Since the Ghost Dragon's birth, Viserys had spent most of his time figuring out what it could actually do.
During the day, with eyes and ears everywhere, he could only communicate with it in his head. But the Ghost Dragon's messages were crystal clear: it needed souls or life energy to feed. Right now, fresh out of the metaphysical egg, it was pathetically weak. If it got more than ten feet away from him, it would just... dissipate. And holding a physical form? Forget about it. Couldn't last more than a few seconds.
"How much do you need to get stronger?" Viserys asked through their mental link.
"Souls or life energy... more is better..." The Ghost Dragon's thoughts were still crude, but smoother than right after it had been born.
Viserys went quiet. He didn't want to kill innocent people. But the Ghost Dragon had to grow—it was his only shot at changing his fate.
Without power, he and his family were screwed. History had already written their ending, and it wasn't pretty.
The opportunity came one afternoon while he was alone in the library.
A sparrow had flown in through an open window and slammed straight into the stained glass. It fell onto the carpet, dazed, one wing bent at a wrong angle. Viserys walked over and crouched down. The little bird's chest heaved rapidly, and yeah, that wing was definitely broken.
The Ghost Dragon sent a wave of intense longing through their connection: "Life... energy..."
Viserys gritted his teeth. He reached out and gently pressed down on the sparrow's body. "Only the energy," he commanded. "Not the soul."
An almost invisible shadow seeped from his fingertips into the bird. The sparrow shuddered violently a few times, then went still. No wounds, no blood—but it shriveled up fast, like all the life had been sucked right out of it.
A faint warmth trickled back into Viserys's chest through the shadow connection. Barely anything. Like taking the world's smallest sip of water. The Ghost Dragon sent back a ripple of satisfaction: "Thank you... Master..."
Viserys stared at the dried-up bird corpse in his hand, and his stomach turned.
But he forced it down. This was the first time, sure. But it wouldn't be the last. In this world, having a soft heart was a death sentence.
He hid the bird's body in a stack of books and went back to reading. That's when he heard footsteps outside the door.
Ser Willem Darry appeared in the doorway.
The Red Keep's master-at-arms wasn't wearing armor today—just simple brown leather and trousers—but the sword at his waist was still there. He looked rough. Bags under his eyes, pale skin, like he hadn't slept in days.
"Your Highness. Her Majesty asked me to check on you. You haven't left your room much in three days."
"I've been reading," Viserys said. Which was true. He'd been devouring every scrap of information he could find about magic, Valyria, dragons—some of the books he'd found through the Ghost Dragon's guidance. Turned out the little guy had inherited fragments of Balerion's memories.
Willem walked over and sat across from him, not saying anything at first. His fingers tapped unconsciously on the table. Nervous habit.
"Has something happened, Ser?" Viserys asked.
Willem was quiet for a moment, like he was weighing his words. "A letter came from Prince Rhaegar. From the Trident."
Viserys sat up straighter.
"The rebel forces are bigger than we expected. The Vale, the North, the Riverlands, the Stormlands..." Willem's voice was heavy. "Combined army's over thirty-five thousand strong."
"The royal army's only got twenty-eight thousand. And morale's..." He trailed off. "Let's just say some of His Majesty's recent orders reached the front lines. The soldiers are talking."
Viserys knew exactly which orders Willem meant. The Mad King was pushing more people toward the rebels every day.
"Can Rhaegar win?" Viserys asked.
Willem didn't answer directly. "Prince Rhaegar is one of the best warriors in the Seven Kingdoms." He paused. "But war isn't just about who swings a sword better."
"Her Majesty is very worried. She asked me..." He stopped, then continued more quietly. "If it becomes necessary, I'm to escort you and Princess Rhaenys out of King's Landing."
Every word landed like a stone.
Viserys looked at him. "Is Mother leaving too?"
Willem shook his head. "Her Majesty won't leave the King. But she wants you—"
He didn't finish. Didn't need to. The meaning was clear: the Targaryens needed to preserve their bloodline, but the King and Queen couldn't run.
The room fell silent.
"How much time do I have?"
Willem glanced at him—a five-year-old shouldn't be asking questions like that, but Targaryens raised in the Red Keep grew up fast. "Hard to say. Could be weeks. Could be months. Maybe longer. War's unpredictable."
"Try to stay in the inner holdfast for now. Don't go to the outer city." He paused. "The city's... not safe."
At the door, he turned back. Hesitated. "You asked me about Valyrian magic the other day. These 'wanderings' of yours—you've been going to the cellars a lot lately, haven't you?"
Viserys nodded. "Sometimes I feel... pulled there."
Willem looked at him for a long moment. "Ancient dragon blood sometimes guides the bloodline where it needs to go, Your Highness. Those cellars beneath Maegor's Holdfast—the 'Shadow Galleries'—that's where Maegor the First practiced his black magic." He paused, like he was choosing his words carefully.
"Forgotten places are dangerous. Even for adults. Be careful."
