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6: The Merchant Prince, Viserys IV, Stannis
🕑 Added 2024-04-18 17:47:51 +0000 UTCViserys
Dragonstone
Viserys stood alone, gazing at the deserted docks from the large windows of the chamber that housed the painted table. The windows offered a panoramic view of the sea and the once bustling docks of Dragonstone. The overcast sky loomed ominously overhead, filled with heavy rain clouds that had yet to unleash their storm, as if holding back, awaiting a signal.
The chamber was eerily quiet, the only sounds being the distant rumble of thunder and the waves hitting the rocks. His time on the island was coming to an end, and Rhaella would give birth any day now; he planned to leave as soon as Daenerys was born, before the fleet led by Stannis would arrive.
Lucerys had left after the planned 'mutiny' of the royal fleet. He and the other lords sworn to Dragonstone had promised eternal loyalty to him, assuring him that they would wait for his glorious return.
"Ah, as if," he scoffed to himself.
Lucerys turned out to be more competent than he expected, efficiently carrying out the plans for the fake mutiny with a level of acumen that surprised him. Well, he was the Master of Ships for years after all, so it was his fault for underestimating him.
He turned his attention towards the painted table. Its surface glowed with an ethereal light that seemed to emanate from within, illuminating the map of Westeros carved on it. On the table, spread out, were maps and nautical charts covering the Shivering Sea, the Narrow Sea, the Summer Sea, and the Sunset Sea.
These maps were marked with the locations of the royal fleet, which had been divided and sent forth under the guise of mutiny. These ships, if they remained loyal, would be a great help for his plans for the future. This plan was better than having the entire fleet be sunk in the famous storm that Daenerys would be born in.
The royal fleet consisted of more than three hundred ships; it was a diverse and formidable armada that included war galleys, dromonds, cogs, and carracks. They had split the fleet into two, so they could operate in the northern and southern parts of the Narrow Sea. These two fleets would further be divided into smaller groups, each with specific roles and regions to operate within.
The Northern fleet would operate in the cold waters of the Shivering Sea and the northern part of the Narrow Sea. They were tasked with integrating into maritime commerce as merchant vessels. The primary aim for this fleet was to establish and maintain good relations with the merchants of Braavos and those in the harbor towns surrounding the area. This fleet would predominantly consist of cogs and carracks, known for their ample cargo space and sturdy build, making them ideal for long voyages and heavy loads typical of merchant vessels. Also, the cold, treacherous waters of the Shivering Sea required sturdy and versatile ships. A few swift war galleys accompanied them, providing protection and the capability for quick intervention, should the need arise.
The Southern fleet would operate in the challenging waters around Dorne, the Reach, the Stepstones, and the vast expanse of the Summer Sea. They would sell their services as sellsails and hunt for pirates, while some would covertly engage in piracy. The commanders of this fleet were also tasked with maintaining good relations with the officials and merchants of the cities of Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys. They were also ordered to scout and capture any safe harbors in the many islands of the Stepstones. These would serve as a home for the fleet and also act as forward operating bases for his future plans in the region. The fleet would be the largest of the two; it would consist mostly of war galleys and dromonds, equipped with formidable firepower to engage in piracy and to offer credible sellsail services.
He took out a parchment from his pocket and unfurled it, revealing a list that he had been updating during his stay in Dragonstone. It was a simple to-do list. The parchment crackled under his fingers as he scanned it.
Save the fleet was marked as done; the fleet had successfully feigned mutiny and now lay hidden in plain sight, integrated into the maritime circles across the Narrow Sea.
Secure the treasury and valuables in the castle was also checked off.
Find family holdings in Essos was marked as completed. The estate, though long neglected, had been reclaimed and was ready to serve as his base in exile.
Learn Essosi languages — he had only begun this endeavor; he had found many helpful books, which were already taken to the estate in Braavos.
Find skilled workers, convince them to come was also marked done. Artisans, smiths, and other valuable workers had been recruited to join him in Essos, promising them protection from the ‘wrath of the rebels’ and also with the promise of wealth.
The next item, Try to save Rhaella, was not crossed off, unlike the others. Viserys's gaze lingered on this line longer than he intended. He had come to accept that saving his mother was beyond his ability.
