VISERYS III

"The sun shone from the sky high above Dragonstone, gleaming brilliantly across the blade of the sword, as Prince Viserys Targaryen battled against Ser Hargon Waters. The master-at-arms of Dragonstone, he was a strong and burly man, a steadfast rock cliff in his stand, and strong enough in his step, but Viserys at least was faster and more agile. He fenced Ser Hargon off as best he could, veering to the right and then left, ducking under and hopping away to plant a nice strike in the master-at-arms' back and shoulderpart. That gave him just a moment's respite from his buffling throes.

Viserys had never been a strong fighter, like his older brother Rhaegar, but he had tried his best to raise himself up to be a pride for his house. The Targaryens had always been fighters, ever since Aegon the Conqueror, and he had decided to not let himself be an exception to that old tradition. Perhaps one day his line would come into its own again, and so as soon as Stannis had allowed him to practice with a sword at the age of twelve, Viserys had been eager to practice. An injury when he was in his eighteenth year had put an end to most of the training, as he shied away from it and gripped himself towards his books instead, but recently with Hargon, he was feeling the need once again to be an inspiring and strong image to his people.

He got in a nice strike against Ser Hargon's upper chest and shoulder, but then he came on him again. Strong like a vengeance, he was, even though Viserys knew that he was holding back somewhat in order not to hurt his liege lord and prince. That made him angry, as he cursed his own weakness even as he was sliding backwards, back and back on the dirt of the courtyard, feeling the presence of the slope some hundred feet behind and having his recurring nightmares of falling backwards coming to him once again.

He tried his best to hold against, for several straining moments, his boots planted but sliding, ever sliding backwards in the dirt as Hargon pushed and wrestled him back, further and further, and finally Viserys could no longer stand his ground. He allowed himself to fall, but he did so properly, taking the weight of himself straight down in a straight line which gave him the leverage to spunk up his boots and kick away the master-at-arms's shield instead. He did have tall and long legs, whereas Hargon's were short, strong and stocky like tree trunks, but short.

Viserys's right leg somehow managed to kick his opponent's shield to the side, then, and the prince of Dragonstone raised his sword with lighting speed to slash hard at Hargon's exposed chest. Twice, thrice, four-times. Five. Then he was captured again, as Ser Hargon gripped him powerfully with all his might and yanked him up on two legs to commence the wrestling all over again.

Viserys wanted to stop, he knew he could not win against Hargon with pure strength alone, but he could not say so. He could not show himself a coward, nor fail to live up to the strength of all of his ancestors. He was stronger now at least, stronger than he had been in his youth, and so he fought. He strained and struggled against Hargon, putting all of his force into it, and he almost felt it working, at least so far as to hold against him for a little while, even though the old knight was strong and burly, Viserys had the force and anger of youth, and he was strong, yes, he had strength, more than ever before, surely that much at least was true. He was a man grown, twenty-and-two, and getting better every year. Yes. He could maybe finally do it, after all these years. Possibly...

But no. The grizzled giant master-at-arms was simply too strong for him, and he knocked him down into the dirt, Viserys Targaryen feeling the thud of gravity and the hard ground beneath his back. And so goes another failure... he thought bitterly, but accepted the loss. He was used to losing.

Hargon laughed, only somewhat, before coming to grips with own pride and position, and then extended his great big burly arm to lift his prince up from the ground again, yanking him up with a motion that was the thinnest of hairs more respectful than the motion had been at fourteen. He was still a boy in the eyes of his trainer, he knew. More of a man now, yes, but still the boy he had been.

"Apologies, my Prince. I did not mean to go upon you so hard", Ser Hargon mumbled, catching his breath as he stood up againand felt the sense to give a roguish blush frombetween his beard at least.

"No worries, Hargon", Viserys said. "It was a fine match."

It truly had been, in fact. He had at least been strong, and fought bravely, even if it had not been enough this time either.

Next came the target practice with sword, however, and in that part Viserys was a true dragonlord come again. He slashed with his sword with an eagle-like precision, slicing each target as if it was a fly on the speck of his world-view, clouding the horizon of his was sharp. He was ice cold. He was vicious with his blade in hand and with enough of a distance to his target.

