Daeron The Loyal

"Fucking savages" Daeron spat in High Valyrian, the boy was only six-and-ten, the youngest of the Mad Kings children. He had a large scar running from the bridge of his nose down to his jaw that only seemed to twist as he scowled. 

Daeron had the classic Valyrian looks, platinum silver hair that framed his face effortlessly. Ethereal purple eyes, full lips and long lashes, his eyebrows were dark and his skin flawless. 

He wore thin but striking dark silks with a crimson sash tied around his waist. A sheathed sword hung from his hip, a dagger hidden at the small of his back as he eyed the retreating Dothraki Khal.

Daenerys just seemed scared, her body trembling as Viserys eyed the leaving Dothraki, his gaze wide and assessing.

"Did he like her?" Viserys asked Illyrio, the fat man just shrugged as he eyed the group of a dozen riders. Daeron disliked the man from principle alone, a soft, weak rich man who held the world in his hands because of coin. 

"They didn't kill her, they accepted" Illyrio said, smelling of sweet perfume. 

"What" Daeron growled as he stepped closer to the men "Are you saying if they said no they would have killed her?" He hissed, his eyes momentarily flicking to Daenerys, his elder twin sister.

"Calm yourself, Daeron," Viserys said, his tone sharp as he approached his younger brother. His eyes flicked briefly to their sister before returning to Daeron. "She's fine, isn't she?"

Daenerys stood in silence, her hands gripping her stomach, her wide violet eyes filled with fear. Daeron glanced at her, then turned back to Viserys.

His elder brother seized the back of his neck, pulling him in close. Daeron dropped his head slightly as he clenched his jaw, but he didn't pull away from the familiar grip. 

"We need this, brother," Viserys whispered. "We need their army." His voice lowered as his gaze shifted to Daenerys. "Unless you want the Usurper's assassins to keep hunting us. To keep hunting her."

Daeron wanted to pull away, to spit in the face of this entire operation, to run his sword through Illyrio where he stood—but his brother's words cut deep.

As much as Daeron hated to admit it, his brother was right. He was always right.

The Usurper had been on their trail since they were children. Viserys had saved him and Daenerys too many times to count. He'd certainly reminded them of that enough. 

Daeron ignored the twinge in his scar, a painful reminder of his brother's rage, still burning like a brand on his skin.

"Once we have their allegiance, we'll go to Dorne," Viserys continued in a hushed tone. "I'll marry Arianne Martell, and with Dorne at our side, we'll take Westeros back. We'll go home."

Daeron had heard this plan a dozen times. It made sense, it sounded like they had a chance. But Westeros wasn't his home. It never had been, not in the way Viserys wanted to believe.

He glanced at his sister. Daenerys looked terrified, her hands trembling as she clutched her stomach. Then his gaze fell back to Viserys feet, his jaw clenching.

Westeros might never be his home, but Daenerys and Viserys were all he had. His home was with them, no matter where it led.

"We'll go home" Daeron dully echoed, his tone flat as he clenched his fists. 

—-

That night, Daeron found himself outside his sister's chambers in Illyrio's manse, his hand hovering over the door. The rich tapestries lining the hallway muffled the usual bustle of the household, but there was an unnerving stillness that set Daeron on edge.

He sighed, gripping the ornate door handle tightly.

Then he entered. Daenerys, seated on the edge of her bed, flinched, her wide purple eyes darting to the door. For a moment, fear flickered across her face before she realised it was him. Her shoulders sagged, and the tension drained from her slender frame.

"Daeron," she whispered, her voice soft as a breeze, fragile as a bird's wing. "I thought…"

"I know," he interrupted gently, stepping toward her. "But it's just me."

Her bed was modest, though the room was adorned with silks and rich fabrics from Illyrio's wealth. Still, everything about it felt cold, foreign. The air was heavy with incense and oils, but no perfume could hide the stench of their desperation.

"You shouldn't be here." Daenerys murmured, her gaze dropping to the floor, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her gown. She looked so small, so different from the woman Illyrio and Viserys wished to make her. She was still just his sister, the one he'd protected for so long.

