Your comments, reviews, and votes really help me out so much and they make me super motivated to keep working on this story! Thank you! Pat*eon : CaveLeather
The day after the wedding, Volantis celebrated both inside and outside the Black Wall.
Watching the scene before him, Viserys felt a strange sense of déjà vu.
"Long live the dragon!" a young girl shouted from the balcony of her family's mansion. "My lord, let me be the next one!"
"Glory to Lord Viserys!" her neighbors joined in, dressed almost like old-blood nobles. "Glory to his sword!"
"We love you!"
"Valyria has returned! It's truly back!" craftsmen and servants trailing behind the procession roared in loyal frenzy. "The dragons live again!"
"Blood and fire are one!"
"Merciful lord! Wise lord!" even freedmen and slaves screamed themselves hoarse. "You saved us from the savages! You will protect us from those filthy whores!"
"Blood and fire are one!"
The Triarch and exiled prince had last heard cheers like these during his triumphant procession—the one that had decided everything.
Back then the streets of Volantis had sung his name, praising his talent, his beauty, and his deeds.
But today the voices sounded different—more feverish, more deeply felt.
Doubt, worry, and suspicion melted away.
The skeptics fell silent. Everyone else simply lost themselves in carefree celebration while they still could.
He knew exactly why everything had changed.
After victory, people welcomed a savior—the man who had delivered them from a terrible threat.
Today they saw something more: hope for a better, brighter future.
A future the elephant party had long since forgotten. A future that would be forged in blood and fire.
The old-blood nobles were arrogant and blind, calling themselves the last true Valyrians.
But that same pride in blood and heritage also belonged to ordinary freedmen.
They had long comforted themselves that honest Volantene black bread was nobler and more valuable than the feather beds of Lys or the powders and perfumes of Tyrosh.
Noble ladies might laugh at such talk.
But Viserys understood that quiet pride of the lower classes. He knew how powerful a force it could be.
In his previous life, it was exactly that force he had used to raise the banners of southern knights and the smallfolk of the Dornish Marches.
He would not repeat the mistakes he had made before.
Viserys did everything he could to acknowledge the common people.
Loyalty and love were like fruit trees. They needed careful tending.
He smiled and tried to meet as many eyes as possible.
He handed out coins at every crossroads.
Now and then he shouted a slogan to the crowd.
Whenever the people obediently echoed him, a fierce wave of satisfaction rose in his chest.
Once real war began, many of them would turn against him.
Defeating the rebuilt alliance of the Three Whores would not be quick or easy.
The people's love was always terrifyingly short-lived.
When the first casualty reports returned, when prices soared, when more and more recruiting officers appeared in the streets, when the guards grew colder and harsher…
Then the wild cheers would fade, replaced by waiting—for a glorious victory.
And he would have to deliver it.
Otherwise everything would spiral out of control.
Right now he had finished several urgent tasks and was riding back inside the Black Wall.
He had shown himself to the common folk. Last night they had feasted and drunk in his name.
He had also gone to the harbor, where Admiral Haemon Goneris had been studying his maps with grim focus.
Viserys had gone over the plan carefully and discussed it with the old man at length before approving it.
After all, the soldiers who would follow the admiral across the sea to strike Lys were his own men.
No matter how reluctant he was to leave his young, lovely wife, when duty called, he had to answer.
He would lead Volantis's finest warriors and try to crush that city of whores in one decisive blow, forcing it to kneel where it belonged.
"Lord Viserys!" a woman leaning from a window screamed with all her strength.
Her voice was so loud he heard every word clearly.
"Take me with you! I'm yours! I'll be anything you want!"
"Not unless my lovely wife grows tired of me first!" Viserys laughed loudly and shouted back.
"Long live Lady Daenerys!" the crowd roared in thunderous reply.
Even if she ever did grow tired of him, that day was far in the future.
Of that he was certain now.
Viserys's thoughts slipped into sweet, pleasant memories.
He would probably remember last night for the rest of his life.
