c43: The Return
With a whoosh,
the warship broke through the calm waters of the Narrow Sea, its dark hull slicing cleanly across the tide as it sailed steadily beneath the pale afternoon sun.
The sea after the storm was as serene as a noble lady of the court, its mirror-like surface reflecting bands of golden light. The jagged memory of the recent squall like those that often battered the coasts near Dragonstone had vanished completely. Now, a gentle sea breeze, soft as a maiden's hand, brushed lightly against the boy's cheek.
Viserys remained standing on the highest deck of the warship Black Death, facing into the wind. The scent of salt and distant volcanic stone lingered faintly in the air, a reminder that Dragonstone ancient seat of House Targaryen was not far away. His silver-gold curls fluttered freely, and his pale, almost ethereal face was unusually calm.
This was the first time since arriving in this world that he had felt even a fragment of peace.
The crushing weight that had followed him ever since the fall of his family during the rebellion that placed Robert Baratheon on the Iron Throne seemed, for now, slightly eased. The constant warnings from the old maester, who often spoke of assassins, spies, and the lingering hatred toward Targaryens across Westeros, echoed less loudly in his mind.
After all, this recent battle at sea fought along one of the key routes between the Free Cities and the coasts of the Crownlands had ended in victory. The immediate danger had been driven back, at least temporarily.
For once, Viserys allowed himself to breathe.
"We're almost at Dragonstone!"
At that moment,
cheers erupted from the soldiers on the lower deck. Their voices carried upward, filled with relief and exhaustion. Ahead, through the haze, the dark, unmistakable outline of the island fortress had begun to emerge the towering Dragonmont rising like a shadow against the sky.
Home.
Though in truth, very few among them were truly from Dragonstone.
Most of the fleet's soldiers had been gathered from the Crownlands, particularly from the outskirts of King's Landing, where poverty pressed hard against the city walls. Others hailed from farther regions the Westerlands, sworn once to House Lannister; the Reach, under Highgarden; the Stormlands, former stronghold of the Baratheons. There were even hardened sellswords from across the Narrow Sea, men who had once fought in the Disputed Lands or served under various Free Cities.
For these men, "home" was no longer a place, it was wherever they survived.
They were commoners, men with little hope of rising in a world ruled by noble bloodlines. In Westeros, unless born into a great house, one's fate was often sealed at birth. Becoming a soldier provided one was strong enough to hold a sword was already considered a fortunate path.
At least on campaign, they could take spoils of war without fear of being hunted as criminals.
Back in King's Landing, even joining the City Watch the so-called Gold Cloaks required not just strength, but coin. Bribes to captains and officers were expected, and for most poor men, such sums were impossible.
So they fought instead.
Now, as Dragonstone drew closer, the soldiers cheered not for loyalty to House Targaryen, but for survival for having lived through yet another battle, another storm, another uncertain day at sea.
Viserys, too, felt a faint surge of emotion. It flickered briefly in his pale violet eyes, like the last ember of a dying fire reigniting.
Leaning lightly against the railing, the silver-haired boy turned his gaze toward the distant horizon on the opposite side.
According to the charts once studied carefully under the guidance of Sir Barristan and the learned maesters the fleet was now passing through the Gullet, the narrow but vital stretch of water between Dragonstone and Driftmark. This passage, often patrolled and fiercely contested during times of war, served as a crucial maritime gateway between Westeros and the lands beyond the Narrow Sea.
Viserys narrowed his eyes slightly.
"Is that… Tidehead Island?"
he asked, his small hands gripping the railing as he focused on the faint silhouette forming in the distance.
Beside him stood a slightly chubby soldier, black-haired, clad in worn leather armor with a longsword hanging at his side. Though not a knight like Sir William or the legendary Sir Barristan, he carried himself with the quiet discipline of a veteran.
"Yes, Your Highness,"
the man replied quickly, nodding with certainty.
The old sergeant once assigned by Sir William to oversee the prince's safety was resting below deck, attended by his clerk, who now handled both his records and, reluctantly, some of his duties.
It had been the sergeant who ordered the change in guards.
Perhaps he believed the previous men lacked the awareness needed to answer the prince's constant questions. Or perhaps Viserys himself had proven too sharp, too observant to be left in the care of simple-minded watchmen.
Either way, the responsibility had shifted.
Now, as the fleet cut steadily through the waters of the Gullet, the island's outline grew clearer, its rocky edges catching the fading sunlight.
And once again,
the soldiers began to cheer.
Before setting off, visibility had been extremely poor due to the gathering storm, thick clouds rolling in from the Narrow Sea and swallowing the horizon. Even an island so close to Dragonstone had been completely hidden from sight.
However, Viserys already knew its name.
Tidehead Island.
