A hangover was like a blunt saw, pulling back and forth inside Viserys's skull.
He woke up in his overly soft and luxurious bed, the sunlight so piercing he couldn't open his eyes.
His throat was as dry as if it were on fire, and his stomach was churning. But more painful than the physical toll were the fragments of memory that came flooding back into his mind like a tide as his consciousness gradually cleared.
Slamming the table, face flushed red, roaring "Eight hundred it is!"...
The dark secret room, the flickering torches, Cregan of Oakenshield's face, a mix of respect and seduction...
"Your Majesty," "Targaryen legitimacy," "righting the wrongs," "Dragon King"...
And that sentence, which now made his marrow turn cold: "As long as we take the manor and control that dragon..."
"What have I done..." he groaned, covering his face with trembling hands. Cold sweat instantly soaked his silk nightgown.
Fear—cold, viscous, suffocating fear—gripped his heart.
Aegon would know; he would definitely know!
That nephew of his who rode a monster, his eyes as calm as a dead man's, yet never hesitating when it came to killing.
Illyrio, those nobles of Lys, the Archon of Tyrosh... he would crush Viserys like a bug! No, it would be worse than that!
He wanted to scramble up immediately, rush out, find Cregan of Oakenshield, grab him by the collar and scream: "I'm out! Cancel it! Everything is canceled!"
He even began to fantasize that if he went to confess to Aegon now, weeping and repenting, perhaps for the sake of their blood relation... perhaps he could keep his life?
Being imprisoned forever in some tower was better than being burned to ash by dragonflame!
But... was it too late? Had Cregan and the others already acted? Had the news already leaked? Did Aegon already know?
He suffered through the entire day in extreme fear and hesitation.
At breakfast, facing the delicate meal served by the old handmaid, it tasted like wax to him, and his face was as pale as a ghost's.
The old Maester droned on, explaining the nauseatingly complex tense conjugations of Valyrian, but Viserys didn't take in a single word.
His gaze was fixed blankly out the window, watching the sea birds occasionally flitting across the sky as if they were the pale gold shadow of death that could descend at any moment.
In the afternoon, the fear was slightly replaced by a deeper sense of emptiness and despair.
He paced back and forth in the room like a trapped beast, his fingernails unconsciously digging into his palms, leaving deep white marks.
He needed something to numb himself, to fight the warnings screaming in his mind.
Wine. Right, wine.
He dug out the strong spirits hidden in his room... which he had secretly had an Attendant procure.
The amber liquid rolled down his throat, bringing a burning sting, followed by a brief, numbing warmth.
Glass after glass. The world began to spin, sounds became blurred, and the fear was pushed further away, but something else more insidious began to quietly grow, nourished by the alcohol.
At dusk, as if possessed, he slipped out of the Princes Residence once again.
Perhaps the alcohol gave him a false courage, or perhaps he wanted to find Cregan to end it, or perhaps... it was just that sliver of desire to "be needed," suppressed all day, that drove him toward that dangerous direction.
Still lucky. Still no one stopped him. He didn't even encounter many guards.
The night and a certain invisible indulgence opened the path to the Violet Garden for him.
He saw Cregan of Oakenshield again.
In another secret room, more hidden yet more decently furnished.
Cregan didn't seem surprised by his arrival; his face even bore a look of understanding, as if it were expected.
He didn't rush him or question him, but instead attentively poured him the best wine, listening to his incoherent, fear-filled, and regretful account with a comforting warmth and respect.
Cregan didn't argue or mock his fear.
He just listened patiently and then, in a heart-to-heart tone, began to analyze the pros and cons.
He acknowledged the risks but emphasized the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity even more.
He mentioned the support of more people, and the earnest expectations for King Viserys coming from Tyrosh and Myr.
He even produced several sealed letters with sincere wording, signed by family names Viserys had vaguely heard of.
He painted a picture of the scene after success: tens of thousands of people bowing in worship, power held firmly in hand, restoring the glory of House Targaryen, and letting Lys regain the freedom and prosperity of a Free City...
The alcohol, the flattery, the letters of loyalty, and the implication in Cregan's words that he was the sole hope and core... like layers of warm mire, they dragged Viserys deeper.
When he left the Violet Garden and walked back to the Princes Residence in the cold night wind, the initial fear still existed, even becoming sharper as the plan drew near.
But another emotion coiled up like a poisonous vine, blooming into a strange, exotic flower.
It was a long-lost, morbid ecstasy of being recognized, of being needed, of being treated as a "King" in earnest by a group of "significant" people.
With Aegon, he was an eyesore and a useless decoration.
But here, in these dark rooms, in these secret letters, he was His Majesty, the legitimate heir, the hope that would clear the clouds and see the sun!
He knew this was poison, the path to a cliff.
But the poison was too sweet, and the view from the cliff's edge was too tempting.
