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8: The Merchant Prince, Alton II
🕑 Added 2024-05-04 11:40:50 +0000 UTCTwo figures trudged up the steep, verdant hill, their steps slow and laborious. The middle-aged man leading the ascent bore the signs of a life spent outdoors. His heavy boots made deep, squelching sounds in the mud, remnants of a recent rainstorm that had soaked the ground, leaving it treacherously slippery. Behind him, a boy barely in his teens struggled to keep up. His lighter frame made it difficult for him to maintain the pace.
The hill was lush with greenery and dense with trees, whose leaves dripped with small droplets of water, sparkling occasionally as the sun peeked through the thick canopy overhead. As they climbed higher and reached the summit, they could see the entire valley below—a vast expanse surrounded by hills and mountains. In the distance, they could see a river cutting across it and a large mansion that was nestled between two small hills.
"Harold, look! We can see the whole valley from here," the boy exclaimed.
"That's the point, boy," Harold responded gruffly, his eyes scanning the horizon before settling on a particularly strategic spot.
“My name is Gaemon; stop calling me a boy. I'm almost thirteen.”
Harold ignored him, his attention fixed on the spot he found. "That there will be a great place for the watchtower. Come on, boy, let's get this over with.”
They continued their walk along the ridge to the spot Harold had picked out. Gaemon could hear Harold mutter how the land was similar to the Vale back home.
"Harold, have you heard anything about the fleet? Will they visit here?" Gaemon asked, breaking the silence between them.
"Ah, I forgot your father is a captain, yes?" Harold responded, glancing at Gaemon, who nodded eagerly.
"Aye, he captains a carrack in the northern fleet. My brother’s with him as well," Gaemon replied, a hint of pride in his voice.
"Your brother too, eh? Then what are you doing here, boy? You’re old enough to work on a ship. Didn’t your brother start at your age?" Harold asked.
Gaemon looked down, as if ashamed. "I... I am not good at sea. I get sick a lot."
Harold nodded in understanding, his gruff demeanor softening slightly. "Seasickness can be rough. No shame in that.”
"About the fleet, well, I’ve heard that the king has asked the captains of the ships not to make contact yet. I don’t know when they will."
"Cheer up, lad," Harold encouraged, noting Gaemon’s crestfallen expression. "Consider yourself lucky that you are the son of a captain. If the rumors I heard in Dragonstone were true, the rebels and their king were planning to kill all of us."
"Truly?" Gaemon asked with wide eyes.
"There were rumors; can't tell you if there was any truth in them, but I'm glad the king didn't take any chances."
"But what of the other families that stayed behind? I had a friend, you know, the son of one of the officers on my father's ship. What if they are being—" Gaemon’s voice cracked.
Harold stopped him. "Like I said, they were only rumors, and we can't bring everyone here," he said, then paused, looking down at the valley below. "I’m sure they are safe. Many were taken to Driftmark, and I'm sure his Grace and his advisers have plans for their safety."
Gaemon nodded, somewhat reassured. They continued walking, reaching the spot Harold had picked out. They marked the spot where the watchtower was to be built.
"Beautiful," Gaemon murmured, looking at the valley below, more to himself than to Harold.
"Aye, it is," Harold agreed, following Gaemon’s gaze. He could see the small settlements where homes were being built for the many families that the king had brought over. Harold wondered if this would be their permanent home. He wouldn't mind; it was a beautiful place, but there wasn't enough land for farming to sustain the number of people that were here now. He turned to Gaemon, who was still admiring the valley below.
"Come on, lad. There's still plenty to do," he said before leading the long climb down the hill.
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Alton
Targaryen Estate
As Alton strolled along the gravel road, he gazed at the tranquil, lush landscape that surrounded him. He remembered the day they arrived at the Braavosi coastlands; at first, he braced for an expanse of marshlands like the ones near Braavos, but instead, they were met with harsh cliffs and a rugged shoreline. As they traveled upstream, the landscape slowly transitioned into a more forgiving environment, revealing the hidden valley where he now stood.
