For Viserys, days at the Prince's Manse were rapidly becoming a form of exquisite torture.
He lived in the finest rooms, wore the softest silks, and enjoyed the sweetest, most full-bodied red wines.
The maidservants were always submissive with downcast eyes, and the guards were always stationed outside his door.
Everything was perfect—perfect like a painting hanging on a wall.
Magnificent, static, and separated from him by an untouchable distance.
He was irritable.
He didn't understand.
Aegon Targaryen clearly had Soldiers, dragons, and a Fleet; he had even brought back enough gold coins from the Iron Bank to form mountains.
Why hadn't he immediately launched a western campaign?
Why was he still lingering on this side of the damned Narrow Sea? Why listen to those officials report on taxes, dock repairs, and grain prices every day?
Westeros was right there, the iron throne was right there, and the heads of the usurper and the traitors should have been set ablaze one by one by dragonflame!
But Aegon Targaryen was nowhere to be found.
The servants only said he was out on inspection, his return date uncertain.
Leaving him, the King, stranded here like a redundant house dog waiting for its master's return.
What made it even more unbearable were the two old Maesters sent to him, with their gray hair, cloudy eyes, and the scent of paper and ink clinging to them.
They appeared punctually every day, droning on in sleep-inducing tones about the genealogies of the Seven Kingdoms' nobility and the reforms of the Free Cities... Learn? Did he need to learn these things?
A King is a born ruler! A King only needs to sit on the throne, listen, and then issue commands!
Calculating, transcribing, and compiling accounts—those were the jobs of servants and petty clerks!
Aegon Targaryen was humiliating him, using a seemingly decent but actually more contemptuous method, treating him like a child in need of re-enlightenment.
Even more unbearable were the constant, inescapable flashbacks in his mind.
At the Great Council, he had rushed out like a madman, screaming and pointing at Aegon Targaryen on the high platform, only to be dismissed with casual indifference.
The looks from those officials and generals—shock, disdain, pity... and finally, utter disregard.
Every gaze was like a red-hot needle, piercing his pride and stinging day and night.
He needed to forget.
He needed the burning sensation of strong liquor rolling down his throat, the touch of skin smoother than silk, and anything that could let him temporarily escape this magnificent cage and forget who he was.
The old maidservant the manse sent to look after him was like a constantly vigilant jailer.
Every time he tried to slip out, she always happened to intercept him, blocking him with ten thousand excuses 'for your safety, My Lord'.
He had had enough.
This afternoon, Viserys finally managed to escape while the old maidservant was summoned by Luciana to inquire about his lesson progress.
He didn't take the main entrance, but slipped out through a secluded small door in a wing of the manse used for storing junk, like a common thief.
The Pleasure Gardens of Lys are famous throughout the East.
He quickly found one, its sign painted with a seductive violet.
The air was thick with heavy sweetness, sweat, and an indescribable scent of decadence.
Viserys ordered the most expensive private room, the strongest wine, and two dancers said to have Summer Isles heritage.
Alcohol, soft words, swaying hips... He gulped down the wine, trying to drown the shame and irritation in his mind with sensory stimulation.
A dancer giggled as she fed him grapes, her cold fingertips brushing against his neck.
For a moment, he seemed to truly forget he was Viserys Targaryen, forgot Lys, forgot Aegon Targaryen, and forgot that damned iron throne.
Just as he was bleary-eyed, holding a dancer and wanting to bury his face in that heavy fragrance, there was a soft knock on the door.
It wasn't a waiter. The newcomer was a middle-aged man wearing a low-key but high-quality deep purple robe; his skin was the olive tone common to Lysene locals, and his face wore the shrewd smile of a merchant.
He waved his hand, and the two dancers immediately fell silent, obediently withdrawing and closing the door.
Viserys looked up displeased and let out a drunken hiccup. "Who are you? Who let you in? Get out!"
The man did not get angry; instead, he sat down opposite Viserys, poured himself a glass of wine, and swirled it gently.
"Lord Viserys, please calm your anger."
"I merely learned by chance that you were here and came to pay my respects, and perhaps... have a chat to relieve your boredom."
