Chapter 2: The Dragon's Egg in a Serpent's Mind
The world, for the first year of Viserys Targaryen's second life, was a tapestry woven from the threads of acute observation and profound frustration. Professor Alistair Finch's intellect, a finely honed instrument accustomed to dissecting empires and economies, was now imprisoned within the clumsy, demanding vessel of an infant. It was a peculiar form of torture, to possess the understanding of ages yet be reduced to communicating needs through gurgles and wails, to have strategic plans bubbling in his mind while being utterly dependent on others for his most basic survival.
Yet, this enforced helplessness was also a crucible. It forced upon him a level of patience Alistair had rarely needed in his previous life and provided an unparalleled opportunity for unfiltered intelligence gathering. Servants, guards, even his own mother, Rhaella, spoke with less caution around a babe in swaddling clothes. They lamented, they whispered secrets, they cursed the names of rebels and, sometimes, their own king, all within earshot of the silent, violet-eyed prince. Viserys absorbed it all, his super-serum enhanced mind cataloging every nuance, every tremor of fear, every flicker of loyalty or dissent.
Dragonstone, their island fortress, was a grim nursery. The ancient stones, black and formidable, sweated a damp chill that even the hearth fires struggled to dispel. The constant roar of the sea and the shriek of the wind through the gargoyle-mouthed battlements were a fitting soundtrack to the encroaching doom he knew was sweeping across Westeros. News from the mainland arrived in sporadic, often contradictory bursts – tales of skirmishes, of lords declaring for one side or the other. Each scrap of information was a piece of a horrifying puzzle Viserys already knew the complete picture of. He heard whispers of the Battle of Ashford, where Lord Tyrell's forces had repelled Robert Baratheon, a small, fleeting victory for the crown that did little to stem the tide of dread on the island.
His mother, Queen Rhaella, was the focal point of his early observations and a source of burgeoning, complex emotion that Alistair Finch, the detached academic, found unsettling. Her beauty was undeniable, a fragile, moon-pale loveliness framed by the iconic silver-gold Targaryen hair. But it was a beauty marred by a deep, pervasive sorrow and a palpable fear that clung to her like a shroud. Her violet eyes, so like his own, often held a haunted, distant look. She would hold him for hours, humming mournful High Valyrian lullabies, her touch gentle but her spirit seemingly elsewhere, lost in a labyrinth of grief and apprehension.
Alistair, now Viserys, understood her plight with a clarity no infant could possess. She was trapped – wife to a monstrously mad king, mother to a son (Rhaegar) whose actions had ignited the realm, and now isolated on Dragonstone with her youngest child while the world burned. He felt a strange stirring, an unfamiliar protective instinct that warred with his innate pragmatism. Rhaella's survival was paramount to his own and Daenerys's initial safety, as per the original timeline. But beyond that, watching her slow descent into despair, hearing her hushed, tearful prayers for Rhaegar, for an end to the madness, ignited a cold fury within him. Aerys was the architect of her suffering, and by extension, the suffering of their house.
He began, in his own infantile way, to try and influence her. When she was particularly distraught, her breathing shallow, her hands trembling as she held him, Viserys would consciously calm his own infant fussing. He would attempt to focus his nascent abilities, trying to project a sense of peace, a ludicrous endeavor for a baby, yet he persisted. He couldn't speak words of comfort, but he could offer a steady, quiet presence. Sometimes, he thought he saw a flicker of surprise in her eyes, a momentary easing of the tension in her shoulders when he, who had been wailing moments before, suddenly grew still and watchful in her arms. She likely attributed it to the caprices of infancy, but for Viserys, it was a deliberate act, his first, tentative step in manipulating his environment.
The servants of Dragonstone were a mixed bag. Many were old retainers, their loyalty to House Targaryen ingrained through generations. Their faces were etched with worry, but they performed their duties with a grim diligence. Then there were the newer additions, more overtly fearful, their eyes darting nervously at every raised voice, every unexpected sound. Viserys made mental notes of them all, cataloging their demeanor, their overheard conversations, the subtle hierarchies within the staff. Knowledge was power, and even the gossip of chambermaids could hold valuable insights.
Ser Willem Darry, the grizzled Master-at-Arms of Dragonstone, was a figure of particular interest. Stern, disciplined, and fiercely loyal, Darry was one of the few constants in the increasingly chaotic atmosphere. Viserys would watch him during his infrequent visits to the nursery, observing his interactions with Rhaella – respectful, protective, his concern for the Queen and her infant son palpable. Darry was the man who would eventually smuggle him and Daenerys to Braavos. Understanding his character, his motivations, his limits, was crucial. Viserys cataloged the man's unwavering loyalty as a significant asset, but also a potential vulnerability if that loyalty blinded him to more pragmatic solutions.
