He stormed through the door, violet eyes flashing. They scanned the room quickly before finding her, saw her recoil at the tone of his voice. Good. She should be afraid.
"I-I burned myself. On the pot."
He glanced at the fireplace, where the heavy metal pot hung, its questionable contents steaming. Stupid girl, he thought, dragging his attention back over to her. Legs tucked underneath her, cradling her hand, her dirty cheeks streaked with tears; she looked vulnerable. Fragile. Like a five year old should.
He hated it.
"Of course it burned you," he spat. "It's hot. Learn to cook without touching it."
Old words echoed in his head, spoken in a voice he knew but couldn't place. Fire cannot kill a dragon. She needed toughening if she were to rule with him.
She said nothing, only bit the trembling lower lip and cast her eyes down. Violet eyes, like his. Everything like his. They were a pair, a matching set. One day they would have children just the same, with silver hair and pure blood, tempers like fire. Children of dragons.
That train of thought made him hesitate, softening towards the girl who shared his blood, the weeping little girl who would one day be his wife. He strode forward, kneeling down by her side, tucking her long, silver hair behind one ear as to better see her face. A finger beneath her chin tilted it up, wide eyes meeting his, knowing better than to look away.
"I'll help you this once. And you'll learn. And if you burn yourself again, you'd be wise to hold back those tears, or you'll soon be crying over more than a burn."
As he watched, emotions passed over her face, little more than shadows flickering in her eyes; fear, disappointment, determination. The latter is what they settled on as she got to her feet unassisted. Never anger, he mused, following her to the hearth. He had yet to see that particular spark light in her eyes, though he was not foolish enough to believe it would never happen. He never expected her to understand what he'd done for her, least of all the harsh realities needed to prepare her to rule. But to resent him for it… no. He would not allow it.
True to his word, he helped with the meal, a meager soup that was more water than anything, though he'd managed to acquire a few potatoes for it. Once their bellies were full as they were like to be, he sent her to bed, choosing instead to remain by the fire. It was dying now, and he had no more wood to feed it. I never have enough, not of anything. One day that will all change. He watched until only embers remained, glowing sullenly, his mood growing darker along with the room. Then even the embers began to fade…
"Viserys?"
Her voice jolted him awake. It was cold now, the fire having died while he slept. Stiff, disoriented, he got up from the chair, instinctively knowing what she wanted. He hesitated, then padded over to the sole bed in their room, pulling back the covers and climbing in. Tentatively, she moved closer; he allowed it tonight, grateful for the shared warmth. Minutes passed, and even in the dark he could feel she was awake, could almost see those luminous eyes staring at him in the dark. Looking to him for comfort. For protection. For everything. Needing him.
"Go to sleep, Daenerys."
It annoyed him. It reminded him of the one thing that he would not, or could not admit.
That he needed her too.
