THE LAST DRAGON
It was silver that he was staring at. Silver. Silver. Silver the color of his hair. Silver the color of Targaryens. A true Targaryen, chanted his father's words in his mind. Unlike that sullied little spawn that Rhaegar's Dornish wench has whelped. Silver bore the marking of the dragons. Emblem of the dragonlords of the old, ruling in their sky-high towers. But it was the silver of Myr that was in front of him. And staring back from the gleam, was a set of pale eyes, the shade of lilac. Purple as The Conqueror's own. They were the eyes of the beast. Not man. But dragon's. Ferocious and fierce. Sharp and ruthless, glinting with the cruel malice of a dragon's wrath. Yes. Viserys smiled. Then he peered. Closer and far through the argent reflection. And there he saw. The making of a king. Of a great king, even.
Long live the true King of Westeros, he remembered, the parting words of Ser Willem. Valiant man, he was. Run. Hide. Yet he too was weak. Weak-willed in their defiance. Darry taught them to run and hide. His life with him was spent scurrying like rats, fleeing in the pursuit of the Usurper's knives. But Ser Willem was a devoted servant of House Targaryen. A title only few could ever proudly boast. And yet his legacy was to lose us everything in Braavos. Viserys cursed, his heart racing at the grimdark thoughts. Was it fear that was gripping him? Nay, that was impossible. Dragons do not fear. Dragons only have wrath.
Footsteps neared him, he realized in the distant awareness. He paid them no heed. The face in the mirror remained. Gaunt cheeks and heavy eyes. Not fit for a King, Illyrio would say. But the fat magister was a fool. A fool and a greedy porker who gobbled up riches like a food-starved slave. But the man had his uses, he must admit. Nor was he lacking in brains. Men like Illyrio… know where to look for power. And I am the King. No matter, he told himself, when the Usurper's corpse rotted, he would have the time to deal with the upjump. After all, he was a just and generous king. And sooner or later, his worth would be proven, and all will bend for the dragon in his triumph.
Heavy knockings came upon the door. He turned, snapping his head in the direction of the sound. It swung open with drumming creaks. And a woman in a maid's clothes came upon it. He squinted, paying the bint a fleeting look, hurryingly deciding the lack of worth in her face. Scorn came upon him, almost unconsciously as his lips twisted. And it was a terribly great thing when he could see the flinch in the woman's face. Fear. Yes, yes, tremble in the face of the dragon's might. He cursed those lowly cretins—worthless infestations like vermin and mice. A dragon needed no such companions. "M-m-m'lord," came the timid voice of the maid, now standing beside him.
Purple eyes narrowed rapidly. His hand flew before his mind registered. And the resulting smack echoing in the chamber was a pleasant sound. A better company than that of the drab silence. "You dare, wench!" he growled at the girl. "Your Grace. You will address me as Your Grace."
"Y-yes, y-y-your grace."
Pathetic, he thought as he observed the tears running down the woman's face. "Fetch me, Illyrio," he then commanded, his voice deep as Illyrio would call his 'kingly voice.'
"I-Illyrio, Your Grace?"
He stopped, now looking at the wench from the bottom to the top of her head. "Are you an idiot, girl? Is that why you're just a lowly servant? Or are you one of the worthless whores sent he sent me? If so, then tell him that I have had enough of his games. Mopatis promised me answers. And I will have it. Now." It was a tiring thing, standing far above the idiocy of most people. But what was a King? If not someone to rule those much lower than him. And so for the sake of it, he must bear the irritation.
She opened and closed her mouth repeatedly, gaping like an idiot worse than the Sealord's fool. He could also see that she was shaking her head. "Y-your Grace… y-you are in t-the Red Keep. A-at King's Landing. T-the t-the Lord Hand has instructed m-me to prepare you for your meeting with him tonight, Y-Your Grace."
The Lord Hand.
"L-lord Arryn, I mean… Y-Your Grace. Jon Arryn."
