The hands braced on his shoulders flex their fingers, Dany closing her eyes when Viserys bows his head, touches brow to brow with that inelegant bump. Mouth pinched and nostrils flaring, there are multiple reflexes to combat -- to push him away, yes, or to gentle her grip, pull him into an embrace as if she were the older one, although now they're almost of the same age.

She knew, he says, and the uneasy churn of her guts -- at that fond, childhood nickname, at everything -- turns to steel. Her brow wrinkles, her fingers grasp again. Harder.

Uneasy, Drogon huffs. That she put her hands on Viserys first is sign enough that he needn't intervene, but by the sound of rustling scales and leather wings, he's not thrilled.

"No man pulls a blade on me and lives to speak of it," she says, almost a whisper. "Not even you, brother. That I know."

She reaches up and clasps his face, pushing him back inches enough that they can look at each other. It wasn't only the blade, gods knew. It was merely the threshold of Viserys' stagger towards his own destruction. She wonders if he'd ever understand how many times she had tried to save him, whether in direct terms or subtle ones, little gestures, attempts at peace that his pride refused him. Not today, more than likely.

"And now, so do you," she adds. There's pain present in her eyes, too, never particularly adept at masking her feelings, but they are dry. "But it does not have to be so, here. I offer you peace, once more. Do not refuse, Viserys."