Chapter 3: Whispers of Ash and the Silent Vow
The turning of the seasons on Dragonstone was marked by the shifting moods of the sea and the increasingly grim tidings that washed ashore like debris from a shipwreck. For Viserys Targaryen, these early years – his second, third, and the dawn of his fourth – were an exercise in meticulous self-mastery and the patient gathering of shadows. Alistair Finch, the scholar within the boy-prince, found a perverse academic interest in observing his own accelerated development, a unique case study in biology, superpower integration, and socio-political survival under extreme duress.
Learning to move was his first significant campaign. The Super Soldier Serum thrummed in his veins, making his muscles knit with an unnatural alacrity, his coordination sharpening at a rate that was startling, even to him. He crawled with a determined speed that often left his attending nurses breathless and faintly amused, attributing it to a "strong will, just like his ancestors." When he progressed to walking, it was with a surprising sureness of foot, his small body possessed of a balance and agility that belied his tender age. He stumbled, of course, as all children do, but his recoveries were swift, the tumbles that should have resulted in wailing tears often ending with a thoughtful frown and another attempt. Each fall was a data point, each bruise a testament to the healing factor that worked tirelessly beneath his skin, mending minor injuries within hours, often leaving no trace by morning. He learned to feign more distress than he felt, a small whimper, a rubbing of a non-existent ache, to deflect suspicion. Theatrics, Alistair mused, were as crucial to survival as strategy.
Speech was the next frontier. His mind, already fluent in High Valyrian and the Common Tongue from endless hours of listening, strained against the physical limitations of his infant vocal apparatus. His first intentional word, spoken around the age of one and a half – remarkably early by any standard – was directed at his mother. Rhaella had been gazing out at a particularly ferocious storm, her face a mask of pale anguish, murmuring Rhaegar's name. Viserys, sitting on the furs at her feet, reached out a tiny hand and, with immense effort, formed the word: "Muña." (Mother.)
It was uttered in clear, albeit baby-accented, High Valyrian. Rhaella had gasped, her violet eyes, usually clouded with sorrow, widening in astonishment before filling with tears of a different kind. She'd swept him into her arms, burying her face in his silver-gold hair, whispering his name, her voice thick with emotion. "My clever little prince," she'd called him. From then on, he carefully modulated his speech, mimicking the linguistic development of a precocious but otherwise normal child. He babbled, he mispronounced, he spoke in the simple sentences expected of his age, all the while cataloging complex vocabularies and grammatical structures internally. It was a constant, exhausting act of performance, but one slip, one sentence too eloquent, one observation too astute, could shatter the carefully constructed illusion of childhood.
His enhanced senses were both a blessing and a curse. He could hear the furtive weeping of serving girls in distant corridors, the anxious muttering of guards on the battlements, the gnawing of rats within the ancient walls of Dragonstone. He smelled the fear-sweat on Ser Willem Darry when dire news arrived, the cloying scent of despair that sometimes emanated from his mother's chambers, the metallic tang of blood from a cook who'd cut himself in the kitchens. These inputs were overwhelming at times, a deluge of raw data that his young brain, even augmented, struggled to process without succumbing to sensory overload. He learned to filter, to focus, much like tuning a radio, isolating the signals that mattered amidst the noise.
The claws remained his most guarded secret, a primal power that both thrilled and terrified him. The involuntary extensions became less frequent as his conscious control solidified, but the underlying potential was always there. He found moments of absolute privacy, rare and precious, often in the dead of night when the castle slept. Tucked away in a shadowed alcove, or beneath the thick furs of his bed, he would let them slide out – three sharp, ivory-coloured bone protrusions from each hand. They were growing with him, longer now, more formidable. He would examine them in the faint moonlight, flexing his small fingers, feeling the alien hardness, the lethal points. He practiced retracting them smoothly, silently, until it became an almost subconscious reflex, triggered by the slightest hint of an approaching footstep or a change in the ambient sound. The discipline required was immense, a constant internal battle against the instinct to lash out when startled or angered – emotions that, even as a child, he was beginning to feel with a Targaryen intensity amplified by the serum.
