Third Person POV
315 AC, Uruk – The Golden City of Slaver's Bay
The dawn sun painted Uruk's red-brick towers in soft gold, its light creeping over the bustling city as a gentle horn sounded, signaling the start of the day. Viserys Targaryen, once the petulant Dragon Prince, now a weathered soldier of the Uruk Kingdom, stirred in his modest barracks room. His silver hair, cropped shorter and streaked with faint grey, framed a face no longer twisted by madness or entitlement but softened by years of toil and reflection. At thirty-two, his violet eyes held a quiet resolve, the fire of his youth tempered into a steady ember. He rose without complaint, pulling on a simple linen tunic and leather jerkin, his movements practiced, purposeful. "Another day," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he laced his boots.
Gone were the rants of crowns and conquests. This Viserys was a man reshaped by Uruk's unyielding rhythm and the humbling weight of duty. His madness, once a wildfire, had dwindled under the steady hand of time, discipline, and the city's unspoken promise: work hard, live well. He strapped on a short sword, its hilt worn from use, and stepped into the corridor, nodding to Kweku, the stoic soldier who'd once dragged him to training. "Morning, Kweku," Viserys said, his voice calm, almost warm.
Kweku raised an eyebrow, his face as stern as ever but with a flicker of respect. "Yard's waiting, Silver Prince." The old nickname, once a jab, now carried a grudging fondness. Viserys chuckled softly and headed out.
The training yard hummed with activity, Uruk's soldiers—freedmen, recruits, and veterans—drilling under the morning sun. Viserys joined a group led by Tiko, a grizzled freedman whose grin hadn't dimmed in sixteen years. "Sword up, Viserys," Tiko called, tossing him a practice blade. Viserys caught it smoothly, falling into stance without a word. He sparred with a young recruit, Zara, his strikes precise, his blocks steady, sweat beading on his brow but no trace of the whining prince who'd once cursed the sand. When Zara landed a hit on his shoulder, he laughed—a genuine, unguarded sound. "Good one," he said, clapping her arm. "You're getting faster."
Zara grinned, wiping her brow. "You're not bad yourself, dragon." The soldiers chuckled, and Viserys took it in stride, his ego long since buried under Uruk's relentless drills.
After training, the horn signaled breakfast, and Viserys joined the others in the mess hall, a cavernous space filled with laughter and the clink of bowls. He sat at a long table, accepting a bowl of porridge with dates and a cup of water from Lira, a wiry woman with sharp eyes and sharper words. "Eat it all, Viserys," she said gruffly, slamming the bowl down. "You're too skinny for a soldier."
He looked up, his heart giving a familiar lurch. Lira, with her dark braid and sun-freckled face, was no courtly lady, her hands calloused from years of serving and cooking, her tongue as blunt as a warhammer. Yet Viserys found himself drawn to her—had been for months, maybe years. "I'm plenty strong, Lira," he said, a teasing note in his voice. "But I'll eat, just for you."
She snorted, rolling her eyes. "Don't flatter yourself, dragon boy. I'd say the same to a starving dog." But her lips twitched, a hint of a smile, and as she turned away, Viserys caught the faintest flush on her cheeks. He ate his porridge, savoring the sweet dates, his eyes lingering on her as she moved through the hall, barking orders at dawdling servants. Her roughness, he'd learned, was her care—her way of pushing him to be better, to survive.
After breakfast, Viserys had a brief rest in the shaded courtyard, sitting on a bench with a waterskin, watching children play near a fountain. He no longer dreamed of thrones or dragons; instead, he wondered what it might be like to share a quiet evening with Lira, to hear her laugh without her usual sarcasm. The thought warmed him, though he hadn't dared speak it aloud. "One day," he murmured, sipping his water.
The horn called him back to duty, and he joined an afternoon patrol along Uruk's outer walls, walking the battlements with Goro, a burly soldier who'd once knocked him flat in training. They checked gates, scanned the horizon for threats, and shared a few words about the city's new aqueducts. Viserys carried his spear with ease, his steps sure, his eyes alert. "Quiet day," he noted, and Goro grunted in agreement. No complaints escaped Viserys's lips—not about the heat, the dust, or the weight of his gear. Duty was his anchor now, and he bore it well.