Daeron stood in silence for a moment, watching her. The fire in an oil lamp flickered, casting a soft, uneven glow over her face. 

She looked up at him then, her eyes glistening, and for a heartbeat, they were no longer in Illyrio's manse, no longer surrounded by plots and whispers of war. They were just two children again, alone in the world.

"I couldn't stay away," Daeron admitted, his voice thick with an emotion he couldn't quite name. "Not with…this..." he couldn't bear to even say it aloud. 

Her lips quivered as she looked away, unable to meet his eyes. "The wedding."

He nodded, the words catching in his throat. "I…can't stop it sister."

He hated how powerless he was. They were supposed to be dragons, feared and revered, not caged like this, not sold off to Dothraki savages. 

She exhaled shakily, the sound almost breaking him. "I don't want this…I'm scared, Daeron." She whispered shakily as she glanced at the ground. 

"I know," he whispered, moving closer until he knelt before her. "I know you are. And I'm sorry. I wish I could take you away from all this."

Daenerys's hands trembled as they reached out, touching the scar that marred his face. The one he'd earned for her, the day he stood between her and Viserys' anger. 

Her fingers traced the jagged line down his jaw, her touch featherlight but filled with sorrow.

"I protected you once," Daeron murmured, his voice low, almost breaking. Her hand lingered on his scar as if trying to heal it. He caught her hand gently, holding it between his own. "I would do it again, but this…I can't. Not this time."

Her eyes, wide and full of helplessness, met his. "What will happen to me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her fear palpable. "What will he do?"

Daeron's jaw clenched. He wanted to lie, to tell her everything would be fine, that the Khal would treat her gently. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He hated the thought of her being handed over to a man like Drogo, hated that he was powerless to change it.

"I don't know," he finally said, his voice hoarse. "But you're stronger than you think, Daenerys. You always have been."

She shook her head, a tear slipping down her cheek. "Not like you."

Daeron brushed the tear away, his hand lingering on her cheek. "We're twins, Dany. We're of the same blood. You're as strong as me."

For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. 

"You'll always have me," Daeron promised softly. "No matter what happens, no matter how far apart we are…you'll always have me."

Daenerys nodded, but the sadness in her eyes remained. "And you'll have me." she whispered.

His heart ached. He wanted to stay, to protect her from everything—the Dothraki, Viserys, the marriage. But he knew it was beyond him now.

He pressed his forehead to hers, the way they used to when they were children, seeking comfort in one another. "I love you, Daenerys." he murmured, closing his eyes.

"I love you too, Daeron." she whispered back.

—-

The moon hung low, casting a soft glow through the open window of Illyrio's manse. Daeron sat back into a cushioned seat, staring at the half-empty goblet of Dornish strongwine in his hand.

He took a sip. 

It was certainly nice, sweet, which was unusual for Dornish wine. But it was certainly not worth its price, the wine was almost as expensive as it came. 

But with a man like Illyrio Mopatis, coin was clearly no object. He wondered what that was like…to have enough coin that you'd never have to worry about it again.

He still remembered when Viserys sold their mothers crown, his elder brother had cried for days afterwards…so had he. His grip tightened around the goblet as he took another sip. 

But they needed to sell it, they'd have been homeless in the middle of Bravos otherwise. Free for the Usurpers dogs to mutilate just like their niece and nephew. 

And now, here they were, in a foreign land, surrounded by silks and spices, plotting to take back a kingdom none of them had ever truly known.

The door creaked open behind him, pulling Daeron from his thoughts. He turned his head, seeing Viserys slip into the room, a half-empty bottle of wine in his hand. His elder brother's face was flushed, his steps unsteady as he approached.

"Brother," Daeron said, a note of surprise in his voice. He had never seen Viserys drunk before. Nor did he particularly like the idea of it, but he was older now, he could handle Viserys if he got out of hand.

His elder brother just nodded, his expression distant, as he walked over to a chair across from Daeron and dropped into it with a heavy thud.

His fingers gripped the neck of the bottle tightly as he leaned back, staring up at the roof silently. His long silver hair fanning out behind him at the gesture.

