Chapter 37: The Dragon's Peace and the Whispers of Rebellion
The conquest of King's Landing, achieved with a speed and brutality that shocked even the hardened veterans of the Phoenix Company, had left the city a smoldering ruin of its former glory. The Red Keep, its ancient stones scarred by dragonfire, its halls echoing with the screams of the fallen Lannisters, now bore the stark, triumphant banners of House Targaryen: the three-headed black dragon on a field of blood red. Viserys Targaryen, Third of His Name, sat upon the Iron Throne, that monstrous, uncomfortable seat of power, not with a sense of triumph, but with a cold, calculating weariness. The thrill of battle had faded, replaced by the grim realities of occupation and the immense, daunting task of forging a shattered kingdom into a weapon for his ultimate goal: the reconquest of Westeros.
Daenerys, his sister, now a young woman of seventeen, moved through the ravaged city like a spectral presence, her beauty a stark contrast to the surrounding carnage. She had witnessed the dragons unleashed, had felt the heat of their breath, the earth-shaking force of their power. The experience had changed her. The innocent girl who had played with wooden toys in Braavos was gone, replaced by a Targaryen princess tempered in fire and blood, her violet eyes now holding a chilling mixture of compassion and ruthless resolve. She had taken upon herself the task of tending to the wounded, both Phoenix Company soldiers and the terrified survivors of the city's populace, her touch surprisingly gentle, her voice a soothing balm amidst the chaos. The smallfolk, initially paralyzed by fear, began to whisper her name with a mixture of awe and hope: "Daenerys Stormborn," "the Dragon Queen," "the Bringer of Mercy."
Viserys, however, knew that mercy alone would not win him a throne. He had to consolidate his power, secure his hard-won gains, and establish a semblance of order in a city teetering on the brink of anarchy. The surviving members of the Gold Cloaks, leaderless and terrified, were quickly disarmed and reorganized under the command of Draq, whose Shadow Legionnaires enforced a brutal curfew, their obsidian weapons a constant reminder of the new regime. Looting and violence, rampant in the immediate aftermath of the assault, were met with swift, merciless justice. Viserys understood that a city consumed by chaos was useless to him. He needed its resources, its manpower, its strategic location.
The Red Keep itself was a charnel house. The bodies of Lannister soldiers, household guards, and even a few members of the Kingsguard lay strewn throughout its halls and courtyards, their armor twisted, their flesh charred by dragonfire. The stench of death and burning stone permeated the air. Viserys, his face a mask of cold detachment, ordered their removal and the cleansing of the castle, a task undertaken by terrified survivors under the watchful eyes of the Shadow Legion. The Iron Throne, however, was cleaned and made ready. It was his by right of conquest, and he would occupy it, not as a conqueror, but as a king returning to his rightful place.
The fate of the captured Lannisters was a more delicate matter. Cersei, stripped of her power and her beauty diminished by fear and imprisonment, was confined to Maegor's Holdfast under heavy guard. Her venomous tongue was silenced, for now, but Viserys knew she was a viper, capable of striking even in chains. He needed her alive, at least initially, as a bargaining chip, a hostage to control her remaining allies.
The fate of Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, was a more complex calculation. He had not been present during the assault on the Red Keep, having been engaged in a desperate rearguard action against Robb Stark's forces in the Riverlands. News of his father's death and the fall of King's Landing reached him with devastating force. Kipp's agents, shadowing Jaime's movements, reported that the Kingslayer had broken his truce with Robb Stark and was now marching south with a vengeful fury, his red-cloaked Lannister knights a force to be reckoned with.
Viserys knew he could not afford to ignore this new threat. Jaime Lannister, despite his arrogance and his reputation as a "golden fool," was a skilled and ruthless commander. A direct confrontation, while his dragons gave him a significant advantage, would be costly. He needed a subtler approach.
"Lord Lannister will seek to avenge his father," Viserys said to his assembled council in the Red Keep's war room, his voice calm but laced with a dangerous undercurrent. "He will come for King's Landing, burning with rage and desperation. We must use that rage against him."
His plan, as always, was intricate and ruthless. He would send a small, heavily armed force, led by Draq and supported by two of the Firewyrms, Terrax and Tempest, to intercept Jaime's advancing army. Their mission was not to engage in a pitched battle, but to harass, to disrupt, to sow chaos and fear, and to lure Jaime into a trap of Viserys's own devising.