Maybe... maybe it really is different? A voice in his mind grew louder and clearer, gradually drowning out the screams of fear:
"I am Viserys Targaryen III! King of the andals, the Rhoynar, and the first men!"
"My father was Aerys II, and my mother was Queen Rhaella! My bloodline is more direct and pure than Rhaegar's son's!"
"That dragon... that terrifying, pale gold monster, why should it only recognize Aegon and not me? I am a Targaryen too!"
"Just as Cregan hinted, maybe it's just used to obeying the first person it came into contact with?"
"As soon as I stand before it, showing my bloodline and my kingly aura, it will recognize me just as it did Aegon! No, it will be even more submissive!"
"I just need to... face it bravely."
Over the next few days, Viserys fell into a more intense and fragmented whirlpool of emotions.
He shut himself in his room all day, sometimes pacing like a startled mouse, face pale, muttering to himself: "This is suicide... they're going to get me killed..."
At other times, he would suddenly become excited, tidying his clothes in the mirror, imagining himself standing high atop the Princes Residence receiving the cheers of the masses, a morbid fire burning in his eyes.
And at other times, he would fall into deep self-deception, repeatedly convincing himself: "It's only natural for a dragon to recognize the bloodline... I am the King, it must obey..."
Cregan arranged for him to secretly meet several more people.
They were all new faces, but their dress and bearing showed they were once wealthy or noble.
They spoke cautiously but with a respectful attitude, complaining bitterly about Aegon's new policies and showing an almost grateful expectation for the arrival of "King Viserys."
Viserys learned from them that the local opposition in Lys had indeed been purged too harshly by Aegon, leaving limited numbers, but as Cregan said, the embers had not been extinguished.
The support from Tyrosh and Myr seemed even more enthusiastic; although they couldn't come in person, letters and tokens arrived constantly, their words filled with a longing to right the wrongs and support the legitimate monarch.
For a few moments, in the candlelight of the secret room, facing several respectful and even humbly flattering faces, and hearing those earnest words that hailed him as a savior, Viserys truly had an illusion... that he was the wise monarch everyone hoped for, about to lead his subjects out of tyranny.
Surrounded by the masses, the heart of the people aligned.
But this illusory sense of inflation, like the excitement brought by alcohol, was always fleeting.
Fear, like a maggot on a bone, would soon strike again, colder and sharper.
To combat this fear, he needed more confirmation, more flattery, and... more wine.
...
Daenerys keenly sensed that something was wrong with her brother.
At breakfast, his face was an unhealthy pale, his eyes were sunken and vacant, and he barely touched the food in front of him.
When the old Maester explained the lengthy Valyrian history in that flat tone, Viserys didn't impatiently interrupt or drift off into a daze as he usually did. Instead, he stared blankly at some void outside the window, his fingers unconsciously picking at the tassels of the tablecloth, as if his soul had been pulled away.
In the afternoon, she wanted to find her brother to ask about the book on the history of Dorne. When she walked outside his door, she smelled a scent of alcohol so strong it was pungent.
She knocked on the door and called softly, "Brother?"
There was silence for a moment inside, and then Viserys's hoarse, irritable roar came: "Don't bother me! Go away!"
Daenerys was startled back a step by this sudden malice.
Her brother used to drink, and he would drink more when he was in a bad mood, but he had never drunk like this during the day.
Something even stranger happened the next day.
Viserys actually took the initiative to walk out of his room and told the old handmaid guarding the door that he felt stifled and wanted to go out for a walk and some fresh air.
Daenerys watched from behind a pillar not far away. She thought the old handmaid, who always followed her brother like a shadow and used various reasons to stop him from going out, would again bring up excuses like "safety" or "the Prince's orders."
However, the old handmaid merely raised her calm, expressionless eyes, looked at Viserys for a moment, and then bowed slightly, saying in her usual steady voice, "Yes, my lord. Please be careful and return early."
No stopping him. No asking where he was going. Not even a suggestion to send someone to follow him.
Viserys also seemed to freeze for a moment, but then, as if afraid she would change her mind, he nodded hurriedly and turned to walk toward the side gate of the manor. His steps were a bit unsteady and stumbling, but his goal was clear, as if he had already planned the route.
Daenerys's heart sank. Where was he going? Who was he going to see?
A strong sense of unease gripped her.
Her brother's abnormal behavior over the past few days, the smell of alcohol during the day, the strange permission to go out... everything felt wrong.
This unease reached its peak in the middle of the night.
When Viserys returned, the manor was already silent.
Daenerys hadn't slept because of her worry. Hearing a faint noise, she quietly pushed open her door.
The candlelight in the corridor was dim, and she saw Viserys tiptoeing toward his room.
In addition to the familiar, lingering smell of alcohol, he also had a scent on him... a cloying, sickly sweet perfume.
He looked exceptionally tired, the dark circles under his eyes even heavier, but in those eyes there flickered a strange light, a mix of excitement, vanity, and a certain decisiveness.