News from the mainland continued to be a litany of disasters. The death of his enigmatic brother, Rhaegar, at the Trident was a blow that reverberated through Dragonstone like a physical shockwave. Viserys had been in the solar with his mother when Ser Willem Darry, his face a grim stone mask, had delivered the news. Rhaella had made no sound, her body simply crumpling, a marionette with its strings cut. Darry had caught her, his usual stern demeanor cracking to reveal a deep, aching grief and fear. Viserys, watching from his nurse's arms, felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. He had no personal memory of Rhaegar, only Alistair's academic knowledge of the prince's deeds and miscalculations. Yet, seeing his mother's utter devastation, the raw wound of her loss, stirred something within him. It wasn't grief for a lost brother, but a chilling affirmation of his own precarious position and a deepening anger at the forces that were systematically dismantling his house. Rhaella retreated further into herself after that, her pregnancy with Daenerys – a fact now widely known within the castle – her only visible anchor to the world.
Then came the whispers of the Sack of King's Landing. Horrific, fragmented tales carried by fleeing fishermen and desperate, half-mad refugees who somehow made their way to the island. Stories of Lannister treachery, of the city gates thrown open, of slaughter in the streets, and the brutal murder of Princess Elia Martell and her children, Aegon and Rhaenys. His nephew and niece. Even Alistair Finch, a man who had studied the most depraved acts of history, felt a visceral revulsion. This was no longer an academic exercise. This was his family, his blood, being extinguished with savage cruelty. The name Tywin Lannister, already marked in Alistair's mental ledger as a formidable and ruthless adversary, was now underlined in blood. The knowledge that Aerys himself had been slain by one of his own Kingsguard, Jaime Lannister, was almost an afterthought in the face of the atrocities committed against Elia and her children. The Mad King was dead. Good riddance. But the price of his demise was the near-annihilation of their line.
The atmosphere on Dragonstone grew heavy, suffocating. Hope dwindled with each passing day, replaced by a gnawing, pervasive fear. The guards were more jumpy, their armour gleaming less brightly. Rations, while not yet scarce, were managed with a new stringency. Ser Willem Darry, his face etched with lines of worry that seemed to deepen overnight, was a constant presence, his voice a low rumble of authority trying to maintain order in the face of impending doom. Viserys observed him closely, saw the preparations being made in secret – the quiet provisioning of a swift ship in a secluded cove, the selection of a few fiercely loyal men. Darry was not a fool; he knew Dragonstone was a trap waiting to be sprung.
Viserys, now a small boy of nearly four, began to interact more directly, if still cautiously, with the old knight. He would seek Darry out, using his childish precociousness as a tool. He'd ask "innocent" questions about ships, about the stars sailors used to navigate, about the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea – places whose names he'd gleaned from overheard conversations.
"Ser Willem," he might ask, his violet eyes wide with feigned curiosity, "is Braavos very far? Do they have dragons there too?"
Darry, initially surprised by the boy's articulate questions, would often indulge him, perhaps seeing a spark of the old Targaryen spirit, or maybe just finding a momentary distraction from the crushing weight of his responsibilities. He'd speak of the Titan of Braavos, of the canals and the mists, of the skills of their seamen. Viserys listened intently, filing away every detail, comparing it with Alistair's existing knowledge. He subtly guided these conversations, extracting information about trade winds, about safe harbors, about the political climate in Pentos and Myr. He was building a mental map, not just of geography, but of opportunity and danger.
He also began, in the most surreptitious ways, to test the limits of his physical abilities within the castle confines. Dragonstone, with its myriad staircases, crumbling battlements, and shadowy passages, became his secret training ground. He learned to climb with an agility that would have impressed a monkey, his small, super-serum-enhanced limbs finding purchase on the smallest of ledges, his movements silent and fluid. He'd scale walls to peer into windows, eavesdropping on council meetings between Darry and the few remaining loyal nobles. He explored forgotten sections of the fortress, his enhanced senses guiding him through the darkness, always listening for the tell-tale sounds of approach that would necessitate a swift, silent retreat. He found old armories, dusty libraries filled with decaying scrolls, and hidden Priest holes that spoke of earlier, equally turbulent times in Targaryen history.
