c6 – Attempt
Viserys certainly knew that his deliberate confusion would make certain individuals, especially those like Illyrio, prone to overthinking and speculation. Perhaps they would begin to imagine hidden conspiracies or veiled agendas behind his behavior and that was exactly what he wanted. A misdirection. He had another tale in mind, one waiting for Illyrio to slowly unravel. The longer the delay, the more perfect and convincing the fabricated tale could become one that would subtly align with the memories of the original Viserys Targaryen.
This was a natural advantage of a transmigrator. He could craft fictions backwards from known outcomes, interweaving them with the real memories of the host body and enhancing them with plausible paranoia. If he couldn't spin a convincing web of lies to buy time, he might as well resign himself to the original fate: molten gold as a crown.
Still, words alone weren't enough. In Westeros, ambition without strength was a path to death. And right now, his best hope was the dragonbone pendant he had so shamelessly taken from Illyrio.
The pendant was as refined as anything a Pentoshi craftsman might create: a shard of glossy black dragonbone—iron-rich and polished like agate with a gem-studded setting affixed to one end and strung on a silver chain as fine as spider silk. But Viserys had no appreciation for ornamentation. His interest was purely in the bone itself.
His mission his true mission was to "gather." The dragon soul must be fragmented, hidden in these ancient relics. That brush of ethereal sensation when he first touched the pendant it was faint, like the whisper of a feather against his soul but it was real. He was certain of it.
Touch alone wasn't enough. That gentle tickle hadn't returned with repeated contact, suggesting it was tied not to the object alone but to something inside him some buried force or latent resonance.
He had to experiment.
Viserys unsheathed the small dagger he still carried, the only weapon left after selling his sword. Carefully, he nicked his fingertip, allowing a few drops of blood to smear onto the dragonbone.
A classic first test one every transmigrator had read in countless fictions.
Nothing happened. No glow. No absorption. No ancient power stirred in answer.
Undeterred, he raised the pendant to his nose and sniffed.
Then, with a moment's hesitation, he licked it.
The taste was foul metallic, bitter, and strangely sweet. Possibly the iron in the bone. Maybe his own blood. Or perhaps the lacquer used by Braavosi artisans to preserve such relics.
It was reckless. If this test had worked, someone could poison him the same way later. But it didn't work. So, for now, the risk was merely distasteful.
Still chasing a lead, he poured a goblet of Illyrio's table wine a tart, low-alcohol brew favored in the Free Cities. Then he scraped tiny fragments of the bone into it with the dagger, stirred, and drank.
Again, nothing.
He gave up on ingestion entirely. Dragonbone, unlike magical materials from his last world—like the elemental cores from slain monsters—was a mixture of flesh, bone, and ancient sorcery. It wasn't a pure magical element, not something meant to be consumed like elixirs in Hyrule. Here, dragons left behind bones and flesh after death residual, not essence.
If he tried to extract magic by devouring bones, he'd die of indigestion before absorbing anything worthwhile.
He needed mystical methods. In this world where shadowbinders from Asshai could raise shadows, and priests of R'hllor could breathe life into corpses—there had to be ways to draw out a dragon's soul.
For a fleeting moment, he considered boiling the bone. But dragonbone was famed for its resilience to flame Valyrians forged bows and even swords from it. Heat wouldn't reveal its secrets.
Alchemy. That was more promising.
In alchemical logic, perhaps a solvent like alcohol could work. On Earth, ethanol was the go-to for organic extractions. Did maesters or shadowbinders use similar principles? He didn't know, but he scribbled the idea down. If he ever gained access to a lab or even a street alchemist he might try distilling some high-proof spirits.
For now, nothing worked.
Viserys leaned back, brushing his fingertips against the bone. That sensation returned—faint, maddening. Like watching a woman undress behind frosted glass. Enticing, frustrating, unreachable.
"No," he muttered, pulling his hand away.
He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and centered himself.
Patience.
The mission said "gather," not "awaken." And here, in the world of A Song of Ice and Fire, magic was sluggish slumbering since the fall of Valyria, barely stirring until Daenerys's dragons hatched at Khal Drogo's pyre. The red comet was still over a year away.
That meant his frustration was premature.
Back in Hyrule, he had waited years. Years for the Chosen Hero to awaken. Years for Ganondorf's resurrection. He had survived in silence. He could do so again.
Here, according to canon, he and Daenerys would remain under Illyrio's roof for half a year, before joining the Dothraki for nearly a year more. Then the comet would blaze across the sky, heralding change.
He had time at least a year and a half.
He placed the pendant on the table and stared at it in silence.
There was a dragon soul inside. He was sure of it.
And when the world awakened… so would he.