The room was quiet, the hum of the city distant, and for once, there were no Dothraki, no Illyrio, no plans to retake the throne looming over them. Just two brothers and wine.

"You know, brother," Viserys said suddenly, his voice slurring slightly from the drink, "we'll have it all, one day."

Daeron glanced at him in surprise. "Westeros, you mean?" Daeron asked, Viserys scoffed, swirling his goblet hypnotically. 

"Westeros is our birthright. It's always been ours. They think I'm mad, but I'm not. I know the truth. I know what's owed to us." He leaned back further, eyes half-closed. 

"Father would have seen it through. If he hadn't been—" Viserys stopped, waving a hand vaguely, dismissing whatever dark thought had crept in.

Daeron swallowed, his mood still sombre and only worsening at the mention of their fathers death at the hands of his own Kingsguard.

Traitors, the lot of them.

"We'll do it, though," Viserys continued, his words tumbling out faster now. "You and me. We'll take back the throne, Daenerys too. The three of us, united."

"You sound like a bard, spouting a song." Daeron muttered as he remembered the Dothraki that had been at their door, there was no story here, no song, just pathetic desperation.

Viserys's eyes sharpened at the remark, and for a moment, Daeron thought he'd gone too far. But then, his brother laughed—a sharp, brittle sound that echoed through the dim room.

"Maybe I do," Viserys said with a bitter edge. "But that's how they'll remember us, isn't it? Songs of the last dragonlords. Of Viserys Targaryen, the rightful king."

Daeron stared at him, unsure whether to feel anger or pity. How much longer could his brother cling to these fading dreams before they consumed him entirely?

Daeron couldn't help the sigh that escaped him. 

"They won't sing of me? Daeron the Loyal" he muttered mockingly of himself.

He thought of Daeron the Daring, who had fought in the dance of dragons, and Daeron the Young Dragon, who had conquered Dorne. 

What had he done? He was simply loyal, a lapdog to the Beggar Prince.

Viserys looked at him then, really looked at him. "You've always been loyal," he said, his voice softer. "Even when I didn't deserve it."

Daeron shifted uncomfortably in his seat, not sure how to respond. He glanced at Viserys, searching for a way to change the subject, but instead found his brother's earnest gaze fixed on him.

"I'm hard on you, I know that," Viserys admitted, leaning forward slightly. His usually sharp gaze was clouded by the wine, but the weight of his words was clear. 

"But it's because you're the only one I can trust. The only one who hasn't…abandoned me." His voice dipped into a low, bitter tone, and Daeron saw the flicker of pain behind his eyes.

Viserys shook his head, almost as if trying to shake off the emotion. "You and Daenerys…you're all I have. You know that, right?" 

"I know brother…" Daeron whispered softly as he glanced down at the ground, swallowing as the weight of Viserys' words settled atop him. They were right, all they had was each other. 

Yet Viserys still sold Daenerys away to some warlord like cattle. 

—-

A few nights later he stood outside of Illyrio's private chambers. The heavy scent of incense clung to the air as Daeron pushed open the doors.

The magister sat behind a table laden with rich foods, fat sausages dripping with grease and bowls of spiced wine. His rings clinked against his goblet as he beckoned Daeron inside with a smile that never reached his eyes.

"You look troubled, my boy. Come, sit, you're far too thin for a dragon prince." Illyrio gestured toward the cushioned seat across from him. 

Daeron wasn't thin at all—he was lithe, his body honed through years of sword training. He'd started at a young age, just after Viserys had…he shook his head, dislodging the thoughts of times long past.

Daeron stepped forward, sitting across from the magister, who leaned back into the plush chair, his belly pressing against the edge of the table. 

"It is the night before your sister's wedding. You should be joyous—celebrating. Tomorrow, the Dothraki warlord will bind your house to his horde. Imagine the power you will wield, the armies at your command."

Daeron's fingers tightened on the armrests of his chair. "She doesn't want this, Illyrio. You've seen her. She's scared, alone and being sold to a brute."

Illyrio's laugh was a low rumble. "Yes, but she will be a Queen, no—Khaleesi before long. The Dothraki way may seem savage to those of Westeros, but they are powerful. And Drogo is not the worst she could be married to."

