Chapter 9: The Queen's Fury – Daenerys's Reaction to the Theft
The first hint came at dawn on the sixth day after the fall of Astapor.
Daenerys had not left the Plaza of Punishment since the retrieval party set out. She had ordered a simple tent erected near the spot where Viserys had hung, refusing the luxury of the pyramids still smoldering in the distance. She slept little, ate less, spending the hours in vigil: praying over the empty cross site, holding the twins close when they fussed, listening for any word from the road north. The shard of crucifixion wood never left her neck; she touched it constantly, as though it could anchor her brother's spirit closer.
When Belio the Steadfast returned—alone, bloodied, limping—he found her standing exactly where he had left her, silver hair unbound and wild in the morning wind.
He fell to his knees before her, head bowed so low his forehead touched the dust.
"Mistress… Your Grace… we failed."
Daenerys's hand froze on the shard. The world narrowed to the sound of his voice.
"Speak."
Belio's words came halting, broken by shame. "The body… it was guarded. We left only one man—young, eager. Slavers came in the night. Four eunuchs, swift, silent. They cut him down before he could raise alarm. Took the body. We chased… but they had horses. Fresh ones. We lost them in the dunes."
Silence stretched, thin and terrible.
Daenerys's face did not change at first. No scream, no tears. Only a stillness so complete it seemed the air around her had stopped moving. The twins, sensing the shift, whimpered in their nurse's arms. Even the gathered pilgrims—hundreds who had kept silent vigil with her—held their breath.
Then she spoke, voice low, almost conversational.
"They took him."
Belio nodded, unable to meet her eyes.
"They took my brother. My Messiah. The one who suffered ten days without cry, who appeared to the faithful after death… and they stole his body like common thieves steal bread."
She turned slowly toward the north, toward the pale line of dunes that hid the road to Yunkai. Her violet eyes narrowed, as though she could see through sand and distance to the men who had dared.
A tremor began in her hands. Small at first—then spreading, until her whole body shook with something beyond grief. Rage. Pure, dragon-hot rage.
She stepped forward, boots grinding into the bloodstained sand where Viserys had died. When she spoke again, her voice rose—not shouting, but carrying like flame across dry grass.
"They think to rob us of proof. They think to parade a corpse and call it victory. They think to prove the Dragon God bleeds and rots and stays in the ground."
She laughed then—a short, jagged sound that made the nearest pilgrims flinch.
"They forget who we are."
Daenerys whirled to face the crowd. Thousands had gathered now—drawn by the sight of Belio's return, by the sudden tension in the air. Former slaves, pilgrims, Unsullied converts, Dothraki riders—all watched their queen with wide eyes.
"They stole a body," she said, louder now, "but they cannot steal faith. They cannot steal the miracle that happened here. They cannot steal the words he spoke from the cross: vengeance comes on wings of fire."
She drew her dagger—small, Valyrian-sharp—and sliced her palm again, deeper this time. Blood welled bright and fell in fat drops onto the sand.
"I swear this on my blood, on his blood, on the eternal flame: we will take him back. Not as a corpse to mourn, but as the living proof he is. If they display him in Yunkai, we will march there and tear their pyramids down around them. If they burn him, we will walk through the flames and bring his ashes home. If they hide him in the deepest vault, we will dig until the sun itself is eclipsed."
Her voice cracked on the last word—not with weakness, but with the force of a breaking dam.
"And when we find the men who dared lay hands on him… they will learn what it means to steal from the Dragon God."
The crowd roared. Not the measured chant of before—this was raw, animal, a howl of shared fury. "God wills it!" they screamed. "God wills it!" Axes, spears, bare fists rose to the sky. Children shouted with the adults. Women tore strips of cloth to bind their arms tighter in red.
Daenerys raised her bleeding hand high.
"Prepare the army," she commanded Belio and the disciples who had gathered behind him. "We march for Yunkai at first light tomorrow. No rest. No mercy. Every step we take is a vow to bring him home."
She turned back to the empty cross site, dropping to one knee. Her fingers traced the nail holes still visible in the wood.
"Brother," she whispered, so only the wind could hear, "they will pay. I swear it. I will burn their world before I let them keep you from us."
Tears fell then—hot, silent—mixing with the blood on her palm and soaking into the sand. But they were not tears of despair. They were the tears of a woman who had lost everything once, and now refused to lose it again.
In the Spiritual Space, Alex watched her—saw the fire in her eyes, the unbreakable line of her shoulders—and felt a pang that was almost fear. The game had given her grief, and she had turned it into a weapon sharper than any sword.
Yunkai would not know peace.
The queen was coming for what was hers.
(Word count: 1497)