The air inside the Red Door estate was stifling that evening, thick with unspoken dread.
In the sickroom, the stench of herbs clung to every breath. A once-mighty knight now lay powerless — Ser Willem Darry, pale as linen, his chest rising in shallow, trembling motions. His sword and longbow, relics of valor, hung untouched on the wall, their glory long since dulled by dust.
The Braavosi doctor glanced at his patient's dimmed eyes, then sighed and shook his head. "My skills are of no use now," he said quietly. "The gods have reclaimed the flame of this old warrior."
He was intrigued by Viserys's silver hair and violet eyes — rare even in Braavos — but assumed he was a distant relative of the Lyseni. The thought that this boy was a Targaryen never crossed his mind.
"Thank you for your kindness," Viserys murmured, slipping a silver coin into the man's palm — a coin embossed with the helm of the Titan of Braavos.
The steward's eyes flickered, hunger gleaming behind them. He knew Ser Willem would soon be dead; his greed was no longer something he bothered to hide.
Rhaenys saw it too. Clever child that she was, she kept her expression composed. Viserys's glance toward the steward was nearly imperceptible, but it carried a promise — your death is already decided.
If the servants stole their last hoard of coins, the three of them — himself, Rhaenys, and little Daenerys — would be destitute. There'd be no crown, no comfort, not even shelter. They'd truly become beggars.
The doctor slipped away after offering one final warning: "At this rate, he'll be gone by noon tomorrow. Perhaps it's a mercy."
It sounded like a clock ticking down — and for Viserys, that meant the game had entered its final stage.
When he returned to Ser Willem's chamber, the sun had fallen completely. Whale-oil candles lit the room in a steady glow, their light a small luxury in so poor a household. The faded Myrish carpet beneath his feet told a quieter story — one of fallen royalty now living off memories.
Rhaenys sat by the bed with tear-streaked cheeks, holding Daenerys's trembling hand. The air smelled sweet and rotten — the scent of herbs losing their battle with decay.
The old knight burned with fever, his breath rattling softly. "He can only take watered wine or a bit of heated lemon water," Rhaenys whispered.
In the next room, the servants waited — the steward, the laundress, the cook. Not out of loyalty, but fear. Once the lion on the bed stopped breathing, they'd pounce. The moment the body cooled, they'd empty the drawers and flee.
Viserys sat beside the dying knight, a thin boy crumbling under too much grief. The steward watched him from the doorway, convinced the boy's spirit had broken completely.
Patience was easy when one believed victory was certain.
Hours crawled past. Silence weighed heavy.
"Your Grace," the steward said finally, voice smooth and practiced, "you've all done so much. Perhaps the cook could bring you something warm? A bowl of soup, maybe."
Viserys nodded, calm. The plan was ready. "That's kind of you. Use the buttered mushroom broth I set aside. Everything's already been prepared."
"Of course, Your Grace." The steward turned to the cook. "Go on, then."
"It's late," the woman muttered. "The old knight's already half-dead. What are we waiting for?"
"Go," the steward snapped, squeezing her hip as he passed — ugly, hollow affection for sins soon to be punished.
She sighed and trudged to the kitchen.
When she was gone, Viserys said gently, "You and the others should have some first. We've no appetite."
"My lord, we couldn't," the steward protested — but his grin betrayed him. "Well, if you insist…"
"You've all worked hard," said Viserys.
"Meow." The one-eared black cat — Balerion — slipped into the kitchen unnoticed, a silent witness with glowing green eyes.
Rhaenys brushed her fingers against Viserys's palm — the agreed-upon signal. All according to plan.
If I don't eat them... they'll eat me, Viserys thought, pulse racing. His body was still weak, but cunning could serve where strength could not.
For months, he had quietly studied cooking, experimented with ingredients, and earned the servants' trust by feigning obsession with gourmet meals. Tonight, it would all pay off.
The blood-speckled mushrooms — spotted like coagulated wine — were mixed among the white caps and oxtail chunks. The cook, dull and distracted, had noticed nothing.
She prepared the buttered mushroom broth with habitual ease. Its scent soon filled the air — warm, creamy, intoxicating. A dish fit to end a night... or a life.
When it was ready, the servants gathered eagerly, spoons in hand. The cook herself took the first taste, sighing with pleasure.
"Delicious. Just delicious," she said. The steward and laundress followed, scooping generous mouths of the rich soup.
From the corner, the cat's green eyes gleamed as it watched them feast.
Rhaenys gave a slow nod. Viserys exhaled.
In the sickroom, Ser Willem's broken voice called out suddenly, "Wine… the one I kept… bring it to me…"
He wanted not rare Arbor gold nor Dorne's summer wine, but something humbler — a bottle from the Riverlands, sharp and sour, that tasted of home.
Viserys found it quickly and poured a cup. Ser Willem drank with trembling hands. "Good… good wine," he murmured. "I only wish I could still see your face, my king… or my little princess…" His words faded into a quiet sigh.
Viserys stared into his cup. The wine was bitter, like tears.
Then came the noise.
Clang!
A brass bowl hit the floor.
The steward's face went pale. His veins pulsed painfully along his neck; his heart pounded like a war drum. The cook clawed at her throat, gasping, but nothing came out.
And as the poison spread, the Red Door estate finally fell silent — except for a boy's quiet, steady breathing.