He also sent ravens to Robb Stark, offering a temporary truce and a potential alliance against their common enemy, the Lannisters. The message, penned by Archivist in impeccable Westerosi script, was carefully worded, hinting at the power of dragons and the strategic advantages of a coordinated attack, while subtly flattering the Young Wolf's pride and appealing to his own desire for vengeance. Viserys knew Robb Stark was a proud and wary man, unlikely to trust a Targaryen easily. But the prospect of crushing the Lannisters, and the undeniable reality of Viserys's military strength, might prove too tempting to resist.
Kiera Redfin, meanwhile, was tasked with securing the Blackwater Bay and establishing a naval blockade. She was given command of the Phoenix Fleet, now augmented by several captured Lannister galleys. Her orders were simple: prevent any Lannister ships from reinforcing King's Landing or escaping its grasp, and to harass any coastal settlements that remained loyal to the Iron Throne. Viserys knew Kiera's corsairs would relish this opportunity for plunder and mayhem, and their brutality would serve as a chilling reminder to any who dared to defy him.
While his forces moved to implement his strategy, Viserys turned his attention to the Red Keep itself. He had no intention of inhabiting the fortress as a king ruling in peace. He saw it for what it truly was: a strategic stronghold, a symbol of power, and a potential deathtrap. He tasked Xaro Xhandar with a complete structural assessment of the Red Keep, identifying its strengths, its weaknesses, and any hidden passages or vulnerabilities that could be exploited or defended. He also ordered a thorough search for any remaining caches of wildfire, a weapon he both respected and feared.
Lyra of Lys, meanwhile, was given a grim task: to examine the bodies of the slain Kingsguard knights for any signs of magical or alchemical enhancements. Alistair Finch's historical knowledge of Westerosi history was vague on the details, but he knew that the Kingsguard, particularly in recent years, had sometimes been more than just skilled warriors. Lyra's findings were unsettling. Several of the slain knights bore subtle, almost undetectable, alchemical augmentations: increased strength, heightened pain tolerance, and a disturbing resistance to fire. This confirmed Viserys's suspicions: the Lannisters, and perhaps other factions in Westeros, were not ignorant of the power of magic.
Daenerys, as always, was his closest confidante, his most trusted advisor. She spent hours exploring the Red Keep, drawn to its ancient stones, its hidden chambers, its echoes of Targaryen glory and tragedy. Her dragon dreams intensified, becoming almost overwhelming in the presence of the Red Keep's dark history. She spoke of whispers in the walls, of bloodstains that still burned with a psychic residue, of a malevolent presence lurking in the depths of the Iron Throne itself. She seemed to sense the Red Keep's vulnerabilities, its hidden strengths, its secrets, with an almost supernatural clarity.
"This place, brother," she said one evening, as they stood in the torchlit Great Hall, the shadows dancing on the Iron Throne's jagged edges, "it is not just a castle. It is a wound, a place of pain and betrayal. It remembers the dragons, but it does not welcome them. We must cleanse it, Vizzy. We must make it our own."
Viserys looked at his sister, at the unearthly beauty of her face, illuminated by the flickering torchlight, at the terrifying power that seemed to emanate from her very being. He knew she was no longer just his little sister; she was a force of nature, a living embodiment of the Targaryen fire, and her instincts, however unsettling, were not to be ignored.
He decided to use the Red Keep's dark history to his advantage. He would not occupy it as a conquering king, flaunting his power. He would approach it as a Targaryen returning to his ancestral home, a cleansing fire to purge its tainted past. He ordered a solemn, almost ritualistic, ceremony to be held in the Great Hall. The bodies of the slain, both Lannister and Targaryen, were to be laid out before the Iron Throne. Incense was burned, ancient Valyrian hymns were chanted (by Daenerys, her voice strangely resonant), and Viserys himself, clad in his obsidian-steel armor, his face a mask of grim determination, pronounced a formal judgment upon the fallen, condemning the Usurpers and reclaiming the Red Keep in the name of House Targaryen. It was a calculated display of power and legitimacy, designed to impress both his followers and any potential Westerosi allies who might be swayed by tradition and spectacle.
