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Nineteen
🕑 Added 2025-12-01 06:48:19 +0000 UTCSweetport Sound
98 AC (Eleventh Moon—Day 15)
Viserra IV
Viserra beheld her little ser as he was drawn about upon that small wooden steed of his. Once more he made play at the joust, thrusting his cushioned lance into the pampered poppet erected for him amidst the garden’s verdure.
Jaedar laughed in his frolic, freer than ever before. Viserra took pleasure in his mirth, yet she had grown wroth with the wooden plaything—it rang loud and irksome, and her son held it in absurd affection. Each morn, upon his stirring from slumber, he ever demanded to sport upon the accursed contrivance.
She harbored vexation for her brother over its bestowal.
A sigh escaped her lips, and she averted her gaze, leaving Jaedar to his knightly frolics. She had yet duties to attend, for her lord husband had deemed it prudent to seek the sept each dawn, there to beseech the Seven for deliverance from his sudden affliction of carnal urges.
Simpleton that he was. Did he not discern that Viserra herself was the remedy he so ardently sought?
She uttered a scoff and raised her crystal chalice to partake of the matured vintage sent forth from the Red Keep. It proved a piquant, potent libation, woven with remembrances of days long past and her mother’s infrequent approbations. This had been her preferred elixir, or one amidst her selections. With the harvest newly concluded, the Red Keep required space for novel provisions in its cellars.
House Sunglass stood as one of the scarce houses—mayhap the solitary one—that accepted such relinquished abundance. The tradition had commenced but a year prior—in verity, a mere sennight.
“For all I know, this may not even constitute a tradition.” It was nothing of which she had been apprised or comprehended during her stay in the Red Keep. “Yet I harbor no offense at the favoritism, all the more as it was enacted for mine own solace rather than contrived pity.”
The words slipped from her painted lips in a murmur of idle tattle, as she fixed her gaze upon the white wine swirling in the clear, fragile goblet.
Viserra would not deign to contemplate that her brother regarded her as inferior or meriting benevolence. It was mere sibling affection for his elder kin that impelled him to bestow upon her such luxuries.
She uttered another scoff, diverted by her musings. At times, it was wiser to indulge a measure of folly, she opined. It lightened the day’s passage, easing the weight upon her heart.
In answer to her mirth, the castellan materialized with a sheaf of parchments clutched in his grasp.
“Reports from the harvest’s reckoning and the tributes dispatched by the house at this year’s close, Princess Viserra,” Gwayne intoned, setting the burden near the desk’s verge. “The fresh edicts have been observed, it appears, and thus I trust you shall find the figures more exact and true.”
Gwayne was an elder of the Crownlands, hailing from lands northward toward the Riverlands. The prior lord of this house had bestowed upon him this exalted station after the man—a petty trader then—had joined him on a sojourn to Lys… or so the tale ran.
All the princess kenned was that the man proved assiduous and steadfast.
“Has the bailiffs’ pilfering been reckoned in?” she inquired, seizing the foremost missive. The stack was assuredly meager.
“I had done the sums, though not so exhaustive as to warrant the utter verity of the deceit,” the man’s voice was held with solemnity as he spoke those words. “I would enlist the maester’s aid in the affair, that the precise measure of the thievery might be ascertained, and thus fitting chastisement meted out.”
Viserra inclined her head, for she so misliked the avarice and audacity those men had displayed, even after such grace and confidence had been bestowed upon them.
“We must not suffer corruption to fester overlong, lest the welfare of our demesnes and lieges prove beyond our grasp.” There was some adage to the purpose, she was sure—something touching upon apples. “Now, take your seat and assist me herein.”
Gwayne obeyed as commanded. “My thanks, Princess.”
And so they did.
First came the tributes from their chief subjects, those who abode in hamlets and wrought the soil for their sustenance. House Sunglass claimed o’er seven thousand souls in fealty, thus it stood no petty holdfast.
Yet amongst them, scarce two thousand—mayhap fewer—tilled the fields. That lopsidedness formed part of the rot gnawing at the house’s decline—scarce surplus to nourish the folk, much less to barter or forge bonds with other lords.
Well, her brother’s renown and her patent kinship with him were countering that blight, as highborn lords and ladies had begun to proffer gifts and render boons unto her, in hope she might contrive audiences or like pledges with Maelys.
