Chapter 1: The Scars of a Beggar King
The Pentoshi sun beat down on Viserys Targaryen's face, a stark contrast to the icy chill that often gripped his heart. He stood on the balcony overlooking the bustling harbor, his gaze sweeping over the ships that came and went. He was the Beggar King, a title spat at him like venom across the Free Cities. But beneath the worn silks and haunted eyes lay a secret, one that had saved his life more times than he could count.
A careless cut from a rusty blade during a squabble in a Lyseni alley healed within hours, leaving only a faint, silvery line on his forearm. A fall from a runaway horse resulted in nothing more than a bruised ego. And once, in a fit of drunken rage, bone-like claws had briefly extended from his knuckles, a terrifying and inexplicable phenomenon he tried desperately to suppress.
His younger sister, Daenerys, stood beside him, her silver-gold hair catching the light. Her violet eyes held a quiet sadness, a reflection of their precarious existence. Illyrio Mopatis, their host, had promised them an army, a path back to Westeros. But Viserys felt a gnawing unease. Daenerys was to be married to Khal Drogo, a savage warlord, in exchange for his horde. The thought chafed at his pride, but he swallowed his resentment for her sake.
"Soon, sister," he said, his voice softer than usual. "Soon, we will have our army."
Daenerys turned to him, her hand finding his. "I trust you, Viserys."
He squeezed her hand, a fierce protectiveness rising within him. Unlike the cruel, erratic man some whispered him to be, his love for Daenerys was a constant, a burning ember in the cold landscape of their exile. He would endure this, and more, to see her safe and to reclaim their birthright. He just hoped the Dothraki Khal wouldn't test the strange, brutal gift he kept hidden