The last few items on the list were Become filthy rich, a goal partially fulfilled through securing the treasury and valuables. There were also three more things which referenced future events like Jon Snow - Azor Ahai???, Dany dragon??? and Ice zombies???. These were things for future Viserys to handle.
He refolded the parchment and placed it carefully back into his tunic. As he did so, he heard someone enter the room and looked up to see Ser Willem.
He greeted the old knight with a nod and returned his gaze to the table.
"Still enchanted by the table, I see," Ser Willem remarked.
Viserys chuckled softly, his eyes lingering on the glowing surface of the table. "Yes, I am," he admitted. Willem took a seat next to him. He had noticed that Willem had stopped sparring with Alton; it seemed his legs were troubling him more than usual.
"You haven't been sparring with Alton recently," he observed, shifting his attention toward Willem’s less-than-steady gait.
Ser Willem sighed, a touch of frustration in his tone. "I fear the years have caught up with me, Your Grace. My legs aren't as cooperative as they used to be."
"Your wisdom is as useful as your prowess in battle, Ser Willem," he assured the old knight, hoping to ease any concerns.
Ser Willem managed a wry smile. "Thank you, Your Grace. I'll hold you to that when I'm an old man shouting orders from a chair."
"Well, you are halfway there," he joked, lightening the mood.
Willem’s gaze shifted to the charts and maps on the table; his brow furrowed with concern. "What's wrong, Ser Willem?" he asked, noticing the sudden change in the old knight's face.
"It’s nothing, Your Grace," Ser Willem started, hesitant to voice his worries.
"Ser Willem, if you have something to say, then say it. You have my permission to speak freely," he said.
Ser Willem exhaled deeply, leaning in slightly over the table. "It’s the fleet, Your Grace. Ensuring their long-term loyalty concerns me. They are far from our immediate influence, scattered across the seas amidst various temptations and dangers."
“The sea does tend to bring out the true nature of a man," Willem added.
Viserys nodded thoughtfully, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the table. “We have put certain... assurances in place, have we not?”
“Yes, Your Grace, the hostages…” Willem began but stopped when he saw the expression on Viserys' face change. “I mean our ‘guests,’ the families of key captains and officers—will be well cared for in your estate in Braavos. This should, theoretically, secure their loyalty, but...” Ser Willem trailed off, the doubt clear in his voice.
“But you fear that might not be enough?” he finished for him.
“I do, Your Grace. Men at sea can feel far removed from the lives of their families, driven by the immediate needs and perils of their voyage. And if gold or fear from other sources outweighs their ties to us, it could spell trouble,” Ser Willem explained.
"And what would you suggest we should have done with the fleet then? Leave it for the rebels?" he asked, his tone tinged with a hint of sarcasm.
“No, it’s just…” Willem tried to say.
“This is the best course of action, Ser. It's better than having nothing,” he interjected before Willem could finish.
There was a silence between them for a while, broken by the sound of thunder which was getting louder. Viserys noticed the wind was getting stronger as one of the maps flew away from the table. He turned to the window to see lightning streaking across the darkening sky.
"Your Grace, it might be prudent to move to a more secure chamber," said Ser Willem, glancing nervously towards the window. “The storm is getting stronger.”
Viserys tensed, remembering the storm in which Daenerys was supposed to be born. Was this the storm?
“Your Grace,” Willem said again.
"Collect the charts and maps," Viserys said, standing up from his seat.It looked like his time in dragonstone was truly at an end and Daenerys would be born tonight.
They quickly gathered the maps and charts and started to head towards the entrance of the chamber. As they neared the doors, they flew open with a bang that mirrored the thunder outside. Alton entered briskly, followed by a guard who was panting heavily, clearly having rushed here.
"What's the meaning of this intrusion?" demanded Ser Willem, alarmed by the sudden arrival.
Before the guard could gather his breath, Alton answered for him, "He told me he comes with urgent news, Ser."
Willem’s eyes narrowed as he barked at the guard, "Out with it, man. What news do you bring?"
Gasping for air, the guard managed to say, "A fleet... spotted... the coast... Baratheon colors!"