Daeron glared at him, but Illyrio's face was calm, unreadable. "This is what you've always wanted for her, isn't it? To trade her like coin for power?"

"Not just her, Daeron. All of you. The Targaryens must rise, but it cannot be done through dreams alone. The game requires sacrifices. And Daenerys will become a leader, something Viserys needs."

Daeron clenched his jaw. "This isn't about Viserys's crown. You're playing a bigger game. What happens to her is of no concern to you, is it?" Illyrio took a sip of his wine, leaning forward slightly, his gaze hardening.

"You care for her-" 

DDaeron's body tensed. In an instant, he slammed his palm against the table. The sound echoed through the room, rattling the plates and goblets. 

"Care for her?" Daeron's voice trembled with fury. "She is my sister!" His breath came harsh and fast, barely contained. "I will not let her be reduced to a savage's bed warmer just so you can buy Viserys an army!"

For a moment, the air seemed to freeze between them. The clatter of the dishes still echoed faintly like distant thunder.

Illyrio's expression didn't change. His eyes, unreadable and now suddenly cold, met Daeron's anger without flinching. He leaned further back, hands resting calmly on the arms of his chair. 

"And what will you do, boy? Fight the Dothraki with nothing but your sword? Your love is worth less than coin in this world."

Daeron's breath hitched. The helplessness that gnawed at him twisted into something darker, something desperate.

Daeron shook his head, disgusted. "I'll take her, run from here." He threatened, Illyrio's gaze sharpened.

"Run, then. But know this, boy—if you try to take her, you'll have the entire Dothraki horde on your heels. And they will not rest until you are dead, or worse."

Daeron stood still for a moment, his mind racing. His breathing was heavy, harsh but his fists clenched in frustration and denial. 

But then he turned sharply on his heel, heading for the door. 

"Damn you." Daeron muttered as he left, the heavy doors swinging shut behind him. Illyrio watched him go, his face betraying nothing but a quiet, knowing smile.

—-

The moon's light shone down upon them, illuminating the night air filled with the raucous sounds of the Dothraki and the crackling fires where unknown meats sizzled and charred in a way that turned Daeron's stomach.

They were surrounded by tents made of thin furs and boiled animal leathers. The smell of horses and sweat invaded Daeron's senses, mingling with the distant echoes of laughter and shouting. 

The Dothraki were celebrating.

"They screech like animals" Daeron muttered in High Valyrian to his brother, seated beside him on the wooden dais. At the front, the Khal sat beside Daenerys, his hulking presence dominating the centre of the platform.

"Shush," Viserys snapped, his eyes darting to the surrounding warriors. Each was tanned and muscled, arakhs hanging from their waists as they performed a rough, violent dance. 

They threw each other about with wild abandon, howling with laughter. Then they turned to the women—grabbing whoever they could, hauling them close, and mounting them as if they were horses.

Daeron's fingers curled into his palm. This was not how a princess should be treated. His eyes shot back to Daenerys, sitting meekly next to the Khal. Then Illyrio suddenly stood, gesturing to two servants. 

The two men carefully carried a large crate toward his sister. Daerons eyes focused on the men as they cracked open the crate, revealing—to Daerons wide eyed surprise—three dragon eggs.

His breath caught, he noticed Viserys tense at the sight. Daeron stood for a better look, he'd never seen anything like them, they were scaled and rather stone-like. 

Are they real?

"Dragon eggs, Princess" Illyrio said as Daenerys picked up an egg cautiously. "From the shadowlands of Asshai, alas, the ages have turned them to stone" Illyrio announced proudly. 

Daerons eyes were fixed on them. The one in his sister's hands was black with red dots peppered across its scaly form, one was pure green and the last was a cream egg, gold splattered across it gently. 

He approached slowly, his eyes wide as he stopped a few feet across from his sister. The Khal's eyes followed his every move, Daeron felt his gaze boring into him. He ignored it. 

The eggs glittered in the light of nearby fires, their rough surface was almost like leather. They looked rough and heavy, but they were hypnotic, his blood was singing at the mere sight. 