Rebel scum. Traitor of the lowest of the low. Viserys snarled. He leaped, hands outstretched, the force knocking the stool he was sitting in. His hands came upon the woman's bare throat. The thought made him feel powerful. Like a dragon. Like a beast. Far from the pathetic and weakling men that he was destined to be above. And most of all, it made him feel far away from the mockery of being called the Beggar King.
"You still think this a funny jape, now? I command you to explain yourself, wench!"
"G-g-guards!" She shouted, receiving nothing but silence. "P-please, Y-your Grace, I-i-i." He noted the woman's hands around his own, flailing and trying. They were pale and lithe and frail. Weak, he scorned in his mind. "Y-y-you've been brought h-here f-from P-p-," she stuttered, pushing Viserys to tighten his grip. Her back was now against the walls, dimly lit by the flickering flames. "F-from P-Pentos, o-or s-s-so t-they, u- ss-aid."
Pentos, his mind registered. Salt in the wind and cheese a-plenty. He remembered Illyrio Mopatis. And of his little sister. Viserys had long given up on the thoughts of time. Those were the thoughts of mortal men. As such, it was a jumbled mess in his mind to inquire about his stay in the city. A year. Half a year. It was tedious, that much he knew. He remembered fat Unsullieds in the magister's manse. They were half men. Undeserving of life if not for their servitude. The many tutors that Illyrio had forced upon him. Swords, he remembered more vividly than the others. A King has his servants to fight for him, he had shouted in the end, concluding one of the many annoyances the magister had inflicted upon him. Of which, he had barely tolerated for the sake of the man's grand promises. After all, Illyrio always spoke of a grand conspiracy. A plan woven so intricately, spanning continents, involving lords and ladies of the realm, united for the return of a Targaryen King.
Something snapped within him.
The tide came like darkness swallowing the day. They were the thoughts of bladed assassins in the night and rocking boats on wistful seas, telling the tale of humiliation. At long last, the word escaped Viserys' throat. "No."
"No."
"N-n-n-no."
He retreated his hands from the woman's throat, faintly noticing the servant's tumble into the ground. "No," he whispered yet again. And it was a light step backward that he took with each broken whisper.
The scuffing sounds of his steps were faint upon his ears. And it was the Myrish mirror that he was facing yet again. Gaunt eyes and sunken cheeks. Not fit for a king. Tousled hair, dirty grey sullying the silver purity. You're no king, a voice whispered. You never were. Feeble. Weak. A far cry from Rhaegar. Perfect Rhaegar. Unworthy of the dragon. The boy that lost his mother's- no. No. Not that. Anything but that. His teeth ground against each other, the squeak of it filling the somber room. He could see the vision. Of a burning Essos. Those who had spit at him drowning in the blood of their family. He'd have it back. One day. He'd have it back. Even if he must raze all the nine of the Free Cities to the ground.
The stink of the iron hung heavy in the room. And only then did Viserys notice the grisly streak of red running down his arm. It stings, was his first thought of the pain. Now shattered, the mirror was laid broken upon the floor, its shards spread across the room, and some were lodged in his hand. It was a fascinating thing, the red. The color crimson of the dragon of Targaryen. It burns, too, his mind supplied. A true flame. Unlike the insult of an imitation that his father's conjurers created. His rage thundered in his heart. Would it be that he could, the Red Keep would've been bathed in his wrath. And from the ashes of the desolate past, the dynasty of the dragons would be born anew.
His back met the stone-hard wall. And the Last Dragon fell against it. Is this what it feels like… despair? House Targaryen would end here, in some dreary vault, as a prisoner of the Usurper that butchered his family. Locked up and kept away. Disgraced, shamed, and humiliated. He failed. So in the end, he really was a failure.
"My, what a glorious ruckus, this all is," came the smooth, faint sound from the doorway. Vision dimming, Viserys cracked open an eye, taking in the view of a plump woman, clearly older than the wench before. Round pin moon of a face and dark curls that had begun greying. She smelled of lavender, that much he knew, for the scent was strong. Terribly so, even more than the copper of the blood. She was holding a flagon in her left hand, and a cup in the other.
