Several more days passed in the same daily routine before he finally found an opportunity to explore the abandoned Dragonpit and search for dragon eggs that might be hidden there.
His sense of urgency over the dragon eggs grew by the day. So when Barristan was sent away on a mission, he took a few guards he had recently bribed to the Dragonpit. He did not tell them he was looking for dragon eggs, only that he was going on an adventure.
Through the filthy, narrow alleys of Flea Bottom, the ruins of the Dragonpit could be seen looming abruptly over the southeastern corner of King's Landing, like a hideous wound that had yet to heal.
Rather than a building, it was an enormous skeleton gnawed bare by time and fury alike.
The magnificent structure, once crowned by a splendid dome, now consisted of only a few charred stretches of curved stone wall pointing stubbornly toward the sky, like the broken ribs of a dying dragon.
The massive stone gates, once carved with the sigil of House Targaryen, had long since collapsed. Their shattered stones lay half buried in the earth, overrun by thick moss and tenacious weeds.
Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the collapsed dome, illuminating the shocking desolation within.
Thick layers of rubble covered the ground. Charred beams, broken masonry, and ashes of unknown origin lay jumbled together, rustling beneath their feet.
Several pillars so broad that it would have taken several people to encircle them had snapped in half. They jutted into the ruins at grotesque angles, silently bearing witness to the brutality of that riot.
A peculiar smell hung in the air-not merely damp mildew and animal droppings, but also a faint trace of something scorched that seemed to drift from deeper within.
The entire space was terrifyingly still. Only the wind passed through the shattered remains, giving a low, hoarse moan, as though countless dragon souls and human spirits were lamenting the wrongs they had suffered.
The oppressive atmosphere weighed on everyone who stopped there.
Viserys's heart pounded in his chest, stirred by both the excitement of exploring the unknown and a trace of sorrow he could not put into words.
He pulled himself together and began a systematic search, guided by his intuition.
He focused on walls that seemed structurally intact and might conceal hidden compartments or passages, tapping them gently with the small dagger he carried and listening for echoes behind them.
He also crawled into side chambers and corridors that had not completely collapsed. These were darker still, lit only by the faint light filtering through cracks and his attendants' torches.
In a circular depression that seemed to have once served as the base of a dragon's nest, he noticed something unusual-the stones there were darker, as though they had endured prolonged exposure to extreme heat, and clearly differed from those around them.
He crouched down and carefully brushed away the loose dirt and rubble. His fingertips touched hard, black deposits formed when sand and stone had melted under tremendous heat.
This convinced him that a dragon must have spent a long time there. It had most likely been a dragon's nest.
He dug down with renewed vigor, but found nothing beyond a few larger chunks of fused stone and the bones of animals that resembled goats.
Several hours of searching ultimately proved fruitless.
Still, he did not give up. If dragon eggs were that easy to find, someone would have discovered them long ago.
He regarded this expedition as valuable reconnaissance. At least it had familiarized him with the Dragonpit and prepared him for his next visit.
Yet this setback at the Dragonpit also led Viserys to place more hope in Summerhall.
He began deliberately searching the historical texts brought for him to read by a maester-not Pycelle, since King's Landing had assistant maesters as well as the Grand Maester-for accounts of Aegon V, the "Unlikely King," and the tragedy at Summerhall.
The official accounts offered little detail, emphasizing only an "unfortunate accidental fire" and nothing more. After all, it had brought shame upon House Targaryen and further destabilized its rule.
The family could hardly leave a detailed record for posterity. Only the Citadel was likely to possess a complete account, but Viserys had no intention of going there now-not until he had a dragon, at least.
In fragments of minstrels' songs, however, he caught hints of a different story: Aegon V's obsession with dragons, "seven whole dragon eggs," "flames devoured hope," "the closest attempt to dragons since Aegon the Dragon," and so on.
These fragments might well contain prophetic hints. After all, this world had magic and so-called gods; anything that seemed unusual might harbor a prophecy.
He silently resolved to find a suitable excuse and opportunity to visit Summerhall within the next few months.
Meanwhile, he kept a close watch on the political undercurrents within the Red Keep.
For instance, he noticed that the current Hand of the King, Owen Merryweather, was nothing more than a yes-man.
The one who truly had the Mad King's ear was Varys, that ever-smiling man with a silky voice and a mysterious background.
And Grand Maester Pycelle, whose long white beard and apparent senility did nothing to dislodge him from his secure position as the Citadel's representative.
Varys was like a spider hidden behind sumptuous tapestries. It was no wonder he was called the Spider; his Little Birds were everywhere.
Viserys had also "happened upon" the eunuch several times in corridors or courtyards, and Varys always bowed humbly.
In that inscrutable tone, he would offer a greeting: "Good day, esteemed Prince Viserys. May all go well for you today."
Those all-seeing eyes always seemed capable of perceiving something beneath his childish exterior, sending a chill down Viserys's spine.
He had to be doubly careful. Any word or action beyond his years might attract the Spider's attention and bring unpredictable danger.
Varys was, after all, a dangerous man.
Looking back over his actions in the original story, he had openly supported Robert Baratheon's dynasty while secretly joining Illyrio in funding the original inhabitant of this body-Viserys Targaryen-in his exile overseas.
