Viserys awoke to silence.
A rarity aboard any ship, rarer still in the belly of an Essosi inn nestled in the heart of a city as alive and bloodthirsty as Volantis.
The air smelled faintly of jasmine and ironwood. Somewhere below, a pot clanged. Outside, wagons rumbled, voices rose in foreign tongues. He sat upright in the modest bed, silk sheets rumpled around him, and ran a hand through silver-gold hair, now thicker, heavier, and grown past his collarbone.
Beside the bed, Daenerys still slept, curled like a cat beside the dragon egg box, one arm draped protectively across it even in dreams.
Then—three knocks at the door.
Sharp. Precise. Not the kind a servant makes.
Viserys rose in a fluid motion, bare feet whispering across the floorboards. He reached for Blackfyre, always resting against the wall within reach, and opened the door just a crack.
A tall, severe man in slate robes bowed low.
"Viserys of House Targaryen," the envoy said, his Valyrian accent crisp, "I come bearing an invitation from Triarch Malaquo Maegyr, of the ruling House Maegyr of Old Volantis. He wishes the honor of your presence at his estate this evening."
Viserys narrowed his eyes. "That name…"
He remembered now. From his past life. Malaquo Maegyr—a Triarch of Volantis in the show. An influential player behind trade and temple politics. But more interesting than him was his daughter—Talisa Maegyr, who, in the show's timeline, had married Robb Stark and that eventually led to the red wedding.
Interesting, he thought.
Dangerous.
Someone already knew he was in Volantis. Not surprising. The Targaryen name was not a whisper, not anymore. The moment they stepped off the ship—even with the sails hidden, even in different clothes—the red-and-black returned.
And people remembered.
Still, the fact that a Triarch moved first, that was telling.
Viserys allowed himself a faint smile. "Tell the Triarch I accept his invitation."
The envoy bowed again. "You shall be escorted by Maegyr guards at sunset. The Triarch awaits your counsel."
⸻
Three hours later
The innkeeper's jaw had nearly unhinged at the sight.
Viserys Targaryen, reborn and refined, descended the staircase not as a guest—but as a king.
He wore a high-collared black coat lined with Valyrian silk, the inside laced in red thread like flickers of flame. The silver clasp at his shoulder bore the three-headed dragon, and his boots were dragonhide-polished and new. His belt gleamed, sheathing Blackfyre, and every movement he made carried weight and intent.
Daenerys followed behind, radiant in a flowing violet dress with thin silver embroidery curling up the sleeves like flowering vines. Her hair had been pinned into elegant braids. She carried no weapon, only presence—and the box of eggs remained secured beneath their bed, well-warded by the system.
Behind them marched five Praetorian Guards—red cloaks, lorica armor, and full-faced helmets carved with snarling visages. Their shields bore a single sigil: the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, inlaid in blood-red on black.
People moved aside as they passed.
Even in Volantis, where spectacle was common and wealth a daily currency, this was something different.
They reached the gates of the Maegyr estate—a sprawling palace of volcanic stone and white marble, flanked by statues of dragons mid-flight and dark-haired Valyrian ancestors watching from high balconies.
The guards at the gate stepped back, eyes wide behind their helms.
One Praetorian stepped forward, voice deep and resonant:
"Announcing Viserys of House Targaryen, Third of His Name.
Rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.
Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.
Blood of Old Valyria.
The Dragon Reborn.
Heir to Aegon the Conqueror.
Wielder of Blackfyre.
The Last Dragon."
The guards did not speak.
They simply opened the doors.
⸻
The estate was opulent in a quiet way—old money. Wine-colored carpets from Qarth. Lamps that burned with glass-colored flame. Slaves in polished chains carried fruit on golden platters and vanished just as swiftly.
Viserys and Daenerys were led through a long hall and into a private atrium garden, where an older man in maroon robes sat beneath a canopy of pale flowers.
Malaquo Maegyr.
His eyes were sharp. His beard carefully shaped. A scar ran down his left temple, almost elegant in its age. He did not stand when they approached. He simply studied Viserys like a jeweler inspecting a priceless stone.
"Your Grace," he said, voice smooth as warm oil. "Welcome to my home."
Viserys bowed his head slightly. "Triarch Maegyr. You honor me."
Malaquo gestured. "Come. Sit. My slaves have prepared a meal worthy of both our bloodlines."
They sat. Daenerys beside Viserys. The Praetorians fanned out behind them, stone-silent.
The food was exquisite—grilled eel in spiced honey glaze, saffron rice, boiled dragon peppers, and quail stuffed with figs. Wine was poured from black glass jugs bearing the Maegyr crest: a red flame inside a silver eye.
They ate slowly, speaking little at first.
Only once the plates were half-emptied did Malaquo speak again.
"Do you know why I summoned you?" he asked.
Viserys sipped his wine. "Because you're smart enough to see what I am. And brave enough to want a piece of it."
Malaquo smiled thinly. "Spoken like a dragon."
He gestured toward Daenerys. "And the girl. Your sister?"
"My blood," Viserys said. "And one day, a queen."
Malaquo leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You appeared from nowhere. No ship. No fleet. Yet whispers travel fast. A Targaryen, killing a Khal, sailing through mist, summoning fire and shadow."
"And what do the whispers say now?" Viserys asked.
"They say you are either mad… or the most dangerous man east of Westeros."
"Why not both?"
Malaquo's smile widened. "Good. You'll need both."
He poured more wine.
"I called you here because I believe we can help each other. I've long been an admirer of Valyrian blood. And I've grown quite tired of the elephants."
Viserys blinked.
"Ah. The other Triarch," Malaquo clarified. "Triarch Doniphos of House Vhassar. He rules under the Elephant banner—commerce, merchants, slavery, endless compromise. I am of the Tigers—blood, fire, and conquest. And I see something in you that reminds me of a time Volantis has forgotten."
Viserys raised an eyebrow. "You want me to help you take control?"
"I want change," Malaquo said. "And you… you are change. The Old Blood. A sword unsheathed. I can offer coin. Resources. And something else."
He leaned in closer.
"My daughter, Talisa Maegyr, is unwed. Young. Intelligent. Obsessed with dragons."
Viserys's eyes flicked to Daenerys for just a heartbeat.
"I'm flattered," he said dryly.
"You should be. She could make you a citizen. And a citizen of Volantis can command a fleet."
There it was.
The game laid bare.
A marriage offer. Political. Strategic. Veiled in silk, but sharp as steel.
Viserys leaned back, smiling.
"I'll consider it. But know this—I'm not here to be owned. Not by elephants. Not by tigers. Not even by dragons carved into marble."
Malaquo laughed, deep and genuine. "Good. I was beginning to fear you were dull."
The wine refilled once more.
And the fires of something dangerous began to kindle in the garden that night.
⸻
[Quest Acquired: Alliance or Ambition]
Objective: Choose your approach to the Maegyr Offer
— Marry Talisa Maegyr and gain citizenship and political power
— Reject the offer and pursue power independently
Reward: ???
Consequence: ???