c34 A Bold Idea
"Your Majesty."
The old knight, his hair and beard as white as the snows of the North, spoke in a slightly rough voice. His tone carried the weight of years spent in service like many veterans who had once sworn loyalty to Aerys II Targaryen before the fall of the dynasty. He then nodded slightly, having said all he needed to say.
Queen Leila remained seated at the center of the chamber. Her pregnant belly was prominent beneath her gown, her face pale and lined with exhaustion, much like the last days of Rhaella Targaryen on Dragonstone. She took a slow, steady breath and inclined her head.
"Thank you for your trouble, Sir Geoffrey."
The old man said nothing more. He rose, his armor clattering faintly in the quiet hall, and bowed with the rigid discipline of a lifelong knight.
He then prepared to leave the Hall of Maps where the great carved table depicted all of Westeros in painted detail and return to the fleet anchored in the harbor below the black volcanic cliffs of Dragonstone.
At this moment,
Viserys, who had been silent for a long time, suddenly raised his hand like a well-behaved child in a maester's lesson.
"Sir, I have a question."
"Can our fleet sail across the Narrow Sea?"
The young king, seated to the side, rested one hand on the painted table and raised the other, speaking abruptly but clearly.
"Hmm?"
The old knight paused at Viserys's words and stopped in his tracks.
His gaze lowered to the map beneath him. Dragonstone stood as the ancient Targaryen stronghold, the last remnant of their power after Robert's Rebellion. Beyond Blackwater Bay stretched the Narrow Sea, separating Westeros from the vast lands of Essos.
Across that sea lay the so-called Eastern Continent Essos home to the Nine Free Cities, including wealthy ports like Pentos, where exiled nobles and fallen kings often sought refuge.
Viserys's sudden question, though spoken by a mere child of seven, caused the old knight to fall into deep thought.
"Your Highness means…"
Sir Geoffrey paused, then raised his graying head, his expression sharpening.
"Dragonstone is too barren,"
Viserys continued before the knight could finish.
"It has little fertile land, few resources, and fewer people. It cannot sustain a court for long much less a fleet."
Viserys's small hands were tucked into the sleeves of his blue velvet robe, his fists clenched tightly out of sight. Though he appeared calm, his heart pounded fiercely
even more so than when he had slain three mercenaries the previous night in the shadows of the castle.
This was the first time he had spoken so boldly.
He knew what was coming.
He knew the storm.
In the original course of events, the great tempest later remembered in whispers as the same storm that marked the birth of Daenerys Targaryen would descend upon Dragonstone with unimaginable fury.
It would smash the Targaryen fleet against the rocks, sink every ship in the harbor, and leave the island defenseless.
Soon after, the garrison would surrender to Stannis Baratheon, brother to Robert Baratheon, without a true fight.
And he Viserys would be forced to flee across the Narrow Sea with his newborn sister, becoming a beggar prince, passed from one foreign court to another, clinging to fading pride and empty titles.
If he wanted to change that fate
he had to act now.
The Dragonstone fleet was the last real power still loyal to House Targaryen. If it survived, everything could change.
If it was destroyed, history would repeat itself.
Viserys drew a quiet breath.
"Mother… Sir Geoffrey…"
he said, his voice steadier now despite his age.
"We cannot remain here and wait for death."
"Dragonstone has always been a fortress yes but it is also a prison. Without allies, without food, without gold, we are already defeated."
He lifted his gaze, meeting his mother's eyes directly, something few children would dare to do.
"But across the Narrow Sea… there are cities that remember us. Houses that once traded with us. Men who would sell their swords or their loyalty for the right price."
He briefly glanced toward the map, toward Pentos and the other Free Cities.
"If we sail now before the storms come we can preserve the fleet, preserve our strength…"
"And perhaps," he added quietly,
"win back what was lost."
Silence filled the chamber.
Sir Geoffrey did not immediately respond. His weathered hand rested on the map, fingers spread across the carved seas, his thoughts unreadable.
Queen Leila's expression shifted slightly, her fatigue momentarily overshadowed by surprise and something else.
Hope.
Viserys watched them both carefully, his breathing slow.
This was the moment.
He feared only one thing
that they would dismiss him as a child.
That all his knowledge, all his resolve, would be brushed aside as naive imagination.
But when neither of them spoke to interrupt him,
Viserys felt a faint thread of relief.
So he pressed on.