The valley, nestled within the embrace of rising hills and distant mountains, was a stark contrast to the harsh coastline. Here, the environment was lush and verdant, with a tributary of the Sour River cutting a gentle swath through the center. The river meandered peacefully through the valley, its banks dotted with wildflowers and grasses that swayed in the gentle breeze.
The surrounding hills were cloaked in a tapestry of green, and in the distance, he could see the large mountains, their tops often shrouded in mist. They were part of the hills of Norvos, a large mountain range that stretched from the northernmost tip of Essos to the Free City of Norvos.
As he walked, he caught sight of his destination: the large mansion nestled at the foot of a small hill. It was bustling with activity as workers put the finishing touches on its extensive renovations. Large scaffolds surrounded parts of the structure, where artisans worked meticulously to restore aged stonework and woodwork to its former glory. Lord Lucerys had found the mansion and the estate in a sorry state; it had been used as a hideout for smugglers, who were, of course, put to the sword by the Velaryons months before their arrival.
He entered the mansion. The interior was less grandiose than one might expect from the outside. The great hall was spacious and structurally impressive, with high ceilings and large windows that let in streams of light, yet it was sparsely furnished. The walls were bare, the stone floors clean but unadorned, and it was furnished with simple wooden furniture. This was not fit for royalty; perhaps they could buy some proper furniture and decor in Braavos. Royalty, even exiled ones should never live like peasants.
As he made his way through the hall past the servants preparing for the morning, he could hear laughter and voices echoing off the stone walls. He found the source of the laughter to be the king and the princess.
"You look like me now," the princess observed, her small hand reaching up to touch the king's newly dyed hair he had dyed it yesterday and now overnight it had set.
The king laughed. "Yes, yes, I suppose I do," he agreed, smiling down at her affectionately.
"I want to change too," the princess proclaimed.
"And what color would you like, Rhae?" he asked.
After a moment of thoughtful consideration, the princess announced, "I want the color you had before! Like Muna and Papa”
“Like this” she said, plucking at the streak of silver hair among her brown locks.
"I’ll have someone look into it," the king said, ruffling her hair.
It was then that the king noticed his presence. "Good morning, Al," he greeted him warmly.
"Good morrow to you as well, my lord," Alton responded. It was still strange for him to address royalty without the proper formality, but the king had commanded it, so he would obey. He had even ordered the workers to remove all Targaryen imagery from the mansion; he was taking no chances of the usurper finding them.
Before he could explain why he was here, a maid entered, carefully cradling Princess Daenerys. Princess Rhaenys rushed over to greet her aunt, but her sudden approach startled the newborn princess, and she began to cry.
The elder princess covered her ears with her hands and complained loudly, "She cries too much!"
"So do you, Rhae," teased Viserys.
The princess's expression quickly morphed into one of indignant defiance. "I don’t cry!" she declared.
Seeing her fierce stance, Viserys raised his hands in mock surrender. "All hail Princess Rhaenys, the Unweeping," he proclaimed.
The princess stuck out her tongue at him and then, seeming satisfied with her 'victory,' turned and marched out of the room with her maid, while the maid carrying Princess Daenerys continued to soothe the still-fussy princess.
"It's time for your training," Alton said as the king found himself free of the princess.
He saw him sigh heavily. "Can't we do this tomorrow? Let's skip today," he said, with a hint of weariness in his voice.
"No," Alton replied, his voice unwavering. He had been instructed by Ser Willem to ensure that the king received regular training, and he was not about to shirk that responsibility. For the past two months, he had been teaching him the basics of combat, an area where the young man had shown little interest or aptitude; the king was only interested in scholarly pursuits, as he spent most of his time with the old maester. When he told Ser Willem about the king's lack of interest, he mentioned how Prince Rhaegar had also favored scholarly pursuits over martial ones but had eventually become a renowned warrior, and he expected Viserys to follow the same path.