One day, while exploring a rarely used storeroom near the kitchens, he overheard two servants discussing the dwindling wine supplies. One lamented that the 'King's Wrath' vintage, a strong Dornish red Aerys had favored, was almost gone. The other, more practical, worried about how they would pay the merchants from Pentos who had, against all odds, delivered a recent shipment of grain. This sparked an idea in Viserys's mind, a seed of Alistair's business acumen. If they were already dealing with Pentoshi merchants, lines of communication, however tenuous, existed.
His relationship with Rhaella was a delicate dance. Her pregnancy was advancing, and with it, her frailty. She spent most of her days abed, her spirit eroded by grief and fear. Yet, her love for Viserys was a fierce, protective flame. He, in turn, cultivated an image of a loving, if sometimes unusually perceptive, son. He would sit by her bed for hours, recounting his "adventures" within the castle – carefully edited versions, of course. He'd describe the patterns of lichen on the walls, the flight of gulls, the way the waves sounded in different coves. He tried to bring the outside world to her, to offer small distractions from her sorrow. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that the birth of Daenerys was a critical juncture. In the original timeline, Rhaella died bringing his sister into the world. He had no medical knowledge to prevent it, but he could try to ensure she wasn't further weakened by despair.
"Muña," he said one afternoon, holding her hand, his small fingers surprisingly strong, "when the baby comes, will she like stories of dragons?"
Rhaella managed a weak smile. "All Targaryens love dragons, my sweet boy. Even if they are only stories now." Her gaze drifted to the window, towards the turbulent sea. "A great storm is coming, Viserys. I can feel it."
He knew she wasn't just talking about the weather. Stannis Baratheon's fleet was, according to the latest terrified whispers, being assembled. Their time on Dragonstone was running out.
The internal conflict between Alistair Finch and the emerging persona of Viserys Targaryen was a constant undercurrent. Alistair's cynicism and pragmatism were often at odds with the primal instincts and burgeoning Targaryen fire that the serum seemed to amplify within Viserys. The cold fury he felt at the destruction of his House was potent, a desire for retribution that sometimes threatened to overwhelm his strategic caution. He had to constantly remind himself that he was playing a long game. Raw power, even his own unique combination of it, was useless without a plan, without resources, without allies.
He thought of the original Viserys, the Beggar King. A weak, cruel, impatient fool, consumed by entitlement. He would not be that man. He would forge a new path. The knowledge of his predecessor's failures was a powerful motivator, a constant reminder of the pitfalls of arrogance and shortsightedness. This new Viserys would be patient, cunning, and utterly ruthless when necessary, but his ruthlessness would be tempered by calculation, not by petulant rage.
His Wolverine X-gene was a silent promise of resilience. He knew he could survive injuries that would kill an ordinary man. This knowledge bred a certain fearlessness, but also a need for greater control. If he were grievously injured and healed too quickly, too completely, his secret would be out. So, he practiced avoidance, stealth, and if necessary, strategic retreat. His claws were his weapons of last resort, hidden trump cards in a deadly game.
As his fourth nameday approached, the great storm his mother had predicted finally broke over Dragonstone. It was a tempest of legendary fury, mirroring the chaos that had consumed the realm. The wind howled like a banshee, ripping slates from the roofs and sending waves crashing high against the castle walls. And in the heart of this storm, Queen Rhaella went into labor.
Viserys was confined to his chambers with his nurse, but he could hear the panicked activity, the muffled cries of his mother, the anxious commands of the maester and Ser Willem Darry. He paced his room like a caged animal, his small fists clenched, the familiar itch in his knuckles a torment. He was helpless, a spectator to a critical event he desperately wanted to influence. All his knowledge, all his nascent powers, were useless here.
He focused his hearing, straining to decipher the sounds from his mother's chamber. The maester's worried pronouncements, the soothing murmurs of the midwives, Rhaella's intermittent screams of agony. Hours passed, each one an eternity. The storm outside raged unabated, as if the very gods were venting their fury.