And now, with the fresh swell in the Faith and whatsoever marvels her brother had wrought, more vessels and nobles were sure to tarry at her coasts.
Already had merchants tendered her silks and gems of rarest craft, for but a whisper of leave to lay hands on the lavishly limned Seven-Pointed Star tomes her brother had bequeathed.
By his own avowal, a mere hundred such volumes had been forged, and she held over twenty of them.
“This is no auspicious reckoning,” she murmured after a scrutiny of the scroll that chronicled the grain yield from the hamlet to their east, some half a day’s march afoot. “Scarce the harvest of the year past, if memory serves.”
It would scarce fill a quarter of the granary, and less still once the crown’s dues were dispatched.
An unbidden scowl shadowed her comely visage.
“I believe the reeve dispatched a missive at the year’s dawn, bearing tidings of scant laborers and the ruin of most seeds,” the castellan informed her, and it rang as fresh tidings to her hearing.
“Why was I not apprised of this?”
“I believe it came whilst you lay abed with fever, Your Grace,” he pressed on. “Yet the lord did receive the parchment and vowed to mend the matter.”
Her lord husband had doubtless offered prayers in lieu of deeds. Viserra exhaled a weary sigh. By the accounts of the elder retainers, his sire had been no such bungler—a martial lord possessed of cunning in rule, or at the least one who girded himself with adepts in such arts.
His sole blemish lay in the disregard he dealt to Loras and his lady. The man mirrored King Jaehaerys in that vein, though at least her father proved no whoremonger.
“Have a missive dispatched to the village—all villages—to inquire if they possess surplus sufficient to endure the coming year without duress,” she commanded, setting the parchment aside. “Bid them speak of the lacks that hinder sound husbandry.”
Gwayne inclined his head. “It shall be done, Your Highness.”
It was a boon that her house stood exempt from levies for a span yet. A boon too was the fresh plenitude she savored. The Velaryons had taken to calling at her quays in droves, yielding up grains and fleshes and draughts and spices and sundry victuals at prices scarce above copper.
Viserra had claimed all she might without taxing her vaults and larders. Mayhap she could acquire more once her new silos and storehouses rose.
Well, that would come after no small passage of days. The men of her demesnes proved slow to heed the instruction of the scant masons her brother had lent. Many blunders. Many besotted dolts. She had been sore tempted to visit stripes upon the bungling wretches.
“Whilst upon that matter, see to the mending of the new ploughs and seed-drills for dispatch,” she instructed. “I would have every tiller employing them in the fields. That, and the novel crop-rotation the Reachmen have vaunted so.”
In hope, they might adopt those watering arts as well, beside the raising of water-mills to harness the rills that branched from the Wendwater.
The castellan scratched the decree with his quill.
They proceeded in like manner. Alas, it appeared all hamlets had fared ill this year. Thus, House Sunglass would not swell its vaults with moons and dragons as yet—scarce a quarter filled in truth.
Yet for all that, they stood far improved from the year prior, and all those since her hurried nuptials.
Fortuitously, their sworn men had prospered, all five of them—they required more folk upon their soils, and thereby more landed knights. When adding the tally of their bannermen’s subjects, the sum neared ten thousand souls.
The maester had counseled a counting of the folk in the year to come, averring that to ken the count of people—their sexes, ages, and soundness—in their demesnes might prove advantageous. Viserra concurred with that sagacity; it would surely hasten her aims if she knew the measure of men she might muster for labour.
“…the Lord of Risage has dispatched yet another missive, Princess Viserra, requesting the fosterage of young Lord Jaedar,” Gwayne intoned in a voice heavy with weariness. “He has also seen fit to remind us once more that his daughter is but a year the lad’s junior.”
“Had a denial of his petition not been quilled, I surely recall commanding of it.” Wyllam was ever a thorn in her side. In all fairness, Viserra held no true disdain for the man; he proved diligent, loyal, and seldom exploited her lord husband’s shortcomings to advance his own station.
“Lord Sunglass has neglected to sanction the missive, I regret to say.”
A flash of ire stirred within her breast for a fleeting moment. By what misfortune had the gods bound her to such a frail and inept husband? Not only did he shirk his duties, but now he appeared to contrive obstacles to her endeavors?
