Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 337: Sending Troops to Westeros

As Hand of the King, Tyrion not only knew that Robert had removed the idols from the Sept, but he was also aware that they were soon to be sacrificed. Naturally, he had no say in the matter. Though Tyrion himself didn't believe in any gods, he understood that they were the faith of many.

"The cook made us a delicious meal, so why are you thanking the Seven Gods?" Tyrion had once remarked dryly.

In these tense times, with war looming ever closer, Tyrion was surprised to find himself with little to do. As Hand of the King, he suddenly had no pressing matters to attend to. This left him plenty of time to dine with Jaime.

"What did the cook use to make your meal?" Jaime asked, nodding toward the venison steak on Tyrion’s plate.

Tyrion glanced down at the meat and replied, "Venison."

"I mean what tools did she use?"

"A pan," Tyrion answered, slightly confused.

"An iron pan, to be precise."

Jaime didn’t need to explain further. The reason there was a "Smith" among the Seven Gods was clear: iron had played a pivotal role in the life and development of the Andals.

Tyrion chuckled, cutting a piece of steak with his stubby fingers. "Which book did you read this in, and why haven’t I come across it?"

Jaime grinned, a bit of pride in his voice. "I figured it out on my own." His turquoise eyes gleamed in the candlelight, his golden hair catching the warm glow as if sprinkled with gold dust.

But then Jaime’s expression darkened, and he sighed. "Unfortunately, my sword is becoming less useful by the day... with magic and dragons..."

His face turned a little despondent as he glanced at Tyrion. "The Iron Islands have announced they no longer pledge allegiance to the Baratheons. You know about this, right?"

Tyrion shrugged. "Of course, I'm the Hand of the King."

Jaime leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Do you know what the most terrifying thing about Viserys is?"

Tyrion thought for a moment. "He has dragons?"

Jaime shook his head.

"A huge army? The Unsullied?"

Another shake of the head.

"Then it's his Targaryen bloodline. Robert would’ve killed to have more Targaryen princesses marry into his family."

Jaime shook his head once more, a grim smile tugging at his lips. Tyrion was at a loss.

"Alright, then," Tyrion said, his curiosity piqued. "What do you think it is?"

Jaime looked at his brother, then asked, "How old are you?"

Tyrion paused for a moment, calculating. "Thirty... thirty-one."

Jaime tilted his head, showing Tyrion the strands of silver that had begun to streak his temples. "I’m already thirty-six. Do you know how old Viserys is? Not even nineteen."

Tyrion understood instantly. Viserys’s greatest advantage wasn’t just his dragons or army—it was his youth. He was younger than all his opponents. Even if Robert somehow managed to defeat him by sheer, ridiculous luck, time would still be on Viserys’s side. Robert, however, had no such luxury.

Viserys could bide his time, let his enemies grow old and weary, or even let them starve. And when the time came, he could sweep across Westeros with twenty, thirty, or even fifty dragons.

Tyrion’s voice grew cold. "Let’s just say he’s nineteen, then."

Something in his tone made Jaime uneasy, a strange flutter in his chest. "Do you have a plan to deal with him?"

"I’ll need a little luck," Tyrion admitted.

...

In Tyrosh, it was less than a month before Shinelli was due to give birth, but she insisted on traveling. Feles accompanied her, and Little Rose, ever attentive, helped her along, even though Shinelli's movements were surprisingly unaffected by her condition.

The two women followed Viserys, Daenerys, and a large entourage to the port. The outskirts were packed with civilians, an endless sea of people hoping that Viserys would destroy his enemies.

The seven dragons had grown much larger. The biggest, a yellow dragon, spread its wings wide enough to overshadow a house. Each of the dragons, in their various colors, looked like living flames. The black sails of the ships loomed in the distance like a wall of darkness, blocking the horizon.

The Lysene, renowned shipbuilders, had crafted Viserys’s warships to be far superior to average vessels. They were sturdy, with high bows and wide hulls, built in a style reminiscent of Qarth.

Viserys and Dany stood side by side in front of Aemon. The old man said nothing, but the hope in his eyes was evident. He had already spoken to them the night before, advising Viserys not to take unnecessary risks, or at least, only for very good reasons.

He had also reminded them that the true power of the dragons was in their ability to inspire and intimidate the local population—they should be used as symbols as much as weapons.

Though Aemon knew Viserys was likely well aware of this, his worry for the dragons lingered.

Shinelli stepped forward, placing Viserys’s cloak around his shoulders and tying the straps as she stood on tiptoe. This cloak was something special between them, a keepsake from their time in Slaver’s Bay—something only the two of them knew about. They exchanged a glance, and in that brief moment, everything was understood without words.

Little Rose, in turn, draped a cloak over Daenerys. The two women were nearly the same height, but Little Rose bent slightly, lowering herself so that Daenerys appeared taller.

Viserys turned to look at the group gathered behind him: Regis, Jorah, Connington, Hoyt, Gerrold, Caggo, Feles, Dick... These were the men who had witnessed his journey.

Then his eyes moved to the soldiers lining the shore and the ships. An indescribable feeling swelled in his chest, ready to burst.

He had already made his promise to them—behead a soldier and win 100 acres of land; a knight, 300 acres; a lord or vassal, half of their land. There was no need for any long-winded pre-battle speech.

Taking a deep breath, Viserys shouted toward the ships, the soldiers, the harbor, and the open sea with a voice that carried far and wide:

"To Westeros!"

...

A thunderous roar erupted from the dragon, like a crashing wave upon the shore. The soldiers below could barely contain their eagerness, ready to take the heads of the Westerosi lords and claim their promised land.

"To Westeros!"
"To Westeros!"
"To Westeros!"

The cry echoed across the army, growing louder with each shout. The soldiers—most of them once slaves—were more excited than ever. Not long ago, they had been freed right where they stood, without needing to serve five years or even perform acts of valor. But now, they craved those acts of valor. They longed for the land that had been promised—land that would feed their families and grow their future.

Viserys and Dany soared above them on the backs of their dragons, the beasts' mighty wings beating the air as everything below shrank beneath them.

Below, thousands of black-sailed warships, like hungry wolves seeking prey, surged westward. The cheers of the soldiers and the people below drowned out even the crashing waves.

Revenge had come.