Considering that Drogo's bloodline might be the key to hatching dragons, and that he wanted to use this great expedition to establish his image as a fearless warrior~
Viserys had no choice but to personally lead the campaign against Vaes Dothrak.
Only by doing so could he ensure that, when the time came to retake Westeros, none of the Free Cities would dare undermine him.
If he abandoned the plan of leading from the front simply because of a prophecy, the loss would far outweigh the gain.
Almost immediately, Viserys ordered that all information regarding Melisandre's prophecy be sealed.
Fortunately, his response was swift, and Rhaella was sharp enough to assist.
Even his most trusted Kingsguard remained unaware that such a prophecy had ever existed.
However, not long after, Illyrio delivered troubling news.
Robert was preparing to hire the Faceless Men to assassinate him.
As the departure date drew closer, these reports gathered like storm clouds over Viserys's mind.
In truth, Viserys understood Robert's financial situation even better than Robert himself.
The king of Westeros was not merely draining the land—he was squeezing it dry.
Combined with the trade imbalance caused by printed works, a significant portion of Westeros's wealth had effectively been transformed into satirical pamphlets mocking House Baratheon.
Robert's greed had become so notorious that some commoners even compared him to Rhaenyra.
And Rhaenyra herself had once been called Maegor with teats.
It was not hard to imagine just how poor Robert's reputation had become.
What Viserys could not understand was this: What exactly was Robert using to pay the Faceless Men?
"Taxes, Your Majesty," Illyrio explained. "Robert has agreed to pay the House of Black and White thirty percent of Westeros's tax revenue annually… for twenty years."
Viserys was momentarily stunned. So they even accepted installment payments?
But after a moment's thought, it made sense.
Braavos had never liked him.
Setting aside past conflicts, his rapid rise had already made them uneasy about losing their grip over the plains they had taken from Pentos.
If Robert was willing to pay, then the Sealord might even be happy to mediate between the Iron Throne and the Faceless Men.
It was entirely possible that he might front the payment himself, effectively turning it into a transfer of debt.
As these thoughts raced through his mind, Viserys began connecting the pieces.
Illyrio, once an assassin himself, still fell far short compared to the Faceless Men.
Looking at Viserys, he spoke with concern.
"Our informants say this order was issued two months ago. Recently, a man named Petyr Baelish arrived at the Red Keep.
He purged many unknown elements, including several of our agents."
"Petyr…"
Viserys repeated the name softly.
This was the man who, in another timeline, would orchestrate alliances and wars alike.
A master of diplomacy and intelligence, one who truly lived by the idea that chaos was a ladder.
Could it be... that the prophecy referred to death at the hands of the Faceless Men?
The thought resurfaced.
Yet Viserys quickly dismissed it.
Even if the Faceless Men came, killing him would not be so simple. He was confident that no one alive could defeat him head-on.
Poison would be ineffective against a water mage. A stealth attack was even less likely.
Even with his eyes closed, he could sense movement within twenty paces.
No one could approach him unnoticed.
And if the Faceless Men truly had absolute power over life and death, why would they not simply extort the entire world?
Because they were kind?
Viserys did not believe that for a second.
"There is no need to overthink this," he said calmly. "I understand the threat of the Faceless Men. But right now, the expedition is what matters. They are nothing. I have faced worse."
"Continue monitoring the Red Keep. Do not make any mistakes."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
After receiving his orders, Illyrio withdrew.
The closer the expedition came, the more matters demanded attention.
Once all his ministers had been dismissed, Viserys returned to his chambers to rest.
The guards at the door saluted as he entered.
Perhaps because of Illyrio's warning, he lingered for a moment, observing them carefully.
Nothing seemed out of place.
Still, he could not help but imagine a Faceless Man slipping in, removing a borrowed face, and whispering in his ear: all men must die, all men must serve.
The memory of Arya's revenge against the Freys lingered vividly in his mind.
Shaking off the thought, Viserys changed into the soft slippers prepared by his attendants and walked toward his bed.
The soft scraping of the slippers against the floor echoed faintly in the quiet chamber.
They were said to be made from materials sourced from Slaver's Bay.
Extremely comfortable.
Elia especially liked them.
But when he was still more than ten steps away from the bed, something felt wrong.
There was someone under his blanket.
Even though the figure was suppressing their breathing, Viserys sensed it immediately.
He quietly removed his slippers and stepped barefoot onto the floor, making no sound.
Keeping to the shadows beyond the reach of moonlight, he observed the bed.
There was a distinct human-shaped outline beneath the blanket, slightly to the left.
Someone was definitely hiding there.
About one and a half meters tall.
A nimble assassin, perhaps.
His gaze shifted to the steel sword hanging on the wall. He took it down silently, the cold moonlight glinting along its edge.
If he wished, he could cut the figure in two instantly.
But instead, he chose to capture them alive.
If this truly was a Faceless Man, it might even give him grounds to justify action against Braavos.
If they wanted to take the money, they would have to pay the price.
Step by step, Viserys approached the bed.
With one hand, he grasped the edge of the blanket.
This would prevent the assassin from using it as cover—whether to conceal a weapon or to throw it and escape.
Strange.
Even now, there was no reaction.
Was this really the level of the Faceless Men? The thought crossed his mind, but he forced himself to stay cautious.
Taking a steady breath, he suppressed any hint of arrogance.
Then, in one swift motion, he yanked the blanket away. At the same instant, his sword pressed against the figure's throat.
And then— Viserys froze.
This was no assassin.
...It was Arianne Martell.
___________
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