Lunch was stew and flatbread, served by Lira, who shoved a bowl at him with her usual brusqueness. "Don't spill it, Viserys. I'm not cleaning your mess." He grinned, catching her eye. "Wouldn't dream of it, Lira. This looks fit for a king." She scoffed, but her hand lingered a moment as she passed him bread, her fingers brushing his. His heart raced, and he ate slowly, hoping she'd pass by again. She didn't, but he caught her glancing his way from the kitchen, and it was enough to make his day.
The afternoon brought more training—archery this time, under Mara, a sharp-eyed instructor. Viserys's arrows hit the target's center more often than not, his aim honed by years of practice. When one went wide, Mara clapped his shoulder. "Not bad, Targaryen. Keep at it." He nodded, wiping sweat from his brow, and loosed another arrow, striking true. The soldiers' nods of approval warmed him more than any crown ever could.
Evening duty was guard post at the city's market gate, where Viserys stood watch with Tiko, checking merchants' carts and keeping the peace. The market buzzed with life—vendors hawking spices, children darting through crowds, the air rich with scents of roasted meat and jasmine. Viserys greeted a passing trader with a nod, his presence calm, authoritative. "All clear?" Tiko asked, and Viserys confirmed with a quiet "Aye." No whining about the heat or the long hours; he stood tall, a soldier of Uruk, trusted and steady.
Dinner was roasted goat, fresh bread, and figs, and Lira served him with her usual gruffness. "Don't choke on the bones, Viserys," she said, dropping a plate before him. He smiled, softer this time. "I'll be careful, Lira. Thanks for the feast." She paused, her eyes meeting his, and for a moment, her roughness softened. "Just eat," she muttered, turning away, but Viserys saw the faintest smile. He ate heartily, his heart full, imagining a future where he might sit across from her, not as soldier and server, but as something more.
That night, as Viserys sat in his small room, polishing his boots by candlelight, a soft knock came. He opened the door to find Daenerys Targaryen, his sister, her silver hair glowing in the torchlight, her violet eyes warm. She wore a simple gown, no crown, yet carried the grace of a queen. "May I come in, brother?" she asked, her voice gentle.
"Of course, Dany," Viserys said, stepping aside. They settled on his cot, the room's simplicity a stark contrast to their childhood dreams of palaces.
"How are you, Viserys?" Daenerys asked, her gaze searching. "Truly?"
He smiled, a rare, genuine expression. "I'm fine, Dany. Better than I've been in years. Thank you—for giving me this chance to change, to be… something more than a madman chasing a crown."
Daenerys's smile was soft, tinged with memory. "You're my blood, Viserys. When I was a child, you carried me on your shoulders, told me stories of dragons, consoled me when I cried. You were my protector. But as time passed, the weight of the crown—the dream of it—changed you. It drove you mad, and you…" Her voice faltered. "You tormented me."
Viserys's face fell, his voice a whisper. "I'm sorry, Dany. For every cruel word, every hurt. I was lost."
She reached for his hand, her touch steady. "I knew you'd change back, brother. All you needed was time, a life away from the ambition of thrones. And look at you now—no more tantrums, no more demanding to be king. You're a man again, the brother I loved."
He swallowed, eyes glistening. "Thank you, Dany. For believing in me."
Her grin turned mischievous, a spark in her eyes. "I hear you've taken a liking to Lira. Is it true?"
Viserys gave a melancholic smile, his cheeks warming. "Yes. She's… special. Rough as sand, but she cares. I see it in her eyes, her actions."
Daenerys leaned closer, teasing. "Are you going to ask her to marry you, then?"
He paused, his voice soft. "I will, in time. I want to do it right."
She laughed, nudging him. "Do it fast, brother, or someone else will steal her. Lira's not one to wait."
Viserys's smile widened, resolute. "By this week, I'll ask her. If she agrees, I'll marry her, make a life here."
Daenerys beamed, squeezing his hand. "Good luck, brother. She'd be lucky to have you, Invite me to the wedding" She rose, then paused at the door, turning. "Julius was asking about you. It's been a year since you last saw him. When should I bring him here?"
"Next week," Viserys said, nodding. "I'd like that."
She smiled, her voice warm. "Take care, brother. Good night." She stepped into the corridor, leaving Viserys alone, his heart lighter than it had been in decades.
He watched her go, a smile lingering on his lips. Settling onto his cot, he closed his eyes, the image of Lira's sharp smile and Daenerys's faith carrying him to sleep. For the first time in years, Viserys Targaryen slept with a smile, a dragon reborn, dreaming not of thrones but of a simple, honest life in Uruk.