"You've been sick for days. Are you sure you're not going to die?" the dragon prince snapped sarcastically, his pulse spiking. Daenerys' eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks flushed and covered in tears. There was a small bit of vomit on her chin, and Viserys wanted to choke the life out of her for an insurmountable amount of reasons.
"I'm—" she tried and stopped short, her eyes widening as she leaned over to empty the contents of her stomach for the fifth time that day. It was only late afternoon and his sister had already put him in such a maddening mood that Viserys suddenly wanted her completely out of his sight.
"I'll leave you to your sickness then," he said sulkily, turning away and standing up.
Before he could leave he heard a gargled, half cry followed by a sputter and then…silence. He turned and saw that Daenerys was choking, her face turning an unflattering bruised color as she waved her small hands desperately. Viserys growled in annoyance and grabbed her by the arm, picking her up and facing her the other way as he brought her shorter, slighter body to his chest. He pressed his hands into the flesh under her ribcage and squeezed hard. The girl suddenly coughed loudly and then became very sick. Viserys let go of her in deep disgust, standing back as she fell to her knees, her body violently quaking with her horrible sickness.
"Please—" Her voice was so raw and broken; the depth of it made her sound older than she really was, and Viserys just wanted to hurt her in a million different ways. "Please stay," she gasped, grabbing a small cloth to wipe her sullied mouth and chin.
"Perhaps if you washed your mouth I'd consider tucking you in for an afternoon nap," he said tersely. "Of course you'll have to face away from me so I don't smell your disgusting breath."
The prince emptied the chamber pot filled with his sister's puke out into the cool, dark waters of the Narrow Sea, trying not to look anyone on deck in the eyes, fearing he'd find pity there…or something else entirely. Viserys found that many people asked him for a price upon glancing his way and putting together the sad situation of his life; they mistook him and considered there might be a price for his body, a price for his sister, even a price for his offspring.
The thought drove him to madness. He was assaulted by memories of his father's teachings and how the best way was the old way; Fire and Blood were their words as well as their lives. Viserys would one day have to marry his sister, as was the Targaryen tradition. He rationalized to himself that perhaps it diminished his chances of marrying into and forming an alliance with one of the strongest houses of Westeros, but then he told himself he had no other choice. The job of keeping the bloodline pure had fallen to Viserys now, and after all, he and his sister were the sole survivors of their line. If he didn't marry her and continue it, what would happen? Aegon's and his sister-wives' legacy could be lost forever.
When he got back inside their room below deck, Daenerys was waiting on the bed, her legs dangling off the edge of it, swaying to the rhythm of the ship's movement. Her eyes were closed and for a second Viserys thought she might be sleeping, but when she felt his weight on the bed those violet eyes opened to smile at him. His heart wept in his chest at her display of tenderness, and the prince felt the burn of a thousand regrets lodging in his throat, tickling wetly behind his eyes. The poor, sick girl had gone as far as cleaning her vomit off the floor; her mouth no longer smelled when his face came close to hers, and she had even brushed her hair and changed her sweat-drenched gown.
"I tried washing…I cleaned my mouth as well. I'm not sure if my breath still smells but I'll turn around if you like," she whispered in a scratchy voice.
Viserys lay down next to her, kicking off his boots and turning to pull her against him. Daenerys breathed deeply against his chest, her fingers grabbing at the material of his dark tunic, her eyes shutting tightly.
"Don't be ridiculous," his lips brushed against her forehead. "You smell like wildflowers," he teased, his mood becoming lighter by the moment. When Dany was in his arms, Viserys found he couldn't even try and remain upset with his sister.
When she had first started vomiting every few hours nearly three weeks into their voyage, Viserys had been taken by utter surprise. Targaryens didn't fall ill—theirs was the blood of the dragon, and the blood of old Valyria. A true dragon was never sick; the prince couldn't remember a day in his life that he had ever been sick.
"How much longer until we reach Braavos?"
"I'll ask the captain when I see him next," he replied, kissing her forehead lightly. The answer seemed to please her; she smiled and snuggled in closer to his chest and Viserys wished he could lay there and hold her forever.
The blow he had received to the head had left him debilitated for near a fortnight. The stranger who had rescued him and Dany from the robbers was only in it for the rewards; the man had tricked his sister into giving him far more expensive trinkets than he deserved, gifts that Viserys would rather not have parted with, and far too many at that. Had he woken up only a few days earlier than he had, the outcome of the situation would have been very different.