While this ceremony was underway, Shadowfoot's agents, acting on Daenerys's cryptic guidance, discovered a hidden passage beneath the Red Keep's dungeons, a long-forgotten tunnel that led directly to the city's sewer system. It was a dangerous, filthy route, but it offered a potential backdoor into the Red Keep, bypassing its heavily fortified gates. Viserys immediately tasked Draq and a company of Shadow Legionnaires with exploring and securing this subterranean passage.
The reports from his far-flung operatives continued to pour in. Kiera Redfin's Corsair Wing was wreaking havoc along the Westerlands coast, burning Lannisport's harbor, capturing merchant ships, and sowing terror among the Lannister bannermen. This was drawing Lannister forces away from King's Landing, weakening their defenses, but it also risked alienating potential allies who might see Viserys as just another brutal reaver.
Kipp's network in King's Landing reported that the city was a powder keg, its populace starving, its Gold Cloaks increasingly unreliable, its factions seething with resentment against the Lannisters. Varys, his influence over the city's undercurrents still potent, was subtly fanning these flames, waiting to see which way the wind would blow.
From the Riverlands, however, came more troubling news. Robb Stark, enraged by Jaime Lannister's betrayal and the news of a Targaryen landing, had abandoned his southern campaign and was marching his northern army towards King's Landing, his stated intention to avenge his father's death and claim justice for the North. He had also sent ravens to Dragonstone, offering Stannis Baratheon a temporary truce and a joint assault on the capital. The wolves and the stags, it seemed, were willing to unite against the dragon.
Viserys received this news with a grim satisfaction. The Game of Thrones was indeed heating up, and he was now at its center. He had achieved his initial objective: he had a foothold in Westeros, a powerful army, and the terrifying might of his dragons. But he was now facing a two-front war against formidable, and very different, enemies: the Lannisters, entrenched in King's Landing, and the combined forces of the North and Dragonstone, marching to claim the city for themselves.
He convened his War Council once more in the Red Keep's solar, the map of Westeros now marked with the positions of his enemies and allies, a grim tableau of impending conflict.
"The wolves and the stags," Viserys said, his voice calm but with an undercurrent of steel, "seek to carve up the carcass of the lion. Let them come. Let them bleed each other white. We will not be drawn into their petty squabbles. Our destiny lies not in fighting for scraps, but in seizing the whole feast."
He then outlined his most audacious gambit yet, a plan that would test the limits of his strategic genius, his dragons' power, and the loyalty of his followers. He would not defend King's Landing against the approaching armies. He would abandon it, leaving it as a poisoned prize for his enemies, and instead, strike at a far more vulnerable, and far more strategically significant, target: Dragonstone.
"Stannis Baratheon," Viserys declared, his violet eyes burning with a terrifying fire, "believes he holds the key to Westeros. He believes his claim is righteous, that his fleet is invincible, that Dragonstone is impregnable. He is wrong. Dragonstone is our birthright, our ancestral seat. And it will be our springboard to victory. We will lure him from his fortress, draw him into a battle of our choosing, and break him. His fleet, his army, his claim – all will be consumed by dragonfire."
The plan was a calculated risk of immense proportions. It would mean abandoning King's Landing, ceding it, at least temporarily, to his enemies. It would mean leaving the vast wealth and resources of the city behind. It would mean facing Stannis Baratheon, a proven military commander, on his own ground. But Viserys saw it as the only path to true, lasting victory. Dragonstone was not just a castle; it was a symbol, a potent reminder of Targaryen legitimacy. To hold it was to hold the keys to the Narrow Sea, to control the sea lanes between Westeros and Essos, and to strike a devastating psychological blow to any who dared to challenge his claim.
He would use the dragons. He would use the Shadow Legion. He would use every weapon at his disposal, both seen and unseen. He would unleash the full, terrifying power of the Phoenix Company, not to defend a conquered city, but to seize his destiny. The game of thrones had entered its final, bloodiest act. And Viserys Targaryen, the Last Dragon, was about to make his most audacious, most terrifying, move.
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Final response to user: Chapter 37: The Dragon's Fury: Storming Dragonstone
The air in the war room of the Red Keep, hastily repurposed from a Lannister solar, crackled with a tension that was almost palpable. Maps of the Narrow Sea and Dragonstone, hastily copied by Archivist from the Red Keep's own archives, lay spread across the table, illuminated by the flickering light of torches that cast long, dancing shadows on the faces of Viserys's gathered commanders. The victory at King's Landing, though stunningly swift and decisive, was already fading into the background, eclipsed by the even more audacious gambit Viserys was about to propose.