She permitted a scowl to grace her features. “Henceforth, no missives or entreaties shall require Loras’s approval. I shall oversee such matters myself, and in my absence, you shall do so in my stead.” She declared this with a composure that belied her storm. “Is that clear, good ser?”
The castellan paused in uncertainty, yet at last inclined his head in assent.
“I will not see my son’s prospects cast to the winds merely because the fool I call husband lacks the wit and wisdom to render sound judgments.”
At times, it seemed her marriage to Loras had emboldened the lords of this court with an unseemly arrogance in their noble dealings. Jaedar would take a bride from her own noble line—if not the whelp of Aemma, then the daughter of Gael.
Her grandchildren would not want for the blood of her ancestors. They would be spared the curse of Andal mediocrity.
She quaffed the remnants of her wine, exhaling a deep sigh thereafter. “Speak to me of glad tidings, Gwayne. I require some balm for the spirit.”
She glanced aside, to where her son had lately been. Naught remained there now—the serving maids had doubtless borne him away, weary from his games and in need of repose.
Viserra would cradle him in the noon, and bid him recount the grand tales of his knightly exploits.
“The servants and laborers from King’s Landing are due to arrive before the day is done, Your Highness,” the castellan informed her, infusing his words with feigned buoyancy. “Moreover, the shipment of ice is set to reach us on the morrow.”
“Gael confided in me that her overfondness for that frozen confection is what bestowed upon her such girth.”
“I would not presume to contest that insight, Princess,” he replied with a chuckle, rising to his feet. “I shall ensure that the requisite elements for crafting the cold cream are assembled forthwith.”
Viserra observed the man depart, bearing away the parchments with him. She shut her eyes and pondered whether Maelys might be persuaded to foster Jaedar. Should that come to pass, her boy would return home schooled and tempered in a manner surpassing all prior Lords of Sunglass.
The servants from King’s Landing arrived that very day, as the castellan had foretold, though their numbers far surpassed what her royal brother had promised—more than forty in truth. As was to be expected, they came not empty-handed, bearing a bountiful array of gifts and treasures.
There were furred coverlets and rugs, garments of diverse styles and fine make, rich textiles, essences of perfume, salves for the body, adornments of jewelry, and a sturdy chest laden with silver moons and golden dragons. Enclosed within was a missive declaring the coin intended to cover the servants’ wages and their sustenance.
When she had reckoned the accounts, Viserra was unsurprised to discover the sum exceeded what was truly required.
“We are to abide here for half a year, Princess Viserra,” one of the servants informed her—a Valyrian in her brother’s employ. “Thereafter, we journey to Prince Maelys’s sacred lands, to dwell in prosperous freedom.”
His High Valyrian was fractured, as it often proved with those lacking pure lineage. Viserra counted herself fortunate to have reared her son in the ancient tongue; thus, though colored by the lilt of youth, his speech flowed clear and innate.
She dismissed the alchemist thence. She had no wish to endure a deluge of adulation for her royal brother, nor a frenzied litany extolling the virtues of wildfire. Alchemists were scarcely sound of mind, though her brother contrived the improbable by uniting a great deal of them with his maesters.
Yet, so long as the man kept his distance from her and Jaedar during his sojourn here, she would scarce object.
Seamstresses had come as well—Gael’s own, in truth—who arrived bearing four of those ingenious stitching devices. Viserra meant to employ them forthwith in crafting the fashions she had long envisioned. She might even host a grand display, akin to her sister’s in the capital.
“This is certain to kindle envy among the ladies of this court,” she mused. Already they begrudged her unmatched beauty and exalted rank; this would but widen the chasm further.
She passed that evening donning the gifted attire, blushing at the most audacious pieces—Gael proved remarkably depraved for one so pious in her devotion to the Faith. Small wonder Maelys paid Viserra any heed; his manhood must have throbbed from his wife’s ceaseless seductions and enticements.
Jaedar, too, received winter garbs, and her little knight appeared utterly charming in them. The sight of her boy so endearing stirred in her a fierce yearning to bear another babe, and thus she rode her husband with uncommon fervor that night, such that he failed to rise early on the morrow.
Viserra would contend she had bestowed upon Loras a singular boon. In truth, such fervent nights should be the norm; mayhap then he might hone some prowess in the arts of the bedchamber.
