[70] When the Dragon Comes
Chapter 70: When the Dragon Comes
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Viserys spent the next few days setting things up while also sharpening his spear and sword skills. Every morning started with drills in Hayford’s courtyard, the air filled with the sound of steel hitting straw dummies.
Sometimes he sparred with the guards too, but they were more likely to end up on the ground nursing bruises than actually giving him a challenge.
His muscles burned as he practiced the Lightning Dance—that Braavosi spear style that focused more on speed and precision than brute force. Up on the battlements, Viserion watched like a lazy cat, flicking her tail, clearly bored.
At night, he studied maps and coded letters, figuring out routes and supply lines. Allies were useful, sure, but only if they moved the way he wanted. The North, the Reach, Dorne—pieces on a board. He was going to make damn sure they landed exactly where he planned to strike.
Speaking of allies…
The air up there smelled like pine and forge smoke in North. Robb Stark’s war camp was alive with movement; his lords were moving like pieces in a game that only he fully understood.
Blacksmiths worked day and night, turning plowshares into spearheads. Granaries stuffed themselves with salted meat and barley. Wagons lined the roads heading toward King’s Landing, and Stark riders galloped south, carrying sealed messages for the Riverlords.
Catelyn Stark wandered through the armory out of boredom, running gloved fingers over freshly fletched arrows. “Double the sentries along the White Knife,” she told one of the captains, a grizzled man who smelled of horse and steel. “If Stannis senses weakness, he might raid our coasts.”
The smiths barely paid her any attention until Robb himself gave the same order. She’d lost a lot of authority after that disaster with Jaime Lannister. People still respected her, but they didn’t listen like they used to.
Meanwhile, Robb’s lords were finally getting their chance to march on King’s Landing. But some of them weren’t thrilled about the idea of fighting for a Targaryen’s claim.
Robb shut that down real quick.
“My lords, you embarrass me,” he said, his voice calm but sharp enough to cut. “We’re not fighting for Viserys. We’re marching on King’s Landing for the realm, for ourselves. For what they did to our late lord! He’s just making it easier for us.”
Some of them still looked uneasy, so he added, “Besides, we swore an oath. Or would you rather let the Kingslayer laugh at our honor?”
That shut them up.
Under his cloak, a letter from Viserys was tucked against his chest. It read: Stannis will sail within a fortnight, according to my informant. Be ready.
Outside Harrenhal, twelve thousand Northmen camped across the muddy fields. Umber axemen sharpened their blades by firelight while Glover scouts patrolled the Kingsroad, looking for Lannister movements.
The North was almost ready.
****
The Reach was something else entirely—like a garden growing swords instead of flowers.
In the shadow of Highgarden, wheat and barley fields stretched out as far as the eye could see, so much food that they could either feed an entire kingdom or starve one to death. Olenna Tyrell had made sure of that.
“Triple the tolls on the Roseroad,” Mace Tyrell ordered his stewards, sweating under his fancy gilded collar. “Let the merchants pay for their own protection.”
Behind him, a bunch of old septons scratched numbers onto parchment, keeping track of the 40,000 soldiers camped from Tumbleton to Longtable. And that number was still growing.
At night, Margaery Tyrell strolled along the castle walls, all soft smiles and bright laughter. Ladies-in-waiting whispered about her late-night rides with Viserys that fatefully blessed evening, but she didn’t care about the rumors.
“The singers should spread the tale again,” she told Olenna. “The people need to dream about their golden queen.”
Olenna snorted. “Dreams don’t stop arrows, dear. Triple the crossbowmen on the southern walls. I hear Lannister soldiers have been sniffing around.”
Meanwhile, the Hightower fleet patrolled the Whispering Sound, their sails shining green and gold under the moonlight.
And in the shadows, the real war was happening.
Maesters burned letters. Kitchen girls memorized serving schedules. A traveling septa with a scarred lip hummed hymns as she sketched Highgarden’s granaries onto silk.
The Lannisters weren’t coming at them with open war, but the battles in the dark? They were already being fought.
The Reach was ready.
****
Then, there was Dorne.
That was where the issue lied...
The Dornish sun poured through the tall windows, throwing diamond-shaped shadows on the marble table. A few pomegranate seeds were scattered on a silver platter, their red juice staining the metal. Arianne gripped her goblet of blood-orange juice so hard her knuckles turned white.
“This… this is not wise, Father,” she said, feeling like the whole thing was nonsense.
Beyond the vaulted arches, the Water Gardens buzzed with children laughing and splashing around, which felt strangely peaceful at a time like this. Arianne could feel sweat trickling down her neck.
“Hmm…” Prince Doran murmured, lifting a slice of starfruit with his swollen fingers.
Oberyn leaned back in his chair, feet propped on the table near a bowl of candied lemons. “You’re the one with all the wisdom and caution, brother, and I’m the one who knows war. And I think your plan is… uh, weak. Not sure it can handle a real dragon’s wrath. That Viserys has a real dragon that can actually breathe fire.”
Doran gently set the starfruit aside, leaving a sticky mark on the big map of Westeros carved into the tabletop. “Fire took our sister from us. I’d rather not talk about flames.”
“Fire didn’t kill Elia,” Oberyn shot back, folding his arms. “We both know the Lannisters did.”
Arianne stood so fast her chair screeched. “Fire forged the Iron Throne. This plan… it feels off. Are you getting senile with age, Father?”