He straightened out his sword to the heavens and split the fruits in half, almost perfect every time, as Hargon kept them coming, tossing them quicker and quicker for every time. Then they did the same with arrows.

If anything, Prince Viserys Targaryen of Dragonstone was a master with the bow and arrow. His sharp arrows split the fruits into splinters each time. Hargon went to the practicing board, which was some three hundred feet away down by the slope of the hill to the north, angling down towards the beginning of the strand. Viserys shot and hit each mark with perfection.

"Another kill, my Prince!" Hargon called from below. "Straight in the eye again!"

Viserys felt the satisfaction as he had a thousand times before, as he told Hargon to move even further back, behind the board. And then further again, and then even further again. Only when he was certain that he could no longer be sure to hit his mark did he call stop. Then he fired two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight arrows at the practice target. Only one and then almost two hit their goal. That was when he knew that he had done what he could.

He tried two final ones, straining his eyes as hard as he could to try and pinpoint the tiny prick in the distance and holding out with his arms as well, straining with all his strength to make the arrow find its mark.

Then he shot.

A near miss, but almost a hit. The arrow landed to the side, flitting to bury itself in the soft green grass close to the sand behind as Ser Hargon watched it all with ease from beside, his helm closed.

Then he took out the final arrow from the [ ]. They were all fletched with white goose feathers taken from the geese on the island and tipped with iron from the mines of the Dragonmont. The wood, however, might be imported from the Kingswood. Viserys was not entirely sure. He would have to ask Hargon about that later.

The last arrow hit its mark perfectly. Viserys smiled intensely, but only in his eyes. His mouth remained closed.

"Excellent work, my lord!" Ser Hargon said, Viserys passing by him as he took out the arrows from the target board. "You could hit the tower roof on High Tide soon, I reckon."

Viserys snorted. "Some day." But Stannis seems to think I'm aiming for King's Landing instead...

He gathered together the last of the equipment together with Ser Hargon and the four squire boys present. They were more or less the same gang as ever, the boys from the castle that had grown up into their own little generation of youth during these past one or two years, while Viserys' eyes had looked away and busied themselves on the project of his newfound lady wife instead of making picks for squire. Ser Hargon had sorted that out himself, and he had not complained – as of yet.

There was the vexing and loathsome Ludden, tall and grey, and with nauseatingly smug greyish blue eyes that Viserys aimed for inside his mind every time he shot an arrow, meek Maelys, brown of hair and of medium short stature despite his name, the strong but mild-tempered Peeta, at times affectionately called 'Hayhead' for his haylike wheatfall of blonde hair, and at last 'handsome Hake', Ser Hargon's young handsome son of fourteen, dark strands and the tiny straggles of a beard on his strong jaw.

"Well shot, my prince!" Peeta complimented and bowed. Maelys nodded in nervous agreement.

"Indeed my father is right, your royal arrows will reach High Tide before long", handsome Hake said.

Ludden said nothing.

"And you, boy?" Viserys immediately said. "Have you nothing to say?"

"It was a good shot, my prince", he mumbled from under his ugly greyish blonde locks. His smile was giggling, fleesening, nervously smug, nauseating, idiotic, pathetic.

"Was it?" Viserys asked, his voice clear and concise. "In what way...?"

"You... hit the mark?"

"Yes indeed. Indeed I did. Can you shoot with a bow?"

"A little."

"'A little', what?"

"A little, my lord." Ludden said, smirking at Hake. Handsome Hake, however, was smart enough to keep his mouth shut, only look back, and not take the invite.

"Very well then. Show me. Take a bow and arrow from Ser Hargon and demonstrate, if you would."

"Now...?"

"Yes, now!"

Ludden looked up at him, with a face that deserved to be smacked in with an iron steed. Then he slowly, leisurely turned and went all the way down towards Ser Hargon, and got a bow and arrow.