"Fine," he heard him grumble. He stood up and walked to the next room, toward his chambers. After a while, Alton watched him reemerge, now clad in clothes fit for training. He walked past him without saying a word, setting a brisk pace toward the training yard. For a while, they walked in silence, the only sound their boots crunching against the gravel path. It didn't take long for the young king to break the silence.
"Why do you think Ser Willem is delaying the trip to Braavos?"
Alton hesitated, knowing well the reason but hesitant to answer, "I'm not sure, my lord."
But the king seemed to sense his hesitation. "You know, don't you?" he pressed, his voice calm. "Why is he delaying?"
Alton remained silent, but ultimately decided to answer. But before he could, Viserys spoke first. "I think I have an idea. Willem has been hesitant ever since I announced I was coming along. Isn't that right, Al?" he said, chuckling lightly.
Alton was a bit caught off guard. He nodded, "Yes, that is the reason."
The king remained silent as they continued to walk, allowing the acknowledgement to hang in the air.
Alton felt a need to express his concerns, so he pressed on. "Why do you want to go to Braavos? It's too dangerous."
He saw the king smile. "I just want to see the city," he responded.
"But the usurper could have sent a thousand assassins by now," Alton argued, his voice laden with worry.
"Especially with Lord Stannis dead."
He saw the king's stride falter; for a moment, he thought he heard him curse under his breath. Alton stopped as the king halted and turned to face him.
"I'm coming, Al," he stated firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Do I look like a Targaryen now? I seriously doubt it." he said pointing to his head.
Alton had to admit, the king had a point. With his hair dyed and his regal attire swapped for simpler garments, he could blend in more easily; the only valyrian features he had were now his eyes.
"And Ser Willem has more chance of being recognized than me," he added before resuming his walk.
As they neared the training yard, the clatter of swords and the grunts of exertion filled the air. The yard was dotted with knights and their squires; there were some new guards being trained as well. Ser Willem, perched on a wooden bench at the edge of the yard, surveyed the scene with a keen eye. The knights present were from various noble houses in Blackwater Bay, like his own, had once sworn fealty to Dragonstone, their loyalties now bound to the exiled king.
"Ah, you are finally here. I was starting to think you were going to skip training altogether today," called out Ser Willem, his voice booming over the din of the yard.
"I was late for one day," the king replied playfully.
The old knight chuckled, his weathered face breaking into a smile as he stood up, using his sword as a support. "Come on then, let’s see what my squire has taught you."
Willem then turned to him. "I’ll test him on what he has learned in the last two months; you can take over after that."
Alton nodded and watched the king and Ser Willem make their way to the center of the yard, but Willem was stopped when he heard one of the other knights call out to him.
"Why don't you let one of us take over, Ser Willem? Are you sure your squire is up to teaching?" said one of the knights, Ser Meakar Waters, a man of medium build with a stern face.
Ser Willem’s expression hardened as he turned to Meakar. "Are you questioning my judgment, Ser Meakar?"
Meakar quickly shook his head. "No, Ser, I would never. I was merely—" he tried to reply hastily.
Willem cut him off sharply. "I’ll be the judge of whether Alton has been teaching our young king properly." He then turned and strode towards Viserys, who had already made his way to the center of the yard.
Alton could feel the weight of their stares on him; he knew there was some jealousy among the older knights towards him, possibly because of his close relationship with the king, but he ignored it; they soon returned to their drills, the yard once again filling with sounds of clashing steel and shouts.
Due to him being assigned to the king, he had missed out on many things. The valley had once been a haven for smugglers, and even though they were dispersed in the first encounter by Valeryon men, some had returned. Ser Willem, along with knights like Ser Meakar and their squires, had been tirelessly patrolling the lands after the remnants of the band of smugglers had tried to attack a few days after their arrival here. They dealt with numerous incursions by them. The confrontations were brutal, with one of the squires tragically losing his life during a particularly fierce skirmish. This loss had only hardened Ser Willem's resolve, and he had declared his intention to transform the valley into a fortress.