Then, amidst the howling wind, a new sound: the thin, piercing wail of a newborn infant.
Daenerys.
A wave of complex emotions washed over Viserys. Relief, certainly. But also a profound anxiety for his mother. He listened, his breath held, for any indication of Rhaella's condition. The activity in her chambers seemed to intensify, the voices more urgent, more strained.
He couldn't bear it. Disobeying his nurse's frantic injunctions, he slipped out of his room, his small, bare feet padding silently on the cold stone floors. He crept towards his mother's chambers, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The guards at the door, distracted and grim-faced, barely registered his small presence as he squeezed past them into the antechamber.
From there, he could see into the birthing room. The scene was chaotic. Rhaella lay pale and still on the bed, her silver-gold hair spread like a halo on the blood-stained linens. The maester was working over her frantically. Ser Willem Darry stood near the door, his face ashen, holding a small, swaddled bundle from which the infant cries emanated.
And then Viserys heard the maester's low, defeated words to Darry: "She is gone, Ser. The Queen is dead."
The words struck Viserys with the force of a physical blow. Dead. Despite all his hopes, all his silent attempts to somehow bolster her spirit, Rhaella had succumbed, just as she had in the histories Alistair knew. A searing, cold rage, sharper than any claw, ripped through him. It wasn't just grief; it was the fury of a thwarted strategist, the bitter understanding that despite his advantages, he was still subject to the cruel whims of this world's preordained script.
But this was not the time for rage or despair. This was the time for Alistair Finch, the pragmatist, to take control.
Ser Willem Darry looked utterly broken, the loyal old knight's world crumbling around him. He clutched the crying infant Daenerys as if she were the last ember of a dying fire.
Viserys stepped fully into the doorway. His small, four-year-old frame seemed impossibly tiny in the face of such monumental loss, yet there was an unnatural stillness about him, a chilling focus in his violet eyes.
"Ser Willem," he said, his voice clear and steady, unnervingly so for a child who had just lost his mother.
Darry started, his grief-stricken gaze falling upon the young prince. "Your Highness," he choked out. "Your mother…"
"I know," Viserys said, his voice devoid of childish tears. He walked towards the old knight, his eyes fixed on the bundle in Darry's arms. "We must leave. Now. Before Stannis Baratheon arrives."
Darry stared at him, momentarily stunned by the boy's composure, his immediate grasp of their dire situation. Perhaps it was the shock, or perhaps he saw in the young prince's eyes a reflection of the Targaryen strength he had sworn to protect. He nodded slowly, his gaze hardening with renewed resolve. The Queen was dead, but her children lived. His duty remained.
"Aye, Your Highness," Darry said, his voice hoarse. "The ship is ready. We sail with the morning tide, or sooner, if this storm permits."
Viserys looked at the pale, still form of his mother on the bed. A flicker of genuine sorrow, of loss for the gentle woman who had shown him nothing but love in his short, strange second life, touched him. But he ruthlessly suppressed it. There would be time for mourning later, or perhaps never. Survival was the only imperative now.
He then looked at the crying infant in Darry's arms. His sister. Daenerys Stormborn. The future Mother of Dragons, the Breaker of Chains. And, in the original timeline, another victim of his own future pathetic desperation.
Not this time.
A silent vow formed in the core of his being, a vow colder and harder than any Valyrian steel. He would protect her. He would guide her. And together, they would not just survive. They would reclaim what was stolen, not as beggars, but as conquerors. The rage he felt was now channeled, a focused, icy resolve.
The storm raged outside, but within Prince Viserys Targaryen, a different kind of storm had just begun to gather its true strength. The flight from Dragonstone was imminent. The life of a fugitive was about to begin. But this was not the flight of a frightened child. It was the strategic relocation of a king in waiting, a predator regrouping before the hunt. The Beggar King was a ghost of a future that would never be. A new Viserys, forged in loss, armed with secret power and an old, cunning mind, was setting his own pieces on the board. And Essos would be the first stage of his very long game.