When the morrow dawned, she broke her fast upon a lavish spread of sandwiches, fruits, eggs, meats, cereals, and varied beverages freshly pressed.
Merchants of consequence had anchored at her port for trade and parley. Viserra deigned to summon those who groveled before her, bestowing upon them lenient tariffs on her stake in the glassworks and the prized porcelain platters and silverware.
She held pencils in her stores as well, and the Essosi magisters and scribes waxed fervent in their clamor for that rare commodity. Westerosi houses hungered for them likewise, though a multitude among them scorned numerals and letters, or any stern discipline that demanded vellums in abundance.
The coin she garnered pleased her sufficiently to share a board with wretched smallfolk, whereupon she imparted to them the culinary graces of her exalted line and sparked in their base hearts a ravenous lust for spices.
This was her gratitude to Rhaenys for her gracious favor.
Thus concluding that minor assertion of authority, she set about the labours of preparation to fittingly receive the grand envoy bearing northern tributes destined for King’s Landing. Those savage lords ever dispatched vessels laden with their annual levies, conveyed in convoy by the ships of House Manderly.
“There is word that the Ironborn have once more wrought havoc upon the folk of Bear Island this year,” Loras informed her after rousing from his slumbers, bathing, and attiring himself. “Those vile wretches must needs be eradicated, I fear, for their demonic creed breeds naught but shadow and wickedness.”
He was garbed finely, in a slim and crisply pressed shirt of yellow hue paired with white breeches. A furred mantle draped his shoulders, and polished boots of brown leather encased his legs. He appeared a veritable paragon, and in that instant Viserra found herself captivated by him, linking her arm with his while Jaedar scampered at their feet.
In silence they observed as the Manderly vassals dropped anchor at their quays, and a throng of envoys disembarked.
“They remain loyal subjects of my royal father, so withhold any overt enmity, my lord husband,” she counseled, though in her soul she loathed the Ironborn with equal vehemence. “Moreover, the Northmen and Ironborn share a storied legacy of strife.”
Viserra harbored no fondness for the northern lords either, and doubted she would grieve their utter demise should such a fate befall them.
“Perchance you speak truly, my dearest wife,” he conceded with a light sigh. “Yet I maintain a holy crusade might reform those reavers into civilized men.”
She desired to retort that, had he been a warrior like his sire before him, perchance he might lead that very crusade with the four ships and eighty armsmen sworn to their banner.
The notion amused her sufficiently: her lord husband, versed in martial arts, waging war upon the bloodthirsty Ironmen beside his own men, who were infamous for preying upon market stalls and tender maidens in the township.
She must devise a fitting order for her guardsmen, with stern penalties for those knaves grown intoxicated on her largesse. Mayhap she should summon one of Maelys’s own guards to instruct her men in the disciplines of combat, vigilance, and restraint. By rumor, his nascent domains were well-governed and nigh free of villainy, save for the harlotry that was presently forbidden.
The Northmen approached them at last, marshaled by Luthor Manderly, the heir and eldest son of Lord Theomore Manderly.
Salutations were exchanged, along with bread and salt. Thence commenced the rites of hospitality: a modest repast, discourse, exhibitions of wealth, and a lavish banquet come nightfall. As was customary with all lords who made port here, it was her presence they craved above all.
“…My lord husband has confided in me his wish to hunt with you on the morrow,” she informed the Manderly heir. “He doubtless means to impart the teachings of the Faith, yet I beseech you to indulge his whims and safeguard him from the perils of the wood.”
Luthor proved as forbearing as his father—though Viserra harbored ill will toward the elder for nearly claiming her hand in wedlock. “I discern no cause to oppose such a venture, Princess Viserra,” the merman replied. “I have heard tell that the boars of these lands are most succulent and pleasing to the palate.”
That held truth, though equally true was their ferocity and girth. Nonetheless, Viserra sustained the converse, for she found the man’s companionship tolerable.
They discoursed on sundry matters, including the ironwood that had flourished in recent seasons. It seemed the Braavosi had forged a pact with Lord Stark, whereby the Wolfswood was laid open to felling. That reaping brought commerce to the Riverlands—particularly the lords proximate to the Lord Paramount—for their water-driven sawmills…
Viserra was nigh convinced the bargain bore Maelys’s subtle interference.