Viserys said nothing as the useless drawler youth took the things up, the three of his comrades looking on, and he loosened an arrow that only almost hit its mark. Handsome Hake chortled a snirt.

"Oh, shut up!" Ludden said to Hake.

Viserys was raging fire on the inside at the insolence of mumbling such things in his presence with such a careless attitude, but he forced himself to wait for another hard-strung couple of moments before giving the lad what he deserved.

The second arrow hit its mark almost perfectly, just as Viserys had, possibly even better.

He became angry. Shocked but annoyed. Disgusted. He was used to losing. He had lost things ever since he was six. His family, his kingdom, his throne, his chance at the sword, his youthfulness and now his precious sister...

"Go on then", he told Ludden. "Shoot your third one."

Ludden looked back at him with insolence yet again. A lazy, slimy sort of insolence which suggested that the rumours about him laying with one of the prettier serving girls from the castle's seldom frequented downstairs kitchens might possibly be true. That was why he felt so sure of himself, Viserys understood. He was no fool. He had also been young once, somewhat recently in fact. He tramped his feet in the grass as he waited for the final time.

Ludden stroke his shot, and it landed a little higher up, but still within what could be considered successful. The three others gave mild applauds and wisely quiet mumbles upon it.

Viserys walked up to him, steaming fire with smoke from his nostrils. He was the dragon awakened, and now was the time for him to take back his reign.

"Very well then", he said.

And he smacked Ludden on his face with his iron gauntlet, hitting him so hard that he sounded like a mackle of meat being struck into pieces. He regretted himself, aungered himself right in the very moment that he made his strike. But he was an iresome idiot, and mad with vengeance in the moment, and so he immediately pretended to have the dignity of upholding his judgement in striking the lad, and stayed on, just as the lad did.

Ludden did not fall over, though. That was disappointing. Viserys became even more angry at that, as he felt the fire burning within him, but he knew that he could not hit him a second time. That would be [misskötsel/vanstyre/[ ]] and unbecoming of any lord who wanted to rule over his people.

And so he accepted that even his strike had been a failure, for all the hurt it had inflicted on the lad, and hoped that he had at least gotten a sprained nose for it.

"Since it seems," he said, as Ludden jemmered himself and grabbed his face with a sterning of anguish, and his friends terrified and chaosed into an explosion looked on, meek Maelys hopping up straight in the air from the sensation, "that you are such an expert archer, it would be a waste to have you remaining as squire. Go and report to Ser Vendyll at the archers' barracks."

He should have said "go and report immediately", he realized, just as he had said it, but it was too late for changing his words now, and so he simply stood planted, almost tipping over from his own stress while the lad continued gritting himself in pain and seemed to work out within his mind whether to smack him back, or whether to comply, while all of his friends looked on.

At last, to his survival, he seemed to choose submission. Viserys silently thanked the gods on the inside of his breastplate and breathed an invisible sigh of relief as Ludden took a shamed grabbing of his bag of clothing, his waterskin and else and hurried down the slent of the hill.

"I thank you, lads", he told the others, and then swiftly turned to walk away, before handsome Hake could as much as make a motion towards his armed father.

Viserys hoped Ser Hargon would not turn around and stab him in the back, but somewhere he knew that he was safe. Noone would harm him, not here, not here in his home. He was finally safe from that now, ever since he had become a man and taken the title for himself. They had no better lord than him, and certainly no other prince. Any attempt at mutiny would never hold, not even from the master-at-arms himself, and all of the power he could muster.

Noone would follow a gruff old Waters as lord of the castle for more than a fortnight, at any rate, even if he were to stand up to Viserys for whatever reason.

...

Ser Hargon, young Hake, Peeta and Maelys all plucked together the equipment along with a couple of servants nearby, as Viserys went forth to the hill east of the training place. He waited a long while before allowing himself to rest, preferring to wait and hearing the seagulls squawking from above as they finished up from a couple hundred feet behind him somewhere. When they had all gone back along the sandy gravel and earth path towards the castle and on to the training yard to the northeast, he could finally relax somewhat.

...

