White Castle, Throne Hall, Viserysfort
The Throne Hall blazed with light. Every wall sconce was lit, torches crackling and throwing warm gold across the black-and-red banners that hung from the rafters.
Courtiers and noblewomen filed in one by one. The herald announced each name and title in a clear, ringing voice before liveried cupbearers—young Andals, Rhoynar, and freed slaves in black-and-red tunics—escorted them down the wide central aisle.
Viserys had ordered the musicians to keep things soft tonight. No crashing drums or blaring trumpets—just gentle strings and flutes drifting through the hall like evening breeze. This was going to be one hell of a feast. Besides the usual Andal lords, the Golden Company officers, and the Windblown captains, he had important guests from Norvos and Qohor.
Viserys had changed into fresh clothes for the occasion: black striped breeches and a black doublet embroidered with roaring red dragons. The Valyrian steel crown from Old Valyria sat on his head, but with his hair still growing back after the pyre, he looked a little… off. Bald kings weren't exactly common in the songs.
Right behind him walked the two Targaryen girls—Rhaenys and Daenerys—both in soft black velvet gowns with ruby chokers and delicate purple gemstone nets that matched Daenerys's violet eyes perfectly. Their smiles were sweet and warm. Viserys's grin, on the other hand, was pure confidence.
The baby dragons trailed them like living jewelry. One perched on Viserys's shoulder—black-and-red Rhaegal—while the other two curled contentedly in a velvet-lined basket carried by a page. Dragons and dragon blood belonged together; only then did the little beasts stay calm.
Viserys glanced at the hatchlings and thought about the bloodline. Little Aegon was dead and burned, but dragon blood still ran thick in plenty of veins—some close, some distant. Even the Brown Ben Plumm had a drop, and so did the Martells, thanks to Aegon the Unworthy's legendary "great seeding." Almost every living person with even a trace of the blood could trace it back to that old rake.
But Viserys wasn't thinking about distant cousins tonight. His mind drifted to Braavos and a certain brown-skinned beauty he'd left behind. If there was one extra ship ticket… the Brown Pearl would sail with him.
Speaking of Braavos, things had gotten awkward again now that the Andalos war was over. The Sealord had wanted Andalos strong—just not this strong.
The royal party reached the raised dais beneath the throne. A row of black-and-red dragon banners hung behind the seats of honor. On the left sat Viserys's family and inner circle: his sister, his niece, Castellan Count Roland, High Septon Uther, Count Donnel, Syrio Forel, Ser Agos, Garin, Hugo, Jalabhar, and the rest. On the right were Prince Oberyn the Red Viper, the Norvos envoy, the Governor of Qohor, Harry Strickland of the Golden Company, and the Beggar Prince of the Windblown.
The High Septon cleared his throat and launched into an extravagant prayer.
"My lords and ladies, tonight we feast not only by the grace of the gods, but by the courage of King Viserys and every warrior who stood with him. I propose we first toast His Grace's magnificent victory!"
The entire hall roared back as one.
"Long live King Viserys!"
Agos slammed a meaty fist on the table. "Long live King Viserys!"
Viserys raised his hand with a smile. "Fill the cups."
The finest Dornish summer red flowed into his goblet—sweet as the night, sweet as victory.
He lifted his cup high. "To the Warrior! To the soil of Andalos and the waters of the Rhoyne!"
"To the Warrior!"
"Drink!"
Glasses clashed all at once. The feast had officially begun.
It wasn't the seven-course monstrosity Joffrey would one day throw, but with so many highborn guests the food was still damn impressive.
The first dish was a rich mushroom-and-oxtail stew served in gilded bowls. Warriors who had lived on hardtack and dried meat for weeks dove in like starving wolves.
Next came oat bread studded with chopped dates, apples, and oranges, then juicy wild-boar ribs, honeyed quail, and trout wrapped in crushed almonds.
The Norvos envoy and the Qohor governor smiled politely, but their eyes gave them away—they looked like men who had just realized their nice quiet neighbors now had a dragon and heavy cavalry parked on the next hill.