The development of his 'reincarnation benefits' was a slow, clandestine process, a secret war waged within the confines of his own tiny body. The healing factor was the most consistently evident. The usual infant bumps, scrapes, and rashes vanished with astonishing speed. He once managed to scratch his own cornea with a flailing fingernail – a terrifying moment that had sent his nurse into a panic. The pain had been intense, his vision in that eye temporarily clouded. But within hours, the irritation was gone, his vision clear. The nurse had praised the gods and dragon blood. Viserys knew it was the X-gene, working silently, efficiently.
The nascent strength from the Super Soldier Serum was more difficult to gauge and control. His infant muscles were still developing, but he could already feel an underlying power, a density that was abnormal. He experimented subtly: gripping his mother's finger with a surprising tenacity that made her gasp and then laugh, attributing it to a "strong little prince." He learned to push against the sides of his cradle, testing the resistance, feeling the satisfying thrum of developing muscle fibers. He was careful, always careful, never to display strength that was overtly impossible for his age. His enhanced metabolism meant he was perpetually hungry, a source of much consternation for his wet nurses, who marveled at his appetite.
The claws were his most dangerous secret. The first time they'd partially extended, the pain had been a shock. Now, he was learning to anticipate the sensation, a peculiar itching, a deep ache in his knuckles that preceded their emergence. He practiced suppression, focusing his will, drawing on Alistair Finch's iron discipline. It was an agonizing process. Sometimes, in his sleep, a single claw might snick out, tearing the rough linen of his swaddling. He learned to wake instantly at the sensation, retracting it before anyone could notice, his infant heart pounding not from fear of the claw itself, but of its discovery. He imagined the horror, the accusations of demonic possession, if his true nature were revealed. Targaryens were already viewed with suspicion; a mutant Targaryen baby would be a death sentence. The only time he allowed them any freedom was when he was utterly alone, in the dead of night, momentarily pushing them out, feeling the alien sensation of hard, sharp bone extruding from his flesh, a grim reminder of the predator lurking within the prince.
His cognitive abilities were, perhaps, the most potent and alarming of his enhancements. While his brain was still physically that of an infant, the serum seemed to be acting as a supercharger for its development. He absorbed language at a prodigious rate. Within months, he could understand the High Valyrian spoken by his mother and some of the senior servants, and the Common Tongue used by most of the castle staff. He couldn't speak, not yet, his vocal cords and mouth muscles still too undeveloped, but his comprehension was near total. This silent understanding was his greatest weapon, allowing him to piece together the dire state of the realm from the hushed conversations around him.
He learned of Rhaegar's obsession with prophecy, of his departure with Lyanna Stark – an act of romantic folly or calculated design, depending on the whispered theory. Viserys, with Alistair's cynical perspective, leaned towards a catastrophic blend of arrogance and delusion on Rhaegar's part. He heard the name 'Robert Baratheon' spoken with a mixture of fear and grudging respect for his martial prowess. He heard of 'Ned Stark,' the quiet wolf, and 'Jon Arryn,' the aging falcon. These were not just names from a book anymore; they were the architects of his family's impending doom.
The news that truly chilled him, that made the thrumming in his bones feel like a premonition of ice, was the scattered, horrified whispers about his father, King Aerys. Tales of his paranoia, his cruelty, his obsession with wildfire. "Burn them all," was a phrase that began to filter through the servants' gossip, sending shivers down their spines and confirming Viserys's worst fears. Aerys was not just mad; he was a suicidal madman, dragging his dynasty into the abyss with him.
Viserys's internal world was a maelstrom of Alistair Finch's strategic mind wrestling with the raw, amplified emotions of his new existence. The serum didn't just enhance physical attributes; it seemed to sharpen every sensation, every emotion. Fear was colder, anger hotter, and the nascent protectiveness he felt for Rhaella, and by extension, his yet-unborn sister Daenerys, was a fierce, primal thing. He fought to maintain Alistair's detachment, to channel these heightened emotions into cold, hard planning.
His long-term goals began to solidify beyond mere survival. Escape from Westeros was inevitable, at least initially. The original Viserys and Daenerys had been shuffled around the Free Cities, dependent on the fickle charity of magisters and merchants. This new Viserys would not be a beggar. He would arrive in Essos not as a refugee, but as an investor, a player.
