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CaveLeather Rahallo watched the shifting emotions cross Daenerys’s face and guessed easily enough what she was thinking.
Killing Viserys now would remove a potential problem, but the fact that he had slain her own brother would hang between them for the rest of their lives.
Viserys still carried Targaryen blood.
On paper he remained the heir to the Iron Throne.
Rahallo had already decided to let the man keep breathing a little longer.
He would turn Viserys into a useful puppet, a figurehead to march in front of the army when they crossed to Westeros.
For the moment, keeping him alive was simply more profitable than putting him in the ground.
“Daenerys, Viserys is arrogant and stupid, but I am not going to kill him,” Rahallo said.
“He does need to learn a hard lesson, though.” “What are you going to do?” she asked at once.
“Make him behave.
He has always wanted to return to Westeros.
I am going to give him exactly what he wants.
We will use his name to open the gates of Dorne.” He pushed the tent flap aside and stepped out into the sunlight.
Daenerys hesitated only a moment before following.
She wanted to see for herself how Rahallo intended to deal with her brother.
Viserys paced inside his own tent, face dark as a thundercloud.
When Rahallo entered he flinched, then forced a stiff smile onto his face.
“Khal Rahallo, I was just coming to find you.
I need to explain—” The cold look in Rahallo’s eyes made him swallow hard.
“We are allies, are we not?
My sister is your wife.
We are the last blood of House Targaryen.
You cannot do without me any more than I can do without you…” Rahallo crossed the space in two strides, seized Viserys by the collar, and hurled him through the air.
Viserys hit the ground hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs.
A choked groan escaped him.
His insides felt crushed together.
Cold sweat broke out across his forehead.
He kicked and clawed, trying to break free, but Rahallo’s grip was iron.
The fingers around his throat might as well have been a vise.
Air grew short.
Old memories flashed behind his eyes—panic rising like a tide.
“You had better remember your place,” Rahallo said, voice like winter steel.
“The Targaryen name means nothing here.” Viserys’s vision began to blur.
“I do not care what arrangement you once had with Drogo.
Daenerys is my prize now.
She is my Khaleesi.
If you have any objections, you can go discuss them with Drogo in the night lands.
I am grateful you raised her, Prince Viserys.
From this day forward I will take care of her.
You no longer need to trouble yourself.
If you wish to keep living comfortably among us—or even return to Westeros and lay eyes on that cursed iron chair—then you will do exactly as I say.
I tell you to do something, you do it.
I am the only man you can rely on now.
And if you ever harass Daenerys again—even if you only speak her name—I will not hesitate to pull your guts out and make you eat them.
I did exactly that to Drogo.
You saw it with your own eyes.
You have not forgotten, have you?” Rahallo tightened his grip.
Viserys’s lips turned from white to blue.
His eyes bulged.
His struggles grew weaker until he finally went limp, flopping like a dying fish.
Only when Viserys’s gaze began to dim did Rahallo release him.
Viserys lay on the rugs, mouth gaping as he dragged in desperate lungfuls of air.
“I will help House Targaryen take the Iron Throne,” Rahallo said coldly.
“Remember—this is not a bargain.
It is a gift from Khal Rahallo.
I will bring the army you have always wanted.
We will land in Westeros.
Your only task is to keep your mouth shut and do exactly what you are told.” Rahallo had already decided that the Iron Throne would go to House Targaryen.
Whether the one sitting on it would be Viserys, Daenerys, or Daenerys’s child—that choice belonged to him alone.
He gave Viserys one last contemptuous glance, then turned and walked out without another word.
Daenerys stood just outside the tent flap.
She looked at her brother sprawled on the floor, barely able to breathe, and felt almost nothing.
His place in her heart had changed completely.
The Dothraki had given Viserys a nickname: Lhagat Khal—the Cart King.
He had fallen from his horse during the long march and been lame for weeks afterward.
Unable to ride, he had been forced to travel in a cart.
The Dothraki despised anyone who could not sit a horse.
Viserys had always spoken of the royal blood in their veins, the golden blood of old Valyria, the blood of true dragons, the blood of proud conquerors.
Yet moments ago he had been conquered.
And Rahallo had become the only man she could truly depend on.
… Half a month later, Dorne.
The Water Gardens.
Sunlight danced across the blue sea like countless scattered diamonds.
Marble arches and colonnades framed wide courtyards.
Citrus trees and bright flowers filled the beds, filling the air with sweet fragrance.
Water chuckled from fountains into stone pools.
In the center of the largest pool stood the Martell sigil—a blazing sun pierced by a spear—carved in stone, the symbol of their house words: Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.
Prince Doran Martell had been crippled by gout for years.
He could no longer stand and moved about in a wheeled chair.
He sat now in the shade of a tree, leaning on a cane carved with the twisting shapes of sand snakes.
His calm eyes moved over the visitors and came to rest on Viserys.
“Prince Viserys,” he said in the soft, distinctive Dornish accent, “you plan to return to Westeros and reclaim the Iron Throne.
What role, then, do you see for House Martell in your grand design?” Viserys straightened his back, trying to project authority.
“My lord prince, our houses are joined by blood.
Your sister Elia was my brother Rhaegar’s wife.
If you support me, I will see that justice is done for the blood we both lost.” Prince Doran’s sister Elia had married Rhaegar Targaryen.
During Robert’s Rebellion, Elia and her two young children had been butchered on Tywin Lannister’s orders.
The crime was a shared wound between the two houses.
Viserys spoke with confidence, but Doran showed no visible reaction.
Only when the prince’s gaze moved past Viserys to the tall figure standing behind him did something thoughtful enter his expression.
The man was young, strikingly handsome, his body lean and powerfully built.
His wheat-colored skin carried a healthy sheen.
A curved blade of unusual design hung at his hip.
Everything about him matched the rumors that had reached Dorne from Essos.
The Dothraki horse-lord who had swept across the grass sea was said to look exactly like this.
Doran turned his attention back to Viserys and offered a polite, measured smile.
“My prince,” he said, “it appears you did not come to Dorne alone.
Perhaps I should address the man behind you properly… as Khal?”
CaveLeather