A castle built into the side of a mountain—half stone fortress, half jagged cliff—flew a white banner bearing a black bear paw.
It was the seat of House Buren.
Inside the castle, sharp shouts echoed through the halls.
"You're not going! Not going! I swear, if anyone dares step outside, I'll break their legs!"
A burly woman, thick-waisted with fingers like fat carrots, stood with one hand on her hip and the other gripping a pair of iron tongs, roaring at two adolescent boys.
This was Lys, known as the "She-Bear." The moment she heard that a Targaryen had arrived on the Claw Isle, her first instinct was to block the young men of her household.
One was her son, Bennard. The other, her nephew, Eustace.
The moment the two heard the Targaryen name, they had eagerly donned armor and prepared to ride out.
Only to be stopped cold by Lys.
She jabbed a finger at them and shouted:
"Bennard, you! Where's your father? Where are your two brothers? And your uncle?
And you, Eustace! Where's your father? Your uncle? Your two uncles on your mother's side?
Tell me! Where are they now?!"
The "She-Bear" roared so fiercely that the boys' ears rang.
Neither dared to answer.
Because everyone she had named—fathers, brothers, uncles—had all died fighting beside Rhaegar at the Trident.
At that moment, a scrawny old man stepped into the room.
He was the steward of House Buren.
"Milady, His Grace Viserys is distributing compensation payments. We should go claim our share."
"Compensation?" Lys blinked, unfamiliar with the word.
"It's for Lord Ross and the others, remember? They died with Prince Rhaegar at the Trident. King Viserys says this money is meant to support the families of the fallen warriors."
Now she understood.
........
From Crab Island to the Claw Peninsula took no longer than a pot of morning tea.
But Viserys didn't venture deep inland. He found a flat open space, pitched tents, and began distributing supplies.
Each fallen warrior's family received between five to ten gold dragons.
They could choose between coin or goods.
To the common folk, lords were takers, not givers.
And yet here was a Targaryen king giving back what should have already been theirs—and they thanked him profusely for it.
An elderly man, perhaps fifty, arrived with his three grandsons to collect the payment on behalf of his two sons. After receiving the coins, he placed them at Viserys' feet.
"Good sir, what are you…"
Viserys looked puzzled.
Was this some form of protest? Did the man think the payment was too little?
Before the king could ask further, the old man explained, "Your Grace, my two sons marched under Prince Rhaegar. That was their duty. How could I take your money for that?
For centuries, we of the Claw Peninsula have called ourselves loyal subjects of the Dragon Kings. Even the Kingsguard were often chosen from our people.
Because of this, the other realms stopped calling us wild men.
Your Grace, we cannot accept this money."
Perhaps moved by the man's words, others who had just received gold or provisions began to return what they had been given.
"Your Grace, we cannot take this money."
"Aye, Your Grace. We cannot accept it."
While a few were hesitant—Lys, for one—most spoke with sincerity.
Since the Targaryens had ruled the Seven Kingdoms, the people of Claw Isle hadn't paid taxes in gold.
But they had paid in blood.
Viserys found himself overwhelmed with guilt. He had come here not purely out of kindness.
He was a king now. Every order from his mouth came at the cost of lives.
Viserys stepped forward and helped the elderly man up, "My friends, this money is not just compensation—it is because I worry for you.
I am not my brother Rhaegar. Though I've won a battle recently, I can't even hold Dragonstone.
I plan to sail east, to gather an army and return for the Iron Throne. That journey could take five years… maybe ten.
I fear Robert will trouble you in my absence. Please, take this money."
Only after repeated persuasion did the people accept what had always been rightfully theirs.
Viserys gave up on the idea of using them to trouble Robert.
Sincerity, no matter where it's used, is always a lethal weapon. He not only abandoned the thought of resistance but also decided to increase the compensation.
The Claw Peninsula was vast, and the distribution lasted nearly five days.
Viserys could not stay any longer.
Robert would soon recover from his storm of anger. And while his own safety was one concern, Viserys genuinely didn't want to see these honest people suffer.
In those five days, he handed out more than two hundred thousand gold dragons' worth of coin and supplies.
He knew the scars of war were not limited to the Claw Peninsula.
But his ability could only stretch so far.
One day, he vowed, he would return to Westeros and end all wars. Perhaps not forever—for as long as there are people, there will be war.
But he would bring peace and prosperity to this land, trampled by kings and lords for thousands of years, for at least a few decades.
Just as he was preparing to return to Dragonstone, a large group of children between the ages of ten and fourteen were brought to his warship.
There were four to five hundred of them, all sent by their families.
Each child held either coins given as compensation or a wooden spear or sword they'd made themselves.
They stood in the sea breeze like young saplings.
"Your Grace, let us go with you to Essos! We can fight too!"
A tall, lanky boy around fourteen stepped forward, his voice loud and clear.
He held a short sword that had been sharpened to a dangerous edge.
"Your Grace! I can run fast! I can be your messenger!"
"Your Grace! I have a loud voice! I can shout your orders!"
"Your Grace! I see well in the dark—I can be your scout!"
"Your Grace! I'm great at fighting! I can be one of your Kingsguard!"
One voice after another. One innocent face after the next.
For the first time, Viserys felt his heart deeply moved.
The feeling was impossible to describe.
He looked past the children to see their families peeking out from behind trees and rocks—not hiding, just watching, waiting for the king to accept their children.
Behind him, the captain of his Kingsguard, Gerrold, was moved as well.
"All of you, listen! Drop what you're holding!"
"Your Grace…" one child, still sniffling from a recent cold, looked anxious. Their families had sent them to return the coins and gifts to the king.
"If you're my soldiers now, then obey my orders. Drop it!"
A chorus of clinks followed as coins and tokens hit the ground.
Their hands were now empty.
"All of you, line up in two rows! Board the ship!"
Under the golden sunset, the young "soldiers" climbed aboard Viserys' warship—toward a foreign continent and an uncertain future.
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