Alistair Finch's knowledge of history, economics, and trade became his mental war chest. He recalled the major trade routes, the key commodities, the political structures of the Free Cities. Braavos, with its powerful Iron Bank and its ethos of independence, held a certain appeal. The secrecy of the Faceless Men was also intriguing, though an alliance with them was a dangerous proposition. Pentos, under the sway of its magisters, was the initial landing point in the original timeline, thanks to Illyrio Mopatis. Viserys knew Illyrio was a schemer, not to be trusted implicitly, but perhaps useful. He considered the slave cities of Slaver's Bay – a morally repugnant option, but one that Alistair, the pragmatist, forced him to acknowledge as a potential source of vast wealth and manpower, should all else fail and should he be willing to stomach it. For now, he filed it under 'last resort.'
His most pressing concern was capital. How could two fugitive royal children, one an infant, acquire the necessary funds to establish themselves? Alistair's mind whirred. Knowledge of future events was an asset, but a difficult one to monetize directly without revealing too much. However, his understanding of basic economic principles, of supply and demand, of arbitrage, could be invaluable, even on a small scale initially. Perhaps there were lost Targaryen caches of wealth he could uncover, if he could somehow access the information. Dragonstone itself was an ancient fortress; were there forgotten vaults, hidden treasures? Unlikely, given the Targaryens' dwindling fortunes, but worth considering.
More practically, he considered skills. Alistair had been fluent in several dead languages. Learning current Essosi tongues would be child's play with his enhanced cognition. He possessed a deep understanding of military strategy, history, and statecraft. Once old enough to communicate effectively, he could offer his services as an advisor, a tutor. But that would take time, and time was a luxury they might not have.
The Targaryen madness. This was a shadow that loomed large in his thoughts. Was he susceptible? The original Viserys had certainly succumbed to paranoia and arrogance. Alistair had always prided himself on his rationality, his disciplined mind. But the serum amplified everything. His ruthlessness, his ambition – if unchecked, could they curdle into the very madness that had destroyed his father and threatened his lineage? He resolved to be hyper-vigilant, to constantly self-assess, to anchor himself to logic and long-term strategic thinking. The rage he felt towards his family's enemies, towards fate itself, was potent. It needed to be a controlled burn, a forge for his will, not a wildfire that consumed him.
One blustery afternoon, as the waves crashed against the cliffs of Dragonstone like angry fists, a rider arrived, drenched and exhausted. He bore grim news, delivered in hushed, urgent tones to Ser Willem Darry and then, with even greater trepidation, to Queen Rhaella. Viserys, lying in his cradle in an adjoining chamber, his hearing sharp enough to pick up the strained voices, went cold. The Battle of the Bells. Robert Baratheon, nearly trapped and killed, had instead rallied and won a significant victory. Jon Connington, the Hand of the King and Rhaegar's close friend, had been defeated and exiled. The royal cause was faltering badly.
Rhaella let out a soft, despairing cry that tore at something deep within Viserys. He heard Ser Willem Darry's gruff attempts at comfort, his assurances that Dragonstone was secure, that Prince Rhaegar would soon crush the rebellion. Empty words. Viserys knew Rhaegar was riding to his doom at the Trident.
The news spurred a new urgency in Viserys's silent planning. Dragonstone was not safe. It was a temporary reprieve, nothing more. Once King's Landing fell, and it would fall, Stannis Baratheon would be sent to take Dragonstone. Their time here was finite.
He focused on his mother. He needed her strong, or at least, strong enough to endure what was to come. He needed her to trust Ser Willem Darry implicitly when the time came to flee. He redoubled his efforts to be a "good" baby around her, minimizing his crying, focusing on making eye contact, offering those fleeting moments of connection that seemed to soothe her frayed nerves. It was manipulation, yes, but a manipulation born of desperate necessity.
As his first year drew to a close, Viserys Targaryen was no ordinary infant. He was a paradox: a helpless babe with the mind of a seasoned strategist, a prince of a dying dynasty armed with powers beyond mortal comprehension. He was a silent observer, a hidden predator, his mind a cold forge shaping plans of survival, escape, and eventual retribution. The world saw only a silver-haired child with startlingly intelligent violet eyes. They did not see Alistair Finch, the resurrected professor, nor did they sense the nascent power of Wolverine and a super-soldier coiled within that small frame.
He was learning patience, control, and the art of the long game. The original Viserys had been consumed by his desire for immediate gratification, for a crown he felt entitled to. This Viserys understood that true power was built, not merely inherited or demanded. It was built on a foundation of knowledge, resources, and unwavering will.
The storms of Robert's Rebellion raged across Westeros, but on Dragonstone, another storm was gathering, a silent, internal tempest within the mind of its youngest prince. The Beggar King was dead before he'd even learned to crawl. In his place, something far more dangerous was taking root, biding its time, waiting for the moment to uncoil and strike. The game of thrones had always been played with fire and blood. Viserys Targaryen was about to add adamantium and a scholar's deadly cunning to the mix.