Thus, after a few more days of routine life, he finally found an opportunity to explore the abandoned Dragonpit and search for the dragon eggs that might be hidden within.
Regarding the dragon eggs, the sense of urgency in his heart grew day by day.
Therefore, when Barristan was sent away on a mission, he took a few guards he had just bought off to the Dragonpit.
He did not tell them he was looking for dragon eggs, only that they were going on an adventure.
Passing through the foul, narrow alleys of Flea Bottom, one could see the ruins of the Dragonpit standing abruptly in the southeastern corner of King’s Landing, like a grim, unhealed scar.
Rather than a building, it was a colossal skeleton devoured completely by the passage of time and the fury of flames.
The magnificent structure that once covered a gorgeous dome now had only a few sections of charred, curved stone walls pointing stubbornly toward the sky, resembling the broken ribs of a dying dragon.
The massive stone gates, once carved with the heraldry of House Targaryen, had long since collapsed, the shattered stones half-buried in the soil, invaded by thick moss and stubborn weeds.
Sunlight shone straight down through the gap in the collapsed dome, illuminating the shocking desolation within.
The ground was piled high with thick rubble; charred timber, shattered bricks, and ashes of unknown origin were mixed together, making a rustling sound when stepped upon.
Several giant pillars that would take multiple people to embrace were snapped in half, planted at various bizarre angles obliquely within the ruins, silently recounting the brutality of that riot.
The air was filled with a peculiar scent—not only the damp, moldy smell and the stench of bird and beast droppings, but deeper within, there seemed to emanate a faint, lingering burnt odor.
The entire space was terribly dead silent, save for the wind passing through the broken remains, emitting a low, muffled sob, like countless dragon souls and ghosts mourning their grievances.
The heavy atmosphere pressed down upon the heart of everyone who stopped there.
Viserys’s heart pounded wildly in his chest, filled both with the excitement of exploring the unknown and a trace of indescribable sorrow.
He pulled himself together and, relying on his intuition at the moment, began a systematic search.
He focused on inspecting those walls that appeared structurally intact and might conceal hidden compartments or secret passages, gently tapping them with the small dagger he carried and listening for any echoes from behind.
He also crawled into some side chambers and corridors that had not completely collapsed; they were even darker, illuminated only by the faint light filtering through the cracks and the torches of his attendants.
In a circular depression that seemed to have once been the foundation of a dragon’s nest, he discovered something unusual—the stones there were darker in color, as if scorched by extreme temperatures for a long time, markedly different from the surroundings.
He squatted down, carefully brushing away the loose dirt and gravel on the surface with his hand, his fingertips touching some hard black congealed matter formed by the melting of sand and stone under extremely high temperatures.
This made him certain that a dragon must have existed here for a long time, most likely the lair of a dragon.
He dug downward with even greater effort, yet, aside from a few larger melted fragments and some animal bones resembling a goat, he found nothing.
Several hours of searching ultimately ended in vain.
However, he did not give up; after all, if dragon eggs were so easy to find, they would have been discovered long ago.
He regarded this exploration as a valuable reconnaissance, at least familiarizing him with the environment of the Dragonpit and preparing him for his next visit.
However, this setback in exploring the Dragonpit also caused Viserys to pin more hope on Summerhall.
He began consciously searching through the historical documents brought and sent to him to read by the maesters (not Pycelle, as King’s Landing had Assistant Maesters besides the Grand Maester) for records concerning Aegon V, the king who should not have been king, and the tragedy of Summerhall.
The official records were not detailed, emphasizing only an unfortunate accidental fire with nothing else besides; after all, this was a disgrace brought by House Targaryen, which also made the family’s rule even more turbulent.
Therefore, the family could not possibly record it in detail for descendants to see, and the only place with complete records should be The Citadel, but Viserys would not consider going to The Citadel right now, at least not before having a dragon.
However, in fragments of songs by some bards, he caught some different information, such as Aegon V’s obsession with dragons, “a full seven dragon eggs,” “flames devoured hope,” “the closest attempt to dragons since Aegon the Dragonlord,” and so on.
These fragmented pieces of information were very likely hints of prophecies; after all, this world had magic and so-called gods, and some seemingly unusual things might harbor prophecies.
He secretly made up his mind that within the next few months, he must find a suitable reason and opportunity to make a trip to Summerhall.
Meanwhile, he also kept a constant eye on the political undercurrents within the Red Keep.
For instance, he noticed that the current hand of the king, Owen Merryweather, was merely a yes-man.
The one who could truly speak into the ear of The Mad King was Varys, the ever-smiling eunuch with a smooth voice and a mysterious identity.
As well as Grand Maester Pycelle, who sported a long white beard, appeared senile, yet always securely held the seat representing The Citadel.
Varys was like a spider hidden behind gorgeous tapestries—no wonder his nickname was The Spider, and his little birds were everywhere.
Viserys had also “run into” this eunuch spymaster multiple times in the corridors or courtyards, where the other party would always bow humbly.
And greet him with that elusive tone: “Good day, respected Prince Viserys, may everything go smoothly for you today.”
That pair of all-seeing eyes always seemed to pierce through certain things beneath his child’s exterior, sending chills down Viserys’s spine.
He had to be doubly careful, as any words or deeds beyond his age could attract the attention of this spider, thereby bringing unpredictable danger.
Just like Varys himself, he was a dangerous figure.
