Chapter 40: Dragonstone's Heir: Oaths of Ash and Echoes of Prophecy
The black volcanic stone of Dragonstone, ancient seat of House Targaryen, felt like a homecoming to Viserys, a resonance in his very bones that went deeper than memory, deeper even than Alistair Finch's historical knowledge. It was a primal connection, a sense of belonging that even the newly conquered Red Keep in King's Landing could not evoke. The air here was thick with the scent of sulfur and salt, the roar of the sea a constant counterpoint to the guttural rumbles of his six dragons, who seemed to draw a fierce, elemental energy from the island's fiery heart. Stannis Baratheon, the Stag King who had dared to usurp this Targaryen birthright, was now naught but ash and a bitter memory, his banners torn down, his cause extinguished in dragonfire. Viserys, the Dragonstone's true heir, had returned.
The fortress itself was a grim, formidable testament to Valyrian masonry and Baratheon austerity. The assault had been brutal, the Phoenix Company and Shadow Legion paying a heavy price for their victory, but Dragonstone was now firmly in Viserys's grasp. Valerion Qo, his face etched with weariness but his eyes alight with triumph, oversaw the grim task of repairing the shattered battlements and establishing a formidable garrison. Draq's Shadow Legionnaires, their obsidian blades still stained, patrolled the winding passages of the Stone Drum with their unnerving silence, while the Phoenix Guard secured the harbor and the vital obsidian mines that honeycombed the Dragonmont, the volcano that dominated the island. Xaro Xhandar, his Qartheen mind buzzing with a thousand new engineering projects, was already assessing the geothermal vents, dreaming of harnessing their power for his forges and perhaps even for creating a network of heated tunnels to further secure the fortress.
Archivist Corvin, his usual scholarly composure tinged with an almost reverent excitement, had taken possession of Dragonstone's ancient library and scriptorium. Though many of Stannis's records had been destroyed in the fighting, the deeper vaults yielded a treasure trove of Targaryen lore: crumbling scrolls detailing dragon husbandry from the days before the Doom, genealogical records tracing their bloodline back to Old Valyria, philosophical treatises on the nature of kingship and power penned by forgotten Targaryen princes, and even, to Alistair Finch's intense academic interest, fragmented accounts of Valyrian sorcery and bloodmagic. Lyra of Lys, her own knowledge of esoteric Essosi arts finding strange echoes in these ancient texts, joined Archivist in deciphering the most cryptic passages, her brow furrowed in concentration as she compared them to the unsettling glyphs discovered in the precursor ruins on Dragon's Aerie. There were whispers in these texts of ancient prophecies, of a prince that was promised, of a dragon with three heads, echoes that resonated disturbingly with Daenerys's own increasingly potent visions.
The fate of Melisandre of Asshai, Stannis's Red Priestess, had been swift and fiery. Pierced by Morrec's obsidian-tipped javelin during the final confrontation in the Chamber of the Painted Table, she had erupted in a conflagration of her own unnatural flames, her dying shriek a curse against the false dragons and their shadow-bound king. Yet, her presence lingered. Her chambers in the Sea Dragon Tower were found to contain a disturbing collection of arcane paraphernalia: obsidian scrying glasses, vials of powdered blood, ancient books bound in human skin, and disturbing charcoal sketches of future events – some clearly related to Stannis's ambitions, others more cryptic, depicting crowned stags falling before winged shadows, and a great, icy darkness rising in the distant North. Viserys had these chambers cleansed by fire, but Lyra of Lys secretly salvaged a few of the less overtly malevolent texts and scrying tools, believing they might offer insight into the magical forces now stirring in the world.
Stannis's surviving garrison, some five hundred men, mostly veterans of his northern campaigns and devout followers of R'hllor, were brought before Viserys in the Great Hall of the Stone Drum. Their faces were grim, their eyes filled with a mixture of hatred, fear, and a dawning, horrified awe of the young king who commanded dragons. Viserys, seated not on a throne (Dragonstone had no true throne save the Painted Table itself, which he now used as his war council chamber), but on a simple, carved stone seat before the vast hearth, his obsidian-steel armor gleaming, Balerion a colossal, smoke-wreathed shadow just outside the hall's massive, open doors, delivered his terms.
"Soldiers of Stannis Baratheon," his voice was cold, clear, echoing in the cavernous hall. "Your king is dead. His claim is extinguished. His god, it seems, has abandoned him. You have fought bravely, if for a misguided cause. Now, you have a choice. Swear fealty to me, Viserys of House Targaryen, your rightful sovereign, and you will be granted your lives, your honor, and a place within my armies, should you prove your loyalty. Your skills will be valued, your past service to the Stag forgiven. Refuse," his gaze hardened, "and you will share your false king's fate. Dragonstone has no room for traitors or heretics. Choose."