Gifts had not been enough for the man; two weeks into their stay at Rostifer's home, the stranger had made off into the night with all of their remaining silver and gold. Rostifer had once been a Maester in Westeros, but the Citadel had stripped him of his Maester's chains years before the War of the Usurper. Rostifer himself hadn't been able to reveal the stranger's name; he had simply owed the enigmatic man a favor and agreed to heal Viserys and house them until he got better.
Rostifer had revealed all this to Daenerys whilst Viserys still lay comatose; he hadn't gone too far in his stories, simply telling the princess that the other Maesters in Westeros had felt that his techniques were a tad "unnatural" and at times "far too excessive". Whatever that meant, Viserys couldn't really guess; his knowledge of the Maesters and their guild was very limited. The old man had saved his life and taken nothing from them in return. The prince would remember his good service as he had a mind to reinstate Rostifer as Maester and house him in King's Landing once he returned to his homeland and took what was his.
It had taken them weeks to find a ship captain who would take them on solely by word of recompense and nothing more. They had no riches to speak of at this point, save for his mother's crown which Viserys had sown into Dany's cloak in case they were cheated by anyone. Although not very religious by nature, he had thanked the Old Gods and the New for his sister's quick thinking and acting; he was certain that if the stranger had had any inkling to what was hidden in her cloak, he would have taken that as well, and truly left them for dead.
Yet now Viserys was faced with a greater dilemma: finding a way to sell the crown without drawing attention to himself and his sister's true identities. The decision to sail to Braavos had been made the day he woke up from his overly-long sleep; the city state in question had not only been their home years before when Ser Darry lived, but it was the safest place to strike a mutually beneficial deal without too many eyes and ears to ruin it all or place them in peril.
Had the mysterious, hairless stranger been more benevolent towards him and his sister, they could be sailing towards Volantis at that very moment, as was their original plan. Now Viserys would have to make due with what they had left, which was Rhaella's golden crown. Perhaps someone in Braavos would remember them; a friend of Ser Willem's perhaps? But no—Viserys chastised himself mentally—there was no one they could trust, or not entirely in any case. The young man would have to be very astute indeed if they were to continue surviving. They had been keeping hidden so well for years, and most of the time they had lived better than one might expect two royal orphans to live. If there was one thing that Viserys was sure of, it was that they would succeed in their quest, yet if and only if they were smart about the relationships they forged.
The Seven Kingdoms had once been a divided land where hundreds of petty kingdoms rose and fell for centuries on end before Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya had united them into one perfect monarchial rule. Viserys was reminded of dragons and how the strong, magnificent creatures had made all the difference in the War of Conquest. Where in the Seven Hells was he going to find dragons? They had been dead for far longer than he'd been alive. His nostrils flared, and he was vaguely reminded of where he lay and what he was doing when Dany shifted against him in her sleep and sighed softly.
He frowned as he lightly ran his hand through her hair, his fingers slipping through the silver tresses as if they were the purest, most expensive of silks. Viserys had come to resent her in her everlasting innocence and childish ideas; she wasn't prepared for a harsher life, and as his arm tightened around her slightly—protectively he realized with some disdain—the young man knew he would have to make sure his greatest treasure would never be taken from him, no matter what.
That night, Viserys dreamt of his little sister. Yet in his dream, she wasn't so little anymore.
The curves Dany pressed into him spoke of womanhood and deceit, and the way she smirked at him told the prince he no longer was the one in control. She allowed his hands to run over her, his fingers sinking so hard into her flesh he was surprised she didn't cry out in pain. Instead she laughed at him, her teeth gleaming beneath rosy lips, her eyes a dark entrancing shade as she pulled him against her even harder, appearing to take great pleasure in their perversions.
Just before his lips pressed against hers, she disappeared from his grasp as if magically, slipping away into the dark recesses of his mind, a boyish fantasy lost forever. A pleaded whisper lingered in the colorless desolation, her words floating back to him as if fighting to escape past oceans of denial.
When Viserys woke the next morning, he was pressed against his sister's backside and he was horribly, devastatingly hard. Alarmed, repulsed and thoroughly disconcerted, he removed himself from the bed and tried to remember what he had been dreaming of. He found he couldn't remember, yet a mysterious phrase rang through his mind again and again: "Come back to me."