c47: Clues
It was deep into the night, the kind of silence that usually blanketed the Red Keep before dawn, when even the guards of the Red Keep grew drowsy at their posts.
Viserys lay asleep in his chamber, resting on his side upon a soft feather bed. His long, silver-gold hair so reminiscent of the blood of Old Valyria was fanned across the pillow. His skin was smooth and pale, almost luminous in the dim candlelight, his cheeks touched faintly with a natural rosy hue. His lips were slightly pursed, his expression calm, almost regal even in sleep, like a dragon at rest.
Beyond the heavy doors of his chamber, the castle slept uneasily.
Then suddenly chaos shattered the stillness.
At first, it was distant. A muffled shout. The clang of steel. Then more voices louder, sharper followed by unmistakable screams. The sounds echoed through the stone corridors like the opening moments of a coup, not unlike the treachery that had once unfolded during Robert's Rebellion, when loyalty proved as fragile as glass.
The sky outside had just begun to pale with the faintest hint of dawn.
Viserys had only slept for a few hours when the noise reached his chambers. His long eyelashes trembled, and then slowly, deliberately, he opened his pale violet eyes—eyes that bore the unmistakable mark of House Targaryen.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath.
He pushed himself upright, throwing aside the covers. His silver-gold hair cascaded over his shoulders as he sat still for a moment, listening.
At first, there was confusion in his gazenthen irritation. But it did not last.
The sounds outside grew clearer: the clash of swords, armored footsteps, the unmistakable cry of men dying.
Viserys stilled.
Then his expression sharpened.
"Has it begun?"
The last remnants of sleep vanished instantly.
He was fully awake now.
In truth, this did not come as a complete surprise.
Viserys had long suspected betrayal long before this night. The seeds of doubt had been planted carefully, subtly, like whispers carried through the halls.
Sir Shad's treachery had not gone entirely unnoticed.
There had been clues.
Maester Daniel's death, for one. Officially, it had been attributed to age. Quiet. Natural. Unremarkable.
But Viserys did not believe that.
The symptoms had been too sudden. Too precise. It reminded him of the silent poisons whispered about in the histories of Westeros the kind favored in courtly conspiracies, like those used during the downfall of great houses.
And then there were the maester's final words.
Before his death, the old man had gripped Viserys's hand with surprising strength. His voice had been frail, but urgent, as he leaned close and whispered into the boy's ear warning him.
There were traitors within the castle.
People who smiled in daylight and plotted in shadow.
He had urged Viserys to be cautiousncareful whom he trusted even among those sworn to serve.
The old maester had lived a long life. He had seen kings rise and fall, served noble houses, and studied countless texts from the Age of Heroes to the present day. He had even studied under scholars who revered figures like Aegon the Conqueror and recorded the legacy of dragons long turned to ash.
He had taught many students.
Among them, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
And later Viserys.
In truth, he had spent far more time with Rhaegar. The elder prince had been brilliant no one denied that. Learned, composed, and deeply thoughtful. A man who understood prophecy, history, and duty.
Yet… his thinking had limits.
Not obvious ones but limits nonetheless.
Rhaegar's brilliance existed within a framework: the traditions of Westeros, the expectations of nobility, the weight of prophecy. He was bound, in some sense, by the very world he sought to understand.
Viserys was different.
The old maester had not realized it at first.
But after months of teaching him of conversing with him, he came to a startling conclusion.
Viserys did not think like others.
In their discussions, the young prince would casually mention ideas that seemed… out of place. Concepts that did not belong to this era or even this world. Some were impractical, almost absurd. Others were revolutionary, holding a kind of dangerous brilliance that could reshape kingdoms.
It unsettled the old man.
He had read countless books histories, philosophies, strategies.spanning thousands of years. Yet none contained thoughts quite like those Viserys spoke of so effortlessly.
It was as if the boy's mind reached beyond the known boundaries of knowledge.
And that, perhaps, was what made him extraordinary.
Even superior.
A belief the old maester never dared to voice aloud.
Not to the court.
Not to the queen.
Not even to the loyal knights such as Sir William or Barristan Selmy.now known as Sir Barristan men whose honor was unquestioned, yet who still operated within the rigid structures of knighthood and duty.
No.
He kept it to himself.
Until the very end.
On his deathbed, with what little strength remained, he chose to entrust that truth not to Queen Leila, not to the court but to Viserys alone.
A final secret.
A final warning.
And now, as the sounds of betrayal rang ever closer through the halls of the Red Keep, Viserys understood the game had already begun.
The old maester believed Viserys would do a far better job than his mother ever could especially in a world as ruthless as that shaped by the fall of House Targaryen after Robert's Rebellion.
