"Your Grace, House Celtigar still hasn't replied to any of our messages."
On Dragonstone, the fleet had already raised its sails, ready to depart at a moment's notice. The exact timing of the storm was still unknown, so they had no choice but to leave early.
Viserys was making his final arrangements.
For over three months now, he had been sending messages to House Celtigar twice a week, but had received no response.
After this battle, whether it was the Celtigars or the Velaryons, he would show no more courtesy.
"I understand," Viserys said to Faelor.
He now trusted that Faelor wouldn't dare play tricks right under his nose, so he handed the rookery back to him to manage.
However, he also placed Davos's youngest son by Faelor's side under the title of apprentice.
It wasn't that Pycelle's incident had left any lingering issues, but the current situation of House Targaryen could not afford even the smallest mistake.
After dismissing him, Viserys made his way to Rhaella's chamber.
Elia and Lyanna were there as well.
They were both tending to Rhaella and waiting for Viserys.
Half a month ago, the Valyrian steel goods Red Viper and Davos had scoured from the Free Cities had already arrived ahead of them.
A Valyrian steel bracelet, two rings, and some other ornaments filled the room.
These items had cost more than twenty thousand gold dragons.
When Viserys arrived, Elia and Lyanna stepped aside, allowing him to sit at Rhaella's bedside.
"Viserys, my child," Rhaella said, touching his head with a trembling hand, her voice tinged with tears.
Her poor child.
Across all the Seven Kingdoms, she had never seen a boy not even ten years old who had already been to the battlefield—twice.
Viserys gently wiped the tears from her eyes and said softly, "Don't worry, Mother. I'll be fine. It's just a shame you didn't get to see the 'Linked Fleet' in action. Gods, it's like I'm sailing a moving fortress!"
"If we laid some wooden planks across those chains, even warhorses could run across them. No storm could touch us!"
Lyanna patted Elia's shoulder. Her eyes, too, were red.
Earlier, the two of them, under Willem's protection and in disguise, had boarded the Linked Fleet.
It was impressively stable—almost like walking on land.
To Lyanna, this kind of fleet could not be broken apart.
The warships of the Linked Fleet formed a U-shaped formation, with Viserys's flagship at the center. Even if the battle went poorly, he would have a way to retreat.
Still, seeing someone so young enter the battlefield again moved her deeply.
"You must come back," Rhaella repeatedly urged.
Viserys didn't answer her directly, instead saying, "Do you remember I told you about a dream where you were teaching Dany to ride a horse?"
Rhaella nodded.
"Do you know what I was doing?"
She shook her head.
"I was roasting meat for her!" Viserys said, pointing at her swollen belly.
Hearing that, a smile finally returned to Rhaella's face.
Viserys's dream had become her hope and her anchor. If her son wasn't lying to her, then he would surely return safe and sound.
After seeing Rhaella, there was no need to say much more to Elia or Lyanna.
Under Willem's protection, Viserys headed straight for the harbor.
Along the way, Viserys handed Willem a box.
Willem knew what was inside. Viserys had told him privately: if something happened to him, young Aegon would be his heir.
The last time Lyanna had given birth, Viserys had nearly confirmed the presence of that hidden threat.
He wasn't sure whether he would be targeted for it.
He had grown emotionally attached—Rhaella's care had been clear and constant throughout his time here.
The reason he didn't leave a will for Rhaella was because he worried it might cause emotional distress during childbirth.
"If I don't make it back, House Targaryen will depend on you, Ser Willem."
"You have my word, Your Grace," Willem said, clenching his jaw to keep his composure.
Even he didn't understand why Viserys placed so much trust in him, but it gave him a profound sense of responsibility.
He watched as Viserys boarded the ship. The interlinked black-sailed warships slowly pulled out of the harbor like storm clouds gathering in the sky.
The black banners flapped fiercely in the wind. When Willem turned to look at the horizon, far in the distance, he thought he saw a layer of dark clouds forming.
To ensure the fleet could avoid the coming storm, Viserys had led them a hundred leagues southeast of Dragonstone.
That was nearly the furthest distance one could still make out the island with the naked eye.
Once the storm hit, they would immediately make for Storm's End. However, it had already been a week since the fleet left port, and the sea remained calm and undisturbed.
What was worse, the fleet had been sitting motionless on the open sea like a drifting island.
With nothing to do, tensions had started to build. Several brawls had already broken out on the warships.
In response, Gerold ordered the captains to increase their patrols, even making a point to visit different ships himself to inspect discipline.
"I heard this expedition was ordered by the Queen Mother. Who wages naval war like this? Battles are fought when the weather's good. What the hell are we waiting for?"
A scruffy-bearded soldier grumbled.
Life aboard ship over so many days made everything inconvenient.
Even soldiers who didn't normally grow beards now looked unkempt and ragged.
"I heard the Queen Mother is about to give birth," another soldier said suddenly, his tone conspiratorial.
"For real? Isn't she old enough to be a grandmother?"
"You don't know anything. Highborn ladies know how to take care of themselves. Besides, our little king is still just a child," the soldier said, giving a knowing look.
*SWISH!*
While the others were still snickering and letting their imaginations wander, a sharp dagger suddenly burst through the chest of the foul-mouthed soldier.
Gasps erupted as everyone turned to look—only to find that it was none other than Ock Velwater, the newly appointed sub-fleet commander.
The moment some soldiers laid eyes on Ock, it was as though their bones had turned to jelly.
News of the incident quickly reached Viserys.
He understood this was yet another sign of how fragile the Targaryen name had become. Whether in defense or in offense, he could not afford a single loss.
It wasn't just the enemies—his own men could sense the weakness in their ruler.
And the soldiers under Dragonstone's fleet were hardly the most dependable.
For centuries, it had become something of a tradition for common folk to mock Targaryens behind their backs.
"A tradition," indeed.
"Your Grace, shall we punish those soldiers?" Gerold asked from beside him.
Disrespect toward the royal family was an unforgivable crime.
But Viserys shook his head, "Put them in the vanguard when the battle starts. If they survive, they can live."
He knew that only through a string of victories could the Targaryen name be restored.
Executing a few lowborn soldiers would only stir up more trouble. And when that happened, it might become even harder to contain.
For now, all he could do was hope that the storm would strike soon.
Knock. Knock. Knock—
Just then, someone rapped on the cabin door.
It was Arthur who entered.
"Your Grace, the storm has arrived!"
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