The "Oaths of Ash" were sworn amidst the lingering scent of smoke and blood. Most of Stannis's men, their fanaticism broken by defeat and the undeniable reality of dragons, chose life and service, however grudgingly. A few, die-hard R'hllor worshipers or those whose loyalty to Stannis was absolute, refused. Their executions, carried out swiftly and publicly by Draq's Shadow Legion, served as a brutal but effective lesson. Viserys was not a king to be trifled with. He was integrating Stannis's veterans into his own forces, under the command of Phoenix Guard officers, their skills in Westerosi warfare a valuable addition, their loyalty to be constantly monitored.
The news of Dragonstone's fall, and Stannis Baratheon's demise, sent fresh shockwaves across Westeros, far greater even than the capture of King's Landing. Stannis, for all his grim austerity, had been a formidable claimant, a proven commander with a legitimate (in the eyes of many) grievance against the Lannisters. His elimination by this new, terrifying Targaryen power fundamentally altered the strategic landscape.
Robb Stark, the King in the North, encamped in the Riverlands after his string of victories against the Lannisters, received the news with a mixture of disbelief and dawning apprehension. Stannis had been a potential, if unwelcome, ally against their common Lannister foe. Now, a Targaryen king with six dragons held both King's Landing and Dragonstone, his power base in the south growing with terrifying speed. Robb's earlier, cautious offer of a truce and discussion took on a new urgency. A formal envoy, a Northern lord of high standing, Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor (a man Alistair Finch knew possessed a cunning mind beneath his jovial exterior, and a deep, historical loyalty to the Starks that might, just might, also encompass a pragmatic understanding of Targaryen power), was dispatched with a small, heavily armed escort, sailing under a flag of truce towards Dragonstone.
The Lannister remnants were thrown into further disarray. With Tywin and Joffrey dead, and Cersei a captive, their leadership was fractured. Ser Jaime Lannister, still commanding a significant force in the Riverlands, was now the de facto head of his House, but he was cut off from King's Landing, his lines of supply and reinforcement threatened. Kevan Lannister, Tywin's more cautious brother, was attempting to rally what forces remained in the Westerlands, but the news of dragons and Stannis's fall had sown terror and dissent among their bannermen. Some whispered of suing for peace, others of a desperate last stand.
It was the Tyrells of Highgarden, however, who reacted with the swiftest, most pragmatic opportunism. Mace Tyrell, ever eager to play the kingmaker, and his shrewd, formidable mother, Olenna Redwyne, saw in Viserys's rise a chance to extricate themselves from their disastrous alliance with the now-failing Lannisters and secure a prominent place in the new Targaryen order. A lavishly appointed Tyrell galley, flying a banner of parley and carrying not just ambassadors but also, it was rumored, chests of gold and offers of grain from the Reach, was reported to be sailing towards King's Landing, clearly intending to treat with its new master.
Prince Doran Martell of Dorne remained enigmatic. Ravens arrived from Sunspear, not directly to Viserys, but to certain old, noble houses in the Crownlands with historical ties to both Dorne and House Targaryen, making discreet inquiries about the "new Dragon King" and his intentions. Doran was playing his long game, Viserys knew, testing the waters, gathering intelligence, unwilling to commit his spears until he was certain of the outcome. But the very fact that he was making inquiries was a significant development.
Viserys, now firmly established on Dragonstone, began to hold his own "court" in the Chamber of the Painted Table, that ancient, map-carved relic of Aegon the Conqueror's ambition. It was here, surrounded by his War Council, that he received the envoys from the North and, shortly thereafter, the surprisingly bold emissaries from Highgarden.
Lord Wyman Manderly, portly and seemingly jovial, proved to be a far shrewder negotiator than his appearance suggested. He conveyed King Robb Stark's "grave concerns" about the Targaryen landing, his demands for justice for the crimes of the Mad King, but also his pragmatic acknowledgement of Viserys's power and his potential as an ally against the remaining Lannister forces. Manderly subtly probed Viserys's intentions regarding the North's declared independence. Viserys, his responses guided by Alistair Finch's deep understanding of Northern pride and Stark honor, was firm but not unyielding. He acknowledged the North's grievances but made it clear that the Seven Kingdoms would be reunited under Targaryen rule. However, he also hinted at the possibility of significant autonomy for the North, a Stark Warden with broad powers, and even a marriage alliance – perhaps between Daenerys and Robb Stark himself, or one of Robb's surviving siblings and a future Targaryen prince or princess – to seal a lasting peace once the Lannisters were dealt with. He sent Manderly back with rich gifts, a personal message for Robb Stark emphasizing their shared enmity towards the Lannisters, and a proposal for a joint military council to coordinate their campaigns. He was offering the Young Wolf an alliance, but one in which the Dragon would clearly be the senior partner.