“Watch your mouth, girl,” Doran said quietly, though his tone was sharp. “The Iron Throne… Elia’s children should inherit it. Viserys acts like he owns the world just because he has a dragon. And weren’t you complaining about him from the beginning?”
Oberyn’s boots hit the floor with a thud. “You say Elia’s children, but do you really trust that boy in Lys? Some sellsword’s brat who claims to be Rhaegar’s son? What proof is there?”
A vein pulsed at Doran’s temple as he unrolled a parchment sealed with a dragon sigil. “Jon Connington’s letters say—”
“Jon Connington?” Oberyn spat out a lemon seed. “He’s the one who messed up at the Trident, who let Robert crush Rhaegar! Now we’re supposed to trust him more than the man who’s already an ally? The man who rides a dragon—A DRAGON, brother! The same creatures that turned Harrenhal into melted slag. You saw Harrenhal, as did I.”
Arianne’s nails dug into the table. As always, she shared her uncle’s opinion. Sometimes she wondered if her uncle had bred her mother, and that was where she’d popped up. Because it didn’t make sense how she could be the child of Doran!
“Viserys… he is offering us our revenge right now,” she said. “The Lannisters still hold the throne. That debt isn’t paid, and he’s helping us get it. Why are we switching sides right when he’s summoning our army? This is stupid.”
Doran’s thumb brushed the broken seal on the parchment. “Because I received a letter from Varys. It clears up some things. Vengeance takes patience. We won’t be truly satisfied if Viserys hands the revenge to our plate. We should fight for it, no?”
“Patience?” Oberyn let out a harsh laugh. “We’ve been patient for seventeen years, and where did that get us? Meanwhile, this Targaryen is marching on King’s Landing with half the realm behind him. The Reachmen and the Northernmen. When he takes the city, isn’t it best if the Dornishmen are beside him too? Brother—”
“When he takes the city,” Doran cuts in, “what do you think he’ll do? Will he choose Arianne as his Queen? He won’t. Worse, he’d be like his brother. Rhager, that fool, did you forget why the rebellion and all happened? Viserys is far worse than him. A king raised without proper schooling, not like…” He paused, eyeing the empty wine carafe.
Arianne’s voice was icy. “Not like what? A savage from Essos? You’re scoffing at a dragon just because you think he lacks manners?”
Doran leaned in his chair, letting out a sigh. “I’m scoffing at the man who threatened to let thousands of horsemen rape his sister. His sister, who was also to be his bride in the future. Did you hear about that? He who ran off to Volantis when savage horse riders were out for his blood. He got lucky by somehow getting a dragon. But it doesn’t change the truth. Viserys Targaryen is all fire, no discipline—he’ll burn out by spring.”
Oberyn swiped the starfruit from Doran’s plate, juice dripping down his wrist like thin blood. “...And what about your precious Aegon, whose identity is still questionable? Even if he’s honorable and all, he’s not a Dragonrider.”
Doran folded his hands over the parchment. “Dragon’s don’t matter. For nearly two hundred years, they didn’t. Illyrio’s letters confirm—”
“Illyrio confirms whatever lines his pockets,” Oberyn muttered, knocking a few candied lemons off the map. They landed on the painted Blackwater Rush with a wet plop. “I’ve seen Viserys’ dragon roast a man alive, and you’ve seen it do the same to a bunch of sheep. In a matter of seconds. Isn’t that confirmation enough?”
Arianne moved toward the window, casting her shadow over Sunspear’s pale towers. “According to recent letters, doesn’t Tyene often patch up Viserys’ wounds after he’s done training? He and I… we’re also close. Everything considered, his relationship with us is great. Why are we so stubborn in ruining it, Father?”
Oberyn’s smile was thin. “She’s right, brother.”
Doran breathed heavily as he stood, trembling, hand leaning on the table. “I’m not blind to that, but dragons can be chained. Or killed.” He pressed a thumb into the starfruit again, smearing pulp across Lys on the map. “Trust me on this, you two…”
A tense silence settled in, broken only by a child’s laughter echoing from the gardens.
Oberyn got to his feet, eyes narrowed. “This is unwise, brother. You’re the wise one between us, but even I can tell this is unwise. If the dragon is angered, then…”
He let the threat hang, then stormed out, leaving sticky footprints on the Stepstones painted on the table.
Arianne watched her father wipe juice from the parchment with trembling fingers. She grumbled, “I finally accepted a man and have been holding my urges back for him. But you come and scoot him away?”
Doran didn’t look up. “You’ll be Queen if you marry Aegon. He’s your cousin, he’ll love you unconditionally as family often does. What guarantee do we have that Viserys will make you his Queen? He’s got better options.”
“...” She ran her hand along the warm stone of the window. “You’re a strange person, father.”
He picked up a date from the scattered fruit, turning it in his hands. “Get the east chambers ready. Our guests will be over soon. And—”
“My cousin’s dead with Elia,” Arianne cut in, voice echoing off the mosaic walls. “I’ll put on my silks for your charade. But when Viserys’ dragon comes…”
She left the threat unsaid, the smell of oranges drifting around her as she walked out. Doran stayed there, sucking sweet pulp from his fingers, gazing at the juice-stained map where Lys stuck to his thumb like a bad omen.
Was he truly making a bad choice?
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