Here, Viserys found himself dealing with Illyrio Mopatis, a corpulent magister of Pentos with a famously silver tongue and an even more famously hidden agenda. And behind Illyrio stood another shadow Varys, the so-called Spider, whose invisible threads stretched across the known world. Together, these two were suspected architects of countless schemes in the world of A Song of Ice and Fire.
Illyrio had already contacted Viserys, offering him and his sister Daenerys sanctuary, fine silks, and promises of thrones. But his name would fade from mention for now. The more dangerous threat lay in the shadows.
Varys, the eight-legged spider behind the scenes, was far more dangerous. As the Master of Whisperers on King Robert Baratheon's Small Council, he commanded a network of spies that reached even into the Free Cities. Known for his bald head, soft slippers, and uncanny ability to know things he shouldn't, Varys missed nothing. No secret in King's Landing or Essos was safe from his ears.
Together, Varys and Illyrio had orchestrated the betrothal of Daenerys Targaryen to Khal Drogo, a khal of immense renown. They sought to harness the power of forty thousand Dothraki screamers not to restore Viserys to the Iron Throne, as he naïvely believed, but for a far more insidious purpose: to prepare the stage for their true puppet, "Aegon Targaryen."
At least, that was the apparent motive.
But Viserys couldn't be sure. After all, George R. R. Martin had not completed A Dream of Spring before the time traveler arrived in this world, and much of the fan speculation surrounding "Young Griff" and the so-called Blackfyre conspiracy remained uncertain.
Still, whispers persisted. Some claimed Varys and Illyrio were not loyalists to House Targaryen at all, but secret Blackfyres descendants of a cadet branch born when King Aegon IV the Unworthy legitimized all his bastards on his deathbed, including Daemon Blackfyre. Daemon had once wielded the Valyrian steel sword Blackfyre, a treasured Targaryen heirloom, before rebelling against the Iron Throne.
That sword one and a half-handed in design, ideal for both speed and power became a symbol. After Daemon's defeat, his supporters fled to the Free Cities, especially Lys and Pentos. Generations passed, but their ambition festered.
Some believed that the "Aegon" Illyrio and Varys backed was no son of Rhaegar at all. In the books, Elia Martell's infant son, Aegon, was supposedly dashed against the wall by Gregor Clegane during the sack of King's Landing. Yet, Varys later claimed that Aegon had been swapped with a lowborn child and spirited across the Narrow Sea, raised in secret by Rhaegar's close friend Jon Connington.
Others even theorized that this "Aegon" was Illyrio's own son—perhaps with a Blackfyre descendant, raised under Connington's tutelage to reclaim Westeros not for House Targaryen, but for a new order.
As for "Broon," it was even murkier. This name came from Daenerys's prophetic visions in the House of the Undying in Qarth. Some believed it referenced a disguised Blackfyre, or even the "mummer's dragon" warned about in the books a false dragon supported by rich and powerful backers, a dragon made of cloth and lies.
Importantly, this "Aegon" was not Jon Snow, the secret son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, as revealed in the Game of Thrones television series. No, the Aegon of this theory was Elia's son, allegedly alive and hidden.
In short, the boy Illyrio and Varys supported might be a puppet prince, a false king prepared to wear the crown that Viserys thought was his by birthright.
To Viserys, this meant his enemies operated in layers: Illyrio on the surface, Varys beneath him, and at the deepest level a puppet king named Aegon.
He was standing on quicksand.
And yet, he had to act.
His initial attempt to uncover the secrets of the dragonbone pendant had failed. Though the relic stirred something strange within him, it had not yielded any usable power. And so, he turned to his contingency plan.
With a sigh, Viserys wrapped the dragonbone pendant around his wrist like a talisman and rose from his chair. The room Illyrio provided was large enough for exercise one of the few luxuries he permitted himself.
The sensation of the bone against his skin was unpleasant, almost maddening. The phantom touch like invisible feathers brushing his soul was still there. Maybe physical proximity would trigger something mystical. If so, he had to endure it.
He gritted his teeth and continued.
This body had once known swordsmanship, but years of flight and malnutrition had reduced it to skin and bones. His limbs were weak, his grip unsteady. Only muscle memory remained a vague sense of balance, the proper way to grip a blade.
But it was a start.
In his past life, he had spent years honing his combat skills for the battles of that world duels with monsters, warriors, and beasts. He'd mastered many weapons: single-edged blades, warhammers, twin sabers, spears. But his truest affinity had always been the bow especially when using explosive arrows, lightning-tipped shafts, and freezing missiles that could stop time itself.
None of that existed here.
Still, he didn't need to become a whirlwind of death. Not yet. He just needed the capacity to resist. To flee. To strike once and survive.
As their ship had docked in Pentos, Viserys had quietly observed the route to Illyrio's manse and noted the patterns of the guards. The courtyard had weaknesses. If necessary, he could scale a wall, disappear into the harbor, and slip back through a hidden passage beneath the estate.
He was weak now but he would not be helpless forever.
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