Viserys noticed and waved a servant over. "Send the roasted heron to our honored guests. It's a dish fit for kings."
Heron was one of those medieval showpieces—more about status than taste—but the two envoys lit up at the gesture and raised their cups in thanks.
"Gentlemen," Viserys said warmly, "I am a man who truly loves peace. I have every intention of building friendly ties with both your great cities."
This was exactly the new world order he had in mind. He couldn't fight on every front at once; that was a fool's way to die. Time to finish one war cleanly and lock in the next.
He wanted Qohor and Norvos as solid allies before he brought the hammer down on Tyrosh.
Both cities were inland—rich, but nowhere near as fat as the coastal ports. Norvos, especially, was a cold, hard place. Second, Viserys now commanded thousands of Dothraki screamers whose fame was spreading across the great grass sea like wildfire. Even without marching on the cities, he could squeeze them whenever he liked.
Pentos was tempting, but Braavos still treated it like a private playground. Push too hard and he'd start the Braavosi war before he was ready.
"Peace?" the Qohor governor thought with an inner snort, but his face stayed perfectly pleasant.
He raised his cup. "I will carry His Grace's kind words back to Qohor."
The Norvos envoy did the same. "As will I."
After Valyria's fall, Qohor and Norvos had banded together to stop Volantis. They'd crushed the Volantene fleet on the Dagger Lake and driven Volantis out of the upper Rhoyne. They were still firm allies—so winning both at once was a two-for-one deal.
"My desire for peace is completely sincere," Viserys continued. "I plan to look west before long. The east will need two strong, trustworthy neighbors to help keep order."
The Qohor governor looked flattered—and relieved. With dragons and a full army, Viserys was obviously heading back to Westeros someday. He had zero reason to fight two extra wars right now.
"Qohor will make an excellent friend to the crown," he said smoothly. "Once the khals settle down and the overland trade routes reopen, our wealth will flow again. The magisters will remember Your Grace's generosity."
"Norvos feels the same," the envoy added.
Both inland cities had taken a beating from the Dothraki for years. Their trade had been gutted.
"Perfect," the Red Viper cut in with theatrical flair. "Three great cities standing together—peace will come faster than anyone expects."
"Exactly," Viserys nodded. "We should work together, reopen the caravan roads all the way east, and make real money. I need Qohor's fine armor and Norvos's excellent timber. I'll pay top price."
His war chest was solid: the Lannister gold he'd seized, plus the massive haul from this victory. He also held several high-value Tyroshi prisoners he could ransom for fat bags of coin. Even the Dothraki, primitive as they were, had left behind plenty of gold and silver trinkets that could be melted down.
The two envoys exchanged a quick glance. Money talked. Missing this opportunity would be stupid.
Besides, they didn't exactly have the power to say no. The Dothraki couldn't crack Unsullied turtle formations, but Viserys had dragons and heavy knights who could.
"Will Your Grace guarantee the safety of our overland caravans?" the Qohor governor asked carefully.
"Consider it done," Viserys replied at once.
"In return," the governor added, "we will allow Your Grace's ships to patrol the Rhoyne in our waters."
"Done," Viserys said with a grin.
He leaned forward. "I've been thinking about something bolder. Would the rulers of your two cities be interested?"
"Please, Your Grace," the Norvos envoy said.
"I want to wipe out the river pirates once and for all. That will take all of us working together."
The Qohor governor's face split into a genuine smile. "That would be excellent. We've wanted those bastards gone for years, but we never had the strength."
"To peace!" Viserys raised his cup.
"To peace!"
The three goblets clinked brightly.
And just like that, the Inland Alliance—or as some would later call it, the Viserysfort Pact—was born.
With Viserys stirring the pot, the map of Essos was already shifting again.
Braavos stood strongest, with Lorath as its loyal little brother.
Volantis kept lounging in solitary beauty, doing nothing.
Pentos had been neutered into an open city.
And now Andalos, Qohor, and Norvos had quietly linked arms.
Meanwhile Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys were still bickering in their usual mess.
The new inland bloc Viserys had just forged was no joke. The world was about to get a lot louder—and a lot richer.