Tracing his past actions from the original work, he openly supported the dynasty of Robert Baratheon, while secretly and early on cooperating with Illyrio to fund the exiled original owner—Viserys Targaryen.
After the original owner met his end at the hands of Khal Drogo in the Great Grass Sea, he shifted his hopes to Daenerys; yet this, too, was merely a disguised smoke screen.
As far as I know, his true core investment was “Young Griff,” hiding within the Golden Company, who was claimed to be Aegon Targaryen “risen from the dead.”
Because this young Aegon had been tightly grasped in Varys’s hands since childhood, everything arranged beforehand, making him all the more trustworthy to him.
There was also his constant declaration that what he sought was merely a wise, just king who could bring peace and prosperity to Westeros.
However, which fool would actually believe such high-sounding rhetoric?
Were not the standards of his so-called “wisdom” and “justice” entirely determined by Varys himself?
It was just like buying blind boxes online; the buyer never knew what was inside the box, but the merchant who placed the items knew perfectly well, and he would never do a losing business.
And Varys was precisely the one who meticulously prepared the “blind box” and tried to pitch his self-selected king to the entire kingdom.
From beginning to end, he was picking a king for himself, viewing that supreme royal power as a chess game that he could manipulate from behind the scenes.
As for Grand Maester Pycelle, he was like a withering vine deeply rooted in the Red Keep.
He always spoke slowly, presenting the appearance of someone in the twilight of his years.
Furthermore, he never directly opposed The Mad King’s various crazy directives, sometimes even providing some “academic support,” such as treatises on the potency of wildfire and so on.
But Viserys, who had read the original work, knew that this seemingly decrepit old man was merely a disguise.
After all, even a decade later, he still had the energy to diligently cultivate the beautiful northern whore Ros, going at it several times a night, looking quite robust indeed—though only fierce in bed.
Moreover, this man had already defected to House Lannister by now; this old fellow had previously worked alongside Tywin Lannister when he served as hand of the king.
He was captivated by Tywin Lannister’s sheer power, efficiency, and ruthless methods, believing that only Tywin was best suited to be hand of the king.
Therefore, when he served as Grand Maester later on, he feigned agreement with everyone else, only showing unreserved, complete submissiveness toward Tywin.
These thoughts kept spinning in Viserys’s mind, making him all the more aware that the Red Keep was a giant chessboard, and he was merely an insignificant little pawn within it, likely to be sacrificed at any moment.
Before the chess players noticed him, he had to accumulate the strength to jump off the chessboard as quickly as possible.
Meanwhile, the atmosphere within the Red Keep made him feel increasingly depressed.
The emotions of The Mad King Aerys became increasingly unstable; a few days ago, a young guard was harshly accused by the king of being a “traitor plotting assassination” simply because his armor made a slightly grating friction sound when the king passed by, and without even giving him a chance to defend himself, the king directly ordered the Kingsguard to drag him away and behead him.
There was also an old maid who had served for many years; because she accidentally broke a rather inexpensive vase, Aerys flew into a rage, declaring it an “ominous omen” and a “curse sent by the gods,” and ordered her to be locked in the dampest, darkest cell of the Red Keep’s Black Cells, leaving her to fend for herself.
This made Viserys even more firm in his judgment: this family and this Red Keep were completely rotten to the core and required a thorough destruction and rebirth.
He had to store up strength as quickly as possible and then leave this powder keg that was about to explode.
He had also seen Rhaegar from afar a few times.
This Prince of Dragonstone always furrowed his brows slightly, as if immersed in some thoughts incomprehensible to others.
Viserys sneered inwardly, knowing that it was likely the prophetic dreams about “the prince that was promised,” “A Song of Ice and Fire,” and that damned notion that “the dragon has three heads.”
The past spoilers made Viserys lack any favorable impression of this tragic figure, even feeling a trace of annoyance.
It was precisely this obsession with illusory prophecies that ultimately dragged the entire family into an irrecoverable abyss.
But Viserys had already made his plans: let Rhaegar walk his originally predetermined path of destiny.
And Viserys would not interfere in it, as it was prone to burning himself, and he had his own path to walk.
Regarding Ashara Dayne, Viserys did not take direct action for the time being.
A five-year-old body was an excellent camouflage, yet also a massive restraint.
Any excessive action showing unusual interest in a Dornish noble lady would invite unnecessary, or even fatal, trouble.
But through subtle inquiries, Viserys learned that Ashara was currently still at Starfall in Dorne, only occasionally coming to King’s Landing to visit her brother Arthur and to call upon Elia Martell.
He only needed to patiently wait for the right opportunity now.
As for Brandon Stark, that notoriously unrestrained heir of the North, if given the opportunity, he wouldn’t mind giving a gentle push at some point in the future to let this “wild wolf” march toward his destined end ahead of time.
In this way, it might completely alter the trajectory of Ashara’s destiny.
Night fell once more, shrouding all of King’s Landing like a massive black velvet curtain.
Viserys dismissed the maid and sat alone by the cold window.
“Chaos is not a pit, chaos is a ladder.”
He softly repeated Littlefinger’s words, the corners of his mouth curving into a grim arc unbefitting his age.
There was always a voice in his heart telling him that what he needed would be obtained in the near future; this might also be a prophecy akin to a “precognitive dream,” and though he did not want to be swayed by this feeling, it was so profound and ethereal that one could not quite grasp it.