He kicked and twisted, whimpered like a dog and wept like a child, but the Dothraki held him tight between them. Sir Jorah had made his way to Dany's side. He put a hand on her shoulder. "Turn away, my princess, I beg you."
No. She folded her arms across the swell of her belly, protectively.
At the last, Viserys looked at her. "Sister, please...Dany, tell them...make them...sweet sister..."
When the gold was half-melted and starting to run, Drogo reached into the flames, snatched out the pot. "Crown!" he roared. "Here. A crown for Cart King!" And upended the pot over the head of the man who had been her brother.
The sound Viserys Targaryen made when that hideous iron helmet covered his face was like nothing human. His feet hammered a frantic beat against the dirt floor, slowed, stopped. Thick globs of molten gold dripped down onto his chest, setting the scarlet silk to smoldering...yet no drop of blood was spilled.
He was no dragon, Dany thought, curiously calm. Fire cannot kill a dragon.