After the original Viserys died at Khal Drogo's hands in the Dothraki sea of grass, Varys shifted his hopes to Daenerys. Yet that, too, was merely a smokescreen.
As far as I know, his true investment was Young Griff, hidden among the Golden Company-the supposedly resurrected Aegon Targaryen.
Varys had kept Young Griff firmly in his grasp since childhood. Everything had been arranged in advance, making the boy someone he could trust more readily.
And he repeatedly proclaimed that all he sought was a wise, just king who could bring peace and prosperity to Westeros.
But what fool would believe such high-minded rhetoric?
Were his standards of "wisdom" and "justice" not entirely determined by Varys himself?
It was like buying a mystery box online. The buyer never knew what was inside, but the merchant who packed it knew perfectly well. He would never make a deal that cost him money.
And Varys was precisely that merchant, carefully preparing his "mystery box" and trying to sell his chosen king to the entire realm.
From beginning to end, he was choosing a king for himself, treating supreme royal authority as a game of chess he could control from behind the scenes.
Grand Maester Pycelle, meanwhile, was like a withering vine deeply rooted in the Red Keep.
He always spoke slowly, presenting himself as a frail old man nearing the end of his days.
Nor did he ever directly oppose the Mad King's insane commands. At times, he even provided "scholarly support," such as explanations of wildfire's destructive power.
But having read the original story, Viserys knew that this appearance of being at death's door was merely a disguise.
After all, more than a decade later, he still had the energy to labor over Ros, the beautiful whore from the North, several times a night. His body seemed quite robust, even if his valor was confined to the bedchamber.
Moreover, he had probably already thrown his lot in with House Lannister. The old man had previously worked alongside Tywin Lannister during his tenure as Hand of the King.
He had been won over by Tywin Lannister's sheer power, efficiency, and ruthlessness, and believed that only Tywin was truly suited to be Hand of the King.
Thus, in his subsequent service as Grand Maester, he merely pretended to agree with everyone else. Only toward Tywin did he display complete, unreserved obedience.
These thoughts kept circling in Viserys's mind, making him all the more aware that the Red Keep was an enormous chessboard, and he was merely a seemingly insignificant pawn who might be sacrificed at any moment.
Before the players noticed him, he had to gather enough strength to escape the board.
Meanwhile, the atmosphere within the Red Keep grew increasingly oppressive.
The Mad King Aerys's moods became ever more unstable. A few days earlier, a young guard's armor had merely scraped with a slightly grating sound as the king passed, and Aerys had furiously accused him of being "a traitor plotting assassination." Without even allowing him to explain, he ordered the Kingsguard to drag him away and behead him.
An old maid who had served for many years had merely dropped a vase that was not particularly valuable. Aerys flew into a rage, declaring it "an ill omen" and "a curse from the gods," and ordered her locked in the dampest, darkest cell in the Red Keep's Black Cells, leaving her to live or die as she might.
This further cemented Viserys's judgment: this family, this Red Keep, was rotten to its core. It needed to be utterly destroyed and reborn.
He had to gather strength as quickly as possible, then leave this powder keg before it exploded.
He had also seen Rhaegar from a distance several times.
The Prince of Dragonstone always wore a slight frown, as though immersed in thoughts no one else could understand.
Viserys sneered inwardly. He knew they were most likely dream prophecies concerning "the prince that was promised," "A Song of Ice and Fire," and that damned "dragon has three heads."
His foreknowledge of the story left him with little affection for this tragic figure, and even a hint of irritation.
It was precisely this obsession with nebulous prophecies that would ultimately drag the entire family into an abyss from which there was no return.
But he had already decided to let Rhaegar follow the path fate had originally laid out for him.
Viserys would not meddle. It would be all too easy to get burned, and he had his own road to walk.
As for Ashara Dayne, Viserys had taken no direct action for the time being.
His five-year-old body was excellent camouflage, but also an enormous constraint. Any behavior beyond his years that betrayed an unusual interest in a Dornish noblewoman would invite unnecessary, perhaps even fatal, trouble.
Through discreet inquiries, however, he learned that Ashara was still at Starfall in Dorne. She only occasionally came to King's Landing to see her brother Arthur and visit Elia Martell.
For now, he only needed to wait patiently for the right opportunity.
As for Brandon Stark, the northern heir famed for his wild, dissolute ways, if an opportunity arose, Viserys would not mind giving him a gentle push at some point in the future, sending this "wild wolf" toward his destined end a little sooner.
Perhaps that would change the course of Ashara's fate completely.
Night fell once more, covering all of King's Landing like an immense curtain of black velvet.
Viserys dismissed the maids and sat alone beside the cold window.
"Chaos isn't a pit. Chaos is a ladder."
He repeated Littlefinger's words softly, the corners of his mouth curving into a cold smile that did not belong on a child his age.
A voice deep inside kept telling him that he would soon obtain what he needed. Perhaps this, too, was a prophecy akin to a prophetic dream. He did not want to be swayed by that feeling, but it was so mysterious and elusive that he could not make sense of it.
Before you continue