"Brother," Daenerys spoke softly, stepping out from the shadows.
Viserys jolted violently, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. He spun around, and seeing it was her, a flash of terror and guilt crossed his face, which then turned into a strange irritability tinged with detachment and a mysterious sense of superiority.
"Dany? Why aren't you asleep so late? What are you doing here?" His voice was dry.
"Where did you go? I was worried about you." Daenerys stepped forward, wanting to grab his sleeve, but he reflexively shook her off.
"My business is none of your concern!" Viserys lowered his voice, his tone stiff and his eyes evasive. "Go back to sleep! Just be your princess! There are some things... you don't understand."
"What don't I understand? Brother, what exactly are you doing? You've been very wrong these past few days, I..."
"I said, you don't understand!" Viserys interrupted her, his voice suddenly rising and then sharply dropping, a complex expression appearing on his face.
There was guilt, there was struggle, but more of it was that twisted radiance that made Daenerys's heart turn cold, as if he were immersed in some dangerous secret.
"I'm doing... great things. For Targaryen, for us. Later... later you'll understand. Now, stop asking and go back!"
After he finished speaking, he stopped looking at Daenerys, pushed open his door almost roughly, slipped inside, and then slammed it shut. The sound of the lock falling was exceptionally clear in the silent corridor.
Daenerys stood there, staring at the closed door, her fingertips icy.
The cloying perfume, the alcohol, the strange and fanatical fire in her brother's eyes, the old handmaid's abnormal indulgence... the fragments pieced together in her mind, but they pointed toward a terrifying silhouette she didn't dare think deeply about.
Brother... what exactly has he fallen into?
Tyrosh, the royal residence.
The candlelight stretched Aegon's shadow, casting it onto the wall where a giant sea chart hung.
He had just finished reading a secret letter delivered overnight by raven.
Luciana's handwriting was neat and calm, with clear logic.
The intelligence was very detailed. It listed the names of the personnel who, up to now, had been active around the "bait" Viserys and had clearly shown signs of wavering or intent to participate.
Regarding Lys, led by Cregan of Oakenshield, there were forty-four people in total, mostly old merchants and lesser nobles who had luckily survived the last purge or whose interests had been severely damaged.
In Tyrosh, there were several great families that had been marginalized in the reorganization of power, their names circled for emphasis.
In the direction of Myr, there were three large merchant guilds that had been severely hit by the new policies, as well as several magisters who had lost power in the council.
The list wasn't long, but it was significant enough.
These people were the "dust"—the boldest and most foolish—drawn out from their respective hiding spots by the true dragon leaving its nest and the bait that was Viserys.
Aegon's gaze slowly swept over those names, the corners of his mouth curling into an extremely cold arc.
There wasn't a hint of warmth in that smile, only the indifference of a hunter seeing that all the prey in the traps had been marked.
He put down the letter, his fingertips lightly brushing the tabletop. He had arrived here secretly; no one knew except Jon and a very few core guards.
Those figures on the Tyrosh list were perhaps in their own secret rooms at this moment, excited and agitated by the letters from Lys, dreaming of being meritorious officials for the dragon, and fantasizing about how to cooperate with King Viserys to right the wrongs and restore the old glory.
They probably never imagined that their every move, those correspondences they thought were secret, and those whispers in their deep courtyards were all like dancing under the gaze of a dragon.
Every movement fell clearly and without error into those cold purple eyes in the shadows, and into the invisible net quietly woven by Luciana that covered the three cities.
The messenger standing by, responsible for the one-way contact with Luciana, asked in a low voice, "Your Highness, Lady Luciana asks if she should continue to play out the line? There are still a few people on the list with ambiguous attitudes who seem to still be waiting and watching. Perhaps we can wait a few more days in hopes of..."
"No need," Aegon interrupted him, his voice flat but carrying a sense of finality. "Over these days, the dust that should be stirred up has already been stirred high enough."
"The ones left are either smart enough to know fear, or as timid as mice and simply don't dare to move. Waiting any longer is just a waste of time."
He raised his eyes, his gaze seemingly piercing through the walls, looking toward Lys to the west, and also toward those names on the list destined for extinction.
"Pull in the net."
Four words, dropped lightly but weighing a thousand pounds, decided the future fate of dozens of families and hundreds or even thousands of people.
"With this example made," Aegon withdrew his gaze and looked at the flickering candlelight on the table, the fire dancing in his deep purple pupils and reflecting a cold, sharp glint, "they will understand, and they must understand... what should be done and what should not be done from now on."
His voice was very light, but it carried a kind of unquestionable authority:
"The dragon's eyes, they cannot hide from them."
"Tell Luciana she can begin. Clean it up. I don't want to smell even a single trace of... the scent of rot before I leave."
The messenger bowed deeply and retreated silently to deliver this cold verdict.
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