c4: Swordsmanship
Then,
Escorted by mailed guards bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, two closed carriages without any royal insignia rolled through the streets of King's Landing. Rather than passing beneath the looming battlements of the Iron Gate where gold cloaks and city watchers were thick they chose to circle south and slip quietly through the lesser-used Dragon Gate, avoiding attention from the City Watch and prying eyes loyal to uncertain masters.
The convoy turned onto the kingsroad spur that led toward Rosby and Duskendale, mud splashing against the wheels as they departed the capital. Sir William Darry faithful knight of the Kingsguard and sworn protector of the royal children had resolved that they would sail from Duskendale across Blackwater Bay and then eastward to Dragonstone, the ancient Targaryen stronghold where the blood of Old Valyria had ruled for nearly three centuries.
Meanwhile, a large royal galley bearing the red dragon banner departed from the harbor at King's Landing as a deliberate feint, its sails bright against the grey sky. The ship's course suggested a direct voyage east from the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, as if the Queen and her children were aboard.
The aging master-at-arms of the Red Keep had his reasons for such deception. He knew too well that King's Landing and even the halls of the Red Keep were riddled with whispers and informers. Varys the Spider's little birds nested in every dark corner, and not all served the dragon faithfully.
Matters debated at dawn before the Iron Throne could be overheard in the taverns of Flea Bottom by dusk. His Majesty Aerys II Targaryen had recently reshuffled the Red Keep's guard in fits of paranoia, replacing men he mistrusted with others no more loyal. Word of Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys being moved would spread like wildfire through the alleys of the capital.
It would take a miracle to conceal the Queen's flight.
Thus, after careful deliberation, Sir William chose misdirection.
A direct voyage from King's Landing to Dragonstone would normally be the safest course. Even during the stormy season that battered the narrow sea, Targaryen captains knew those waters well. Dragonstone had long been their refuge Aegon the Conqueror had launched his invasion of Westeros from its volcanic shores.
But Westeros was no longer united. Rebellion had spread from the Stormlands to the Riverlands and beyond. The banners of Robert Baratheon were rising in open revolt after the deaths of Brandon and Rickard Stark. Outside the walls of King's Landing, no road could be called safe.
To travel by land, even briefly, was perilous.
"By the Seven," Sir William murmured, pressing two rough fingers to his brow in the old Andal fashion. "May the Mother grant mercy and the Warrior lend us strength."
---
One Day Later
After half a day's cautious travel and a restless night spent at a modest holdfast sworn to House Rosby, the small procession resumed its journey. They continued along the rain-soaked road toward Duskendale's modest harbor.
Duskendale lay within the Crownlands, nominally loyal to the Iron Throne. Its lord had not yet declared for the rebels. In these times, hesitation itself was taken for loyalty.
The sky hung low and grey.
A steady drizzle pattered against the carriage roof. The road had turned to mire, and the wheels lurched unevenly through the mud. Inside, the curtains were lifted slightly to allow air into the cramped space.
Young Viserys Targaryen, silver hair falling across his pale brow, stared through the narrow opening. He watched dark trees blur in the mist and felt a chill wind brush his face.
"I have a bad feeling," he said quietly.
Opposite him sat Sir William Darry, now clad fully in plate and mail, his longsword belted at his side and a dagger hidden beneath his cloak. His aging eyes betrayed fatigue but also resolve.
Beside Viserys sat his infant sister, Daenerys Targaryen, wrapped in blankets and watched over by a loyal handmaid. Though still a babe, her presence weighed heavily upon the knight. She was the last daughter of Aerys, born during a storm that would one day earn her the name Stormborn.
Sir William hesitated.
He had received troubling word at dawn.
The royal galley that had sailed from King's Landing as a decoy never cleared Blackwater Bay. It had been set upon by armed vessels flying no true banners likely sellsails bought with rebel gold or privateers emboldened by chaos.
None were expected to survive.
When the breathless rider delivered the news, mud-caked and trembling, a cold certainty settled in Sir William's heart. The rebels had learned of the flight almost immediately. Their network of spies rivaled even the whispers within the Red Keep.
Though Robert's rebellion lacked a strong royal fleet, the Stormlands and Vale possessed swift warships, and the Narrow Sea teemed with opportunists. The royal navy had already been stretched thin defending the capital and blockading hostile shores.
Even the mighty fortress of Storm's End, ancestral seat of House Baratheon, had endured siege and naval pressure before Robert's banners rose fully in revolt.
Westeros was unraveling.
Sir William looked at Viserys the last male heir of the dragon and felt the crushing weight of duty. The boy did not yet understand that he was no longer merely a prince of the Seven Kingdoms.
He was a fugitive.
And if they failed to reach Dragonstone, the blood of Aegon the Conqueror might end not with fire and glory
But in mud and rain on a nameless road.