He heard laughter to his side and looked to see some squires laughing in his direction. ‘Let them laugh,’ he thought. He did not care what the others thought; he was doing his duty. If they felt jealous of him, then let them be jealous.
He turned his gaze to Ser Willem and the king, who at that moment stumbled. A ripple of laughter spread around the yard; he chuckled along as well. Viserys, flushed but undeterred, quickly got back to his feet.
"I’m ok," he declared.
"Come, Alton," Ser Willem called. Alton walked towards them as the king leaned on the small wooden sword, panting.
"Keep at him," Willem added before walking off.
"At least you remembered something," he said to the tired boy.
"Hey, I did everything right. The old man just has high standards," Viserys replied indignantly.
"High standards are what will keep you alive... now pay attention; let's work on your footing again," he responded.
The king, still catching his breath, looked up with a mixture of fatigue and frustration. “Can we take a short rest?” he pleaded.
“No,” Alton replied firmly.
“Fuck you, Al.”
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The interior of the ship's brig was cramped and dimly lit, with only slivers of moonlight filtering through the cracks in the floor and sides of the ship. The air was thick with the scent of salt and the less pleasant odor of unwashed bodies. The iron chains clanked softly with the rocking of the ship as it sailed northward.
Allister Throne sat among the other prisoners, all bound for the Wall. The chains that bound him were heavy, uncomfortable, and felt cold against his wrists. Around him were men he had known and fought alongside, men who had chosen the Night's Watch over execution. As Allister glanced around, he noticed a few who had succumbed to the rhythm of the sea, their heads bowed in uneasy sleep. Others stared blankly into the darkness, lost in their thoughts or perhaps trying to muster the courage to face their new life at the edge of the known world.
Yet they barely made it to the ship in King's Landing as after the news of the usurper’s brother's death had spread, the new king had all but ordered their death. But somehow, they had escaped that fate.
He found satisfaction in the misfortunes that had befallen the usurper's reign. It brought a cold smile to his face. His reign, it seemed, was beginning under ominous signs. Even Dorne had not submitted, the last he heard, and the storm that killed Stannis Baratheon was being called a divine storm by many, a sign that the Seven still favored the dragons.
Allister tried to sleep but was jerked awake by a loud crash. The ship swayed wildly, throwing prisoners against their chains. Allister's heart raced as he tried to process what was happening—had they hit something? Were they sinking?
The sounds of combat echoed from above. The clang of steel and shouts filled the air, heightening his alarm.
"Allister, is it pirates? Are we being attacked?" Jeremy Rykker called out opposite him.
Allister didn't immediately answer, his mind racing through the possibilities. Again, Rykker called, "Allister!"
"I don't know," Allister finally responded, straining to hear over the commotion. "Let's see what happens."
Voices grew louder and clearer. "Here! They are here!"
Allister's heart stopped for a moment. They were coming for them. But who were they?
Suddenly, the brig door burst open, and several men rushed in. One of them shouted, "Only free our own, leave the others!"
Allister felt hands on his chains, and within moments, he was free. He grabbed the man who had freed him. "Who are you? Why are you freeing us?"
Another man approached calmly, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Peace, ser. We are here to help. We serve the dragon as well."
Allister released the man. “Come, Thorne. Let’s see who has come for us,” Jeremy said, walking towards the deck. He followed him, his mind a whirl of confusion. As he emerged onto the deck, he saw a figure standing confidently among the men, a man he recognized. His face twisted into a scowl.
"Longwaters, you traitor!" he yelled, lunging toward the familiar man.
Armored sailors quickly intervened, stopping him in his tracks. "Calm down, Allister. I'm here to help," Longwaters said, a smile playing on his lips.
"I know you betrayed us. I heard of your mutiny," Allister spat toward him.
"Jack !!" Jeremy exclaimed from behind him.
Jack Longwaters, now identified, responded with a grin. "I still serve the dragon, Allister. Now calm down and listen."