Viserys did not disappoint the old maester's dying wish. After learning the secret, he told no one not even his mother.
It was not that he feared she would betray him.
Rather, Queen Leila's mental state had already begun to mirror the instability that had once plagued Aerys II Targaryen, the Mad King himself. She would fall into sudden fits of anger or weep without warning, her emotions as volatile as wildfire beneath the streets of King's Landing.
Viserys could not risk burdening her further.
He did not want the weight of secrets, conspiracies, and looming danger to shatter what remained of her fragile composure. And so, like a cautious player in the deadly game of courts much like those who maneuvered within the Red Keep.he chose silence.
Quietly, patiently, he began to plan.
And his caution soon proved justified.
After the old maester's death, Viserys conducted his own discreet investigation. What he discovered confirmed his suspicions: the raven cages on Dragonstone used for communication across the Narrow Sea and throughout Westeros.had been tampered with.
Messages were being sent.
Not by loyal servants but by hidden hands.
Someone had silenced the old maester and taken control of the ravens, using them to pass information beyond the island. It was a method long used in Westerosi intrigue, from minor lords to the Small Council itself.
But whoever was responsible was careful.
Meticulous.
No names. No traces. No witnesses.
Viserys found nothing that could directly expose them.
Was it the work of a single traitor… or a conspiracy?
He could not yet say.
However, before departing Dragonstone with the fleet, Viserys had already made a critical move.
He confided in Sir William.
The man was not merely an instructor he had once risked his life to save both Queen Leila and Viserys during the chaos that followed the Targaryen downfall. Without him, Viserys would have perished long ago, hunted like the last remnants of a broken dynasty.
Such loyalty was rare.
Rarer still in a world where even sworn knights could turn, as history had shown with figures like Jaime Lannister, who slew the very king he had sworn to protect.
But Sir William was different.
Viserys trusted him.
And so, he asked him to watch.
To observe.
To remain behind and see who might grow restless.or careless after Viserys left Dragonstone.
This, in truth, explained Sir William's earlier hesitation when speaking to him. The knight had clearly suspected something, perhaps even wished to warn him further.
But Viserys had not allowed him to speak.
Because by then… he already knew.
Before returning to Dragonstone, the young prince had gathered information through other channels methods subtle enough to rival even the whisper networks of Varys.
And with that information, he identified the traitor hiding on the island.
The confirmation came during the fleet's return voyage.
Near the jagged shores of Dragonstone, a small boat was spotted attempting to slip away under cover of distance. At first glance, it seemed insignificant just another fishing vessel.
But the timing was too convenient.
And when the crew of the Targaryen fleet moved to intercept, the boatman panicked.
He tried to flee.
That alone sealed his fate.
Experienced sailors gave chase in smaller, faster boats, cutting through the waves with precision. Within moments, they surrounded the fleeing vessel, blocking any path of escape.
Desperation followed.
Several men aboard attempted to leap into the sea, hoping to avoid capture. One vanished beneath the waves, claimed by the cold waters.
The others were dragged back soaked, terrified, and defeated.
Then came the interrogation.
It was not gentle.
Under pressure, their resistance broke.
And the truth emerged.
They were agents from King's Landing.
More importantly they served Sir Shad, the acting lord of Dragonstone.
A man who, like many during the turbulent rise of Robert Baratheon, had chosen ambition over loyalty.
Ser Shad had secretly pledged allegiance to House Baratheon.
In return, he had been promised reward.
A castle.
A title.
An earldom.
The kind of offer that had turned many former Targaryen loyalists during the aftermath of rebellion.
However, the presence of the fleet at Dragonstone had complicated matters.
They could not simply seize Queen Leila and Viserys—not without risking open confrontation.
So they waited.
Patiently.
For an opportunity.
And then the storm came.
A violent surge that battered the island and scattered ships, creating chaos across the waters. To them, it was the perfect moment a gift from the gods.
Their plan was simple.
Kill Queen Leila.
Kill Viserys.
Then escape while the fleet was weakened or forced to remain in harbor.
Clean. Decisive. Final.
But fate intervened.
Viserys had already left Dragonstone with the fleet.
And that changed everything.
The conspirators were caught off guard.
They had no idea where the fleet had gone, nor how quickly it would return.
Their carefully laid plan began to unravel.
And to make matters worse, internal tensions grew.
Sir Geoffrey hot-tempered, proud, and stubborn had never truly respected Sir Shad's authority as acting lord.
Much like the fractious lords of Westeros who bent the knee only when forced, he viewed Shad not as a leader, but as a placeholder.
A weak man playing at power.
And in a conspiracy where timing and unity meant everything such division could prove fatal.
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