It was a marvelous sight to see the Westeros vessel harmoniously swaying by the port. Of course, this was no rare sight. Braavos was one of the known world's most significant trading cities, and to see foreign ships docking was ordinary.
Charles had always longingly stared when these particular ships arrived. Hoping feverishly that a messenger would emerge with a royal decree stating that his exile had ended prematurely. But even then he knew that such hopes were futile.
After all, the Svea fought against the usurper in his rebellion. From what his great-grandfather Garth had told him the Carolean Army had been the biggest thorn in Robert's side.
Charles' blue-green eyes darkened.
"I should never have prayed for that usurper's mercy!"
He had betrayed his father's memory every time he made that divine plea.
But his young self could not help it. The desire to return to his roots had been too great. He had justified his prayers by arguing that the Baratheon King could not be blamed for emerging victorious in the mortal duel against his father. Such was the nature of war after all.
It was a very logical argument. But it did not matter. Charles had not forgiven the Stag, merely forgiven himself for his weakness.
He had no love for this new king. Robert Baratheon had exiled him solely because of his last name. But then again, he understood why.
House Svea had become infamous for its Targaryen support. It was due to the dragons that their house had thrived. Although the same could be argued about the reversal.
Charles' eyes moved from the ship to the majestic blue uniform that he wore. It was graced with golden buttons and an amber belt, holding his family sword. His heritage made him proud. But Charles knew that his family had backed the wrong steed in the mad king. His Grandmother Branda had always said:
"Robert's rebellion was just, my dear, it is such a shame that your mother was caught on the wrong side of it."
But Branda was a Stark, so her opinion was obviously biased, Charles thought.
He sighed and looked out at the horizon, listening to the sound of the waves crashing on the surrounding cliffs. There may not have been a ship carrying news of his shortened exile, but he sorrowfully remembered when a Westeros ship came with the message that his grandmother had passed away in Winterfell. He had been thirteen at the time. Branda had raised him, and she had perished in Westeros just like the rest of his family.
He lowered his eyebrows in consideration. Well, there was one exception. His great-grandmother Christina VIII. Who, had not been seen or heard of since she left her title and husband, Garth. Sailing for Ashai.
She was the family member he was least proud of since she had strayed from their family motto "Decisive Loyalty." Her faith wavering in the Targaryens may have been justified considering she had witnessed the tragedy at Summerhall. Christina still had abandoned her family for her religious pursuits.
The first year after Branda's passing he felt that she had betrayed him similarly as Christina had Garth. But such thoughts had always been half-hearted.
Charles may have been forbidden to walk on Westerosi soil, but Branda was not. She had always visited her family in the north every three years or so. Then returned with presents and the latest news of the realm. Although she usually was gone for some four months, Charles had not minded. He always cherished the gossip and tokens from Westeros. It always made him feel closer to home.
But it was ironic that the very same family member who had been betrayed by the Christina VIII had replaced Branda to foster him. Who, in some sense had betrayed him for her other family.
But Garth was a Tyrell, not a Svea, just as Branda was a Stark. Now he, Charles XII was the last Svea.
He had gained his title when his mother died giving birth to him. He had been the youngest Svea ever to receive the title. Supposedly, the mad King had only raised him to that position so his father could lead the Carolean army in Charles' name.
This was probably true. But Charles viewed the title as his birthright.
He drew the Valyrian steel sword from its scabbard. Letting it bathe in the sunlight as he studied it. The design was unique. It was thin and the golden hilt had an elegant form more commonly found on a cutlass or saber.
This sword had served every field marshal before him since Johan IV's watch. He was not going to be parted with it.
"You are a green boy Charles. You have no experiences of battle, yet you hunger for it." He could hear Myron's kind voice lecturing.
But he was prepared for combat. He had received a martial education worthy of a Carolean soldier. Being taught by an expert of combat from each culture. Spanning from Dothraki to Westerosi. Although, the water dancing of the Bravosi was the fittest combat style when using his family sword.