Despite her complete lack of experience, Daenerys had been an eager, passionate, and wildly enthusiastic lover—desperate to receive pleasure and just as desperate to give it.
As a virgin she had possessed a surprisingly thorough knowledge of the ways between men and women. Doreah's lessons had not been wasted.
She had overcome her shyness and given everything she had to please him.
Especially during the third time, when she had used that lovely little mouth…
When she had curled against him in the middle of the night and asked whether he truly had to sail away, Viserys had felt a terrible temptation for several seconds.
One kiss had quieted her, but less than seven minutes later the question had returned.
On this bright, beautiful morning Daenerys had refused to let him leave the bed, showing astonishing enthusiasm.
After an hour of tender lovemaking the Triarch had finally risen and called for the slave girls to help his wife dress.
While Naera and a new Qartheen slave girl helped her into her gown, Daenerys had told Viserys with deep feeling how much she would miss him and how eagerly she would wait for night to fall.
And he, if he was honest, felt exactly the same.
A group of figures pulled him out of his pleasant reverie. They had gathered at the entrance to the Purple Gate.
Red priests. With a crowd of fanatical followers loyal only to them. Countless shades of red that seemed ready to set the entire square ablaze.
For Benerro's sake they did not delay him long. They simply declared their eternal, unwavering loyalty and presented valuable gifts in the name of the Great Temple of R'hllor.
Viserys spoke with the priests politely and courteously, accepted every gift…
Then hurried inside the Black Wall to escape the servants of the Lord of Light.
All his guards and knights noticed the change in their lord's mood. He broke away from the column and spurred his horse forward alone.
Because he had once again been reminded of what had happened inside that temple of fire and shadow.
In recent days Viserys had been forcing himself to believe that the sacrifice had been worth it.
He had made the right choice—the only choice.
He would still have children. Legitimate sons and daughters born to the wife he loved.
Of course, he had never told Daenerys what he had actually done to save her.
He had done what had to be done. He should stop doubting… he really should.
To gain power he would do anything without hesitation. He would not even blink if it meant sacrificing that last red-eyed child.
But it was not only the sacrifice of his firstborn that troubled his soul.
Viserys had spent a long time thinking about everything Daenerys had told him.
There was so much to consider.
What disturbed him most were the so-called gods in her vision—the ones who wanted revenge for some betrayal.
Viserys had wanted to declare immediately that all those visions were foolish and unreal.
Nothing more than the product of a girl's imagination and inner fears.
How simple that would have been.
Simple, clear, and… ordinary.
But ever since he had seen living dragons with his own eyes, Viserys no longer believed in that explanation.
If powers existed beyond human understanding, beyond reality itself—if magic truly worked—then gods must exist.
Besides, the visions had been too detailed. Daenerys remembered them too clearly.
The danger had felt real and deadly. The trials had been cruel and possibly fatal.
Could a person's mind truly create such an elaborate mirage for itself?
Probably not.
And after living through something like that, it was hard to stay sane.
The problem was that the visions themselves seemed meaningless to him.
Where had that enormous black dragon come from?
The only dragon they had was still in their palace, nowhere near that size.
Who were those golden-armored warriors gathered around the dragon?
What was the point of talking about a legendary Aelion who had never even lived?
What contract had been broken?
Daenerys's visions might point to the future.
Or they might simply have been the ravings of a mind pushed too far.
Those gods might be real. Or they might be nothing but shadows.
But even if they were real—even if they were the true gods of ancient Valyria—
why had they stayed silent until now?
What had stopped them from warning the Targaryens about that contract earlier?
So many of his ancestors had been willing to sacrifice everything to bring dragons back.
Themselves. Their wives. Their children. Their brothers and sisters.
There had simply been no one left to sacrifice.
And now, when the last dragonblood finally began to take control of their own fate, these so-called protectors had suddenly awakened?
Gods like that carried very little weight.
For nearly three hundred years House Targaryen had prayed to the Seven. Three generations of rulers had long forgotten the old faith and its rituals.
The last family of dragons no longer prayed to dragon gods.
