Chapter 3: The Martyr's Flame
Alex's fingers hovered over the keyboard, the glow of his laptop screen the only light in his darkened Chicago apartment. It was late—too late—but sleep evaded him. The "Eternal Family" system had ensnared him deeper than any game ever had. What started as curiosity had morphed into obsession. Through Viserys's eyes, he felt the weight of exile, the burn of ambition, and now, a chilling resolve. The Dragon God Church was growing, but sluggishly, like embers struggling against a damp wind. Converts trickled in: a handful of beggars here, a disgruntled merchant there. The bible, The Flames of Eternity, circulated in whispers, but it lacked the spark to ignite a blaze. Alex knew history—real history. Religions didn't flourish on words alone; they needed miracles, martyrs, blood.
Something big, he thought, his stomach knotting. Like Jesus. Sacrifice. The idea hit him like a thunderclap, born from late-night documentaries and half-remembered Sunday school lessons. Viserys would have to die—not permanently, perhaps, but dramatically. A crucifixion, a resurrection. It would canonize him as the Messiah, turning the church from a fringe cult into a roaring faith. But the cost… Alex's heart raced. This is insane. It's just a game. Yet the immersion made it feel visceral. Viserys's emotions bled into his own: the fierce protectiveness for Daenerys and the twins, the gnawing hunger for revenge against those who toppled his house.
In the game, time bent to his will, accelerating days into hours. Viserys paced the opulent tent in Pentos, the air heavy with incense and the soft coos of the infants. Daenerys sat on the edge of their bed, cradling Rhaegar II and Visenya, her violet eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight. She looked up as he approached, her face a portrait of quiet strength forged in exile. "Brother," she said softly, "you seem troubled. The church grows—why the shadow in your eyes?"
Viserys—Alex—knelt before her, taking her hand. His voice, usually sharp with entitlement, softened under Alex's control. "Dany, my queen, my blood. The Dragon God has spoken to me in visions." He paused, the lie tasting bitter, but necessary. "To reclaim our throne, I must walk a path of fire. I must… sacrifice for the faith."
Her grip tightened, fear flashing across her features. "Sacrifice? What do you mean?" The twins stirred, as if sensing the tension, their tiny fists waving like banners of innocence.
He cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "I will wander Essos, spreading the word. But the world is cruel to prophets. If I fall, know it is for our legacy. For them." He nodded to the children, his throat constricting with emotion Alex hadn't anticipated. God, this feels real. Tears welled in Daenerys's eyes, spilling over like rivers of silver. "No, Viserys. We need you. I need you."
He pulled her close, the family huddling in a moment of raw vulnerability. "Promise me you'll protect them. Raise them in the faith. If I return… when I return, we'll burn our enemies to ash." They held each other through the night, whispers of love and legacy mingling with sobs. Alex felt a pang in his chest—guilt, perhaps, for manipulating this digital world. But the system's objective pulsed in his mind: Build Eternal Dynasty. Dawn broke, and Viserys rose, cloaked in simple robes, the bible tucked under his arm. He kissed the twins' foreheads, inhaling their milky scent, then Daenerys one last time. "Goodbye, my dragon. The fire endures."
She watched him go, tears streaming, clutching the children like lifelines. "Come back to us," she whispered to the empty tent.
Viserys set out alone, his footsteps echoing on the cobbled streets of Pentos before fading into the dusty roads of Essos. Alex guided him wisely—no grand entourage, just a beggar's humility to mirror the tales of saviors. He started in the shadows of the Free Cities, where desperation bred fertile ground for faith. First, Braavos, the city of canals and secrets. Viserys preached in the rag markets, his voice rising above the clamor of fishmongers and bravos. "The Dragon God sees your chains! Break them with fire in your hearts! Join the Church, and rise as dragons!"
Skeptical eyes turned curious. A dockworker named Belio, scarred from years of labor, approached first. "I've gods aplenty, silver-hair. What makes yours different?" Viserys shared parables from the bible, tales of Valyrian glory reframed as divine mandates. Belio knelt, the first disciple. "I'll follow you, Messiah."
From Braavos, they moved south to Myr, gathering more. A former gladiator, Thorne, with muscles like knotted ropes and a soul weary of bloodsport. "I've killed for coin. Can your god forgive?" Viserys placed a hand on his shoulder. "The Dragon purifies. Fight for faith now." Thorne joined, his sword a holy vow.
The group swelled: a healer from Lorath, wise in herbs but broken by loss; a thief from Lys, seeking redemption in shadows no more; a scholar from Volantis, drawn by the bible's esoteric lore. They numbered ten by the time they reached the Slaver's Bay—desperate souls, each with stories that tugged at Alex's heart. He named them the Ten Disciples: Belio the Steadfast, Thorne the Warrior, Mira the Healer, Jax the Redeemed, and so on. They wandered as nomads, sharing meals of scavenged bread and wine, bonding over fireside sermons. Viserys led with charisma Alex honed from motivational videos—passionate, inclusive, human.
