From the moment the city walls were nearly breached to the point where seventy to eighty thousand enemy troops completely lost their fighting strength, less than a single week had passed.
After everything was done, Viserys returned once more to his loyal Gohor.
This time, he would not be leaving again for years to come.
He had offended far too many people.
Braavos went without saying. Viserys intended to use the more than forty thousand prisoners as leverage to extract a massive ransom from Freygo.
If he were to go to Braavos now, even if the city tore up all pretense and cared nothing for appearances, they would still detain him.
More than forty thousand captives was a price Freygo could not afford to ignore.
Ransoming them back would not only allow Freygo to preserve his own position, but also give him an excuse to squeeze blood from the other factions within Braavos.
Pentos was slightly better, but that would have to wait until Audro had secured enough authority.
The final fleet that Rhaella had brought from Pentos would never be allowed to enter Gohor.
Leasing the ships to the Pentoshi not only provided a place to station them, but also brought in a steady stream of income.
As for Volantis, they were probably itching to tear him apart alive.
In the span of a single year, Viserys had destroyed five mercenary companies and antagonized three city-states.
And not just any three, but the strongest among the Nine Free Cities.
The remaining city-states would certainly be watching him closely, wary of any future move he made.
So for the next several years, Viserys intended to remain quietly in Gohor, focusing on development and consolidation.
Inside the throne hall, nearly all of Viserys's ministers and commanders were present.
"Victory forever!"
The unified roar echoed through the hall.
The crude yet rugged chamber seemed to respond to their cheers.
Even the notoriously frugal Old Crab had ordered more than a thousand candles lit at once.
The blazing light spilled outward, casting a golden sheen even over the guards standing watch outside.
"I, Viserys Targaryen the First, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men," Viserys declared, "hereby proclaim that from this day forward, the fate of Gohor shall rest in our own hands!"
"Long live Gohor! Long live victory! Long live His Majesty!"
Every face in the hall was filled with excitement and joy.
Many felt as if they were still dreaming.
Arthur and Oswell, standing closest to Viserys, remembered clearly the shock and elation when they first received word from Rhaegar, and their first meeting with Viserys on Dragonstone.
From doubt to trust.
Then there were Ock, Davos, and others who had been rapidly promoted and proven themselves.
From fear to certainty.
Further back stood the Old Crab, gazing at Viserys with a hint of regret.
Had he known earlier that Viserys was a dreamwalker, his family might never have been ruined.
Lyanna, Elder Lothan, Elder Tina, and those nobles brought from the Wall to guard King's Landing—
All of them were now certain of one thing.
The Targaryens were no longer at the mercy of others. They would have a long stretch of time to properly build and govern Gohor.
And the people here would finally have a chance to breathe.
Even the Rhoynar and Andals along the middle and upper reaches of the Rhoyne would benefit from this peace.
"Congratulations, Your Majesty, on becoming King of Gohor."
Elder Lothan, representing the Rhoynar, raised his cup in a toast.
Viserys smiled in response.
"A crown is not merely a title, but a responsibility. Gohor stands where it does today not because of me alone.
Without your help, this land would still be mired in chaos. In the years ahead, we must work together to make it prosper."
The young king's acknowledgment of his ministers' efforts made Davos, now a viscount, sigh once more in quiet admiration.
His young dragon was far superior to that Daeron.
"In a few years, we'll raise a powerful army here in Gohor and drive out the usurper," Oswell said softly to Arthur as he looked toward the throne.
Arthur nodded.
Everything had happened almost too quickly.
From the storms of Dragonstone to the firm establishment of Gohor, less than two years had passed.
And Viserys had done it all without dragons.
At that moment, Maester Faelor stepped forward.
"Your Majesty, your coronation on Dragonstone was conducted in haste. Now that the situation is no longer so dire, I propose that you hold a second coronation ceremony."
Faelor spoke as a true maester, keenly aware of politics. A coronation would define the cultural foundation of Gohor.
Would it be Rhoynar-led or Andal-led? Westerosi tradition or Essosi custom?
Faelor also harbored his own quiet resolve.
For every maester, the Citadel was their place of origin, their distant white moon.
Now that moon had become pale and ugly, and revenge simmered in his heart.
Soon after, Maester Xavier also stepped forward to urge Viserys to be crowned again.
Though Elder Lothan was advanced in age, he quickly understood the implications.
"Your Majesty, I agree with the maesters. You should be crowned again."
With Elder Lothan speaking so plainly, and bearing the weight of a former defector, anyone who failed to follow would appear foolish.
"Please be crowned again, Your Majesty."
Baelor, Ock, Oswell, Arthur, and the Old Crab followed in unison.
"Please be crowned again, Your Majesty!"
More and more voices joined the plea.
Viserys himself felt that now, with new lands and many new subjects, a second coronation was both proper and necessary.
"Your proposal is sound," Viserys said. "But a coronation is no small matter. Preparations must be made.
Once Queen Mother Rhaella arrives in Gohor, we will determine the proper rites and procedures."
The victory banquet lasted through the night.
It was not until midday the following day that some minds finally cleared.
Celebration was not limited to the ruling elite. The army and common folk were allowed to revel as well.
Fortunately, it was neither planting nor harvest season, and the war's damage was limited. Even so, Viserys announced that all taxes for the first year would be cut in half.
The entire city of Gohor was swept up in celebration.
As for where the lost revenue would come from, that was simple.
Braavos would pay dearly.
On the very day the Braavosi army was captured, Viserys had obtained their ravens.
The letter had already been sent before the victory feast even began.
The people of this world had never truly seen how an army collapsed when cut off from both food and water.
For now, Freygo remained ignorant of the true situation in Gohor.
While grim news trickled in from the front, prices in the rear began to waver. But Freygo had no time to address that.
He was under relentless attack from rival factions.
"Even if I were to write a letter of surrender to that Targaryen bastard, I would still need time!" Freygo roared. "What do they think they're doing? Are they already eager to force me out?!"
His fury echoed through the Sea Lord's Palace.
Outside stood Pike, one of Quairo's disciples.
Barely over twenty, his amber eyes were bright and youthful. With Quairo absent, he now served as Freygo's personal guard.
At that moment, a letter was placed into his hands.
Seeing the markings of a Braavosi-trained raven, Pike hurried forward and presented it to Freygo.
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