…Thus, unlike seasons past, the realms had waxed strangely affluent—above all House Manderly, who seized upon the accord between the North and Braavos to vend wares upon their coasts at lessened tariffs.
“Now I ken why you’ve bestowed those aurochs.” There were three, two cows and a bull. The intent was to breed them.
Luthor inclined his head at her words. “My sire counseled me to seek a pact for your ceramics and glasswork—Myr has grown miserly with their glass of late, and that parsimony has touched sundry Free Cities.”
Westeros had been all but shut from the glass trade since King Jaehaerys winged to their spires and vowed to raze them for letting their strife spill beyond their walls.
“Why not treat with Driftmark?” She wondered at the plain shunning of trade with the Velaryons.
“We would not court the wrath of your royal sire, Your Grace. My father yet labors to shed the disgrace of championing Rhaenys’s rise to the throne after your brother’s passing.”
It was a pity Queen Alysanne had departed this world, for such ignominy would have vanished in her light. Not that Viserra spared a thought for Rhaenys’s slights, that foolish girl ought have wed Viserys, or Vaegon, that prickly kin of hers.
“Then I shall not deny you this desire—I hold surplus enough of the platters to yield for your house’s trading pursuits.” These would clear her storehouses for finer wares to dwell. Unlike in other endeavors, the folk of her lands took kindly to the crafting of clay and glass. “Is there aught else you seek, Ser Luthor?”
It transpired there was more, much more. The Manderly craved a copy of the embellished Seven-Pointed Star volume, tendering a hundred golden dragons for it.
Viserra yielded it up; she would have parted with it for a dozen gold stags in truth. She was well content with the bargains sealed.
Another craving was a manse set aside and raised in Maelys’s domain. After Illyn’s prattle of his dreams to erect a mighty sept in her brother’s lands, many lords had vied to claim lasting abodes in the nascent city, hoping to flaunt their piety.
It was all folly and bluster, and thus unsurprising that she rebuffed the churlish means by which Luthor sought that perch. He wished to press coin upon her, that she might wield her bond with her brother to secure the manse.
Nay, her brother had lavished her with too much fondness for her to betray him thus, or so ran her mind. There were proper paths for such claims. And she doubted the Manderlys need fret. The dwellings in Maelys’s realm fetched prices so steep that only the opulent could claim a manse near the vowed grand sept.
Viserra burned with curiosity to behold how it would unfold. And she might not tarry long; by the whispers of mariners and traders, her brother’s lands already stood few completed buildings. Mayhap in half a decade, the Grand Sept would rise and peal its bells.
The night wore on in like vein, and Viserra could scarce deny her contentment with it. She had wrought just bargains, and doubtless would strike more when the Vale lords at last called at her quays. Then she would claim iron and sundry ores besides.
A/N: I feel as though this needs saying. Sweetport Sound is located on the western side of Massey’s Hook, almost near the part where the Wendwater spills out into the Blackwater Bay. It’s the sole house there, and its lands are ungodly big and unpopulated. I don’t think people realise just how stupidly big and unexplored most of Westeros is.
House Massey is Azure
House Bar Emmon is Purple
House Sunglass is Yellow
House Targaryen of Havenhall is Red.
Both Massey and Bar Emmon are under the direct authority of Maelys’s Principality. Also, take the terrains shown in this map as literal.
Comments
World of Faction
They aren’t small, even compared to the great houses. His disadvantage is population, though that will be mended soon. Castle Velena—named after Lady Valaena Velaryon, the mother of Aegon the Conqueror—will be located further inland, near the edge of the kingswoods, the northern east of the great forest and a few days away from the coastline of the Narrow Sea. The location will specialise in agriculture and tourism. The specific location of the castle will be below a mountainous range and just aside a river that steals away from the Wendwater and streams into numerous creeks and small lakes. Ranse Port will be where the trading and commerce are focused while Hreska and Druesfort will deal with supply and production—mostly Druesfort, though.
Skruffy
Where is Maelys’ keep located at ? Looking at his domain, it’s pretty tiny compared to the great houses domains. It’s a great place for building tall and have a monopoly on trade travelling to Blackwaters Bay.
World of Faction
I fumbled a bit. It should be uploaded now.
Skruffy
Wait wheres 18? Ps its alive!!!!!
