Chapter 198

King's Landing, 300 AC.

Viserys Targaryen.

Viserys Targaryen found himself in a splendid mood. Dragonstone, the castle from which he had fled in such haste seventeen years before, once again belonged to the House of the Dragon. Wandering the castle's gloomy corridors, his ancestral home, he sank into memories of a distant childhood. Viserys had once had everything: a prince's standing, honor, respect, family, a future laid out clear before him, but the Usurper's Rebellion had struck it all away. In a single moment, the prince of the greatest dynasty in the realm had become nothing more than a ragged wretch with a child in his arms.

He had walked a hard road, a very hard one. Through his own charisma, his name, and the Usurper's inept rule, Viserys had reshaped himself into a new Conqueror. His kingdom lay mired in war. Only the iron hand of a true king could put an end to all the strife and bring back an age of peace and plenty. Men gathered in secret to raise toasts in his name. Women stitched dragon banners in hiding and prayed for his health. Old men recalled his father's peaceful reign with fond longing, hoping their grandchildren might yet see a golden age of their own. All of Westeros waited for him. This was his fate, his calling.

If Dragonstone could be called the soul of House Targaryen, then King's Landing was its heart. Viserys wanted nothing more than to reclaim his heart, and planned to seize the city the moment the lords of the Narrow Sea swore their oaths to him. It was, frankly, an impulsive move, one his entire council had backed. All save one: his Hand, Jorah Mormont. The Old Bear had stood firmly against it, judging it unwise to go to war on such thin resources, and had delayed the matter by every means at his disposal. The arguments between the two of them were beyond counting. At one point Viserys had wanted to strip him of his post as Hand, but reports arriving from King's Landing had overturned every one of his decisions and laid bare the true state of things. His council was nothing more than a pack of sycophants, ready to indulge his every whim, and only the old knight stood ready to act in his true interest. Yes, at times what Viserys wanted did not match what needed doing, but Mormont always pressed for what was right. Exactly the kind of Hand a new Conqueror required.

A week had passed since the forces of the usurper Renly and the traitors from the Reach had withdrawn, and now the mightiest fleet on the whole Narrow Sea, loaded with eight thousand soldiers, was pressing to reclaim what rightfully belonged to him.

...

Blackwater Bay lay under a heavy swell capped white. The King Viserys, a gift from Lord Velaryon, ran with the tide, its sail cracking with every shift of the wind. The Sea Horse and the Lady moved alongside, no more than thirty meters back. Targaryen marveled at how skillfully the Velaryons held their formation. War horns bellowed out over the water, like mythical beasts calling one to another from ship to ship.

"Strike sail! Lower the mast! Take up oars!" Monterys Velaryon, captain of the ship and future Lord of the Tides, called out his commands.

Viserys knew nothing of seacraft, but months at sea had, whether he liked it or not, taught him a few basic truths. Monterys Velaryon had ordered the fleet to enter the river under oars alone, so as not to expose the sails to scorpion fire and flame from King's Landing's walls. The man himself stood in the second line of the advance, at the leading edge of the right flank, a place of honor befitting a king. In an even battle, such a position would have counted as dangerous indeed, but with so overwhelming an advantage, there was little cause to worry over it.

"Oars in the water!" The command was followed at once by the call of horns, carrying the order on to the other ships. "Hold formation!" Drums began to beat, keeping time with the splash of the oars.

In these moments, soldiers on the various ships called out to one another, shouting encouragement. They had grown weary of serving as mere ballast aboard the ships. They had not crossed the Narrow Sea for nothing, but for this very moment of victory, one none of them doubted for an instant. Viserys shared fully in his men's confidence. His fleet held more than a fivefold advantage over the enemy's shattered forces. Beating them at sea was simply not a realistic proposition for the other side.

Noise hung over the waves: shouts, horns, drums, and flutes all blending together with the splash of thousands of oars.

"Hold formation!" Monterys's order thundered out once more. "Your Grace, once the battle begins, stay where you are until the city is secured."

"I understand perfectly well, and I will not act rashly, ser." Simply being here at all was already an enormous risk. Viserys was the last hope of House Targaryen; should he die, everything would be lost. But if he could not even be present at the battle, then what claim could he make to conquering Westeros at all? And so, setting his own instincts aside, he stood on the ship's deck rather than safe within his ancestral walls.

The Pentosi and the Sea Serpent took up their positions, as did Lord Celtigar's Red King. Three more galleys ran alongside the Sea Horse to the right. In the space of a mere couple of minutes, the formation was complete and ready to meet the Lannister ships in battle.

"Why does that ship lag behind?" Viserys understood nothing of ships, but his eye for such things served him well enough.

"The ram, Your Grace," the captain answered calmly. "It's too heavy, and it throws off the vessel's balance."

The river, which had seemed so narrow from a distance, now spread wide as an endless sea, and the city on its bank loomed just as vast. The Red Keep glared down menacingly from the heights of Aegon's Hill. Iron banded battlements, massive towers, and thick red walls lent it a truly majestic bearing. Very soon now, the castle would welcome back its rightful master. Only a little further to go.

The first line had already entered the river, and still no enemy galleys appeared. By every rule of war, they should have, if not engaged in battle, at least come into sight, yet there was nothing. A trap: the only sensible explanation. Viserys voiced his suspicion, and his captain did not disappoint, saying he thought the very same. Yet no one could spot any enemy force anywhere behind them, nothing but their own vast fleet stretching to the horizon.

The strangeness did not end there. The first line should already have come within range of enemy archers, catapults, scorpions, yet not a single volley came from the walls of the castle. This had begun to press heavily on Viserys, and he could not tear his eyes from the ships moving ahead. When the troops began landing, a baffling situation arose: his army did not storm the castle walls, but simply held its position near the shore. Such defiance sent a surge of uncontrollable rage through him; some rabble had gone and woken the dragon. Through their own stupidity, the bastards meant to ruin his entire plan! Just as he was about to unleash his fury on whoever stood nearest, he stopped himself short and stared ahead, uncomprehending.

Flying from the walls of the Red Keep were the banners of his own house: a red three headed dragon on a field of black.