Viserys Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, stood watching over the island at the height of the hill, the green grass shining bright all around him, apart from to his immediate east of the castle, and to the southwest, at his back and side, where the Dragonmont lay.

His gaze stretched all the way down to the fisherman's village down by the strand, where the men were surely hauling around the catch of the day even as he looked towards its rooves from afar.

Viserys came to think of a certain trout once again. The letter, that he had gotten from Hoster Tully.

It had been an insult, a smack in the face, more or less. He began feeling furious inside himself once again, the feeling a nauseating one, especially since he thought that he had already emptied himself of his anger with the fighting, but no, there still it was.

He does not feel the need to write to me, but only comes to it as an afterthought... He thought again.

Five days, or more, Viserys was almost sure that it had been. More than five days after the attack on Riverrun that Lord Hoster had found it in his sickly bones to get up from his bed and write to him, her brother, about it. It was a spiteful ignoration on his part, Viserys felt. Only at last, when the ravens up in his rookery were quorking and cawing for his consciousness, yes only after five days, Viserys was certain, only then did he call himself to mind the [contract/deal/[ ]] he had with the king, and recognized his obligation to make the princess's whereabouts safety known to her brother and kin.

There were more news than that, however. These ones were, if possible, worse. Stannis had brought them to him as well, on his last visit from King's Landing. The old ugly trout had kept silent again.

Lord Hoster had come to some sort of panic of himself after the attack, and apparently done what he inside his sickly mind thought best for guaranteeing his sister's safety: Marry her off to a riverlord. Viserys was as furious over the match as a man made of flesh and blood could be.

A riverlord, and a lowly Piper at that! He might at least have appreciated it more if Lord Hoster had bound her to his own son and heir, Edmure, but he had instead handed him off to his lecherous companion. The only thing that made Viserys not prepare a ship and sail into the Bay of Crabs right there and then was the realization that at least if she ever had children with him, they would most like bear the silver blond hair of House Targaryen. Apart from his appearance, however, he did not think highly of him. Any man who was nearing thirty and still unmarried was bound to be of low morals, and of ill repute. Besides, the Pipers had already nestled themselves in at the Red Keep via Queen Catelyn and were apparently aiming for higher things than that.

It was the exact same thing again. Tully was mocking him, right before his nose. Viserys Targaryen could not have been any more angry if he had tried. He was practically shaking from it still now, even though he had had two entire goblets of his special wine from Cressen mere hours before, as he flexed his fingers back and forth, opening and closing his hand around the hilt of his sword.

I will catch you some day, my lord... I will catch you, and keep you, and cook you in a stew of mine..., Viserys thought.

He would put an end to the match before it could happen, he had vowed to the fires of the Dragonmont itself some days past. He would storm into Riverrun himself and put the castle to the torch, cleaving Lord Hoster in two with his own blade if that was what it would take. He had already put up with a lot regarding his sister, but this was the drop that toppled his goblet. Stannis must understand. And even if he did not, nothing would stop the wrath of the dragon in this particular case.

He had decided on doubling the castle guard, to prepare himself for any possible attacks back towards him, only some days before, and he and Ser Hargon had gone down to the village [ ] to personally oversee the recruitment of the [one hundred?] new guardsmen-to-be. Most of the men seemed twoparted in their response, some preferring to remain as simple fishermen, but some others were happy to be given a salary of five golden dragons a day and a place for their families among the guards' barracks of the castle.

What mattered most, however, was loyalty. Viserys had stood and looked into the eye of every man, with his own lilac ones, to see if they would prove themselves loyal to the castle before anything else. He was mostly pleased with the result. A few dozen he had sent back to continue their dreary lives in the squalor and dampness of the crowded fishing houses. The majority were now under training and instruction by Ser Hargon. Stannis was overlooking the process as well, as was the duty of the lord castellan, albeit with minimal enthusiasm.

…

Just as he was thinking of him, the dour [old stag/cotter/codpiece/[ ] ] came walking up the hill, like an iron shadow on the otherwise perfect picture of green grass and sunshine on the island slope.

