The strategy was settled with the quiet efficiency of a war council. Viserys and Rhaenys did not waste breath on theatrics; in the shadow of the Red Door, words were a currency they could ill afford to squander. While Rhaenys utilized the black cat, Balerion, as her silent scout, Viserys monitored the rhythms of the house, waiting for the precise moment to introduce his pale harvest to the kitchen fires.
The servants, led by the steward, had already divided the Targaryen gold in their minds. To them, the three exiles were mere afterthoughts—nuisances to be discarded once the old knight breathed his last. They mistook silence for submission, unaware that Rhaenys's consciousness was often prowling the rafters above their heads.
Controlling a cat was no small feat for a skinchanger. Canine minds were eager and easy to mold, but a cat was a creature of spite and ego. Yet Rhaenys held Balerion with a terrifyingly firm grip.
In the privacy of her chambers, she opened a small, leather-bound notebook. It was a ledger of death.
"The Mountain. Amory Lorch. Tywin Lannister," she whispered, her finger tracing the names written in ink the color of dried veins. "We will have our revenge, Viserys. For my father. For my mother."
She did not mention the Usurper first. For Rhaenys, the hatred burned hottest for the lions of Casterly Rock—those who had turned the Red Keep into a slaughterhouse.
"A true dragon never forgets," Viserys said, though he gently closed the book with a gloved hand. "But take care, Princess. Hatred is a fire that consumes the hearth as well as the enemy. Do not let it hollow you out before we even reach the shore."
"You sound less like a king and more like a philosopher," she replied with a fleeting, jagged smile.
They spoke little of Aerys. The Mad King was a ghost best left unsummoned—a liability of blood and reputation. For Rhaenys, he was the grandfather who had sneered at her "Dornish scent." For Viserys, he was the father whose "protection" had been a gilded cage of paranoia. He remembered the smell of burning gifts and the screams of wet nurses; he knew better than anyone that the Iron Throne sat atop a mountain of madness.
Viserys left Rhaenys and sought the sickroom.
The air within was a heavy shroud of humid rot and medicinal herbs. Ser Willem Darry, once the formidable master-at-arms of the Red Keep, was now a ruin of a man. His frame, once broad enough to shield princes, was withered, pinned to the bed by a slow, sweet-smelling decay.
Daenerys sat by his bedside, a small, silver-haired shadow. She looked up as Viserys entered, her eyes wide with a child's desperate hope.
"Brother," she whispered. "Will Ser Willem get better?"
"He will," Viserys lied. The words felt like ash. He looked at his sister—born in a storm, orphaned at birth, and now watching her only protector dissolve into the sheets.
He stepped to the bedside and took the knight's hand. It was a cartography of scars and age, the skin like translucent parchment over bone.
"Your Majesty," Willem rasped. His eyes were filmed over, half-blinded by the sickness, but his grip remained surprisingly warm. "I am sorry... my eyes fail me. I should be in the yard with you. Teaching you the morningstar... the warhammer. To face the Usurper as your brother did."
"I will be a knight, Ser Willem. I promise you."
The old man gave a weary, bittersweet chuckle. "The Seven bless you... you have the mind for it. Better than Rhaegar, perhaps. He lived in his books until he decided he had to be a warrior. You... you see the world as it is."
Viserys knew his own failings. He possessed the history of Valyria and the mathematics of the Free Cities, but he lacked the years of grueling martial discipline. The Mad King had forbidden him from holding steel, fearing his own son as much as his enemies. In Braavos, his only teacher had been a dying man's memories. He was a king of theory, not of blood—not yet.
"Take the girls," Willem coughed, his voice thinning. "If the walls fall... hide. Do not look for the throne. Look for a life. Live for the Darrys who died at the Trident. Live for the ones who can't."
The knight didn't speak of restoration or crowns. He spoke of survival. He knew the Sealord's promises were empty air and that the Dornish remained silent behind their mountains. He saw the end approaching, not just for himself, but for the dream of the Red Dragon.
"When I return to Westeros," Viserys said, his voice dropping to a lethal, quiet register, "I will settle the accounts. For House Darry. For the Tullys who knelt too quickly and the rebels who forgot their oaths."
"Your Majesty... let him rest now," the steward's voice cut in from the doorway, oily and impatient.
Viserys stood, releasing the old man's hand. He didn't look at the steward, but he felt the mushroom's weight in his pocket. He didn't crave the Iron Throne for the power of it, but for the justice it would allow him to carve out of the world. He owed it to the man on the bed.
He ushered Daenerys from the room, his face a mask of noble composure. The hunt was about to begin.