c2: Viserys
"Daenerys Targaryen."
"Alas."
"Viserys Targaryen."
"Alas."
"So this is the world of A Song of Ice and Fire? And I'm the Beggar King now?"
"Alas."
Viserys stood motionless on the deck, his violet eyes fixed on the shadowed outline of Essos rising from the eastern horizon. The wind tugged at his silver-blond hair, but he said nothing. No one could have guessed the storm churning within him.
He had crossed worlds.
The soul inside this frail, royal body once belonged to an ordinary university student from Earth nothing remarkable. But this was not his first crossing. This was his second.
His first transmigration brought him to the Hyrule Continent, a land of blades and beasts, where he was given a cryptic task etched into his mind: The Magic of Transfiguration to acquire the essence of the Goliok King and become him.
He had lived in that world for nearly ten years, learning its harsh rules. No matter how hard he trained, he could never compare to the Chosen Hero the swordsman blessed by destiny, who slumbered for a century before awakening. The Golioks, those hulking beasts, were too powerful for any mortal, let alone the student he once was.
But he had adapted.
Rather than fight, he had bargained. He offered the Chosen Hero a soldier's suit and 300 rupees everything he'd painstakingly collected. The Hero defeated the Goliok King in his stead. Task completed.
It should have ended there.
But instead, as he absorbed the Goliok King's remains, his mind was swept away again dragged across time and space into a new world.
The world of fire and ice.
He awakened as Viserys Targaryen, the exiled heir of a fallen dynasty. The "Beggar King." A name soaked in mockery, known throughout the Free Cities.
Memories from Earth rushed back, filtered through the surreal lens of his time as a magical creature. At first, the details were hazy. But soon, he remembered the books. The series. The world. He remembered what happened to Viserys.
The voice in his head the one that once guided him to become Goliok had returned. Its mission had changed. Now it whispered of The Magic of Dragon Transformation: to collect the dragon souls of this world and become a true, three-headed dragon.
It was not a typical "system." It gave no stats, no skills, no dialogue boxes. Just a task.
He could ignore it. Live peacefully. Blend in.
But this world had dragons.
Not the serpentine gods of the East but raw, untamed creatures of fire and fury. Power incarnate. His heart raced at the thought.
After gaining the power of the Goliok King, he once challenged a minor beast on the Hylia Bridge. It nearly killed him. But now, that power simmered within him, waiting. And here, in this new world, all he had to do was find and claim dragon souls.
He raised his right hand, slowly curling his fingers into a claw. The wind carried the scent of salt and spice. His purple gaze burned with hunger.
Footsteps broke the moment.
He lowered his hand and turned his eyes back to the sea.
"Your Majesty, when did you wake?" came a voice thick with oil and courtesy.
Illyrio Mopatis, the corpulent magister of Pentos, waddled to his side with the pomp of a courtier. He bowed, not out of loyalty, but calculation.
Viserys smirked and played along. "Tell me, dear treasurer, do your merchant ships carry any goods made from dragonbone?"
Though the act grated on him, he understood the role he now played and played it well. The original Viserys had been a fool. Desperate. Unstable. A prince who clung to titles and dreams like rusted swords.
He had sold their mother's crown to pay for food, and called himself King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men as if names alone could win back a kingdom.
He had no army. No allies. No sense of how to win the Game of Thrones.
He thought Westeros would welcome him back with open arms. That the lords would kneel and the smallfolk would cheer. That Illyrio, a wealthy merchant with a taste for politics, would sacrifice everything for a mad dream.
In truth, Illyrio called him "Your Majesty" to stroke his vanity but kept him and Daenerys crammed in a merchant ship's cramped quarters. A strategic kindness, veiled as protection from Robert Baratheon's assassins.
The truth? Illyrio was waiting.
Waiting to see if Viserys would prove useful or die trying.
The real Viserys never saw it coming. In another year, he would scream for his crown in Vaes Dothrak and get one of molten gold poured over his skull by Khal Drogo. A fitting death for a would-be king who sold his sister for an army.
But not this time.
This Viserys remembered.
The Targaryen dynasty had been dead for over a decade. House Stark ruled the North. The Lannisters schemed from King's Landing. Dragons were thought extinct until Daenerys hatched them from stone.
He would not make the same mistake.
He would not be laughed at, not again.
Illyrio's voice droned on, but Viserys barely listened. He knew what the fat man really wanted: a puppet king, easy to manipulate.
Viserys allowed the smile to linger on his lips, but behind his eyes, a different fire began to burn.
A fire not born of madness but of purpose.
The dragons were coming.
And he would be ready.
Illyrio even called him "Your Majesty" in public of course, if it had been the original Viserys here, he would've simply accepted it as proof of his regal influence. In his mind, Illyrio's change from "Your Highness" to "Your Majesty" was justified: after all, Ser Willem Darry had conducted a mock coronation on Dragonstone before their exile, crowning him the rightful heir after King's Landing fell to Robert Baratheon. That small ceremony had lived in Viserys's memory like a divine affirmation of his destiny.