Myron who was a former chief administrator of the Iron Bank had handled his academic education. He was Charles' mentor and closest friend.
How he wished Myron would join him on his journey home. But Myron had insisted that Charles needed to find his place in Westeros without his guidance.
But Charles knew that it was an excuse to cover up the former administrator's simple lifestyle. He shook his head. Myron had always been more comfortable to read about the world's wonders instead of visiting them. He would probably die of homesickness if he joined Charles.
He closed his eyes feeling the wind blow through his untamed blonde hair. Charles knew that feeling only too well. He had suffered from that undying longing to return to his rightful place ever since his seventh name day. For ten years that sense of being misplaced had only grown.
But now. Charles smirked and shot his eyes wide opened. His exile had officially ended by his seventeenth name day.
"I am going home!"
It had taken seventeen years. But his dream would finally become a reality.
He shifted his attention back to the Westeros ship which floated invitingly on the swirling sea. The red banner was proudly flowing in the wind. The foreign yet recurring golden Lion was sown on it.
The Lannister sigil was majestic Charles had to admit. Almost, outshining his own sigil. The Svea blue spoke of valor and reliability. While the Lannister crimson, boasted of power and prestige.
Seeing the Lannister banner had always brought him a mix of pride and bitterness. His whole life he had been surrounded by Lannister gold. Funding his education and enabling that his exile had been endured with some extent of luxury and comfort. The Lannisters were the closest family he had left. And yet, Charles thought bitterly. No one had ever come to visit him.
It almost looked like the lion was mocking him as the banner continued to sway.
Charles sighed and averted his focus.
Not even a single word had he heard from his all-providing grandfather Tywin Lannister. It was as if he only existed on paper. Charles had never known his father, Lann Lannister. So he had no clue what Lann's relationship had been with Tywin. All he knew was what others had told him.
From what he could understand from Garth's stories Lann had spent practically his whole life in Highgarden. Being fostered there and serving as a royal ambassador in the Reach after coming of age. Which to Charles seemed bizarre. Lann being heir to Casterly rock should have spent his time in the Westerlands. But Myron had informed him that Joanna had given birth to Lann before her marriage to Tywin, making the question of succession complicated.
But Charles refused to acknowledge his father as a bastard. Such a reality must have been nullified with the legal marriage of Lann's parents.
But maybe the prospect of his father being a bastard had driven Tywin to isolate Lann from the Westerlands. Marrying him of matrilineally to his mother Victoria XI Svea, to further Lann's distance from the succession line. According to Grath, Tywin had not even been present at the wedding ceremony. Having King Aerys accept the marriage in his stead.
A vivid memory appeared. He had stayed up all night reading about the accomplishes of Tywin Lannister. His grandmother had been furious.
"Tywin Lannister is a cruel man little Charles. He massacred thousands of innocent in the sack of king's landing. If he had been more keen on your wellbeing, he could have negotiated that you lived with your true family in the north. Not on this rock! He may fund our stay here, but you have no reason to look up to that man."
But how could she have blamed him? He had been a confused child. He had just received a letter from his uncle, Tyrion. It was a congratulation on his twelfth name day. He had been livid. It had been the first contact he received from his close family. Branda had never up to that point spoken any details of his father's family. Only told him names. But with that letter, Charles had gained solid proof that the ever-present specter of the Lannisters actually existed.
After Branda's passing, Garth had told him all about his family. So his curiosity grew into anxiety. The everlasting questions of "why" haunted his teen years. Why had he been abandoned? Why had no one visited? Why had his grandfather not sent a single letter? Why did Tywin even fund him if he did not care?
But as the years went by, the unfathomable desire to prove himself worthy of his grandfather's love, outgrew his anxiety. Only fueling his desire to reach his 17th name day.
He would prove his house words right. His loyalty would be the decisive contributor to the Lannisters.
With that thought, Charles steered his boots towards the vessel. Towards home.