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Halfway up the mountain, beneath the foundations of Viserysfort, lay the secret vault where the wildfire was stored.
Viserys descended the spiraling stone stairs, venturing deeper into the earth. The cellar was long, damp, and shrouded in darkness, the cold air biting enough to chill a man to the bone.
But for Viserys, the cold was of no consequence; the blood of the dragon held its own heat.
The damp stone walls were crusted with nitre. The only light came from a sealed glass-and-iron lantern, carried carefully by a Wisdom of the Pyromancers' Guild.
"How many jars do we have?" Viserys asked, his voice echoing in the gloom.
He picked up a clay pot. It was painted a warning red, sized perfectly for a man's grip.
The clay felt rough to the touch; sand and grit had been mixed into the pottery to prevent it from slipping through sweaty or nervous fingers.
Peering inside, Viserys saw the substance—a thick, murky green fluid. A slumbering fire.
Above the storage chamber was a room filled with sand. The ceiling was inscribed with powerful protective spells; should the substance ignite, the ceiling would collapse, burying the fire in sand to suffocate it.
"Only two or three hundred jars, Your Grace," the Pyromancer admitted, looking apologetic. "We have worked tirelessly, and the presence of the dragon has indeed sped up the process, but this is all we have."
"It looks very thick right now because of the cold. Once the temperature rises, the substance will flow as smooth as water."
"It will have to do. Double the shifts. Make more," Viserys commanded.
"As you command, Your Grace." The Pyromancer nodded. "Though, I must say... ever since the dragon appeared, the wildfire seems to brew faster than before."
"Perhaps," Viserys nodded. "Wildfire is a cousin to dragonfire, after all."
Once ignited, wildfire burned violently until nothing remained. It was treacherous stuff; it seeped into cloth, wood, leather, and even steel, setting them all alight.
Viserys knew he wouldn't even need straw or kindling to set the enemy ablaze. The Dothraki habit of greasing their long braids with oil was essentially a death wish.
The production capacity in Andalos was modest. The largest stockpile of wildfire in the world was still in King's Landing—Aerys had hidden at least four thousand jars beneath the capital.
It was a terrifying amount, especially considering that the older the wildfire got, the more unstable it became.
"I have my soldiers training with spitfires and scorpions to launch these jars," Viserys said. "We need to ensure maximum efficiency. If you need anything, report to the Chief Artisan or directly to me."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Viserys turned and left the secret vault. He had done all he could.
Now, the only thing left to do was wait. He was waiting for the joy that only victory could bring.
---
Viserysfort was as solid as Casterly Rock. The Dothraki were raiders, not engineers; they lacked the patience and the machines for a siege. Even with mercenary companies bolstering their ranks, they would be at a disadvantage against these walls.
The moat below the fortress had been deepened and reinforced again, transforming it into a treacherous chasm filled with water diverted from the Rhoyne.
With the drawbridge raised, no one could pass through the gates without paying a heavy toll in blood and fire.
The ramparts were lined with longbowmen, scorpion crews, and trebuchets—the iron fist Viserys had prepared for the horselords.
Of course, the true devastating blow would come from the wildfire and Sunblaze's performance on the field.
Viserys reviewed the geopolitical board in his mind. The environment was set. He had contacted every potential ally. On paper, the only real external help might come from the Golden Company or the Second Sons.
Even neutral Pentos was a problem; a faction of Magisters there would certainly side with the Dothraki. They had been bending the knee and paying tribute to the horselords for so long that cowardice had become a habit.
As for Norvos and Qohor, Viserys had established back-channel communications with their rulers.
They wanted Viserys to bleed Khal Drogo, certainly. But they didn't trust that Viserys could actually defeat the Great Khal in a head-on collision.
So, they offered only secret support—nods and winks in the dark, with no signed treaties.
If Viserys somehow won a decisive victory, they might consider moving in to cut off the Dothraki retreat. That was the extent of their "help."
The other Free Cities were equally useless. Myr was rotting in stagnation. Volantis was moving at a snail's pace; the Triarchs were divided, and the Elephants refused to pay for a Tiger war.
Lys was interesting, but paralyzed by indecision. No Magister was brave enough to take the lead and risk his fortune.
Besides, Lys and Tyrosh were ancient rivals. The idea of joining hands with Tyrosh to fight a common enemy was distasteful to them.
War is a gamble. If the Lysene joined and lost, the Magister responsible would face ruin and bankruptcy.
Furthermore, the Lysene were arrogant. They believed using a dragon against the Dothraki was like using a warhammer to crack a walnut. They assumed Khal Drogo and the Tyroshi sellswords would be enough to crush this upstart King in Andalos.
Viserys had also deduced Illyrio Mopatis's strategy.
The fat Magister and the Spider, Varys, lacked an army. Unless the Seven Kingdoms tore themselves apart in civil war, a force of ten thousand Golden Company mercenaries couldn't successfully invade Westeros.
But now, seeing that Viserys had built a formidable army in Andalos, they were accelerating their plans. They wanted to swap the dragon for the mummer's dragon.
Viserys had to guard against two fronts: the screaming Dothraki horde in front of him, and Illyrio's dagger in his back.
But that is fine, Viserys decided.
If Illyrio wanted to play his schemes and put Young Griff on the throne, then this war was the perfect opportunity for Viserys to sweep the board clean.
The stage was set. Let the game begin.
---
"Crabb," Viserys called out to his attendant, Dick Crabb.
The man had once been a consumptive skeleton, dying of the bloody cough. Now, fed and given status in Viserys's court, he was healthy, though he still needed to put on some muscle.
"Take the Dragon Horn and hang it prominently in my tent," Viserys ordered. "When our 'friends' arrive, ensure they all know about it. Tell them it is a mysterious horn of infinite power."
"Spread the word in the taverns, too. I want every drunkard and spy to whisper about my horn."
Since the fat Magister had gifted him this bait, Viserys intended to use it to catch some fish.
Originally, Viserys had feared the horn's deadly side effects—the charred lungs, the boiling blood. But with the Heart Spell binding him to Sunblaze, the dragon's vitality could shield him from the temporary pressure of the horn.
"Understood, Your Grace." Crabb scratched his head, confused by the order, but he obeyed.
Dick Crabb lived by his mouth. If there was one thing he was good at, it was spreading rumors.
Viserys closed his eyes and focused, using the mental link to call upon Sunblaze.
High above, the golden dragon banked and descended, landing heavily on the earth. Viserys mounted the beast.
With a powerful thrust of its wings, the dragon tore into the sky. Viserys felt weightless, like a kite cut loose from its string, as they soared toward the Rhoyne.
From the vantage point of the clouds, Viserys finally saw what he was looking for.
On the horizon, a massive cloud of dust rose like a storm front.
It was the Dothraki vanguard.
Khal Drogo was not among them yet; this was a scouting force, a massive raiding party sent to test the waters.
But the significance was clear.
The horselords had crossed the river.