The flickering flame by the bedside stretched Viserys' shadow long and wide, casting it up onto the ceiling.
It resembled a clawing, snarling dragon.
"What are you doing here?" King Aerys asked sharply.
After all, he had ruled for over twenty years. Though suspicion gnawed at him daily, his presence remained formidable.
The newly arrived Viserys instinctively stiffened under the pressure.
But he quickly gathered himself and pulled out the proof of Grand Maester Pycelle's treason from inside his cloak.
"I discovered a traitor," he said.
King Aerys' brow furrowed slightly as he stared at his son, then gave a signal to the handmaiden standing nearby.
The handmaiden took the envelope from Viserys and handed it to the king.
As the paper rustled under his fingers, Aerys' face grew darker and colder, like a sheet of ice about to crack.
He had known Duke Tywin for over a decade—he could recognize the man's handwriting instantly.
"Have Lannister escort the prince away. Tonight, you will stand guard for the queen. And bring Lucerys to me," the king ordered.
The Mad King may have been mad, but he was far from stupid.
The father of the Kingsguard knight stationed outside his chamber had already joined the rebellion.
Now was not the time to act rashly.
What surprised Viserys, though, was that his father did not even bother to ask how he had obtained the letters.
Lucerys was Aerys' Master of Ships, one of the few ministers he still trusted, largely because he frequently slandered Rhaegar, the late crown prince, to win Aerys' favor.
Since Aerys had summoned Lucerys, it seemed Viserys' goal of bringing down Pycelle had been achieved.
Still... pushing Jaime, a walking powder keg, onto the queen's guard duty felt a bit heartless.
On the way to Queen Rhaella's chambers, Jaime said nothing. Perhaps he simply believed a child could not uncover anything important.
As for why the king had reacted so strongly—well, he was the Mad King, after all. And not just any Mad King, but one who had recently lost his heir.
Viserys wanted to stay as far away from him as possible.
The two made their way in silence.
Jaime had nothing to say. Viserys dared not speak.
When they finally arrived at Queen Rhaella's door, Viserys heard the faint cries of a baby. It was the sound of little Aegon, Rhaegar's son.
In the original course of history, that child would be brutally dashed against a wall.
His mother, Rhaegar's wife, would be raped and murdered by Ser Gregor Clegane, known as the Mountain. And their four-year-old daughter would be stabbed over thirty times before dying.
Mother and children, doomed to perish as offerings for the fall of House Targaryen.
At the door, Jaime came to a halt. A handmaiden announced their arrival and opened the door for Viserys.
A soft fragrance wafted out, laced with a faint bitterness. The candlelight flickered within the chamber, illuminating a frail figure seated at the bedside.
A cascade of silver hair draped down her back. Even without turning, her grief and exhaustion were evident.
"Mother," Viserys called softly.
Since he had arrived in this world, they had barely seen each other, but Queen Rhaella had been quietly ensuring his needs were met.
Viserys had come to accept and pity this sorrowful mother.
Rhaella turned to him. Her eyes were swollen and red from crying. Clearly, the news of Rhaegar's death had devastated her.
"Come here, my son," she whispered.
She stretched out a slender hand, and Viserys quickly approached.
Her cool fingers brushed against his cheek, tracing his features inch by inch, as if searching for the shadow of another child.
"Viserys, soon we'll have to go live on Dragonstone for a while..." she said, suppressing her sorrow.
Even at the brink of despair, she was determined to protect her son.
In her eyes, her young son could not possibly comprehend the meaning of death. But to her surprise, Viserys took her hand in his and said earnestly:
"Don't worry, Mother. I will protect you and Rhaenys."
Viserys spoke with conviction.
Though newly arrived in this world, he could not deny the fear in his heart—especially knowing the dark future ahead.
But the woman before him, with her tender care, had given him a sense of belonging.
He knew Rhaella would die shortly after giving birth to Daenerys.
But perhaps, he thought, he could change that fate.
Hearing him mention Rhaenys, Rhaella thought of her poor daughter-in-law, Elia of Dorne. House Martell was one of the few remaining allies loyal to House Targaryen.
If her husband wished to maintain that alliance, he would surely keep Rhaenys close.
King's Landing would likely fall, and she dared not think what that would mean for her family. Viserys said no more, simply staying by Rhaella's side. The mother and son soon fell asleep together.
Meanwhile, Lucerys, acting on Aerys' orders, moved swiftly to replace the Red Keep's defenses overnight.
Jaime, who was standing watch, was arrested and thrown into a cell. Grand Maester Pycelle, still asleep in his chair, was dragged to the throne room like a limp old quail.
He barely understood what was happening until Lucerys burst through the door with guards and flung the evidence of treason in his face.
This was no small scandal.
Treason was one thing.
But in Westeros, all maesters hailed from the Citadel, which prided itself on strict political neutrality.
Pycelle's betrayal was a stain on the Citadel's honor.
Realizing the gravity of his situation, Pycelle broke down, weeping uncontrollably.
He knew the Mad King's favorite punishment—burning.
His legs buckled, and he was dragged to the throne room, leaving two trails of dark blood across the stone floor.
When he was dumped before the Iron Throne, Pycelle found the hall packed with grim faces: Lucerys, Red Keep commander Ser Willem Darry, and hundreds of cold-eyed guards.
He looked up at King Aerys and instinctively began to beg. Tears and snot streamed down his face, all dignity as Grand Maester lost.
"Your Grace! It's not what you think! Please, have mercy, Your Grace! Please—"
His shrieks were desperate and pitiful.
But Aerys remained unmoved. He gave a silent signal to a nearby pyromancer, a fat man swathed in robes.
The pyromancer uncorked a flask and poured a sickly green liquid over Pycelle's head.
Pycelle recognized it instantly—wildfire!
Once it touched flesh, it could not be extinguished. He tried to protest, but his aged body could no longer summon the strength.
The pyromancer lightly flicked his sleeve, scattering a fine powder onto Pycelle.
As soon as the powder touched him, Pycelle burst into green flames.
"Ahhh—!"
"Ahhhhh—!"
"AHHHHH—!"
Screams echoed through the throne room.
Bound in chains to prevent him from fleeing, Pycelle burned like a living green torch.
The dancing flames cast monstrous, twisted shadows of the Iron Throne against the walls and ceiling, like tens of thousands of silent, wailing souls.
[Pycelle executed]
[Participation: 70%]
[Acquired Essence: "Grand Maester" — Absorb / Transfer / Fusion?]
Meanwhile, Viserys also received the notification through his golden finger. He gazed at the golden essence shimmering in his mind and fell into deep thought.