"Mother, Sir Geoffrey,"
the seven-year-old king said, sitting upright in his chair, summoning every ounce of courage within him as he looked at Queen Leila and the commander of the Dragonstone fleet,
"we must leave Dragonstone… before the storm decides our fate for us."
"If we remain trapped on Dragonstone and make no attempt to change our current situation, then defeat is only a matter of time."
This time, Viserys's words were blunt and direct, devoid of any attempt at softening the truth.
Queen Leila's expression shifted immediately upon hearing her son's words. She had never liked such ominous predictions, especially not now.
In recent months since the fall of King's Landing, the deaths of Rhaegar Targaryen and Aerys II Targaryen, and their forced retreat to Dragonstone her nerves had been stretched thin. Anxiety, grief, and uncertainty had worn her down, much like they once did to Rhaella Targaryen in the final days before the storm.
The word "defeat" only made it worse.
"Viserys!"
Queen Leila's voice sharpened instantly, cutting through the chamber like a blade. She was already preparing to rebuke him for his reckless and ill-omened words, to remind him that he was still a child and not yet burdened with the weight of a crown.
"So…"
She was suddenly interrupted.
The fleet commander, who had remained silent for a long time, finally spoke.
Sir Geoffrey stood with one hand resting on the painted map table, his fingers spread over the carved coastline of Blackwater Bay. He slowly raised his head, his grey-brown eyes locking firmly onto Viserys, who sat across from him.
"What does Your Highness intend to do?"
There was no anger in his voice only curiosity, and something deeper.
He had not expected the boy to speak like this. It required more than courage; it required clarity, resolve, and a mind that could see beyond the present moment.
And when coupled with what he had heard the previous night—that the boy had somehow managed to kill three hardened mercenaries within the castle walls
Sir Geoffrey found himself reassessing the young prince.
A flicker of interest stirred in his chest.
Could this child truly possess the makings of another Rhaegar Targaryen?
The former prince known across the Seven Kingdoms as the "Silver Prince" had commanded loyalty and admiration from lords and knights alike. Even those who later bent the knee to Robert Baratheon still spoke of Rhaegar with a mixture of awe and regret.
Many had believed that, had he lived to ascend the Iron Throne, he would have become one of the greatest kings in Targaryen history.
And even now, more than half a year after his death upon the Trident, that belief had not faded.
Viserys, for his part, met Sir Geoffrey's gaze without flinching.
There was no hesitation, no retreat.
Yet he had no idea that, once again, he was being silently compared to the near-perfect image of his elder brother in the eyes of others.
Receiving a direct response instead of dismissal, Viserys felt a surge of confidence rise within him. He drew in a steady breath and spoke again, his voice firmer this time.
"Sir, we can abandon Dragonstone and seize a city in the eastern continent as our new base of power."
"Abandon Dragonstone?"
Sir Geoffrey narrowed his eyes slightly, the faint lines on his weathered face deepening.
Dragonstone was no ordinary castle.
It was the ancestral seat of House Targaryen the very place from which Aegon I Targaryen had launched his conquest of Westeros. For centuries, it had stood as both a symbol of their origin and a bastion of their strength.
To abandon it now
would not simply be a retreat.
It would be a declaration.
A silent admission that they had relinquished their claim to the Iron Throne, yielding legitimacy to the so-called usurper, Robert Baratheon.
Moreover, Dragonstone's position was of immense strategic value. Situated at the mouth of Blackwater Bay, it served as the gateway to King's Landing. As long as the Targaryen fleet remained anchored here, it effectively controlled access to the capital by sea.
The Baratheons, despite their victory on land, lacked a fleet powerful enough to challenge the royal navy directly. Even Stannis Baratheon, known for his discipline and resolve, had yet to secure dominance over these waters.
Sir Geoffrey had not expected that, before their situation had truly deteriorated, Viserys would propose something so drastic.
To abandon Dragonstone.
To relinquish their foothold in Westeros.
To cross the Narrow Sea and seek refuge in Essos like exiles and sellswords.
To many, it would look no different from a king casting aside his crown and fleeing like a stray dog.
A faint disappointment flickered in the old knight's eyes.
Had the events of the previous night frightened the boy so deeply?
Perhaps that was only natural.
After all, Viserys was only seven years old.
Even if he carried the blood of the dragon, one could not expect every prince to rival the brilliance and composure of Rhaegar.
Sir Geoffrey understood this well.
And yet
he could not completely hide the trace of disappointment that lingered in his gaze.
...