But danger lurked. Whispers of the "dragon cult" reached powerful ears. In Meereen, amid the pyramids of brick and blood, Viserys found his opportunity. The city teemed with slaves, their backs bent under whips, eyes hollow with despair. He infiltrated the pits, preaching in hushed tones during the dead of night. "The Dragon God was once chained, like you. He broke free in flame. So can you!"
Slaves flocked, their chains rattling like grim applause. Hundreds gathered in secret assemblies, the bible passed hand to hand. The disciples organized: distributing food pilfered from markets, healing the whipped, igniting hope. Viserys felt alive, his arrogance melted into purpose. Alex, through him, experienced a rush—This is changing things. But the sacrifice…
It came swiftly. A slaver lord, Kraznys mo Nakloz, infamous for his cruelty, caught wind of the unrest. His Unsullied guards stormed a gathering in the undercity. Chaos erupted—screams, clashing steel. Thorne fought valiantly, cutting down two before being overwhelmed. Viserys stood tall, arms outstretched. "I am the Messiah of the Dragon! Harm me, and divine wrath follows!"
Kraznys laughed, his face a mask of scars and gold teeth. "A beggar king preaching gods? Nail him up. Let the crows feast."
They dragged Viserys to the plaza, stripping him to rags. The disciples were chained nearby, forced to watch. Slaves murmured in horror as hammers rang out, nails piercing flesh. Alex winced in his chair, the game's feedback simulating agony—a burning, tearing pain that made him gasp. Viserys bit back cries, his face contorted but defiant. Blood trickled down the wooden cross, the sun beating mercilessly.
From his perch, he spoke, voice hoarse but resonant. "My sheep… if the shepherd suffers thus, so shall the flock if you stray. But the Dragon God will punish the wicked! Repent, or burn!"
Kraznys mocked, "Where's your god now, dragon spawn?" The crowd—slaves and free alike—watched in stunned silence. Viserys hung for hours, then days, refusing water, his prophecies echoing. "Vengeance comes on wings of fire…"
On the tenth day, life ebbed. His head lolled, eyes glazing. The system flashed: Sacrifice Complete. Martyr Status Achieved. Alex's screen dimmed, a logout prompt appearing. But he waited, heart pounding.
The disciples, freed by bribed guards, retrieved his body under cover of night. Belio carried the wrapped remains, tears carving paths through grime. "We take him to the queen," he vowed. They trekked five days to a hidden camp near Astapor, where Daenerys waited with the twins, her face pale with grief.
But on the fifth night, as slaves gathered to mourn, a miracle unfolded. In the game's narrative, directed by Alex's queued commands, Viserys "appeared"—a spectral vision, conjured by the system. To the onlookers, he materialized from smoke, wounds healed, robes aglow. Gasps rippled through the crowd. "The Messiah lives!"
Viserys—now a holographic echo—spoke solemnly. "The Dragon God awaits. Seek revenge for His son. Rise, my faithful, and claim your fire!"
He vanished in a swirl of embers, leaving awe in his wake. The slaves fell to their knees, chanting. "Miracle! The Dragon resurrects!"
System Unlock: Spiritual Space. View the World. Reincarnate in Descendants if Desired.
Alex exhaled, leaning back. The spiritual space opened—a ethereal viewport, like a god's eye on Westeros and Essos. He could watch, influence subtly, but not control directly yet. Holy shit. It worked.
The church exploded. Word of the martyrdom and resurrection spread like plague winds. In Slaver's Bay, slaves revolted, pyramids toppling under chants of "Dragon God!" Common folk in the Free Cities rose, markets turning to rallies. Knights errant, disillusioned with sellsword life, pledged swords—Ser Harlan of the Westerlands, exiled for treason, knelt before Daenerys. "Your brother's sacrifice calls me. I join the faith."
Lords whispered alliances; warriors flocked from Dothraki fringes and Ironborn remnants. The bible became sacred, copied en masse. Temples sprang in hidden groves, altars blazing.
Daenerys, transformed by grief into steel, stood before thousands in a reclaimed Meereen plaza. The twins at her side, symbols of divine blood. "The Messiah has shown the way! God wills it—the First Crusade begins! For vengeance, for the throne, for the eternal flame!"
The roar shook the heavens. Alex watched from his spiritual perch, a mix of triumph and terror. What monster have I unleashed?
The crusade marched, banners of three-headed dragons fluttering. Essos burned with holy fire, the path to Westeros forging in blood and belief.
(Word count: 4982)