"They're beautiful," he murmured, gently reaching out a hand to touch them. Daenerys smiled, for the first time this night as she witnessed the awe in her twin's eyes. 

Suddenly, an iron grip snatched Daeron's wrist, and he looked up in shock at Khal Drogo, whose large hands fully encircled his pale wrist. Daeron stepped back, pulling free as a snarl erupted on his face.

This savage dared to touch him!

"Not…yours," Drogo growled deeply in the Common Tongue, his accent thick and unfamiliar. He was tall, huge even, his form was covered in rippling muscle that dwarfed Daerons lithe form. 

The tension in the air thickened; the surrounding Dothraki ceased their activities, their harsh laughter and yelling fading into an uneasy silence. All eyes darted between the young prince and their leader.

The Khal was right—the eggs weren't his—but that didn't quell his anger or his outrage. Heat tore through his blood, his pupils almost looked slitted as they reflected the flickering fires. 

His sister would be marrying this brute, this warlord. Daeron's gaze flicked to Daenerys, who sat with wide eyes, her grip around the black stone egg tight and unrelenting.

A heart tearing look on her face, fear.

His fingers clenched, wishing a blade was in his hand, knowing that one sat on his waist. But he knew he would not win, he was good, great with a sword even, but this man—beast. 

He was better. 

So Daeron took a deep breath, his blood still roaring in his ears and sighed, the sound long and drawn as his jaw tightened.

"Not mine" Daeron echoed, his tone flat as he took a slow, controlled step backwards. The Khal nodded slowly, his dark—almost black eyes glaring into Daerons bright purple ones. 

Dareon took another step back, the Khal sitting back down next to his sister in response. 

Daeron was ready to turn when the Khal dropped a hand onto his sister's thigh, his knuckles whitening as his sister quietly whimpered in pain.

He froze. 

The camp was still quiet, watching the interaction with interest. The only sound was the flickering flames that seemed to whisper to Daeron. They told him to kill the man, take his head, take his horses and turn this camp to ashes.

His purple eyes once again met with the Khals. 

Daerons hand briefly dropped and toyed with his sword hilt as he contemplated his course of action. 

Only to find nothing, there was nothing he could do. 

He released a sharp, bitter laugh that ran through the camp. The Khal was clearly surprised as the Prince turned on his heel, walking away with a shake of his head and the echoes of bitter laughter trailing in his wake. 

—-

Alos Rioja huddled in the corner of the tent, the leather bindings biting uncomfortably into his wrists and ankles. Weeks had passed since the Dothraki had taken him captive. 

Once, he had been a potter, shaping clay into art. Now, he was nothing more than a slave tending to horses. The bitter irony stirred a laugh in his throat, but he swallowed it down, shaking his head in disgust.

The sounds of the wedding celebration outside echoed through the night air—laughter, music, the clash of arakhs. He glanced at the other captives huddled in the tent, their bodies pressed together for warmth, faces pale and hollowed with exhaustion and fear. 

They all shared the same fate, stripped of their lives and identities, reduced to mere property under their Dothraki masters.

Suddenly, the air inside the tent shifted. The heavy flap entrance moved, and a figure stepped through. Alos looked up, eyes narrowing.

A young man with silver, almost white hair strode in, his presence striking, almost surreal. He wore dark, expensive black and crimson silks. His bright purple eyes swept the room, glittering with an intensity that was as unsettling as it was captivating.

"I trust you're enjoying the festivities?" Daeron Targaryen said casually, his voice smooth, almost warm.

Alos shot him a hard look. "What do you want?" he demanded, distrust heavy in his tone. The others in the tent watched warily.

Daeron met his gaze evenly. "I bring news. An army is coming—to free you."

A murmur rippled through the tent as Daeron knelt in front of a woman, cutting through her bindings with a small dagger. She rubbed her wrists as he moved on to free her ankles.

"An army?" someone gasped. "Here?"

"Yes," Daeron said without missing a beat. "We'll storm this camp and free you."

Alos's brow furrowed. The Dothraki were no simple enemy—they were ruthless and calculating, especially Khal Drogo's horde. 

