The pyre let out another agonized, piercing cry. Even the priests' chanting couldn't drown it out.
Another dagger—maybe the thousandth—stabbed straight into Viserys Targaryen's heart.
Helpless despair felt like poison coating the blade, eating away at his soul inch by inch.
He had fought for Dany before. Killed for her. Always kept her safe behind him. Always solved her problems.
Today he could only stand there, watching, listening.
He couldn't do a damn thing. He couldn't see clearly. But he heard every single one of her gut-wrenching screams.
Viserys had lost all track of time.
Half an hour? An hour? Two? Or a whole year?
In this dead-silent chamber, time had no meaning.
The priests chanted in a language he didn't recognize at all. The melody was long, harsh, like wailing.
It wasn't Valyrian. It wasn't Ghiscari either.
The exiled prince couldn't make out a single syllable.
Every note slammed into his eardrums like lead weights, filling him with revulsion from the bottom of his soul.
The loudest voice belonged to High Priest Benerro standing right beside him.
As the honored guest, he had to stand at the very front of the ritual.
Benerro conducted the ceremony with the feverish devotion only true believers possessed—face calm and solemn, not a single twitch.
No wonder he could draw thousands of Volantenes to him.
Anyone hearing that voice would instinctively believe he knew far more than he was saying.
But what truly tortured the Targaryen wasn't the passage of time or the echoing chants. It was one burning question:
Could these priests' wails actually bring the result they wanted?
Was this writhing, trembling flame burning for redemption, or just burning for nothing?
Would his sister's pain and screams buy even a sliver of hope?
Or was she suffering for nothing?
He knew asking Benerro right now was pointless—maybe even deadly.
Only the red priest's god, or whatever power he was begging, knew what would happen if the ritual was interrupted.
Better to stay silent in the shadows and endure the torment of doubt than risk ruining everything out of curiosity.
It was too late to stop now anyway. All he could do was trust Benerro's knowledge, trust the slaves' iron throats, and trust Dany's strength.
He wanted to believe in his sister. He was the one who let her make the choice. He was the one who brought her here.
Viserys almost prayed to the Seven—the only gods he really knew—but at the last second he bit his tongue.
He was on foreign soil, among servants of another god.
What they were doing here would look like demon worship to any septon back in Westeros.
Praying to distant Westerosi gods was useless. The only things he could rely on were his sister and these chanting figures in red robes.
The flames suddenly stopped flickering.
They froze completely, solidifying into an impenetrable crimson block.
This was the first clear, visible change since the ritual began.
Benerro threw his arms wide. The choir immediately stretched out a single, deep, unchanging note—no longer words, just pure sound.
Once he confirmed the order had been carried out, the High Priest slowly turned toward his guest.
"What does this mean, Benerro?" Viserys asked, daring to speak. He saw that the priest had momentarily pulled his mind out of the ritual.
"I feared this moment. I prayed. I begged," the High Priest said. His voice had lost its usual solemn power; he sounded like a tired old man. "But prayer was useless in the end. The god demands a price for miracles, and that price must be paid in life—sacrifice."
"No."
Viserys's voice was hoarse but carried absolute refusal.
"Then what?"
Viserys took one step toward the pyre. "Since the flames aren't giving off heat anymore, maybe—"
Benerro seemed to read his mind and spoke quickly. "There is a way. When we prepared the ritual, the god mercifully showed us the path. But you must accept it. Only you. I and everyone here have no right to decide."
"What way?"
"Your sister's life can still be redeemed in the True Lord's eyes."
Benerro made another gesture—Viserys couldn't see who it was aimed at. "I saw it in the tongues of flame. This frozen fire is waiting. It's asking. It's asking if you're willing to offer a sacrifice for her."
"What does it want? My life? My blood?"
"Your blood." Benerro nodded. "But the meaning is different."
Before the words fully landed, a figure stepped out of the darkness and handed the High Priest a child.
A sleeping baby boy, no more than two or three years old.
Benerro immediately passed the child to Viserys.
"Take him."
Viserys looked closely and nearly cried out.
The boy looked exactly like—exactly like young Maekar. The one from that distant previous life, Daeron's son.
Silver hair, pale violet eyes, proud nose, handsome and pleasing features.
Only later would resentment and disappointment twist those looks.
But in the early years, before they turned against their half-brothers and the family was still whole, this was exactly how he looked.
"Where did you—how is this possible?"
Viserys could only squeeze out those few words. His fingertips touched the baby's warm skin, but his heart sank straight to the bottom.
"We brought him from Lady Rhaenella's pleasure house in Lys."
Benerro spoke fast, afraid the choir might not hold out. "Your firstborn bastard, Blood Prince, born to the whore known as Pearl—Syrola. The god mercifully guided us to the child and helped us bring him here. That is also why I could not come to see you sooner."