Gears began turning in Viserys' mind. Stannis was early. What had changed for Stannis to arrive early? He moved slowly towards the window, peering into the tempest that was now unleashing its fury on the sea below. He could hear Willem and Alton arguing behind him—Willem insisting on an immediate evacuation for him, while Alton was concerned that Rhaella could not be moved in her condition.
"The king's safety is paramount," Willem argued.
"But what of the queen?" Alton countered, his voice filled with worry. "She cannot be moved in her condition, not in this storm. It’s too dangerous for the king as well."
“You grace ... .your grace we must leave” Ser Willem said from behind him but he continued watching the tempest raging outside, the winds howling and waves crashing with increased ferocity.
“Fuck” he muttered as he he slowly realized what was about to happen.
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Stannis
Kings Landing
“I need you to convince Robert to grant me another month, perhaps two, for the fleet's completion,” Stannis said, his voice resonant with a rare hint of plea. “The shipbuilders are pressing hard... we need more time.”
Stannis Baratheon stood opposite the Hand of the King in the dimly lit interior of the Tower of the Hand. The room was steeped in the shadows of dusk, with only a few candles flickering to light the faces of the two men.
“If we set sail now, it could risk the entire operation,” he added.
Jon Arryn sighed deeply, the lines on his face deepening as he considered the request. “Stannis, you know Robert's mind is set. He wants you to set sail within a week.”
“But...” he began to say but was cut off.
“Robert has been difficult lately. He is still mourning Lady Lyanna,” Jon continued. “And Ned’s quick departure has not helped either.”
Stannis’s jaw tightened as he recalled the turbulent events of the last two months. Eddard Stark had returned from Dorne, bringing with him the bones of his sister. The death of Lyanna Stark had struck Robert hard, casting a shadow over his mood that had yet to lift. His grief had turned to a bitter rage, one that found its focus in the remnants of the Targaryen line. Things did not get better as Eddard Stark had left for the North as quickly as he arrived, much to Robert’s protests.
“Mourning Lady Lyanna?” Stannis scoffed. “How many whores has he bedded while mourning Lady Lyanna? Robert is acting like a child. You need to advise him to act like a king.”
“Stannis…” Jon began to say but was interrupted by the chamber door swinging open. Stannis turned to see Robert with a scowl on his face, which turned to one of surprise as Robert's gaze fell on him.
“Stannis, what are you doing here?” Robert bellowed.
“Same as you, brother, seeking counsel from the Lord Hand,” Stannis said, motioning to Jon Arryn.
Robert strode forward, his eyes flicking briefly to Jon Arryn before settling intently on Stannis. "Counsel? Or trying to delay your duties?"
“I was discussing the fleet with Lord Arryn,” he replied.
“What of the fleet? You’ll be sailing it to Dragonstone a week from now. It's already been decided,” Robert said, sitting down and ordering the servant to pour some wine for him.
“I need more time, Robert, a month or two so that I can…” he began to say, but was interrupted by Robert.
"More time?" Robert snorted dismissively. "We don't have more time, Stannis. The Targaryens won't wait for us to come and fetch them. If we wait more, then they will be in Essos or Volantis as Jon claims. You have a week to set sail. That is final."
Stannis's frustration mounted, but he maintained his composure. "Sailing now would be a risk to the fleet. It is folly to rush this; we don’t even have enough ships yet. The entire royal fleet is at Dragonstone, Robert.”
Robert's face hardened, his voice rising. "I am your king, and you will obey my orders, Brother. You will sail in a week. I don't care if the whole fleet is ready; make use of what you have."
Jon Arryn, sensing the escalating tension, stepped forward. "Robert, perhaps we should reconsider. If Stannis believes the fleet is not ready—"
"I've made my decision, Jon!" Robert cut him off sharply, turning his gaze back to Stannis. "Do not test my patience further, Stannis. Prepare the fleet, and make ready to leave in a week. That is an order."
Stannis clenched his jaw, recognizing the futility of further argument. He bowed stiffly. "As you command, Your Grace."
Stannis left the Tower of the Hand, his resolve hardening with each step he took. The corridors of the Red Keep seemed to echo his frustration, his boots echoing sharply against the stone floors. He decided to leave the Red Keep to visit the shipyards to inspect their progress.
He, along with his personal guard, made their way through the city, which was still recovering from the sack by the Lannisters. He could see the signs of destruction and despair that lingered in the narrow, cobbled streets. Homes still bore scorch marks, and shops were boarded up, their owners having fled or been caught in the violence.