Tidehead Island was counted among the vassal holdings sworn at least in name to the Lord of Dragonstone, the traditional title borne by the heir of House Targaryen. Its ruling house, though not recorded among the great noble families of Westeros like the Velaryons of Driftmark, was nevertheless of old Valyrian descent, much like those ancient houses that had followed the Targaryens west after the Doom of Valyria.
In earlier centuries, this family often called the Valerian line in local records had maintained close ties with House Targaryen. Like the Velaryons and Celtigars, they had preserved Valyrian customs, including intermarriage to keep their bloodlines strong. Such unions had been especially common before the reign of King Aegon III, after which the influence of lesser Valyrian houses began to wane.
The Valerian family had once been formidable upon the seas, rivaling even some captains sworn to Driftmark. But the devastation of the Dance of the Dragons shattered many such houses. Their fleets were burned, their strength broken, and like so many others who had chosen sides in that brutal civil war, they never fully recovered.
Maester Daniel had explained all of this to Viserys in painstaking detail, often by candlelight within the cold stone halls of Dragonstone. The boy had been required to study the histories of the noble houses of Westeros great and small alike memorizing their sigils, their words, and the shifting allegiances that had defined generations.
Now,
the Valerian family had neither openly declared for Robert Baratheon, the usurper who had taken the Iron Throne, nor had they answered Dragonstone's summons. Their silence placed them in a precarious position neither friend nor declared foe.
Viserys clearly remembered that when he and his mother had first arrived at Dragonstone, Queen Leila clinging to what remained of Targaryen authority had sent ravens to every sworn banner.
But none had answered.
Not even those closest to them.
Tidehead Island, lying so near that its shores could be reached within hours by sail, had remained utterly silent, as though its people had chosen blindness and deafness over loyalty.
Viserys understood their caution.
After all, many houses had bent the knee to Robert to preserve their lands and lives. Openly supporting the last Targaryens could mean annihilation.
Yet understanding did not erase danger.
If anything, it sharpened it.
A neighbor who refused to declare loyalty could just as easily turn traitor when the opportunity arose.
"The Valerian still have ships."
At that moment,
a voice rose from behind Viserys and the steward.
The old sergeant stepped out from the shadow of the cabin, his presence as steady and familiar as the worn deck beneath their feet. Both men turned at once.
"Morford Valerian was ever eager for war,"
he continued.
His white hair stirred in the sea wind, and his weathered face lined with years of service under kings and commanders remained fixed on the distant island.
"Though I hear the storm took most of his fleet. And as for the man himself…" he added, a trace of dry scorn in his tone, "it seems the sea carried off his courage as well."
Viserys caught the faint sarcasm but chose not to question it.
He already knew how devastating the storm had been.
This was no ordinary squall. It had swept across the Narrow Sea with unnatural fury, the kind sailors whispered of in fear, capable of smashing entire fleets to splinters. Ships had vanished without a trace, leaving behind neither wreckage nor survivors. Some even claimed that smaller islands and coastal settlements had been swallowed by towering waves.
The sergeant's words carried more than simple commentary they were reassurance.
There was no immediate threat from Tidehead Island.
Or at least, none worth fearing now.
The Targaryen fleet sailed past the island without slowing, without lowering sails, and without sending any envoy ashore.
Yet their very presence was enough.
A silent dread spread across the island.
Standing near the railing, closest to the passing shore, Viserys could clearly make out the distant castle rising from the rocks. Along its battlements, figures gathered in anxious clusters small, indistinct shapes, yet unmistakably watching.
Watching him.
Watching them all.
The people of Tidehead Island feared retribution.
They feared that the returning Targaryen fleet blooded by war and hardened by loss had come to punish their silence, to plunder their lands as a lesson to others who might hesitate.
But neither Sir William, who commanded discipline among the men, nor the ever-watchful Sir Barristan, whose sense of honor remained unshaken even in defeat, had given any such order.
And Viserys himself had no desire for meaningless slaughter.
The fleet's passage was deliberate.
A message.
A warning.
A reminder that House Targaryen, though wounded, was not yet broken and that those who lingered in indecision would one day be forced to choose.
Then, without a single arrow loosed or word exchanged,
the fleet continued onward.
Tidehead Island faded slowly into the distance behind them.
Dragonstone lay ahead.
The distance between the two islands was slight—less than thirty nautical miles across the dark waters of the Gullet.
In less than half a day,
as the sun sank low and bathed the sea in a deep crimson glow, the fleet finally emerged from the shimmering horizon.
Black sails cut through red-lit waters.
And at last,
they returned to Dragonstone the ancient fortress of House Targaryen, where the shadow of the great castle and the smoking peak of the Dragonmont welcomed them home.
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