The free cities had tried and failed to battle them in the open before, it…it never works. 

But Daeron moved to the next captive, freeing them with the same calm efficiency. His confidence seemed unshakable, but Alos detected something else—just a trace of uncertainty buried beneath the surface.

"Storm the camp?" another slave asked sceptically. "You think it'll be that easy?"

Daeron chuckled softly, the sound smooth but tinged with a note of desperation. It only unsettled Alos further.

"I know it sounds impossible," Daeron admitted, continuing to cut through bonds. "But we're prepared. My men are fierce. They won't stop until you're all free."

Alos's chest tightened. The plan sounded far too simple. Something wasn't right. The captives around him shifted uneasily, hope warring with doubt on their faces.

"What's the plan?" Alos pressed. "The Dothraki won't just let us walk away."

"You create chaos," Daeron explained. "Knock over braziers. Set fires." His voice was calm, casual, as if suggesting something trivial.

Alos's eyes widened in disbelief. "We'll be killed!" he hissed.

"By the time the fires spread, the army will arrive," Daeron assured, cutting through another captive's bonds. "You just need to delay the Dothraki response."

Alos snarled. "We're not soldiers. If you have an army, let them set the fires. We'll be slaughtered."

For the first time, a flicker of frustration crossed Daeron's face, but it quickly disappeared behind a confident smile. He straightened up, addressing the crowd. "I'll pay ten golden dragons to every man and woman who helps."

Gasps spread through the tent. Alos shook his head in disbelief as he was freed from his bindings. Ten gold coins for setting a fire? No one would pay that. This was madness. And yet, his fellow slaves were whispering excitedly, eyes alight with newfound hope.

"Just wait for the signal" Daeron said as he stood, eyeing the couple dozen slaves.

Daeron slipped out of the tent. The captives waited, hearts racing for the signal. But Alos lingered in the back, dread gnawing at him. His eyes fixed on the tent entrance, waiting for some inevitable Dothraki retaliation. 

This was a trap, a trick. The Valyrian was lying.

Less than an hour later, flames erupted at the back of the tent, roaring to life. The heat hit Alos like a wall. For a moment, he stood frozen, watching in shock as fire quickly spread around the tent.

His fellow captives bolted from the tent, screams mingling with the crackling of fire. He followed behind shakily, his steps were unsteady. 

A child's terrified cry cut through the night as the slaves poured into the open. Their fear deepened when they saw other tents—dozens of them—also engulfed in flames, fire lighting the sky.

The air was thick with smoke, the acrid scent burning his throat. Flames twisted and danced in the darkness, casting wild, flickering shadows across the camp. All around, freed captives surged into the open.

Alos's heart sank. Every burning tent belonged to slaves.

Alos turned, catching sight of the Valyrian, stood far away, his silver hair gleaming in the firelight, a torch in hand. Their eyes met, and Alos's stomach turned. Daeron's pupils almost seemed slitted, his earlier calm confidence replaced with grim determination. And under that…sorrow.

If an army was coming, why did he look so mournful?

The silver-haired man broke eye contact, disappearing into the camp as he set another tent ablaze. Whispers spread around Alos. 

"That was the signal." A nearby slave whispered, catching attention and murmurs raised in volume.

But something was wrong.

Alos's instincts screamed at him to stop, to not be swept up in the chaos, but the wave of desperate captives surged around him, pushing him forward. 

Flames crackled louder, spreading with terrifying speed, and smoke choked the air, obscuring the night sky. Some slaves started to set their own fires, some desperately tried to put out the fires but most, like him were frozen.

The Dothraki were already reacting, their shouts cutting through the smoke. Dothraki sprinted between the tents, trying to rally their forces and contain the blaze, but the fire was spreading too quickly. 

Alos watched as some slaves ran toward the open plains, only to be cut down by Dothraki riders, their arakhs glinting in the firelight.

It was a slaughter.

Alos could hear the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground, the desperate cries of those who had just tasted freedom. He stumbled forward, disoriented, as the flames flickered wildly in the darkness, illuminating the terrified faces of his fellow captives.