He paused, eyes sharp as knives. "He carries your royal blood, the blood of dragonlords.
The god wants to know which of the two you will choose to sacrifice. When you and the Flame Princess entered the chamber, he was brought in as well. But only one can leave alive. That is all I will say. I have no right to advise the Blood Prince on such a private matter."
Viserys looked at the infant again, desperately searching his memory.
Yes, he remembered Lady Rhaenella's establishment. That was where he had redeemed Doreah.
He also remembered Pearl, Syrola, and the night he spent with her.
Could she have gotten pregnant with his child?
It was possible.
This body came from Maekar's line. A strong resemblance was entirely possible.
But why should he believe any of this?
A common whore's child with a drunk sailor—what power or significance could his life hold?
If this wasn't even his son, then what kind of test or sacrifice was this?
No further explanation was needed.
Viserys saw the transaction clearly.
Son or sister?
A son he never knew existed, or his betrothed?
Some bastard left by a stranger whore, doomed to a miserable life, or his betrothed—his future wife?
At first the choice seemed obvious, simple, straightforward.
But what about the curse of kinslaying?
In his previous life he had never wanted to kill the pretender Daeron.
His enemy and rival for the throne—he could have chosen faith, or joined the Night's Watch like Bloodraven.
He never knew his half-brother would become such a monster.
Bloodraven killed him and many of his sons, and eventually froze to death in the far north, cursed by everyone who remembered him.
Before that, Aegon II had executed his own sister and wanted to kill his nephew, only to be poisoned by his own men.
Damn it, Maekar had probably killed his own brother by accident, and he himself was killed by a rock.
And now he was about to kill his own son with his own hands.
With terrifying willpower, the Targaryen forced himself to stay calm and drive every ghost from his mind.
All of that was in the past. Everything was already smoke and ashes.
This baby wasn't Aegon.
His precious little Aegon had already died on the Redgrass Field at his uncle's hands.
No miracle, no god, could change that.
And right now on that pyre, burning and suffering, was his sister.
Burning and suffering because of him.
Wasn't he waiting for a chance to help her?
Wasn't he trying to ease her pain?
It was time to act.
Viserys hurled the child into the pyre with all his strength.
There was no cry. The magical flames swallowed the bastard instantly.
Perhaps this could even be called mercy.
He died without pain, clean and quick.
This was just someone else's child who happened to look like that unfortunate Aegon.
In this world, all that waited for him was sorrow, pain, and death.
The Targaryen had shown him mercy.
Maybe one day he would truly believe that story.
Benerro immediately raised both arms. The red priests' chanting shot up in pitch.
The flames came alive, shooting straight toward the chamber ceiling.
Viserys even thought they burned hotter than ever before, though they were still contained within the circle of blood.
The miracle wasn't over.
Before his eyes, the color of the flames shifted one after another.
Blacker than night. Whiter than snow. Brighter than polished emerald.
The changes were instantaneous, with no pattern, completely defying every natural law he knew.
The flames' movement and color changes were clearly tied to the red priests' chanting.
The servants of R'hllor and their leader seemed determined to deafen him with voices of bronze and iron. Their words echoed off the stone walls like thunder.
It ended as suddenly as it began.
As if the god had waved a gentle hand, the flames went out instantly. The wood and kindling turned to a pinch of odorless ash.
Only then, for the first time since the ritual started, did Viserys clearly see his sister.
She sat naked and exhausted on the cold stone floor of the chamber.
Around Daenerys, three newborn dragons squirmed gently, letting out soft cries from their young throats.
Black. Emerald green. White.
They took turns staring at Daenerys, then turned to Viserys, as if confirming their new masters.
"It worked," Benerro said in a voice full of reverence, bowing his head deeply. "It all worked—"
The other priests immediately dropped to their knees in total silence.
Perhaps from ecstasy, or perhaps because hours of chanting had drained every ounce of strength.
Viserys was overwhelmed by a flood of emotion.
Joy that Dany was safe. Excitement at seeing living, breathing dragons with his own eyes.
That excitement mixed with the memory of the sacrifice and crushing exhaustion, leaving him speechless.
Daenerys broke the silence first.
The girl pointed to the largest dragon, its scales blacker than night, its horns tinged with blood, and spoke in a voice that didn't sound like her own:
"Aeksion."
Then she pointed to the dragon whose emerald scales showed faint threads of gold.
"Rhaellys."
Finally her finger settled on the dazzling white dragon.
"Sōnarys."
The young dragons heard their names and immediately cried out happily, flapping their tiny wings.
For the first time in centuries, the sound of dragons filled the east.
And no matter what, Viserys couldn't deny it—the sound was beautiful beyond words.