"What do I have to talk about with you?" Viserys muttered, taking another swig of wine.
"To talk about... why the sky of Lys always makes one feel suffocated."
The man took a sip of wine and said slowly, "To talk about why some low-born Mercenaries can now wear magnificent armor, swagger through the streets, and bark orders at the lords who have lived here for generations."
"To talk about why women who should be managing homes and raising children can sit in the manse, pointing at ledgers and deciding which family should pay an extra copper or which merchant ship should have more tax withheld."
Viserys's drunkenness faded slightly; he narrowed his eyes and looked at this stranger.
The man leaned in closer, his voice low and carrying a seductive sense of shared grievance. "My Lord, to tell you the truth, there are countless people in the sea who are dissatisfied with the new policies of this... Dragon King."
"He is holding a knife to our families, carving off flesh piece by piece. Tyrosh and Myr go without saying."
"Even Lys..." He paused, his tone meaningful.
"It's not that we don't welcome the return of the true dragon." The man sighed, his acting superb.
"The daughters of Valyria ultimately need the protection of dragons, but... Dragon Kings are not all the same."
"Everyone just wants a... well, a gentler ruler."
He leaned forward, observing Viserys's reaction.
"With the same Targaryen blood, why can't it be a... Dragon King who understands how to care for the old families, respects tradition, and isn't so... radical?"
Viserys's hand holding the wine glass trembled slightly.
He raised his drunken eyes to look at the man's seemingly sincere face; deep within that gaze was calculation, probing, and a cold expectation.
They wanted him to... oppose Aegon? Replace Aegon?
A chill mixed with absurd anger surged in his heart; he slammed down his glass, wine splashing out.
"What do you mean?" Viserys's voice turned cold, carrying a remnant of his 'King's' dignity.
"No matter what, Aegon is my nephew, a Targaryen! You outsiders want to incite infighting in our family?"
"nephew?"
The man shook his head gently, a smile of pity on his face.
"Has he ever respected you as an uncle? Has he ever let you touch even a shred of power? Has he ever maintained your dignity as a King and an elder in public?"
"My Lord, blood ties are important, but if one side only knows how to take and trample, how much weight does that kinship still hold?"
Viserys opened his mouth to argue, to say that Aegon gave him a place to live and food to eat, but the words 'trample dignity' pierced the most painful part of his heart like needles.
The scene from the council chamber flashed again.
Seeing that the time was ripe, the man stopped pressing and instead relaxed his body, pouring Viserys another glass of wine.
"I have said enough. You are a smart man, My Lord; you will make your own decision."
"I am temporarily staying here at the Violet Garden. If you are bored and want someone to talk to, you can come at any time."
Having said that, he stood up, bowed slightly to Viserys, and withdrew silently from the room as if he had never appeared.
Viserys sat alone in the room filled with sweet fragrance, holding the glass of wine, motionless for a long time.
Fear and temptation fought fiercely in his mind. Aegon was a Targaryen, his own nephew... but Aegon didn't respect him, sidelined him, and might even want to replace him entirely!
Allying with outsiders?
No, he couldn't!
He suddenly remembered Ghidorah's pale gold, massive form that froze one's marrow, and the instinctive trembling and shrinking he felt under that pressure.
The dragon did not listen to him; that monster only recognized Aegon.
Even if these people propped him up, without a dragon, it would all be a castle in the air.
Ultimately, his remaining logic and fear of the dragon won out.
He drained the wine in his glass, stood up, and left the Pleasure Garden with unsteady steps.
He hadn't agreed to that man, but he hadn't explicitly refused either.
He needed time, he needed... more wine.
The night was deep.
Drunkenly, he hired two palanquin bearers waiting at a street corner, stuffed himself inside, and gave the address of the Prince's Manse.
The palanquin swayed, making his head spin and his stomach churn.
As they neared the manse, a residual, ridiculous sense of Kingly dignity surfaced.
He couldn't let the guards and servants see him smelling of alcohol and disheveled like this.
He had the bearers stop at a corner some distance from the main gate, threw them a few extra silver coins, and dismissed them.