As he caught sight of the sea, he wondered what Ser Davos was doing. The smuggler he had knighted for his service during the siege of Storm's End was now one of his most trusted men. He had dispatched Ser Davos a week prior to scout Dragonstone, gather intelligence on the current state of the royal fleet, and assess any defensive preparations. He trusted Davos's nautical skills and his knack for moving unseen—traits that made him invaluable for such a reconnaissance mission. He hoped for good news upon his return as he had received rumors of mutiny among the royal fleet.
The shipyards, even at this hour, buzzed with activity. Torches and lanterns cast long shadows as men worked tirelessly, the sound of hammering, sawing, and shouting filling the air. As he approached the main drydock where the flagship was under construction, he found the master shipbuilder, a man named Rodrick, overseeing the placement of a massive timber on the deck. The man wiped his brow and bowed deeply as Stannis approached.
“My lord,” Rodrick said, his voice weary but respectful.
“Rodrick,” Stannis greeted.
“Show me what progress has been made,” Stannis commanded, his gaze sweeping over the vessel.
The shipbuilder nodded, leading Stannis up a makeshift plank onto the deck of the ship. “As you see, m’lord, we’re toilin' day and night. But buildin' a war-ready fleet quick is a mighty task. We're doin' all we can.”
“We need more time, m'lord, the fleet won’t be ready in a week as you asked,” Rodrick said, a little out of breath. Stannis could see the man was tired.
“The king has ordered the fleet to set sail in a week, and it shall be so,” he stated firmly, his voice leaving no room for debate.
Rodrick wrung his hands nervously. “Like I said, m'lord, we're workin' without rest, but rushin' this without hurtin' the ships…”
"Get it done," Stannis cut him off sharply. "Increase the shifts, hire more hands if need be. We cannot delay. The king has commanded, and it will be so."
With the final command, he turned on his heel and began to walk away, his black cloak billowing in the wind. He could hear the master shipbuilder shouting out orders: "You heard the Lord! Double the work. Fetch more hands from the city. We sail in a week, and these ships will be ready, come hell or high water."
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Stannis
Blackwater Bay
As the fleet cut through the increasingly tumultuous waters nearing Dragonstone, Stannis stood on the deck of his flagship. The sea breeze intensified into gusts that whipped around him fiercely. The weather was not what he had expected; a storm was brewing, but he was not worried, having sailed through worse off Shipbreaker's Bay.
The worsening weather seemed to echo the turmoil within himself. His mind was clouded with the final moments on the docks of King's Landing, where Robert had gruffly wished him luck, his tone more dismissive than encouraging. Stannis's jaw clenched as he recalled his brother's words,
Don't fail me, Stannis.
‘When have I ever failed him?’ Stannis pondered bitterly. He thought back to the grueling days at Storm's End, withstanding the might of the Reach, where he and his men nearly starved as they held the fortress against all odds. Despite his unwavering loyalty and sacrifices, it pained him to realize that Robert seemed to regard Ned Stark with more brotherly affection than he ever showed to him or Renly. This realization soured his mood further, but he pushed these feelings aside, focusing on the task ahead.
With the intelligence from Ser Davos confirming the mutiny of the royal fleet at Dragonstone, this unexpected turn of events allowed him to accelerate his departure, opting to sail earlier than planned with all ships that were seaworthy.
As the fleet pushed closer to Dragonstone, the waves grew taller and the wind fiercer. The sky turned a threatening shade of black, and the first heavy drops of rain began to lash the deck.
Alyn Rollingford, one of the new knights under his service, approached him with a look of concern etched across his face. "Lord Stannis, the sea grows treacherous. We should adjust our course to skirt the worst of the storm," he suggested, his voice nearly drowned out by the howling wind.
Another knight from House Errol, a Stormlander, chimed in with a robust laugh. "This? This is no storm! We Stormlanders have sailed through squalls that would make this look like a calm day at sea!" His bold declaration drew a hearty cheer from the men, many of whom were Stormlanders themselves, no strangers to the capricious moods of the sea.
Stannis considered the advice, turning his steely gaze towards the gathering dark clouds on the horizon. The sea below churned ominously, a testament to the brewing storm's might.