In the distance, Alos could see Daeron, moving with purpose, lighting more fires with a cold efficiency. He was not running, not hiding—he was walking right through the flames as if he belonged in them. 

For a brief moment, their eyes met again, and Alos saw the truth in the Valyrians gaze…there was no army coming.

It had all been a lie! 

Alos felt a rush of fury. This Valyrian was no saviour. He was a gambler, playing with their lives as if they were pawns in some game only he understood!

The promise of an army, the gold coins—it was all to manipulate them into doing his bidding! And now, as the Dothraki rallied, Alos knew they were nothing more than a distraction, buying Daeron time for whatever he was truly after.

The camp was in chaos, but Daeron moved with a singular focus, his torch dropping to the ground as he prepared for his exit. 

For a brief moment, Daeron hesitated, glancing back at the slaves scrambling in panic. Alos caught that fleeting look—a flicker of something that resembled shame—before Daeron turned away

—-

Daenerys was terrified, her heart pounding as the distant flames roared like a beast. The fire flickered ominously at the edge of the gigantic camp, casting a hellish glow. 

Khal Drogo had long since disappeared into the chaos, riding off into the inferno atop his horse without fear. Daenerys simply stood frozen, watching the flame dance higher, its flickering tongues licking at the sky as if trying to consume the very stars. 

The acrid scent of smoke filled the air, choking hert and making her stomach churn. Viserys eyed the distant flames with a worried frown on his face as he scanned the crowd for his brother. 

Daenerys nervously clutched at the cream and golden stone egg, her mind racing as she eyed the fire. 

However Daeron suddenly emerged, riding between tents on a dark horse. The distant flames cast an ethereal glow on his silver hair, which seemed to shimmer like liquid moonlight

Daenerys felt a rush of adrenaline at the sight of him, her fear momentarily eclipsed. The flames danced behind him, a roaring backdrop to his sudden appearance. 

Only a few Dothraki surrounded her, most having rushed off with their Khal to confront the chaos of the fire. 

Yet Daeron ignored them as he swooped by a wide-eyed Daenerys, painfully yanking her atop the dark horse behind him. 

She winced as she clutched the cream egg to her chest, her right shoulder burning in pain. The weight of the stone egg only worsened the pain, but she clutched it tightly. 

"Hold on!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos.

With a fierce kick of his heels, the horse lunged forward, galloping away from the encroaching flames and the rising screams of confusion. 

"Viserys! Follow" Daeron shouted as he pointed at a nearby horse, the platinum haired brother simply staring in shock and rising fury. 

Whereas for Daenerys, sudden clarity washed over her like a chill. Daeron wasn't just fleeing the flames, he was escaping with her. Escaping from Khal Drogo. 

But a suspicion burned away in her mind as she stole a glance back at the chaos, the distant flames lighting up the whole camp. 

Her pulse quickened at the thought—had he set this blaze himself? 

"Daeron," she gasped. "Did you…?" The camp blurred past them as they rushed past tents.

Daeron's grip on the reins tightened as he urged the horse to pick up speed, the pounding of hooves drowning out the chaos behind them. He didn't look back, but his jaw was set with determination.

"Did I what?" he replied, his voice sharp and focused, glancing briefly over his shoulder.

"Did you set the fire?" Daenerys pressed, disbelief lacing her tone. "You—"

"It was the only way," he interrupted, urgency, and fear creeping into his words. "They won't follow us if they think the camp is burning."

Her heart raced, the weight of his words sinking in. "You did this…?"

The feeling of Khal Drogo's hand clenched painfully onto her thigh seemed to replay through her mind. She couldn't help the gratefulness that burst through her.

Her brother had protected her again! 

"I did what I had to," Daeron snapped, a flicker of frustration crossing his features. "I called Viserys, he should follow!"

"Viserys!" Daenerys gasped, desperation lacing her voice. "We can't leave him!"

Daeron's expression hardened as an uncomfortable feeling settled in his gut. "He'll either follow or he won't. We cannot wait for him sister!"

She swallowed, glancing back for sight of her brother only for dread to pool in her stomach as she caught sight of half-a-dozen Dothraki warriors on horseback chasing them.