Then, he forced himself to straighten his messy robes, patted his cheeks to try and look sober, and staggered toward the side door he had slipped out of.
He walked very slowly, trying not to make a sound.
Just as he was approaching the side door, a conversation in lowered voices drifted over on the night wind.
The voices came from the shadows beside the main gate, where two squads of black-armored Soldiers were changing shifts.
Torchlight illuminated the ferocious three-headed red dragon on their breastplates.
"...Have you heard? That title of High Triarch of Volantis or whatever, His Highness doesn't seem to intend to take it immediately," said a man who looked like a captain while checking his sword.
"Indeed."
Another voice joined in, sounding a bit puzzled. "It's a title given for free; there's no harm in holding it. A maid serving in the manse said that when she delivered tea, she saw His Highness standing before the great map several times, his finger pointing at that continent to the west, staring for ages without moving."
"Westeros?" The first captain's voice dropped lower. "His Highness is a Prince from over there... Could it be he really intends to fight his way back? But it's a mess over there now; I heard the King is just a drunkard."
"Who knows. If you ask me, what's the point of going back to fight for that lousy King title?" The second voice was dismissive.
"Our Highness has territory, Soldiers, dragons, and money... Heh, even the Iron Bank has been emptied. Right here, in the Narrow Sea, wouldn't it be grand to be King and start his own dynasty?"
The first captain clearly thought so too. "True... His Highness is a Targaryen. Building a new dynasty here, called... the Second Targaryen Dynasty! It would be perfectly legitimate!"
"When the time comes, His Highness will be the founding monarch. We old brothers who followed him through blood and fire will surely get to be founding knights or founding barons, won't we?"
"Exactly! It's much better than going back to that cold, miserable land of Westeros to fight a bunch of poor nobles for a broken chair..."
The conversation faded as the shift change was completed and the Soldiers marched away.
In the shadows, Viserys was struck as if by lightning, frozen in place.
Blood rushed to his head, his ears rang, and the alcohol he had barely suppressed mixed with a heaven-shaking fury that nearly burst his chest.
The Second Targaryen Dynasty?
Founding monarch?
So that was it! So that was it!
All the doubts, all the confusion, had an answer at this moment!
Why wasn't Aegon in a hurry to fight back to Westeros? Why was he expanding so aggressively here, building a Fleet, and organizing internal affairs while ignoring the iron throne?
Because he never intended to go back!
He wanted to stay here, on the other side of the Narrow Sea, and use the Targaryen name to carve out a new dynasty for himself!
Leaving the true Targaryens, the iron throne, and fifteen years of blood feuds and exile all behind!
Traitor! A traitor through and through!
He had forgotten his roots, forgotten the hatred, forgotten who had caused their family's ruin!
The usurper sat comfortably in King's Landing, enjoying everything that should belong to the Targaryens, while Aegon, this Targaryen with the blood of the true dragon, was thinking of splitting the family!
Fury, like lava, demolished his last shred of reason.
The guards' words about Aegon looking at the map of Westeros were automatically filtered out and ignored by him.
At this moment, his mind was filled only with the words'Second Dynasty' and the fact that Aegon was betraying the family to set up his own camp.
Extreme anger and the pain of betrayal burned away Viserys's last trace of hesitation and kinship like poisonous fire.
His face was distorted, his teeth ground together, and his fists were clenched so hard his nails dug deep into his palms.
If Aegon was heartless, then he couldn't be blamed for being unjust!
He spun around, no longer looking at the nearby side door of the manse, but charging back the way he came with stumbling but incredibly firm steps.
He was going to find that man, to find that viper in the Violet Garden.
He would take back everything that should belong to him, even if it meant dancing with vipers, even if it meant setting himself on fire.
Since Aegon had chosen to betray the family, then he, Viserys Targaryen III, would personally clean house and reclaim the legitimacy and future of the Targaryens!
Dear Reader,
A special 60% discount offer available Don't miss this opportunity to enjoy your favorite stories at a greatly reduced price.
The offer is available for a limited time only — grab it before it ends!
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn luffy1898