Daenerys, her silver-gold hair a halo around her pale, determined face, stood beside him, her violet eyes burning with a fire that mirrored his own. Her connection to the dragons, now fully grown and terrifyingly powerful, was more than just a bond; it was an extension of her very will, a conduit for the ancient, destructive magic that thrummed in her Targaryen blood. Captain Valerion Qo, his weathered face etched with the grim pragmatism of a seasoned sailor, studied the charts with a wary respect. Draq, Marshal of the Shadow Legion, his obsidian armor gleaming in the torchlight, remained impassive, his loyalty absolute, his men a silent, deadly force ready to unleash at Viserys's command. Even Kiera Redfin, her usual swagger replaced by a focused intensity, seemed to sense the gravity of the moment.
"We cannot hold King's Landing," Viserys declared, his voice resonating with an authority that brooked no dissent. "Not yet. Not against the combined might of Stannis Baratheon and the North. To bleed ourselves white defending this city would be to squander the advantage we have won. Our true strength lies not in stone walls and siege engines, but in fire and speed, in the dragons that are our birthright, and in the Shadow Legion, whose loyalty is absolute."
He gestured towards the maps. "Our objective is not to hold, but to strike. To cripple our most immediate and dangerous foe before he can consolidate his power. Stannis Baratheon believes himself the rightful king. He believes Dragonstone is impregnable. He believes his fleet can control the Narrow Sea. He is wrong. We will make him see his error, in a way that will resonate throughout Westeros."
His plan, codenamed "Operation Dragon's Fury," was a testament to his ruthless strategic acumen and his growing, almost reckless, confidence in the power of his dragons. They would abandon King's Landing, leaving behind a token force of Phoenix Guard to maintain order and hold the Red Keep (a decision that made even the pragmatic Ledger blanch), and launch a full-scale assault on Dragonstone.
"We will leave King's Landing to the wolves and the lions," Viserys continued, his gaze sweeping over his commanders. "Let them fight over the carcass while we seize the true prize. Dragonstone is not just a fortress; it is a symbol. It is the ancestral seat of House Targaryen, a place of immense strategic importance, and the source of Stannis Baratheon's legitimacy. To take it from him, to claim it as our own, is to strike a blow at the very heart of his claim and to send a message to all of Westeros: the dragons have returned, and they have come for their home."
The logistics of such an audacious undertaking were daunting, but Viserys had anticipated them. The Phoenix Fleet, under Valerion's command, would transport the bulk of the Shadow Legion, along with siege engineers and supplies, directly to Dragonstone, bypassing Stannis's fleet by utilizing a series of carefully scouted, less-defended landing sites on the island's western coast. Kiera Redfin's Corsair Wing, augmented by several captured Lannister galleys, would act as a diversionary force, raiding Stannis's holdings along the coast of the Stormlands, drawing his attention and his ships away from Dragonstone.
The dragons, however, were the key to Viserys's strategy. He knew that the island fortress, built of black stone and fire-resistant materials, was designed to withstand prolonged sieges. A conventional assault would be costly, bloody, and time-consuming. But conventional warfare was no longer their primary weapon.
"We will break Dragonstone not with swords and siege engines," Viserys declared, his voice rising with a terrible exultation, "but with fire and blood. Daenerys and I will lead the assault. We will unleash the full fury of Balerion, Rhaegal, and Viserion upon its walls and its fleet. The Firewyrms, Terrax, Tempest, and Obsidian, will support the Shadow Legion's landing, clearing the beaches and shattering any resistance. Stannis Baratheon believes he can withstand us behind his ancient stones. He will learn the true meaning of dragonfire."
The plan was audacious, bordering on reckless, but it was also a gamble Viserys felt compelled to take. He knew Stannis Baratheon was a formidable opponent, a skilled commander, and a man of unshakeable resolve. But he also knew that Stannis was driven by a rigid sense of duty and a fanatical belief in his own righteousness, weaknesses that Viserys intended to exploit. By directly challenging Stannis on his own turf, by confronting him with the undeniable power of dragons, Viserys would force him to make a choice: to stand and fight, and be consumed by fire, or to bend the knee and acknowledge the true king.
