As for why the Iron Throne had never dispatched top-tier assassins, such as the “Faceless Men” of Braavos, Viserys only learned the truth after extensive investigation.
The Iron Throne hadn’t failed to entertain the thought, but the price demanded by the House of Black and White in Braavos was mind-bogglingly high—enough to buy half of Westeros.
Behind this, it was said to be some kind of “guidance” or manifestation of the will of the mysterious Many-Faced God.
The Faceless Men were not simple hired assassins; they operated by their own logic.
Perhaps, in the eyes of the Many-Faced God, the life of Viserys Targaryen had been assigned an extraordinarily high “value” or “significance”.
Therefore, leaving aside whether the Iron Throne could afford such a fee, even if Robert agreed, the Small Council would never approve it, as it would directly shatter the hard-won peace of Westeros.
In the end, they could only continue to dispatch these more cost-effective assassins.
Thus, though these seven years were spent “living under another’s roof”, they passed in a strange balance.
There was the fulfillment of growth, the solace of familial affection, the budding of emotions, and the occasional sounding of alarm bells amidst the clash of steel.
Viserys was like a piece of fine iron constantly being forged; outwardly he grew increasingly restrained and steady, while his inner strength became more and more solid.
He had almost grown accustomed to this rhythm, thinking it would always be this way, waiting in Braavos for the arrival of dragons.
But recently, an ungrounded sense of restlessness began to slowly impact the peace within his heart.
This feeling was not intense, but continuous, like an invisible thread tied to his spirit, involuntarily pulling his mind toward the east.
Tonight, this restlessness transformed into a concrete dream.
At first it was heat, which he could feel even with his “Unburnt” trait.
An unimaginable heatwave swept in from all directions, distorting the air in the high temperature.
He stood on a black, cracked earth, with scorching pumice beneath his feet.
The sky was a sickly dark red, shrouded by heavy clouds of volcanic ash; only the occasional lightning tearing through the clouds and the magma gushing from the fissures could illuminate this purgatory.
Then he saw the mountains.
Not ordinary mountains, but fourteen giant pillars connecting heaven and earth, constantly spewing flames and thick smoke.
Magma surged out from the fissures of the mountains like the earth’s blood, winding and flowing, burning everything in its path.
The entire world was collapsing, burning, and roaring.
It rose from the most violent volcanic smoke, its size exceeding all of Viserys’s perception of a “dragon”.
It did not have one neck, but three, each like a giant pillar supporting a palace, covered on the surface with scales of a dark golden luster.
Its three heads were proudly raised, each the size of a warship.
As its jaws opened and closed, it did not spew flame, but a kind of golden annihilation ray that seemed capable of devouring human hearts.
Even more breathtakingly, its surroundings were not empty.
Dozens of giant dragons of various sizes and terrifying majesty circled in the slightly lower air, and upon their backs sat various figures.
Those people wore Valyrian armor shimmering with magical light, helmets of various shapes symbolizing different houses, and held spears or a Valyrian steel sword.
They were the Dragonlords, the rulers of the Free Cities of Valyria at its peak.
Riding their respective dragons, they were besieging that three-headed behemoth.
Dragonfire intertwined, tearing across the firmament.
The roars of dragons mixed with the roar of the volcanic eruption, playing a symphony of the apocalypse.
Only then did he realize that this place must be the scene of The Doom of Valyria.
Fighting against many single-handedly, the three-headed dragon did not fall behind in the slightest.
Its middle head spewed a fan-shaped golden annihilation ray, beating back a blue dragon that was launching a sneak attack.
The left head bit at the neck of another silver dragon, directly biting off that silver dragon’s head.
The right head remained proudly raised, guarding its surroundings, its golden dragon pupils looking coldly at this siege.
Right in the midst of this intensely chaotic dragon fight, the middle head of the three-headed behemoth suddenly and without warning turned at a slight angle.
Those pair of molten gold-like giant dragon pupils pierced through the mist of the dream, directly “looking” at Viserys standing on the black scorched earth.
That gaze was indescribably complex, carrying an ancient indifference and desolation, along with a hint of appraisal. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
For just a split second, it made Viserys feel as if struck by lightning, his soul seemingly thoroughly pierced by that gaze.
Yet the very next moment, the nearest volcanic peak experienced an earth-shaking explosion.
Countless magma and ash soared into the sky, transforming into a destructive wave sweeping toward the dragons and Dragonlords in the sky, and engulfing the figure of Viserys on the ground.
Viserys sat up abruptly from the bed, cold sweat soaking his linen nightshirt, his heart still beating frantically in his chest.
Outside the window, the sky was faintly bright; the humid morning air of Braavos drifted in through the window, forming a sharp contrast with the scorching heat of the dream.
But those molten gold-like dragon pupils and that apocalyptic scene remained clearly branded in his mind.
This was the first time he had ever dreamed about dragons.
He had never imagined that a dragon dream could be so real and carry such a sense of oppression.
Only then did he deeply empathize with Daenerys, who had also experienced dragon dreams in the original storyline.
He remained silent for a long time, until his heartbeat calmed, before summoning an attendant and ordering him to invite the three knights: Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Willem Darry, and Ser Jon Darry.
He decided to explore the ruins of Valyria; although it was dangerous, he felt there should be something very important to him there.
Ever since his transmigration, this was the first time he had felt such a strong intuition.
When the three high ministers hurried to his bedroom, what they saw was Viserys’s pale face and those eyes made exceptionally bright by emotional agitation.
“I had a dream,” Viserys said directly without beating around the bush.
He described everything in the dream in detail, including the apocalyptic scene of the Fourteen Flames erupting, the three-headed dragon blotting out the sky, the Dragonlords and their dragons besieging it, except for that final glance that pierced through the dream.
His narration was steady, but the slightly taut voice and the palpitating emotion deep within his eyes made the three knowledgeable knights feel that something unusual was afoot.
Ser Arthur pondered, “Valyria, the Fourteen Flames, the chaotic battle of the Dragonlords…
This scene indeed resembles Valyria before the descent of The Doom as described in ancient books.
Your Grace, this dream…”
“Not just a dream,” Viserys interrupted him, his tone resolute, “This is a prophecy, or rather, guidance.”
“Just like back on Dragonstone, when something in the dark guided me to find those dragon eggs.
Now, it is guiding me to Valyria.” However, this time he wasn’t lying; he truly had this feeling.