She neared him, taking cautionary steps, paying but a fleeting second to the passed-out body laying on the floor. And then she spoke, "Drink, Your Grace."
Viserys was far from broken. But he did, nonetheless. It was sweet, pouring into his tongue like honeyed gold. "W-who sent you?" he managed to ask, cringing through the pricking pains from his hand.
More so than anything else, the woman seemed to be amused by the question. She wore heavy powder on her wide face. "Sent me? Why, the realm, of course, Your Grace." And then she continued, "Do you not remember me, my little Prince? We shared such short time in the past, I know. But I would've thought that the little prince that often sneaks to his father's small council chamber would at least remember the sweets I gave him."
The memories of the Red Keep were distant to him. Shades of his father and smaller ones of his mother. But the answer came to Viserys like an unbidden guest. Hidden smiles that lurked behind the shadows. "Varys?" he asked.
"Well, who else could it be, Your Grace?"
His nails dug into the cold floor, finding a particularly large shard of the broken mirror. "Traitor!" he yelled, yanking his uninjured hand against the eunuch.
Chuckles answered him. "It is a bad mummer whose strings are seen, Your Grace. Do you think that Willem Darry had what it takes to evade the Usurper's knives? One after another after another and so on. Nay," he said, lips pursing and shaking his head, "Darry was a kind-hearted fool who deluded himself into a mystified hero of the songs. But it was me that was behind every knife. I carefully arranged them. The feeblest hires and the flimsiest excuses. I made sure that those knives stay one step behind. A most tiring thing, it was. The lying, not so much. But the strings? I must be oh so very careful, of course, lest I'd get them tangled with another's. For there are many behind the curtains of this here play of ours."
He steeled his eyes, unflinching in his defiance against the Master of Whispers. "You bent to Robert Baratheon. You're a traitor and no more than that."
Varys sighed. His hands went to the top of his head, peeling the hair off. A pale, violet robe protruded from beneath the servant's clothes. "A necessary sacrifice. I took it upon myself to bear the heavy burden. Serve the pretender. And from the shadows, my plans stretch long for the survival of House Targaryen. It was me that guided you to Pentos, you see. For Illyrio and I are dear friends, climbing out of the slums of Pentos together. Those who grow in the vile darkness know not to be nameless. Nameless will make you another face in the brothel, another cattle to be sold. We promise that we'd mark the world with our name. Even if we have to carve it in blood. And then it came. An invitation from the King of Westeros. All my life I spend to hear and hear and hear. And then I was heard. I owe my gratitude to your father, little prince. I warned him when your brother was beginning to be swallowed by the praises and panderings of the wicked lords. And it was me that urged him to send you and your mother to Dragonstone."
He had curses on his tongue. Questions and insults. "Y-you-"
"But the time was no more for us to linger in the shadows. I curse the Old Lion for this. I was careless, you see. Perhaps I overestimated Lord Arryn's supposed honor. How he ever agreed to this Lannister plot, I wonder. But alas, I was outmaneuvered this time. Worry not, it won't repeat. House Tyrell and House Martell have been joined in marriage. And I have secured their loyalties for your cause, Your Grace. We are waiting for you, you see. The lords of the Reach and Dorne toast to your return. It is hastened now, I must admit, with this… unforeseen circumstances."
He tried to rise, swallowing groans that threatened to escape him. His body seemed to have its weight doubled, and was now devoid of vigor. "M-my sister?"
"Safe and secure," came the simple answer. "If you worry that Illyrio has sold her to a Dothraki horselord, then be assuaged, Your Grace."
His fist swung almost instantly. But the eunuch evaded it surprisingly with ease. "A jape, Your Grace, a jape. It was but a mummer's little attempt at delight, Your Grace." And Viserys could see that he was smiling. "Together, we shall bring down the pretender with ink and paper. Don't you know, Your Grace? I learned it a long time ago. Letters carry weight heavier than gold. Heavier than steel and sword."