The Tyrell envoys, led by Ser Garlan the Gallant (Loras Tyrell was still, according to Kipp's intelligence, mourning Renly and had not yet thrown in with his father), were more direct, more overtly opportunistic. They offered the full support of the Reach – its armies, its granaries, its fleet – to King Viserys in exchange for a royal marriage (Margaery Tyrell, twice a queen-in-waiting, was once again available, her "maidenhood" miraculously intact, the envoys assured him), a prominent place on the Small Council for Mace Tyrell, and significant concessions regarding trade and taxation for Highgarden. Olenna Redwyne, Viserys knew, was the true power behind this offer, her pragmatism untainted by Mace's oafish ambition. Viserys, while wary of Tyrell ambition, recognized the immense strategic value of securing the Reach. He accepted their offer of alliance in principle, agreeing to "consider" the marriage proposal to Margaery Tyrell (though his gaze, when he said this, flickered almost imperceptibly towards Daenerys, who stood silently beside him, her expression unreadable). He knew that binding the Tyrells to his cause, even with their inevitable demands, would cripple the Lannisters and provide him with the resources needed for a prolonged war.
Daenerys, in these heady days on Dragonstone, seemed to come into her own. The island resonated with her, its volcanic energies, its ancient Targaryen magic, seeming to amplify her "dragon sight" and her bond with their six magnificent beasts. She spent hours in the Chamber of the Painted Table, not just observing Viserys's councils, but often offering surprisingly astute insights into the motivations of the Westerosi lords, her intuition cutting through the layers of diplomatic cant. She also took an active role in overseeing the welfare of Dragonstone's smallfolk, who had suffered greatly under Stannis's harsh rule and Melisandre's fiery zealotry. Her compassion, her regal grace, and her undeniable connection to the dragons that now soared freely around the Dragonmont, began to win her a devoted following among the islanders, who whispered that she was the true reincarnation of Good Queen Alysanne.
The six dragons, thriving in Dragonstone's volcanic environment, were now truly formidable. Balerion, Rhaegal, and Viserion were large enough to carry armored riders into battle with ease, their fiery breath capable of melting castle walls. The three Earth-Drakes – Terrax, Tempest, and Obsidian – had developed their unique elemental abilities to a terrifying degree; Terrax could now trigger minor earthquakes, Tempest could summon localized hurricanes, and Obsidian's hide was as impervious as Valyrian steel, his corrosive spit a fearsome siege weapon. Viserys and Daenerys intensified their training, honing their skills as dragonriders, practicing coordinated aerial assaults and battlefield maneuvers. They were becoming a weapon of unimaginable power, a force that no army in Westeros could hope to match.
Varys, ever the opportunist, continued his flow of information from King's Landing, now positioning himself as Viserys's indispensable Master of Whispers in the conquered capital. He reported on the Lannister remnants' desperate attempts to rally, on the growing fear and dissent among the city's populace, and on the movements of Robb Stark's armies. He also, Viserys suspected, subtly began to weave his own webs, eliminating his old rivals within the city's spy networks and ensuring that his "little birds" now sang only for the Dragon King. Viserys allowed it, for now. The Spider was a useful tool, but one he would discard without hesitation if he ever sensed betrayal.
Alistair Finch, observing this breathtaking tapestry of conquest, diplomacy, and burgeoning tyranny, felt a profound sense of historical displacement. This was not the Westeros he had read about, not the predictable, if tragic, unfolding of the War of the Five Kings. This Viserys, his reincarnated self, armed with future knowledge, unnatural powers, and now, six living dragons, was rewriting history with a bloody, ruthless efficiency. He was achieving what the original Viserys, in his pathetic madness, could only dream of. Yet, the path of the conqueror, Alistair knew, was always paved with ashes and bone. The echoes of prophecy that seemed to swirl around Daenerys, around the dragons, around Dragonstone itself – prophecies of a prince that was promised, of a great war against a coming darkness – felt more potent, more ominous, than ever. Viserys was forging a new Targaryen dynasty, but what would be its ultimate cost, to himself, to Westeros, to the world?
Viserys, standing in the Chamber of the Painted Table, Aegon the Conqueror's vast, carved map of Westeros spread before him, felt none of Alistair's philosophical disquiet. He saw only the pieces on the board, the enemies to be crushed, the allies to be secured, the path to ultimate victory. King's Landing was his. Dragonstone was his. Stannis Baratheon was dead. The Lannisters were reeling. The North and the Reach were cautiously extending olive branches. Dorne was stirring. The Dragon's Ascent was reaching its zenith.
He looked at Daenerys, who stood beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm, her violet eyes reflecting the fiery light of the torches. "Robb Stark seeks terms, sister," he said, his voice a low rumble. "The Tyrells offer us an army, and a queen. The Martells watch from the shadows. Westeros is a fractured, bleeding beast, ready for a new master."
"And what will be your answer, brother?" Daenerys asked, her voice quiet but firm.
Viserys smiled, a cold, predatory expression that held no hint of mercy. "My answer, little sister," he said, his gaze sweeping over the Painted Table, his eyes already envisioning the next campaign, the next conquest, "will be written in fire and blood, until all Seven Kingdoms bend the knee, or burn." The echoes of prophecy might whisper of saviors and darkness, but Viserys Targaryen, the Dragonstone's Heir, heard only the song of power, and the irresistible call of the Iron Throne.