Late into the night, silence reigned over the estate.
The walls of the manor stood still, the air still scented faintly with the citrus oils the servants had burned earlier. The wind whispered through the outer courtyards, brushing against the sentries in red cloaks. Inside, the fire had burned low. Shadows danced over stone.
Everyone was asleep.
Everyone but two.
Viserys stood in the central hall, staring into the hearth where flames licked quietly around a log. His arms were crossed behind his back, silver hair loose, falling around his shoulders like a regal curtain. Behind him, Ser Jorah stood in the archway, arms folded, silent.
"I can't sleep," Viserys said without looking at him. "My thoughts don't allow it."
Jorah gave a slow nod. "The assassin changed things. We've all grown more cautious."
Viserys turned, slowly.
"I've been thinking," he said, voice low, "about kingship. About legacy. About the kind of ruler I might become. And I wonder…"
He stepped closer.
"…what you think."
Jorah blinked.
"My lord?"
Viserys's eyes burned with pale fire. "Do you think I'd be a good king? Or a bad one?"
Jorah hesitated.
"I think… you're learning. Faster than most. Smarter than I expected."
"But that's not an answer," Viserys said, smiling faintly. "You're a man who sees through masks. And yet… you've been wearing one yourself, haven't you?"
He stepped forward, slowly. A whisper of movement.
Jorah shifted, uncertain.
Viserys's hand fell to Blackfyre's hilt.
"I wonder," Viserys continued, "if the man guarding my sister with one hand… was reporting on me with the other."
Jorah's spine stiffened.
"You think I wouldn't find out?" Viserys asked quietly. "That I need spies to discover a traitor? I don't."
He drew Blackfyre in one smooth motion and pressed the flat of the blade against Jorah's throat.
"I have the blood of the dragon," Viserys whispered. "And I see with more than eyes. I felt it. With my magic."
He lied. Beautifully. Coldly.
He had no such magic.
Only memories of a show from another world.
"I know about your exile. Your wife. The slaves you sold to keep her in silks. I know Ned Stark wants your head. I know Varys offered you a way back—spying on me. On my sister. On our plans."
Jorah swallowed. "It was before I knew you. Before I saw—"
"You almost got my sister killed," Viserys cut in. "The only person in this world I care about. Do you understand what that means to me?"
Jorah nodded. "I do."
Viserys leaned closer, blade steady.
"So what punishment do you deserve, Ser Jorah? Hanging? Decapitation? Flaying? All tempting. All… satisfying. But no."
He stepped back, letting the blade fall to his side.
"A king must show mercy."
Viserys sheathed Blackfyre.
"So here's my mercy. You have two choices."
He raised one finger.
"First: You walk away. Unharmed. A free man. But I swear to you on whatever remains of my dynasty's honor—if you leave, I will hunt you. I will find you. I will make you suffer."
Then he raised a second.
"Second: You kneel. You swear yourself to me. Not just in word. In blood. In soul. For the rest of your life, you follow House Targaryen without question. You live and die by my command."
Jorah's eyes held the firelight in them.
And then… he sank to one knee.
"I swear it," he said quietly. "To House Targaryen. To Viserys, third of his name. The Last Dragon. I am yours."
Viserys placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Good. Because I have a mission for you."
He reached into his coat and handed over a sealed letter.
"This goes to Varys. Make sure he gets it."
Jorah looked at it, brow furrowed. "You're sending me to Westeros?"
Viserys didn't answer.
He turned, already moving toward the door.
"Come. We have someone to escort."
⸻
An hour later, they stood in a mist-shrouded dock near Volantis's outer port. The sea whispered against the wood. Lanterns swayed. Fog rolled over the waves.
Viserys wore a dark cloak, hood drawn. Jorah stood beside him in silence, similarly disguised.
Jorah frowned. "What are we doing here?"
"Waiting," Viserys murmured. "To send someone to Westeros. A gift. A loose end. A seed."
Footsteps approached.
From the shadows emerged Talisa Maegyr, cloaked, her hair tucked beneath the hood.
"You came," Viserys said.
She nodded. "I didn't think you'd actually do it."
Viserys gestured to the ship behind them. "You thought a dragon couldn't work miracles?"
He offered his hand.
"You were wrong."
She smirked faintly, then looked at Jorah.
"He's your escort. He'll ensure your passage to Westeros. You'll find a place there."
"I know where I'm going," she said. "North."
Viserys's eyes gleamed.
"I must make my farewell quick."
She looked like she wanted to say more, but nodded.
He stepped close, and for the briefest moment, whispered:
"And don't go to any weddings hosted by ugly old men."
Her lips parted in confusion.
But Viserys turned, already walking away.
He didn't look back.
⸻
As he walked the foggy streets, Blackfyre hidden beneath his cloak, Viserys thought back to yesterday.
Talisa had told him her story—how when she was twelve, her brother nearly drowned. A slave saved his life, breathing air into him. That moment, Talisa had changed. Sworn never to dance in noble halls or live in a land that permitted slavery.
She had been planning her escape for years.
She begged Viserys not to accept the marriage.
And instead of discarding her, he helped her escape.
Because he remembered something else.
In the show, she would marry Robb Stark, become Queen in the North, and die at the Red Wedding.
But here, maybe… maybe she didn't have to.
Maybe she could live.
And more importantly… maybe she could owe him.
Having a Stark queen who remembered his mercy? That could become a powerful alliance. A political checkmate.
If the North rose, it would rise with fire beside it.
Or under it.
And if she died anyway? Then no harm done.
He'd already twisted fate once. He would do it again.
⸻
The next day
Viserys stood in Malaquo Maegyr's private solar.
The Triarch poured tea with slow, precise hands.
"I didn't expect you so soon," Malaquo said.
Viserys declined the cup with a gesture.
"I've come to speak plainly. I'm declining the marriage proposal."
Malaquo blinked once.
"…Is that so?"
"Talisa has made her wishes clear. And I respect her courage. She doesn't want to be a political tool."
Malaquo studied him.
"And you? You would give up citizenship, position, and alliance… for respect?"
"No," Viserys said, "for control. I do not need to be tied to any house. I will build my own. One alliance at a time. On my terms."
Malaquo smiled slowly. "I knew you were dangerous. But I didn't expect principle."
Viserys's expression didn't change.
"It's not principle," he said. "It's calculation. But I appreciate the compliment."
"Will you still allow my support?" the Triarch asked. "Or am I discarded too?"
Viserys stepped forward.
"We're not enemies. Not yet. You'll find I'm a far better friend than a son-in-law."
Malaquo raised his cup.
"Very well, King of Dragons. Keep your secrets. But know this—Volantis plays a long game. Don't let your fire burn out before the pieces are set."
Viserys turned to leave.
He paused at the doorway.
"And don't try to send a spy to test my loyalties."
Malaquo's eyes glittered.
And Viserys walked out.
He didn't know how the timeline would twist.
Ned Stark would die soon. Robb Stark would rise. The board would change. And he…
He would change it first.