Thoughts of Viserys were gone as the Dothraki released chilling shouts in their guttural language. 

"Daeron!" she gasped, her heartbeat smashing against her chest as fear filled her mind once more. Daeron looked back, his eyes going wide at the sight. 

They'd never outride Dothraki, especially in the Dothraki Sea. Daeron snarled, his grip on the reins tightening as they broke through the edge of the camp.

The endless expanse of the Dothraki Sea terrain stretched before them.

He glanced back, dread pooling in his stomach as he saw even more Dothraki joining the chase—almost a dozen of them, Arakhs glinting ominously in the flickering light.

Panic seized Daenerys as she turned to watch the men pursuing them. If they caught Daeron… they would kill him. She swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the stone egg.

A vivid memory surged to the forefront of her mind.

Daeron had brushed away her tears, his hand lingering on her cheek. "We're twins, Dany. We're of the same blood. You're as strong as me."

Casting another desperate glance back, the Dothraki were closing in, their shouts rising above the roar of the flames.

They would be caught, Daenerys realised, her heart racing. They would both be caught, unless…

"You're as strong as me." 

With a shaky breath, she loosened her grip on the stone egg.

"Daeron," she whispered, though the sound easily carried over the wind as he turned his head. "Take this," she urged, holding out the cream stone egg.

He instinctively grabbed it with one hand, pulling it to his chest as they continued riding forward.

"Why?" he shouted back, urgency tightening his voice as the shouts of the Dothraki echoed through the night air.

"They… they won't kill me!" she hesitantly shouted, desperation lacing her words. Daeron blinked, a dark realisation dawned on him.

"What?" he said, his tone flat, disbelief gripping him.

"They'll kill you, Daeron!" she exclaimed, tears brimming in her eyes. His own tears started to spill, he couldn't understand why he was crying. "But not me."

His body knew the truth, his mind couldn't accept it. 

"We're twins, Dany. We're of the same blood. You're as strong as me."

"Daenerys" he whispered, his voice barely carrying over the wind as the horse thundered beneath them. "Don't…" he nearly begged, a sense of desperation rising within him.

"You'll always have me, Daeron," she said shakily, her gaze flickering back for a moment to the pursuing Dothraki. Taking a deep breath, she reached for the red sash tied around his waist.

Quickly, she untied it, the fabric slipping through her fingers as she wrapped it around her wrists with her teeth, binding herself tightly. 

Daenerys looked down at the dark, sandy ground, the wind rushing past her, whipping her silver hair wildly. Her eyes lingered on Daeron's back for a moment, burning the image into her memory.

Resolve burned through her.

"You'll always have—" his words were interrupted as Daenerys suddenly threw herself off the side of the horse. 

Time seemed to slow as she tumbled through the air, her body hitting the ground with a thud. The impact jarred her, a shockwave of pain radiating through her shoulder and back as she rolled onto the harsh, cold ground.

The Dothraki halted, their horses skidding to a stop in front of their future Khaleesi. Daenerys gasped, the breath knocked from her lungs, her vision blurred as she laid on the rough ground. 

Daerons eyes were wide as he turned his head, watching as the Dothraki all stopped and circled their Khaleesi. He wanted to go back, he needed to go back…but…his sister…she…

Daeron's mind was a whirlwind of emotion—rage, fear, disbelief, and guilt all crashing into him at once. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, his chest tight as he tried to force himself to think through the blinding panic. 

Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, to fight for Daenerys, to not leave her behind. But as he glanced at the Dothraki surrounding her, he knew he had no chance of survival if he turned around. 

He gritted his teeth, his knuckles white as he gripped the reins and the stone egg tightly against his chest. She had tied herself with his sash, making it seem like he had taken her captive.

That she didn't come with him willingly. 

Daeron felt the weight of his tears, blurring his vision. He had always promised to protect her, and now he was riding away while she faced the danger alone. It felt like betrayal, but there was no other way. If he was caught, they would kill him.

She's giving him a chance to come back for her later… 

He forced himself to swallow the burning guilt as the Dothraki grew smaller and smaller in the distance, the sight of Daenerys surrounded by them searing into his mind.