woman was in his hands, he still had a chance!
The old physician screamed in terror.
Daenerys also felt the evil wind behind her, body instantly freezing, mind blank.
However, Viserys's hand never touched Daenerys's hem.
A black shadow—faster than his movement!
THUD!
A dull crash.
War boot viciously kicking flesh.
An Unsullied guarding the door had already moved the instant Viserys attacked.
He didn't draw his sword, didn't even use his spear.
Just a simple, direct kick.
Viserys flew back like a broken sack, heavily hitting the wall, sliding down.
That small knife clattered to the ground nearby.
He curled on the ground, clutching his chest, unable even to scream—only gasping like a fish out of water, vomiting mouthfuls of acid.
The Unsullied stepped forward, foot stomping Viserys's knife-holding hand, grinding hard.
"CRACK!"
Another crisp bone-breaking sound.
Then he used his foot to flip Viserys's body over, boot heel pressing hard on his neck, pressing his face into the cold, filthy floor.
The entire sequence fluid, extremely fast.
From start to finish, that Unsullied's face showed no expression.
He was just handling a threat attempting to harm Daenerys.
Daenerys slowly turned around.
She looked at Viserys trampled underfoot, twitching like a dead dog.
Looked at her brother's face covered in dust and vomit.
Looked at those eyes—from severe pain and humiliation—about to split open.
Those eyes no longer held pleading, no longer held madness.
Only bone-deep hatred toward her.
In this moment, that last ember of familial affection in Daenerys's heart completely extinguished.
She didn't even feel disappointment anymore.
Only a numbness like viewing strangers.
She said nothing, just straightened her skirt hem disturbed by fright.
Then she turned, walking out without looking back.
Reaching the doorway, she stopped—didn't turn around—just softly told that Unsullied still stepping on Viserys:
"Watch him."
"Yes, my lady."
Daenerys walked along the long corridor, each step incredibly firm.
Sunlight at the corridor's end fell on her, gilding that moon-white gown with golden radiance.
From this moment, that trembling little girl was completely dead.
What survived—the wife of Astapor's king.
And that Viserys lying in a filthy room, both hands crippled—had no relation to her whatsoever.
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