Illyrio concealed the derision in his eyes beneath a mask of gracious politeness. The merchant's voice was oily-smooth, his round face benign as ever.
"Dragonbone artifacts, Your Majesty? I assumed such things would be offensive to your bloodline."
Dragonbone was not truly rare in the world of Westeros and Essos. Though dragons were extinct, Valyria had once teemed with them, and during the Targaryen Dynasty, their bones had been harvested, traded, and crafted into weaponry and ornaments. In the Free Cities, dragonbone was treated like jade or silk a prized commodity among the elite. Entire blades, like House Tarly's Heartsbane, were forged from dragonbone and Valyrian steel. And dragon eggs, while believed fossilized, were still bartered in whispers and black markets, valued for their mystery.
Viserys gave a low sigh. "After so many years drifting through the Free Cities, even distaste becomes familiarity."
Illyrio did not pursue the matter. He was uninterested in Viserys's philosophies. Instead, he shifted the conversation with an air of concern. "Are you well, Your Majesty? Should I summon the ship's physician to have another look?"
"I'm fine," Viserys replied quickly, subconsciously shifting his arm to hide the healing scar on his right wrist a lingering wound from the Goliok King's essence. He turned his eyes forward, feigning nonchalance. "Tell me, Illyrio if I had dragon eggs… could I hatch one? Raise it? Reclaim Westeros as Aegon the Conqueror once did?"
Illyrio blinked slowly, as if considering whether Viserys was joking. "Your Majesty, there's no need to speak of conquest. The people of Westeros yearn for your return. Raise your banners, land with an army, and the realm will rally behind the rightful dragonblood. The usurper's days are numbered. It's no longer conquest it's restoration."
Viserys knew the speech. He'd heard variations of it since childhood. Flattery, promises, illusions. He cut Illyrio off, gesturing toward a widening bay on the horizon. The stonework spires and domed rooftops of a great city shimmered under the morning sun. "Is that Pentos?"
As if the smallfolk would greet a king's army with feasts and wine…
Viserys swallowed his irritation. Did Illyrio truly think he was that naive? Or did he just assume Viserys was too desperate to care?
Illyrio, unbothered by the interruption, nodded affably. "Yes, Your Majesty. The port of Pentos, jewel of the Rhoyne."
Viserys leaned forward, watching the city draw closer. "Then tell me about it, Illyrio."
The magister offered his usual smile. "As you command, Your Majesty."
Whatever Illyrio truly thought of him, Viserys could not deny the man's presentation. The merchant bowed when needed, called him Your Majesty, and yielded gracefully on minor requests. These courtesies kept Viserys placated, though they were the gentlest form of manipulation.
But it unsettled him, too.
Illyrio's apparent deference, contrasted with the subtle calculation in his gaze, told Viserys everything. A man who gave ground easily in words was often preparing a more complex play. He was not loyal he was dangerous. Because such men only smile while setting the board beneath you.
A clever man smiles while he sharpens the blade behind your back.
".Oh, Princess Daenerys is here."
Cheers rose from the crew as the city neared. Daenerys stepped quietly onto the deck, guided by instinct more than confidence. She spotted her brother talking with Illyrio and hesitated. She wrung her fingers nervously and remained at a respectful distance.
Fortunately, Illyrio noticed her and offered a soft nod. Viserys, following his cue, beckoned with a flick of his fingers. She obeyed without a word, approaching lightly.
He didn't greet her, and Dany stood silently, watching the sea beside him.
Sensing the shift, Illyrio bowed. "Your Majesty, I must tend to a few preparations before our arrival. Forgive me for leaving you."
Viserys gave a curt nod. "Go on."
Daenerys inclined her head slightly in Illyrio's direction, and the magister departed with the same plodding dignity he always wore.
Her brother didn't look at her.
"What is it?" he asked, his tone flat.
Dany bit her lip. Something felt... different. He sounded like himself, but his manner since that morning had been unfamiliar. Still, she spoke softly, cautiously. "You told me we shouldn't show ourselves openly…"
"Openly?" Viserys turned slightly. "The governor called me Your Majesty in public? This is his ship, Dany."
Dany frowned, parsing his words. She wasn't a fool. She quickly grasped his point but it only deepened her uncertainty. When others were present, Illyrio called her "honored lady," and Viserys merely "honored guest." Only in private did the titles return.
She looked up at him, hesitant. "Do you trust him?"
It was a dangerous question one that could easily provoke a blow or a scathing lecture. But Viserys didn't lash out. He didn't even respond.
He kept his eyes fixed on Pentos and asked quietly, "Are you hungry, Daenerys?"
Ever since playing through King's Tears last year, the image of the Goliok King transforming into a three-headed dragon in the world of Westeros stayed with me. Now I've finally begun. I hope this tale becomes something worth reading.
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