The hangover was a dull saw dragging back and forth inside Viserys's skull.
He woke in his own excessively soft, luxurious bed, the sunlight too piercing for him to open his eyes.
His throat was as dry as if it were on fire, and his stomach churned. But worse than the physical suffering were the fragments of memory that flooded back as his mind gradually cleared.
Slapping the table, his face flushed, roaring, "Eight hundred it is!"...
A dim secret chamber, flickering torches, Tregar Omeron's face with its mixture of reverence and temptation...
"Your Grace," "the rightful Targaryen heir," "setting things right," "Dragonlord"...
And that line, which now chilled him to the marrow: "Once we take the residence and gain control of that dragon..."
"What have I done..." he groaned, covering his face with trembling hands. Cold sweat instantly soaked his silk nightrobe.
Fear-cold, clinging, suffocating fear-clenched around his heart.
Aegon would know. He would certainly know!
That nephew of his who rode a monster had eyes as calm as a dead man's, yet he never hesitated to kill.
Illyrio, those nobles in Lys, the Archon of Tyrosh... he would crush me like a bug! No, it would be worse than that!
He wanted to leap out of bed, rush outside, find Tregar Omeron, seize him by the collar, and bellow, "I'm not doing it! Call it off! Call everything off!"
He even began to imagine that if he went to Aegon now and confessed, weeping and begging forgiveness, perhaps... perhaps their shared blood would persuade him to spare his life?
Being imprisoned in some tower forever would be better than being burned to ashes by dragonfire!
But... was there still time? Had Tregar and the others already acted? Had word already leaked? Did Aegon already know?
He spent the