And what had those gods done in return?
Nothing.
Viserys forced himself to stop speculating.
Right now he had other things to think about—things directly connected to reality.
War. Celebration. Love.
Today was the second day of the wedding festivities.
Soon his palace would once again be filled with guests.
They would come seeking rest and pleasure. Wine would flow like a river again. And at night he would be alone with Dany, forgetting everything in a few hours of happiness.
Fate, however, seemed to have other plans for Viserys.
The moment he saw the confused expression on Ser Jorah Mormont's face as the knight waited at the main gate, he understood.
"What is it, Ser Jorah?" Viserys pulled far enough ahead of his escort that the two of them could speak without dismounting.
"The harbor master just arrived with a report. He was a few minutes late and missed you at the docks." The Northerner spoke quietly, making sure no one else was within earshot. "Today envoys from Dorne arrived. They've taken rooms in the city and are waiting for permission to see you."
Well. That was unexpected.
Doran Martell had finally woken from his long slumber—and it hadn't even been half a century.
The timing was suspiciously perfect.
Although… that depended on which side you looked at it from.
"Which of Prince Doran's people did he send?" Viserys asked, trying to hide his irritation.
"The delegation is led by Lord Dagmer Manwoody. On the surface they've come to negotiate trade agreements for grain, spices, and our craftsmen's goods. But I doubt that's their only purpose." Mormont answered without changing expression. "Because traveling with them are three of Prince Oberyn Martell's bastard daughters."
"Who?"
"Nymeria, Obara, and Tyene Sand."
Viserys made a face like he had a toothache.
So that was it.
The moment Prince Doran woke up, he had sent his brother's three bastard daughters.
To give the delegation at least a thin layer of respectability, he had even attached a noble count.
In a way, Viserys could understand Doran.
If Oberyn himself had come—or any of the ruling prince's legitimate children—the Iron Throne and the Tywin Lannister behind it would have seen it as a declaration of war.
Doran would have been branded a traitor on the spot. House Martell would have had no room left to maneuver.
Understanding, however, did not equal agreement or approval.
This prince who claimed to be an ally of the dragonlords had been silent for years, offering no help and asking no questions.
Ever since Viserys had signed that agreement with William Darry, the Dornish had vanished like smoke.
He had been forced to build everything alone.
Raising sellsword companies. Finding funds and contracts. Begging and persuading…
Viserys was not hurt by what this potential ally had done. But he was in no hurry to celebrate his sudden awakening either.
What kind of vassal ignored his liege when he was in trouble, only to come rushing forward the moment that liege became powerful?
Still… was it really so surprising that the Dornish would act this way?
In his previous life he had despised them and never bothered to hide it.
He had even considered seducing Queen Myriah just to prove to Daeron that all these half-naked southern women were whores.
Only his lingering love for his brother had stopped Daemon Blackfyre.
He had fought Dornish brutes in tourneys and melees, using the bouts to vent his anger and repeatedly humiliate the king's honored guests for the amusement of the true knights of the Seven Kingdoms.
Many of his supporters had followed him precisely because they refused to bow to the descendants of the Dornish whores and would not accept them as princes or future kings.
In this life Viserys Targaryen's opinion of the southerners had improved somewhat.
There were more than a few Dornishmen among the Black Knights, and they were equally disgusted by Prince Doran's two-faced behavior and constant flip-flopping.
Prejudice, however, still remained.
In the past they had been enemies.
Today, right now, a cruel fate was trying to bind him and House Martell to the same ship.
Fine. So be it.
When allies came knocking, you didn't turn them away—no matter how suspicious they were.
But the agreement between Viserys Targaryen and Dorne would have to be renegotiated.
On new terms.
And certainly not today. Not on the second day of his wedding.
"Ser Jorah, I will of course receive our guests from faraway Dorne once I have time. For now let them stay in the city. They may wander as they please… outside the Black Wall, of course. But their ship is not to leave the harbor." Viserys answered one word at a time. "Right now, ser, let's go inside. The celebration is waiting for us!"