Fortunately, Sir William Darry had trusted neither the calm waters of Blackwater Bay nor the false security of a royal galley. Instead of risking Queen Rhaella and her son on open sea where storms had once battered Dragonstone the night Daenerys was born he concealed them within a tightly sealed carriage and slipped quietly out of King's Landing under cover of rain and confusion.
Now, if the ambush upon the decoy ship had been orchestrated by agents loyal to Robert Baratheon, then the enemy would soon realize that Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys had not been aboard. The realization would narrow the rebels' search to the roads leading through the Crownlands.
"Your Highness need not worry. The men are armed and ready,"
Sir William said in a low, steady voice, one gauntleted hand resting firmly upon the pommel of his longsword. The white cloak of the Kingsguard though dulled by rain and mud still hung from his shoulders, a reminder of vows once sworn in the throne room beneath the Iron Throne of Red Keep.
"However, we must press on with greater haste. The longer we remain on these roads, the greater the risk."
Viserys, unaware of the grim tidings from Blackwater Bay and ignorant of the knight's deeper fears, gave a small but solemn nod. For all his youth, he had begun to sense that their departure from the capital had not been a simple journey.
Compared with the soaked soldiers riding alongside the wheels, he could not complain. The carriage was lined with thick furs taken from the royal stores, its interior warmer than the damp world outside.
"I understand," he replied, attempting to sound older than his years.
---
Soon, dusk fell once more.
The day had been long and punishing. A thin drizzle had persisted from dawn until late afternoon, soaking cloaks, turning the kingsroad into a sucking mire. Horses strained at the traces, and every wheel turn seemed to require double the effort.
Exhaustion weighed on men and beasts alike.
Then misfortune struck again.
The carriage bearing Queen Rhaella jolted violently. One wheel struck a hidden stone beneath the mud, and with a sharp crack, the axle split. The carriage lurched to one side, nearly overturning. One of the horses screamed and reared, the harness twisting dangerously.
Sir William reacted instantly. He and two men-at-arms rushed forward, seizing the bridle and cutting tension from the straps before the animal could be injured further. Mud splattered across their armor as they struggled, but at last the panicked horse was calmed and led aside to rest.
Queen Rhaella emerged moments later, aided by her maids. Her silver-gold hair had come loose from its careful braiding, and her dark cloak was stained at the hem. She bore herself with quiet dignity despite the stumble, though strain showed in her pale features. The storm that had once marked Daenerys's birth at Dragonstone seemed a distant echo now, yet hardship had never truly left her.
For the moment, the rain eased.
The broken axle, however, forced a halt.
In truth, the delay offered some relief. Sir William's earlier commands had shortened rest periods to half their usual length. The soldiers' faces were drawn, and the horses' flanks frothed with sweat despite the chill.
When the order for temporary rest was given, a muted sigh rippled through the escort.
Viserys leapt down from his own carriage at once. Without hesitation, he offered the intact vehicle to his mother while repairs were assessed. Though still only seven, he understood that appearances mattered. A prince must show consideration.
He stretched stiff limbs, boots sinking slightly into the mud. Even cushioned with fur, a full day's ride over rutted Westerosi roads was punishing. Unlike the grand tournaments once held outside King's Landing where knights such as Rhaegar Targaryen had unhorsed opponents with elegance there was nothing smooth or glorious about this journey.
Nearby, Ser Willem stood before the crippled carriage, both hands resting atop his sword hilt. His posture was weary yet vigilant, gaze sweeping the tree line as if expecting shapes to emerge from the mist at any moment.
The silver-haired boy hesitated, then approached.
"Sir Willeliam," Viserys said politely, recalling the formal address drilled into him within the Red Keep's training yard.
The knight lowered his head slightly in acknowledgment.
"May I ask you for instruction in swordsmanship?"
The question clearly startled him.
For a heartbeat, Sir William did not respond. The drizzle, the creak of leather, the distant snort of horses filled the silence.
"Why would Your Highness think of such a thing now?" he finally asked.
The request stirred an old memory.
Years ago, another silver-haired boy gentle, bookish, more devoted to his harp than to the yard had come to him with sudden determination. Rhaegar Targaryen had once declared that it seemed he must become a warrior. In time, he had grown into one of the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms, his prowess proven at tourneys and on the Trident itself.
Now that same blood stood before him.
"I am seven," Viserys replied, lifting his chin. "Old enough to begin knightly training. Princes of House Targaryen have trained since they could first hold wooden swords."
He did not say that the realm was in flames, that his father Aerys II Targaryen sat increasingly isolated upon the Iron Throne, or that his brother Rhaegar had fallen in battle.
But the weight of those truths lingered between them.
"And I will need such skill one day," Viserys continued quietly. "If we are to return."
His violet eyes held the knight's gaze.
"Is that not so?"
Sir William looked upon the boy and, for the briefest moment, glimpsed both the promise and the peril of the dragon's blood a lineage forged at Dragonstone, tempered by conquest, and now hunted across its own realm.
....