The preparations for "Operation Dragon's Fury" were a whirlwind of activity. Xaro Xhandar, working with his usual frenetic energy, oversaw the loading of siege engines and supplies onto the transports, his Qartheen ingenuity finding ways to maximize space and efficiency. Lyra of Lys prepared vast quantities of wildfire-resistant salves and antidotes for the Shadow Legionnaires and Phoenix Guard who would be fighting in the dragons' fiery wake. Archivist compiled detailed maps of Dragonstone, highlighting its defenses, its known weaknesses, and any potential escape routes.
Viserys himself spent hours with Daenerys, practicing aerial combat maneuvers with the dragons, their bond now a terrifying symphony of shared will and draconic power. He had learned to anticipate their movements, to guide their fiery breath with subtle commands, to use their immense size and speed to maximum effect. Daenerys, her control over Rhaegal and Viserion equally absolute, had developed a chillingly effective method of coordinating their attacks, her voice, when she spoke to them in High Valyrian, carrying an almost supernatural authority.
The Shadow Legion, their obsidian weapons gleaming, their dark armor a symbol of their unwavering loyalty, underwent a final, brutal training exercise, a simulated assault on a mock-up of Dragonstone's walls constructed from volcanic rock and timber. Draq and Morrec drove them relentlessly, instilling in them the discipline and ruthlessness they would need to face Stannis Baratheon's hardened veterans.
As the Phoenix Armada prepared to set sail, Viserys stood with Daenerys on the deck of the Balerion, gazing westward towards the distant, storm-wreathed silhouette of Dragonstone. The six dragons, their wings casting long shadows over the assembled fleet, seemed to sense the impending conflict, their roars echoing the thunder in the distance.
"This is it, sister," Viserys said, his voice a low rumble. "The moment we have been preparing for. The final reckoning with the Usurper's line. Westeros will either burn, or it will bend the knee."
Daenerys met his gaze, her violet eyes burning with a fierce, almost fanatical light. "Let it burn, brother," she whispered. "And let the ashes pave the way for the true king."
The Phoenix Armada set sail under a sky heavy with impending storm, its black sails billowing like the wings of a monstrous predator. The Balerion, with Viserys and Daenerys at its helm, led the way, the six dragons circling protectively overhead, their roars a promise of fire and blood to a world that had forgotten the terror of their kind. The Dragon's Wake had reached its crescendo. The Dragon's Fury was about to be unleashed. And the fate of Westeros, and the Iron Throne itself, would be decided on the black shores of Dragonstone.
The assault on Dragonstone was a spectacle of terrifying, almost biblical, proportions. The Phoenix Armada, shielded by a sudden, unnatural fog that seemed to coalesce around them at Daenerys's unspoken urging, appeared as if from nowhere off the island's western coast. Kiera Redfin's Corsair Wing, their smaller, swifter vessels darting through the waves like predatory fish, engaged Stannis's outmatched fleet in a brutal, chaotic melee, their grappling hooks and firepots wreaking havoc on the larger, more cumbersome Baratheon galleys.
But the true horror was reserved for Dragonstone itself. As the first rays of dawn pierced the storm clouds, revealing the black, brooding fortress perched atop its volcanic crag, Viserys unleashed his dragons. Balerion, Rhaegal, and Viserion, their wings beating like the thunder of a thousand drums, descended upon the castle walls, their fiery breath turning stone to molten slag, incinerating archers and catapult crews in a single, devastating blast. The Firewyrms, Terrax, Tempest, and Obsidian, followed, their elemental fury unleashing a different kind of terror. Terrax's roars shattered the fortified gates, his earth-shaking tread crumbling sections of the ancient walls. Tempest summoned a howling, gale-force wind that tore at Stannis's banners and scattered his defenders. Obsidian, sleek and black as a nightmare, used his corrosive spittle to melt through the iron portcullis, creating a gaping breach for the Shadow Legion to pour through.
The Shadow Legion, led by Draq and Morrec, stormed the shattered walls with a fanatical zeal, their obsidian weapons carving a bloody path through Stannis's shocked and terrified garrison. The defenders, hardened veterans though they were, had never faced anything like the disciplined, relentless fury of the Shadow Legion, nor the overwhelming, apocalyptic power of dragons. They fought bravely, but they were outmatched, outgunned, and utterly demoralized by the sheer, terrifying spectacle of their attackers.