It was both an admission and a warning.
"I understand," Viserys said.
After Willem left, Viserys processed the information. Evacuation plans were moving forward. Time was running out. And Willem's last words... was that a warning? Or a hint?
He decided to take a gamble.
That night, the sleepwalking "happened" again.
Eyes blank, wearing just his pajamas, he walked out of his room. The two guards on duty immediately fell into step behind him. But this time, Viserys didn't head toward the sealed cellar entrance near the kitchens. Instead, guided by some invisible "echo," he turned down a rarely-used corridor and stopped in front of a wall covered with an old tapestry. His hand moved on its own, pushing a loose stone—behind it was the entrance to a narrow ventilation shaft. The guards were surprised but, given the prince's past wandering, they just stayed outside, listening to him crawl through the darkness.
Viserys's awareness snapped back once he was inside the passage. Using the Ghost Dragon's newly developed shadow manipulation, he imagined his shadow extending outward. A few seconds later, pale grey mist coated his fingertips—shadow made manifest. The mist touched the shadow of the vent's iron bars, and the physical bars clicked softly. He pushed, and they swung open just enough for him to squeeze through.
He ended up near the cellars again, slipping in through a crack in the wall.
This time, he wanted to test the Ghost Dragon's combat abilities.
He let the Ghost Dragon leave the mental space and materialize. Four-foot wingspan, translucent body—completely invisible in the dark.
"Go find food. But don't alert anyone."
The Ghost Dragon turned into thin mist and seeped through a door crack. Viserys closed his eyes and shared its perception—
The mist spread through the passage, flowing past stacked barrels. Around a corner, it sensed life: three rats. The mist enveloped them.
The lights went out. Faint energy flowed back. The Ghost Dragon sent satisfaction, its form solidifying just a tiny bit.
The mist continued deeper into the underground passages. The air here was older, sulfurous.
The Ghost Dragon suddenly sent a pulse of alertness.
Stronger life signatures ahead. Two humans.
The mist crept closer, and the perception sharpened: two men hiding in an abandoned storage room. One dozing, one awake and holding a dagger. Not guards. Not servants.
Through the shared perception, Viserys caught fragments of their conversation:
"...Tomorrow midnight... west gate shift change..."
"You sure the kid's gonna pass through?"
"The Queen takes him to the garden every evening... same route every time..."
They were talking about him.
The Ghost Dragon sent an inquiry: "Devour?"
Viserys hesitated. These were humans. Not rats.
But they were enemies. If they succeeded, he'd die. So would his mother. So would Rhaenys.
His past life's morality tugged at him. But this life's reality was colder.
"Devour the awake one. Fast and quiet."
The Ghost Dragon's mist descended from the ceiling, wrapping around the man's head.
The man looked up sharply. "What—" He stiffened mid-word and slumped over.
The life signature went out.
Energy surged back, ten times stronger than the sparrow. Warmth flooded into his chest, making that second heart beat harder. Along with the energy came fragmented memories:
—A hooded man handing over a purse of coins.
—"The silver-haired boy in the Red Keep... dead or alive..."
—"Go to the Rotten Apple in Flea Bottom after you're done... find Scarface..."
Viserys understood.
Someone had hired assassins for his life.
The dozing man woke up, saw his companion collapsed, and grabbed his sword in panic. "Who's there?!"
The Ghost Dragon's mist lunged.
But this time it wasn't smooth. The man swung wildly, blade churning through the mist. The Ghost Dragon sent a ripple of pain—it was still weak, and a conscious opponent was harder to take down.
Viserys gritted his teeth and focused all his will. "Interfere with his consciousness!"
The Ghost Dragon's mist seeped into the man's eyes.
His movements faltered. His eyes glazed over. Fear twisted his face. "No... stay back... the shadows... the shadows are moving..."
He was seeing things that weren't there.
The Ghost Dragon wrapped around his head. A few seconds later, the second man fell.
More energy flowed back, stronger because it carried the emotion of fear. The Ghost Dragon sent joyful satisfaction: "Growth... more..."
Viserys felt the mental space expand slightly. The Ghost Dragon's wingspan seemed to grow by half an inch. Information about a new ability flooded in:
Mental interference increased. Can now implant simple fear hallucinations, lasting about ten seconds.
Good enough.
Viserys recalled the Ghost Dragon. The mist returned, merging into his chest. Exhaustion hit him hard—using the ability drained his mental strength—but it was way better than three days ago. As the Ghost Dragon grew, the cost decreased.
He checked the corpses. No external wounds, but they'd shriveled up like they'd been dead for weeks. He dragged them into a corner and covered them with rags. They wouldn't be found for a while.
Then he found an iron plaque in one man's coat. It had a design carved into it: a hand holding a dagger.
The mark of the Assassins' Guild.
Someone had hired professionals through official channels. This wasn't improvised—this was planned.