He nodded, keeping his wrath sealed tight. A wave of drowsiness washed over him as a feeling of squeezing tightness thundered on his head. "I won't beg. The lords will answer to my command."
"Of course, Your Grace. The realm cries for its rightful king. And they are willing to bleed for him, too." Varys drew a parchment, somehow hidden in his robe. The ink came, too. And last, he went for his sleeve. Viserys' heart raced, reeling from the chaos that the day had been. He tried to calm himself, recalling Darry's words. A dragon rules his own wrath. He inhaled a deep breath, uncaring for the stench. And yet it was a sudden thing when the cold went into his chest.
A sigh escaped him. A dreadful, terrible, harrowing sigh. There was no need to formulate words. All Viserys could do was stare.
"And you, Your Grace," said in an undeniable mockery, "you shall bleed for him, too. The realm has forgotten. It forsook the dragons. But you, My King, you will make them remember."
It was something heavy that pooled in his chest. A lot of it. Is it water? For he felt that he was drowning. Blood, he realized. The blood gathered. And when he looked down, his shirt was wet with red. The dagger was unseen. In its place, there was now wound. There was now the end of him. "I-i…" The King tried to speak, but it was swallowed in his chest before it was on his tongue. His hand came for his chest, working what meager attempt it could do in stopping the blood. "Y-you won't g-get-"
Viserys had always thought of the half-man lowly. But at his ticking end, he could not remember a thing more sinister than the eunuch's unbroken laugh. He was holding the wench's body. "She was unafraid as she took the dagger. And as The Dragon King sneered at her in his conceit, she plunged her anguish into his heart. She wept. Her mother's soul now avenged. And yet it was also the end of her. For the path she took went only one way. She counted her blessings. And then, dripping red, the dagger was at her throat."
The body fell, limp and lifeless, throat open. The eunuch continued, "Come the morning, they shall find a false bottom upon her drawer, and made the discovery of a golden coin minted in the days of Loren the Last. The other servants know her story. Of her mother's execution by wildfire. A disgraced wench, avenging her family's honor. A grand spectacle fit for the taste of the bards. A servant who slew The Last Dragon. Heh, of course, it would've never really happened. She was meek. Just another one of the many too weak to learn to take."
Pins and needles pricked on his entire body. Each struggling breath came shorter than the last. Everything was at his ears and the next nothing was. "I… am the d-dragon. V-Viserys t-the Third of H-His Name."
Varys sighed softly. "I suppose I must thank Littlefinger for this. It does, after all, seem to pay to let him think that we are equals in this game," he said, pausing as he chuckled in twisted mirth. "Drugs and insanity make such fine pair, I see. To claim your family's history of madness would be easy. Too easy. Despicable method for a despicable man. Fret not, Your Grace, for I am a benevolent judge." The candles had been snuffed out. And in the dim room lit by the peering sunlight, Varys' eyes seemed to glow with violet. "Well, time to make an end to it, I think."
"BURN!" he yelled, hands still red as he tried to maim the eunuch with what shards he could find. "You'll burn you fucking traitor!"They all will. Traitors to House Targaryen. They will all fucking burn. The thoughts were a short-lived ascendancy, filling him with maddening glee.
The voice that came after was cold as ice. "Still your father's son until the end, I see. I commend you for that, Your Grace. And yet, it is precisely why you must die today. I wish you to rest easy. And rest assured, Aegon shall claim vengeance in your name." Aegon?
And then the jeers came to him. Spits, spites, and insults. Slamming doors and sneering smiles. They mocked him with praise. They laughed at him. His father's dismay and his brother's derision joined them. And amidst that, Viserys felt like he was the small child clutching his mother's crown with barely big enough hands, standing at the grim end of a ship with Ser Willem's hand upon his shoulder. Like a dragon whose wings were wrung with fear. Then his vision faded. And his hearing next. But he registered the heavy blood, swallowing him whole from the inside. Then, the light.
Mother, I-
END OF PART 1