Aegon did not make things difficult for Viserys, allowing him to rush out of the Council Chamber in a state of disarray.
The doors of the Council Chamber closed heavily behind Viserys, completely isolating his stumbling departure from the cold, stagnant air inside.
Aegon's gaze swept across the slowly closing doors, calm and unruffled, as if that absurd interlude was merely a negligible ripple stirred by an insect skimming the water's surface, not even worth the effort to smooth over.
He truly did not care.
Viserys Targaryen. His uncle.
A man scorched by fifteen years of exile, humiliation, the contempt of others, and self-woven dreams, until his inner self had long since turned to ash and ruin.
Aegon knew this kind of person.
Beneath the fragile shell lay extreme sensitivity; any hint of real or imagined slight could easily pierce the pride barely patched together with a kingly title, instantly plunging him into hysterical rage or collapse.
But that rage was as weak as a mayfly's fluttering wings; that collapse could only splash a few specks of self-pitying mud.
It could not shake true mountains, let alone touch the cold foundations of power.
Aegon's reasons for bringing him and Daenerys back were not complicated.
Bloodline was one. The blurry shadow of the Mother of Dragons from his past life's memories was the second.
He gave them the treatment a Targaryen deserved: the best residence in Rhis, secure guards, decent clothing, and no lack of provisions.
Daenerys was a princess, and Viserys was a prince; at least in terms of living standards, he had not been harsh.
But that was all.
A decent life did not equate to sharing power.
A safe residence did not mean participating in secrets.
Given Viserys's current mindset and perception, he was not suited to attend formal occasions, nor... was he qualified to attend.
Aegon knew very well where everything he possessed today had come from.
It was not inherited within the silken swaddling clothes of the Red Keep, nor was it gained through idle talk in the salons of wealthy merchant sponsors.
It was the blood sacrifice of the Valyrian Ruins, the glint of blades in the long night of Rhis, the confrontation in the Golden Company camp, and the dragon shadows and sword edges beneath the walls of Tyrosh and Myr.
It was a foundation carved out stroke by stroke, blade by blade, with the blood of enemies and his own life.
There was no reason, and it was even more impossible, to hand it over simply because of an ethereal kingly title.
Even in terms of legal right, he, Aegon, the legitimate eldest son of Rhaegar and Elia and the first in line for the iron throne, possessed a legitimacy that Viserys—a "king" hastily appointed in a moment of crisis after the dynasty's fall and the deaths of his father and brother—could never hope to match.
The dragon bloodline had withered, and its members were few.
Aegon did not wish, at least for now, to bear the infamy of a Kinslayer.
As long as the bottom line was not touched, he was willing to give this uncle, driven mad by fate, the decent life befitting a Targaryen prince.
"Luciana." Aegon looked down at the Triarch, who had regained her composure.
"Arrange two maesters for me—men of profound knowledge and steady character."
"Starting tomorrow, they are to go to the residence of Lord Viserys and Princess Daenerys at a fixed time every day to teach High Valyrian, the history of the Seven Kingdoms, the politics and economics of the Free Cities, basic Arithmetic, and Geography. The progress need not be too fast, but it must be solid."
He paused and added, "Tell them this is study, but also self-cultivation. Perhaps the knowledge in books and the weight of history can help one settle their mind and see their past and future clearly."
This was protection, but also isolation.
Using the vast sea of ancient papers and a regular schedule to frame Viserys's potential delusions and restlessness within a safe scope.
"If knowledge can help him recover some semblance of reason, that would be best. If not, at least it will leave him with no time for other matters."
"Yes, Your Highness." Luciana understood perfectly and bowed in response.
Aegon sat alone in the high-backed chair, not leaving immediately.
The last afterglow of the setting sun slanted in through the high window, stretching long, lonely patches of light across the floor.
He closed his eyes slightly, his consciousness sinking into the depths.
It was not a void there. A massive, ancient "presence" lingered constantly like background noise.
That was Ghidorah. But now, the feeling transmitted through this connection was subtly different compared to when it had first awakened in Valyria months ago.
It was no longer the lethargy and slow recovery of a fresh awakening, but carried a... faint sense of hunger.
Not for flesh and blood, but a craving for the more fundamental energy that supported its magnificent body and extraordinary power.
The primal icy magic provided by the horn of winter was being consumed at an accelerated rate.
Much faster than anticipated.
Aegon frowned.
Ghidorah's power level far exceeded this world; maintaining its existence and activity would inevitably consume a vast amount of energy.
The residual flesh and magical essence of that Dead Dragon in the Valyrian Ruins had been like adding a large handful of wood to a dying fire, but wood eventually burns out.
New fuel was needed.
Valyria... that cursed peninsula buried countless secrets and horrors, and perhaps it held even more remains of ancient magical creations like the Dead Dragon.
The "Fire Wyrms" mentioned by the Ironborn before their deaths, which had bored a massive labyrinth underground but never showed their faces;
Other terrifying existences recorded obscurely in ancient texts that had perished alongside the dragons of Valyria during the Doom;
Even the Blood Magic left behind by those dragonlords during the peak of the Valyrian Freehold... the risks and opportunities were equally immense.
No, for him who now possessed Ghidorah, there was no risk.
Aegon opened his eyes, a look of decision already filling his purple gaze.
He summoned an Attendant and gave a few brief instructions.
Then he rose and walked toward the path behind the mansion that led directly to the private pier.
As night enveloped Rhis and countless lights lit up like stars, a pale golden three-headed dragon soared into the sky from behind the Princes Residence.
After circling briefly in the air, it streaked away like a golden meteor tearing through the night sky toward the southeast... toward that cursed land shrouded in eternal ash and death.
The night wind was cold, brushing against his robes.
Below, the lights of Rhis rapidly dwindled, turning into a pinch of crushed gold on the sea before finally being swallowed by the boundless darkness.
Ahead lay a deeper darkness, and within that darkness, those ancient ruins that even the starlight seemed to avoid.
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