Viserys pocketed the plaque and started heading back. As he crawled into the ventilation shaft, he froze.
Someone was in the passage ahead.
Not the two men from before. These footsteps were lighter. Steadier. And they'd stopped too, like they were listening.
Viserys held his breath.
In the darkness, he heard the faint sound of metal—
A dagger being drawn.
More than one person. At least three, maybe four. Lying in wait in this secret passage. And they knew he'd be coming through.
The Ghost Dragon sent warning: "Danger... multiple..."
Viserys's hand went to the small knife in his coat.
But then a familiar voice rang out from the other end of the passage, calm and cold:
"Drop your weapons and back off. I can pretend I didn't see you tonight."
It was Ser Willem Darry.
Viserys's heart pounded. Why was Willem here? Had he been following? Or was this coincidence?
Brief sounds of fighting—metal clashing, muffled groans, heavy thuds. Then silence.
Willem's voice came again, closer this time: "Your Highness. You can come out. It's safe."
Viserys hesitated, then crawled out of the shaft.
Willem stood in the storage room with three bodies at his feet. No blood—all their necks had been snapped. Clean. Efficient. He held his sword, the tip dripping with blood that wasn't his own.
"Ser," Viserys said. "How did you—"
"I've been keeping an eye on your wanderings, Your Highness." Willem cut him off, sheathing his sword. His gaze swept over Viserys's dust-covered pajamas and his tired but unusually clear face. "Especially when your routes started involving... certain special areas. Her Majesty is worried. And not just about your safety."
He crouched down to check if Viserys was hurt. Then his gaze fell on the area below Viserys's collar—where the dragon-shaped mark was.
Willem's hand paused.
"The 'echoes' in the cellar... they responded to you, didn't they?" His voice was very soft.
Viserys didn't deny it. No point. Willem clearly knew more than he was letting on.
"Doesn't matter." Willem stood up and brushed dust off himself. "But you need to understand something, Your Highness. Ancient power comes with an ancient price. You look drained, and that's not without reason. Responding too deeply to these 'echoes' will erode your vital essence."
He paused, glancing toward the deeper passage where the two assassins' dried corpses were hidden. "And if what you just did were discovered, you'd be burned as a dark sorcerer. Prince or not."
"They were going to kill me," Viserys said.
"I know. There are plenty in the Red Keep who'd love to use a Targaryen head as a letter of recommendation to the rebels. But you can't do everything yourself, Your Highness. You need allies. More importantly, you need leverage."
He took Viserys's hand. "Come on. Let's go back. I'll handle the bodies."
"Ser... why are you helping me?" Viserys asked the question that had been gnawing at him.
Willem stopped and looked back. In the dim light, the master-at-arms's face showed complex emotions.
"I've served the Targaryens for forty years, Your Highness. I watched King Aerys grow up. Watched Prince Rhaegar be born. Watched you learn to walk." His voice was rough, carrying weight. "This family may be mad. May be arrogant. But it's the rightful ruler of Westeros. And you..."
He looked at Viserys intently:
"You're different from them. Your 'wanderings' might be ancient echoes, but I don't see madness in your eyes. I see clear-headed choices. A clarity no five-year-old should have. So I thought... maybe you can walk a different path."
Willem turned and kept walking.
"But remember this, Your Highness. Power needs control. Secrets need guarding. Don't expose yourself before you're truly strong. I'll help you, but you need to learn to hide."
They made it back to the area near Viserys's room. The guards didn't suspect anything when they saw Ser Willem escorting the prince.
Before leaving, Willem said one last thing:
"Three days from now, after evening, if you 'feel' the need to visit the cellar again, I'll make sure there are no extra eyes on that route. There are some records about the altar... perhaps you should 'see' them."
The door closed.
Viserys lay on his bed, his consciousness sinking into the Ghost Dragon's space. The Ghost Dragon curled there, radiating satisfaction and growth. It had gotten stronger—wingspan nearly five feet now, mist thicker, mental interference ability improved.
But Willem's words echoed in his head: Price. Erosion of vital essence. Hiding.
Viserys touched his chest. The second heart beat steadily, but every beat felt like a countdown.
He needed to get stronger faster. Needed to gain enough power to change his fate before the price consumed what was left of his life.
And what was this "true use" Willem had mentioned? What would it be?
Outside the window, King's Landing's night was black as ink.
In a corner of the city, at the Rotten Apple tavern in Flea Bottom, a man with a scar on his face waited until dawn. The people he was expecting never showed.
He cursed, smashed his cup, and got up to leave.
The message had to go back: mission failed. The target's strange.
And at that moment, deep in the Red Keep, Mad King Aerys jolted awake from a nightmare, screaming "The shadows are eating me!" He knocked over a candlestick, setting the bed curtains on fire.
The firelight lit up his mad eyes—and the twisted, writhing shadows on the wall that seemed almost alive.
A new day was coming.
The sleepwalker would continue his wanderings.
And the game in the shadows had only just begun.
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