"Keep the course," he commanded after a moment's deliberation.
As the fleet drew closer to Dragonstone, the rainfall increased, significantly reducing visibility. The sea turned treacherous, with waves crashing over the decks with ferocious intensity. Stannis gripped the rail of his flagship, his knuckles turning white as he watched the ships near him tumble around in the massive waves. The storm was greater than he had expected, and his expression hardened as he faced the fury of nature head-on.
The waves hammered relentlessly against the hull, and the ship groaned under the stress of the fierce winds. Without warning, a rogue wave lifted a nearby ship, crashing it violently against the flagship. The impact was jarring, sending splinters and debris flying across the deck. One of the pieces struck him directly in his left eye, disorienting him. Blood streamed down his face from the wound as he was knocked to the ground.
As he wiped the blood from his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to clear his blurred vision, another massive wave hit. The deck lurched violently under his feet, and in that moment, the mast, already groaning ominously from the strain of the wind, snapped with a loud crack. It came crashing down towards him, effectively pinning him to the deck.
As he struggled against the weight pinning him down, the storm raged on, and his situation grew increasingly dire. In the distance he could see the silhouettes of other ships in his fleet; they were barely visible through the sheets of rain and spray. The ships swayed and collided with one another, and among them, one vessel, engulfed in flames, was being pushed by the wind toward his ship. The sight was grim, and he knew what was coming.
"Abandon ship!" the cry echoed across the deck, fear edging the sailors' voices as they leaped into the turbulent waters, seeking escape from the impending fiery collision.
Pinned and unable to move, Stannis's thoughts briefly flashed back to his father and mother. He remembered watching their ship caught in a storm much like this one, sinking into the depths of Shipbreaker Bay. Was this how they felt in their final moments? The helplessness? The inevitability?
The fiery ship made its final approach. With a deafening crash, it collided with his already damaged ship. The impact was catastrophic, sending sparks and burning debris flying into the stormy air. The force of the explosion freed him from the fallen mast, hurling him violently into the cold, unforgiving sea.
Submerged in the cold water of Blackwater Bay, he struggled to reach the surface, his leg throbbing painfully from where the mast had pinned him. His lungs burned for air as he fought through the dark, turbulent water, pushing himself towards the faint light above. Finally breaking the surface, he gasped for air, the storm's rain mercilessly beating down on him. The scene around him was one of devastation: remnants of his fleet were either engulfed in flames or slowly being swallowed by the sea. The cries of his men, battling for their lives, echoed over the waves.
The chill of the sea began to penetrate his bones, numbing his already dulled senses. Clinging to a piece of floating debris for support, Stannis tried to orient himself amidst the chaos. Just then, a large piece of ship wreckage, propelled by a powerful wave, struck him unexpectedly. The impact was forceful and disorienting, but he still clung to the debris. His consciousness began to fade; the sounds of battle and storm faded into a distant echo, and then he was engulfed by darkness.
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Viserys
Dragonstone
The sea was calm once more. Viserys stood on a balcony overlooking the water, his gaze lost in the vast expanse of the horizon. He hoped Stannis had survived the encounter with the storm.
He was panicking a bit.If Stannis was dead, then he feared Robert would hold a grudge against him well…more than before. He might actively try to send assassins to kill him, something he did not believe Robert had done before.
Maybe he was overreacting.
In the corner of his eye, he saw Ser Willem approach him quietly. "Your Grace, the Baratheon fleet... it has been destroyed by the storm," he reported.
"And our ships? The ones meant to carry us from here—are they intact?"
"Some minor damages, Your Grace, but nothing that can't be quickly repaired," Ser Willem responded.
He then saw Ser Willem's expression change to a grim smile. "We've found some survivors. They've been questioned. It was Stannis Baratheon leading the fleet. It would be a miracle if he survived," he chuckled darkly. "A brother taken for a brother."
‘Yeah right,’ he thought sarcastically.
"See to it that preparations are made for my mother's final rites. Once that is done, we will leave Dragonstone," he said in a voice devoid of emotion.
"It shall be done, Your Grace." Ser Willem bowed deeply and left.
‘Damn butterflies,’ he thought as he continued to watch the waves.