Viserys almost ground his teeth at the sight of him, but then stopped himself immediately, hindering himself from the irony. He would not suffer the humiliation of having inherited something like that from Stannis. At least surely not in this moment. Not after knocking the bastard Ludden's ugly nose in. This was a victorious moment. And so, Instead, he smiled calmly, assuredly, steadfastly, with self-confidence plain on his brow as his lord castellan came up the hill to greet him. He would not sour his mood after this.

"My prince", Stannis said.

"My lord", Viserys replied. "A fine day, is it not?"

Stannis looked out at the horizon, as if he had only just now realized that they were outside.

"So it is", he said, seemingly without attaching any particular emotion to his words.

They stood still for another few moments, as they so often did. Then Stannis spoke.

The one thing Viserys was thankful for was that Stannis always ever kept his words and thoughts clear and hard. There was nothing so infuriating as a man who could not do that. Stannis could speak better than anyone else on the island, for he spoke only stone necessities. And so he did now as well.

"Do you think that the King will find us less of a threat when he hears that you have doubled the castle garrison and put up archers on every crenellation this side of the Gullet?"

The words caught him by surprise. He had not thought to have this argument now. Stannis had said nothing ill about the doubling of the guard. Why suddenly now? It was far from the best of timing.

Viserys stood still, thinking well one exactly what to say back. He could not falter to Stannis in speech. Stannis was a master of it, but so was he, even before he had first gotten to know him. Rhaegar had told him so, and his father as well. His royal father had made him recite the names of every Targaryen dragon whose skull stood uplined in the throne room, and for every one that he got right, he would get a sweet caramel. Viserys had few fonder memories of his father than that. His Mother as well had complimented him, hundreds of times. He would do them all justice. Again.

"Do you think that you have enough loyal men on here to keep me from throwing you into the sea if you run to the Red Keep and tattle again like some gossiping fishwife?"

The insult was an exceedingly insolent one, spat right up into the face of Stannis Baratheon, the man who had survived the Siege of Storm's End on rats and pure stubbornness, but Viserys was feeling more fiery than ever before after having beaten the grey whoreson of a squire to sense.

"If you have any wits about you, as you so often claim, the King need not even know", he finished. "But perhaps you would prefer the cold water. You would sink to the bottom, if there is one, like an iron casket, if you still wore your armor when we caught you."

Stannis looked straight at him with eyes of blue steel, terrible to behold, as they contemplated on what next to say. His lantern jaw ground itself back and forth before answering the sharp threat.

"You would do well to remember to who you owe your still rule over this speck of land, my prince. It was my loyalty to the newly crowned King Eddard Stark that made me spare your life once. Though perhaps it is true that loyalty comes easy for man and dog, yet not for snakes."

Viserys tensed up, saying nothing, as the wretched old stag made his best attempts to foul his mood and sully his hopes again. He hated him. Seven hells of burning hellfire, how he loathed him.

He stood staring, stabilizing himself, in body and in mind, for a long time, staring into the horizon, fighting back a feeling of... something ill-boding, something weak, something fragile within. He could not show himself weak. Would not show himself weak. He could not back down now. He would not back down.

"It is far hard to know loyalty when one has never been the recipient of it.", he said. "Your brother and the Kingslayer made sure of that."

"A brother that I have no love for", Stannis said. "Or so you should know better than most."

Viserys was quiet again.

"If I recall correctly, it was you, my lord, who did not wish to write to the king of our continued loyalty when I asked you, and yet now you would tell him of our attempts to protect our castle, as if it were part of some conspiracy against his rule?"

Stannis stared for a while. He looked almost asleep from tiredness in his face before responding.

"If not for protection against the King, my prince, then protection against whom? Is it the rivermen you fear? Are you afraid that Edmure Tully will come paddling down the Blackwater on a canoe?"

Viserys shook his head, flinched, threw it to the side. An involuntary motion, a twisting sudden jerk of rage. He was practically aflame.

"I do not fear any man. It is not fear that drives me in this. It is fire. Fury. You of all people should know the words, my lord."

"We would be better off putting the men to building new ships, if that is the reason [for all of this]."

