The dawn sky was streaked with iridescent clouds, lending the world a dreamlike glow.
It was early morning when they finally reached Nasar.
Seeing the city shrouded in thick mist, Lothan could barely contain his excitement.
For decades he had sought the Prince's Spear, pouring in countless resources.
Had it not been for Viserys, he might never have come to Nasar—much less entered its sacred inner grounds to meet the Old Man.
And now he had accepted a truth he had resisted all his life: the Rhoynar alone could not restore their former glory.
A union between Valyrian and Rhoynar heirs might truly achieve something lasting.
Lothan was a frequent "visitor" of Nasar's outskirts, while Viserys already had experience meeting the Old Man.
Thus the group easily found their way to the Rain Hall.
That night they again heard the Prince's Battle Cry echo through the mist— but having endured it once before, none of them panicked.
They continued forward.
Viserys arrived at the place he had previously agreed upon with the ancient turtle and began to sing the Water Song the creature had taught him.
Every eye locked onto him.
Especially Lothan's—his gaze flickered rapidly between Viserys and the water's surface.
He even slowed his breathing to the faintest whisper, terrified of missing anything.
The Rhoynar who had accompanied them had long doubted Viserys's claim that he had met the Old Man.
But hearing the strange melody and watching the ritualistic dance, they began to wonder— perhaps this Valyrian truly possessed unusual gifts.
Arthur and the others watched with equal focus. Arthur, in particular, kept constant vigilance.
As a Kingsguard, he had once fallen asleep during their first visit and had to be woken by Viserys himself— a stain on his honor he could never forget.
This time, under no circumstances, would something similar happen again.
Viserys danced and chanted for a long while, projecting the air of a high priest performing a sacred rite.
His purpose was simple: To convince everyone present that not just anyone could summon the Old Man of the Rhoyne.
It was the same reason Targaryens insisted on using Valyrian when speaking to their dragons, despite perfectly understanding them through ordinary words and gestures: Mystique was power.
Once he felt the performance had taken root, he finally spoke the invocation.
"Old Man of the Rhoyne River, I, Viserys Targaryen, summon you here. Please honor our pact and answer my call!"
He repeated the summons three times— once in the Common Tongue, once in High Valyrian, and once in the Rhoynar language.
After the third call, the shimmering surface of the river began to churn like boiling water.
Then, a vast circle of dark water opened.
At first it looked like a pit had opened in the riverbed. Then a massive, deep-green shape rose before them.
It towered two to three stories high.
Water cascaded down its shell in sheets.
A horned head large enough to bite a horse in half.
Four pillar-like legs.
A shell thick and immense, as if capable of withstanding every weapon in the world.
Lothan watched breathlessly as the Old Man lowered its head, turquoise eyes fixing upon Viserys standing atop the embankment.
Next to such a titan, the young king looked frail— a small fish about to be swallowed whole.
Arthur, Marcus, and the rest tensed to the point of trembling.
They wanted to move closer to protect Viserys, but feared their sudden motion might startle the giant creature.
Their hands gripped their sword hilts until their knuckles whitened.
Arthur had already resolved—if Viserys were harmed, then he would strike, even if it meant dying under the creature's jaws.
On the other side, Lothan's eyes filled with devout awe.
"It's real…"
Forty years as High Elder, and now only this thought remained in his mind.
Everyone stood frozen like carved statues. Then, a voice—ethereal, echoing directly within Viserys's mind:
"You seek me?"
This time Viserys listened closely. The Old Man's voice carried a strange, ringing hollowness.
"Yes. I need your help—to let my fleet pass Volantis."
The others held their breath, unable to hear the words but desperate to catch even a fragment of the exchange.
No one knew how difficult this request might be for the Old Man. But with the title of a god, surely he could do it.
"It will consume much of my power. I must prepare."
"How long?" Viserys asked. "My time is limited."
He had to deliver the fleet to Gohor before Braavos and Pentos made their move.
"Half a year. At least three months."
"Half a year? I might as well sail back to Dragonstone," Viserys muttered under his breath before continuing aloud:
"Can you make it faster? I need the fleet in the Rhoyne within a month."
"A month?" the Old Man echoed. "That is too short. It would harm my divine essence. Unless…"
"Unless what?" Viserys asked, already expecting a price.
The Old Man wanted to ascend to full godhood; his requests would not be unreasonable.
"Unless, after I help you, you build a temple in my name.
You must ensure no fewer than five hundred worshipers visit it daily, for no less than a year."
Temples and sanctuaries nourished divinity; the Old Man had explained this before.
Viserys considered briefly, then nodded.
"Agreed. I will build your temple—and not only that, the royal family will come to worship you as well.
But you must also ensure my fleet passes safely through Chroyane."
To his surprise, the Old Man slowly shook his massive head. "This I cannot do."
A problem.
Passing Volantis was necessary—but Chroyane was the true danger.
"Why not?"
"Chroyane belongs to Prince Garin. I cannot interfere."
"You mean… Prince Garin? He's alive?" Viserys blurted out.
On their previous meeting, the Old Man had described the path from mortal to divine, but Viserys hadn't taken it literally.
An ancient turtle surviving a thousand years was one thing. But a human doing so?
It strained belief.
"Yes. He has condensed a divine spark, though he has not ascended to full godhood. But he remains powerful."
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