Viserys considered the Old Turtle's words.
He found no hint of falsehood. The chronicles of the ancient war supported the claim.
Even when Prince Garin had been imprisoned by the Valyrians in a gilded cage, he had unleashed a curse that drowned entire legions of dragonlords.
Such a feat alone was enough to forge a divine spark.
It was said that those afflicted with greyscale, though stiff as stone, retained slivers of consciousness.
If that was true, then somewhere beneath the dark waters of Chroyane, there might still be Valyrian dragonlords who had never seen the sky again.
Davos's returning fleet numbered nearly a hundred ships.
Viserys was confident that even if only half made it through, that would still be a victory— but if there was a way to save the entire fleet, he would seize it.
And if Prince Garin could be persuaded to cooperate… he might even lend Viserys aid.
"Can you tell me more about Prince Garin?" Viserys asked.
The Old Turtle had once admitted he sought full ascension to a divine seat. Viserys had coaxed him into cooperation with that promise.
Perhaps Garin, too, desired something. If so, Viserys might bargain with him.
If Garin also yearned to ascend, then the Old Turtle's endorsement would make everything easier.
But the reply he received soured his mood.
"Prince Garin delights in attacking and tormenting Valyrians—or any folk with Valyrian blood.
He can sense the presence of Valyrian essence and orders the stone men to strike."
"What?" Viserys blurted, losing composure.
This complicated matters.
He could circumvent Chroyane by land, yes— but doing so would cost time he did not have.
And by now, Freygo surely knew that Gohor had been unified.
"What is his strength like?"
Viserys braced himself. Whatever happened, he would bring the fleet home. If anything—or anyone—stood in his way, then that obstacle must fall.
The Old Turtle studied him for a moment before answering.
"You might defeat him, but you cannot kill him.
One who has condensed a divine spark cannot die unless all memory of him fades from the world."
This eased Viserys somewhat.
Garin was likely akin to a powerful water mage, bolstered heavily by his divine spark— dangerous, but not insurmountable.
"Is there no other way? Help me, and if my fleet reaches Gohor safely, I will make you the fleet's totem."
The offer stirred something in the Old Turtle. He tilted his vast head, turquoise eyes shifting as he pondered.
On the shore, the others watched anxiously.
They could not hear the Old Turtle's voice—it spoke directly into Viserys's mind— so when both man and creature fell silent, unease rippled through the group.
"Elder, why have they stopped speaking?" one of Lothan's followers whispered.
Arthur turned toward Lothan as well.
"Do not fret," Lothan said, though he himself was unsure. "Their manner does not suggest conflict."
And indeed, the Old Turtle wasn't even looking at Viserys anymore—only thinking.
A moment later, Viserys extended his hand.
The Old Man lowered its massive head and placed something into Viserys's palm.
A plate of amber-like turtle shell, the size of a mask, warm and slick with fresh mucus.
"If you carry my shell, you may speak with Prince Garin. Whether he permits your passage through Chroyane… that depends on you."
"I understand. My thanks."
Viserys stored the shell safely and promised again to build the temple.
The Old Turtle then slid back into the river, vanishing beneath the gently settling waters.
The surface calmed.
To anyone who hadn't seen it, it might have seemed like a dream.
When Viserys turned back, he found Lothan and the Rhoynar staring at him with transformed expressions.
Lothan's eyes shone with reverence.
The Rhoynar soldiers gazed with awe.
As for his own men—there was no mistaking their new certainty.
Clement, in particular, nearly trembled with relief. He thanked every god there was that House Celtigar had never actually wronged Viserys.
With powers like these behind him, even execution might have been merciful.
Among the Rhoynar present, a few had glimpsed the Old Turtle once in their lives— but never like this.
Never answering a mortal's call.
Never conversing.
"His Majesty truly speaks with the gods…"
Arthur's mind echoed with the thought.
He knew little of Rhoynar or Valyrian myth— but what he had witnessed surpassed anything he had ever believed possible.
Dreamer. Heir of Rhaegar. Wise and decisive king. One-in-a-thousand judge of men. Speaker with gods…
The titles piled in Arthur's heart, heavy with truth.
Viserys could feel it— this was the perfect moment to strike the iron while it glowed.
He raised the gleaming shell above his head.
"My friends, I have received the Old Man's promise. He will aid us—our fleet will pass Volantis!"
They had all seen the exchange. Not one doubted him.
"Long live the king! Long live Viserys!" Clement shouted.
Cheers erupted—soldiers and Rhoynar alike crying out in celebration.
"Your Majesty," Lothan said, breathless, "Prince Garin truly lives?"
Viserys relayed what he had learned.
"Yes. But he delights in harming those with Valyrian blood. This shell gives me the chance to speak with him—nothing more."
"Then Your Majesty must not go to Chroyane!" Arthur said instantly. "I will escort you around by land!"
"Not yet," Viserys replied. "We'll decide when we draw near."
Now that he knew Garin's… tastes… he wouldn't charge forward blindly. But the shell gave him an audience—a chance.
Garin liked tormenting Valyrian blood, did he?
There were hardly any Targaryens left to amuse him.
But Volantis…
Volantis was full of Valyrian nobles.
Watching them tear each other apart would surely delight him more than killing Viserys personally… wouldn't it?
Viserys's eyes narrowed slightly, thoughts sharpening.
If the prince wanted Valyrian suffering—Viserys could offer him a far richer feast than one lone Targaryen.
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