"Put them to whatever you want, you stone-minded stag, so long as you don't ever challenge the security of my castle!" He screamed out now, so loud that his voice was carried over the hill and down surely to the strandfront down out by the sea far below them both.

Stannis said nothing at that. And so Viserys went on.

"I am defending my castle. My home. The only one that remains to me. I will kill anyone who would try to threaten me. I will kill anyone who would try and steal a single scorched plot of soil from me ever again. I will defend this island to my death. And to yours as well, my lord. Is that clear?" He spat out between clenched teeth.

"As clear as water, my prince", Stannis said.

Viserys looked down at the waves that were a murky deep blue, even in the streaming sunshine of the summer day. He did not appreciate the joke, whether it had been intentional on Stannis' part or not.

"Be gone from my sight."

"As you wish", Stannis said dryly, his voice as ash. "There might be new boats that need building."

Stannis turned his steely clanking boots and began walking down the slope again.

Viserys watched him, watched him in anger and fret from out the corner of his eye as he went, one steely step at a time, a walking casket, a man of iron against the green of the grass. Even his fringe of hair seemed to glisten somewhat in a metallic hue of greying black.

He then spotted Lady Selyse walking out from the castle, joined by her two handmaidens, both of them staunch admirers of the red woman. He knew that Stannis did not enjoy speaking with his wife, but if she asked him, he would still tell her what their conversation had been about. He did not entrust Selyse Florent with any such information, much less the foreign lady Melisandre, who had already infiltrated his island and made him feel at unease for far too long.

"Wait! Stop", he called out.

Stannis took another two steps, then ground to a vexed halt. He could practically feel him tying the veins on his neck together from the effort it took to obey his order. Still, Stannis was nothing if not ever dutiful. He clenched his fists together, made an awkward motion of his head, and turned back to face his prince again.

"What is it, my prince?" His words were like stone being ground together in a quarry.

"I need you to promise to not tell the King the next time you see him."

Stannis lightened up marginally, opening his eyes to the sun, if only for an instant again.

"I can make no such promises, if His Grace should come to ask about it."

"And if he does not ask...?"

Stannis looked up at him, with his blue eyes and wrinkled jawline, surrounded by black stubble.

"Then you have my word as your castellan, my prince. I will protect the castle, not spill its secrets."

"And what would weigh heavier, my lord? The word of your prince and lord, or that of your king?"

Stannis was quiet for a while before replying, "I pray that we shall not see the day when we have to find out."

"You will not tell your lady wife about this conversation we have just had either. Not even if she asks. I have enough meddling from her and Lady Melisandre. Promise me, Stannis. Not a whisper."

"I give you promise, my prince. … Though I will also give you my council about this the next time we speak."

"So you think it all wrong, then? A mistake? To double the guard, to protect the castle from attack?" Viserys could hardly believe what he was hearing coming from his own lord castellan.

"The castle is well protected. The men are needed elsewhere in times of peace. Most of them are untrained fishermen that can hardly hold a spear as of yet. The only things they've fought are fog, salt sickness and marlins from their lines. We'd be better off with knights from the mainland if you want safety. A man who has fought in a battle before is worth a dozen unblooded. The same goes for a siege."

Viserys flustered. He sighed. But somehow, he heard what Stannis was saying. There was a better way for all of this. And so he replied.

"If that is the case, I charge you to go and find all of these heroic knights you speak of. The next time you go to the capital. Go around. Find them. Go north, go south, go west if you need, as long as they do not answer to the old Trout or any of his bannermen. Find them close, find them far. As many as you need. As many as we have room and food to hold for the coming year. Any who would serve us, and our cause."

"And what, exactly, my prince... Is our cause? Tell me."

"I will tell you exactly what my cause is. To let the fire and blood of my line cook the old trout in his river before his fever can claim him from my hand. To take back what is mine."

"My sister has been stolen from me, for the second time. And for the last. I promise. I will get her back, Stannis. On the honour of my house. With fire and blood, or whatever else I need to save her from that trecherous old trout. Noone steals from the dragon. You mark my words."