A man like Jon Connington was invaluable in matters of governance.
In truth, he was better suited to overseeing the broader picture.
Viserys intended to let him acclimate for a time. Once he had proven himself, a large portion of state affairs could be entrusted to him.
"I am honored to serve you, Your Grace," Connington said.
Viserys nodded.
If Connington distinguished himself in the coming campaigns, he would not hesitate to restore him as Hand of the King.
A man who could endure exile for more than a decade, driven solely by the desire to restore House Targaryen, was exceedingly rare.
Arthur and the others had died gloriously at the Tower of Joy.
But Connington's silent endurance, sustained over years of humiliation and patience, commanded a different kind of respect.
Even the Kingsguard approved of him.
When word spread that Viserys had accepted Connington into service, Arthur and the others were openly pleased.
"Ser Connington," Arthur said warmly, "it seems we shall serve together again."
They agreed that once the visiting nobles departed, they would gather privately to celebrate the reunion.
Now House Targaryen possessed six dragon eggs.
From Braavos had come three—red, purple, and blue. From Illyrio—black, white, and green.
Six eggs.
But how were they to hatch them?
Viserys stood before them in silence.
If he could awaken dragons now, with thirty thousand men at his command, reclaiming the Iron Throne would be possible.
Should I seize a khal and burn him as sacrifice?
He set the thought aside.
For now, patience. Two more years of consolidation.
Yet less than a month after the coronation, Mathos brought unexpected news.
"A woman in red robes claims to be a servant of the Lord of Light. She seeks audience."
Not just anyone met a king.
The woman had no patron or connections. It had taken her a month to secure the chance.
From the description alone, Viserys knew.
Melisandre.
For the past year, he had deliberately spread word that Daenerys, Rhaenys, and young Aegon were all born upon Dragonstone.
He had ensured the tale emphasized that Dragonstone was the land of smoke and salt.
The rumor had been bait.
And the Red Woman had taken it.
In Viserys's view, she was far more dangerous than any Faceless Man.
The shadow assassins born of king's blood were terrifying weapons.
In the canon, Stannis had used them twice and still yearned for more, even coveting the blood of old Maester Aemon.
A weapon like that belonged close at hand.
True, her judgment was not always reliable. But once she believed in a savior, her loyalty was absolute.
More importantly, her magic was real.
Her visions were real.
Her connection to R'hllor was real. Through her, perhaps he could better understand the Lord of Light.
He ordered her admitted.
Outside, Melisandre waited under Gorys's supervision.
When Gorys first approached her, he noticed her beauty. The red robes alone were striking.
Her flame-colored hair made her radiant. Her dark crimson eyes seemed to burn, as if scorching his soul.
For a moment, he forgot himself.
She sensed his gaze. Her eyes lifted, and something flickered within them.
Gorys blinked, regaining composure.
"His Grace will see you," he said respectfully.
As he spoke, he realized something startling. Heat radiated from her body.
Not imagined heat.
Real warmth.
It unsettled him deeply.
Melisandre followed him inside. The moment she laid eyes upon Viserys, she stiffened slightly.
This king, she sensed at once, possessed formidable mastery over flame.
Her surprise was evident.
"Your Grace," she said, "are you also a servant of the Lord of Light?"
Servant?
She must sense the fire magic within him.
"You misunderstand," Viserys replied evenly. "What is it you seek?"
He deliberately kept his tone distant.
Melisandre seemed unbothered.
"Your Grace, your nephew, young Aegon, is the reborn Azor Ahai. The prophecy speaks of a savior reborn amidst smoke and salt. Surely you are aware."
I spread that rumor myself.
Viserys masked his thoughts.
"My sister, my niece, and my nephew were all born upon Dragonstone. Any of them could fulfill such a prophecy."
"The prophecy speaks of a prince," Melisandre said firmly. "It can only be your nephew."
So it comes down to gender.
Viserys suppressed a dry smile. "And what is it you ask of me?"
"Entrust young Aegon to me. I will raise him to become the savior."
Most rulers would have expelled her at once.
Viserys did not.
"My brother believed that the dragon has three heads," he said calmly. "I also believe this. But I cannot entrust my nephew to a stranger. Surely you understand."
Melisandre seemed surprised by his measured refusal.
She had been prepared to demonstrate her power—perhaps show him visions in flame.
"What must I do to earn your trust?"
"Remain," Viserys said. "Serve me."
She was a rare asset. Perhaps centuries old. There was much he wished to learn.
Melisandre recognized that being allowed to stay was already a victory.
She inclined her head.
"I will serve."
Viserys did not hesitate. "I have heard that king's blood can hatch dragons. Is it true?"
The directness of the question startled her.
"King's blood carries great power," she admitted. "But the world's magic is diminished. It may not yet achieve its full effect."
Her answer disappointed him.
He needed dragons sooner rather than later. If he waited for a red comet, it might be decades.
For now, he accepted the explanation.
Then he asked the question that truly interested him. "Tell me about your Lord of Light."
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