Viserys, riding Balerion, surveyed the carnage from above, his face a mask of cold, almost detached, command. He directed the dragons' fire with precision, targeting key defensive positions, shattering resistance, and ensuring that no part of the fortress remained safe from their wrath. Daenerys, on Rhaegal, flew alongside him, her voice, when she spoke to the dragons in High Valyrian, carrying an almost supernatural authority.
Below them, the battle raged. The Shadow Legion, their dark armor stained with blood, fought their way through the castle's winding corridors and courtyards, their obsidian blades meeting steel in a brutal, claustrophobic dance of death. Draq, a whirlwind of lethal efficiency, cut down Stannis's most trusted commanders, his obsidian greatsword a blur of black fire. Morrec, a silent, implacable juggernaut, cleared hallways with his earth-shaking roars and his bone-shattering blows.
Stannis Baratheon, clad in his simple, functional armor, his face a grim mask of disbelief and fury, fought with a desperate courage, rallying his men, attempting to organize a defense. But even his legendary stoicism began to crack before the onslaught of dragonfire and the relentless advance of the Shadow Legion. He looked up at Viserys, circling overhead on Balerion, his violet eyes burning with a cold, triumphant light, and seemed to finally grasp the full, horrifying reality of his situation.
"You are a madman, Targaryen!" Stannis roared, his voice barely audible above the din of battle. "A monster! You will burn the world for your ambition!"
Viserys, his face set, his Valyrian steel sword dripping with Lannister blood, simply looked down at him, his expression devoid of pity or remorse. "I am a king, Stannis Baratheon," he said, his voice amplified by Balerion's resonant growl. "And I have come home."
The final confrontation was swift and brutal. Stannis, surrounded by a dwindling circle of his most loyal knights, fought with a desperate, doomed ferocity. But the Shadow Legion, their discipline absolute, their numbers overwhelming, were unstoppable. They cut down Stannis's last defenders, their obsidian blades finding every chink in their armor.
Then, Viserys landed Balerion before the fallen Stag King. Stannis, his armor rent, his face bloody, his eyes burning with a fanatical hatred, refused to yield. He lunged at Viserys with his ancestral greatsword, Ice, its Valyrian steel gleaming in the firelight.
Viserys met him with Dark Sister. The two Valyrian steel blades clashed, a sound like the striking of ancient gods. Viserys, despite his youth, possessed a strength and speed that dwarfed the older, battle-weary Stannis. He parried the Stag King's clumsy blows with contemptuous ease, his movements a blur of deadly grace.
"You cling to a stolen throne, Baratheon," Viserys said, his voice a low, chilling whisper. "You have defied the will of the gods, the blood of my House, and the fire of my dragons. Now, you will pay the price."
With a single, devastating stroke, Viserys disarmed Stannis, his Valyrian steel blade severing the Stag King's hand. Stannis roared in agony, stumbling back. Viserys, his face a mask of cold, Targaryen fury, raised Dark Sister high.
Daenerys, who had watched the duel from Rhaegal's back, her face pale but her eyes filled with a terrible, righteous fire, cried out in High Valyrian. "Dracarys!"
Balerion unleashed a torrent of black fire that engulfed Stannis Baratheon, consuming him in a blaze that left nothing but ash and bone.
The battle for Dragonstone was over. The ancient fortress, after centuries of Baratheon occupation, was once again in Targaryen hands. The fire of the dragon had cleansed it, and the Shadow Legion, their task complete, stood silent and victorious amidst the smoke and the screams of the few surviving defenders who now begged for mercy.
Viserys Targaryen, the Last Dragon, stood on the blood-soaked ramparts of his ancestral home, the wind whipping his silver hair, the roar of his dragons echoing across the Narrow Sea. He had won a stunning, brutal victory. He had broken the power of Stannis Baratheon, one of the most formidable claimants to the Iron Throne. He had reclaimed Dragonstone, the first, crucial step in his campaign to reclaim his birthright.
But as he gazed westward, towards the distant, smoke-wreathed shores of Westeros, he knew that this was just the beginning. The Dragon's Fury had been unleashed, and the world would tremble. The Game of Thrones had entered its final, bloodiest act, and Viserys Targaryen, the Dragon King, was ready to play it to its bitter, fiery end.