Robert Baratheon's impression of Viserys Targaryen was that of a crybaby, wailing for a flower crown at the jousting tournament in King's Landing years ago. The memory of it made him restless – Renly had bawled along with him, and those noisy brats had cost him a chance to chat up a dark-haired beauty! One with a chest and a… well, a fine posterior!
Viserys was assigned as his page? Robert thought it was a pain. But his mother, the Duchess, said the young prince had grown up, was a clever and considerate child, and was favored by both the King and the Crown Prince. He was sure to become the Prince of Summerhall someday. As the heir to Storm's End, Robert had to forge a friendship with him.
"You'll get along well. Your time together might even become as famous as The Tales of Dunk and Egg."
"I'd rather my name be in a song like 'Fifty-Four Barrels of Wine' or 'Me and the Beauty on the Grass'," Robert said, hefting his Warhammer as he prepared to leave. "Alright, don't glare at me, Mother. The beauty I'm referring to is my betrothed, Lyanna. I love her!"
Who wouldn't love the Rose of the North? Robert knew Lyanna could ride and shoot, and a woman who could ride and shoot had strong, straight legs, and firm… well, she was perfect! She was the woman he loved most!
He brought the finest furs from the Stormlands and a large collection of jewels as gifts, leading a hundred Storm's End guards and attendants towards the Crownlands. Along the way, he met his cousin, Crown Prince Rhaegar, and Jon Arryn of the Eyrie.
He didn't have any issues with the Crown Prince himself, but he couldn't stand what happened when they camped together: The camp followers from King's Landing were exceptionally attractive, better than the ones from the Stormlands, so he asked to share a camp – what a stupid decision!
The Crown Prince's party didn't carry any good liquor. He drank alone, and it wasn't satisfying. Although the stew was decent, how could it compare to ten tankards of ale?
The group from King's Landing, from the crown prince down to the stable boys, all started preparing to bathe after setting up camp! They even used small brushes made of horsehair to clean their teeth! Everyone only drank water boiled in a large pot! They changed their clothes!! All sorts of fussy, troublesome things, Robert was very impatient. He thought this group of poor King's Landing guards lived like a bunch of women.
Even worse, when he downed a few cups of wine, with a local farmer's big-breasted daughter in his left arm and the most beautiful red-haired camp follower in his right, laughing heartily, the crown prince stood quietly in front of the tent fire in a lined jacket—the two girls belonging to him immediately stared wide-eyed.
Rhaegar spoke to him about Viserys, asking him to look after him. And he thought his behavior of wantonly sleeping with women along the way was improper and should be restrained.
This angered Robert again. He protested that a good page, a future knight, should learn how to deal with women from a young age.
The crown prince frowned. "A knight should respect women."
After this rather heated debate, the women Robert was embracing didn't know when they had escaped and run off. He looked at Rhaegar's tent and cursed in his heart that all the Targaryens were freaks, cold monsters who would lust after their sisters. Rhaegar didn't have a sister, and probably didn't understand men's normal desires, most likely a pretty boy with no substance.
The cousins did not spend a pleasant night together, and parted ways the next day. Robert broke camp and continued north. During the twenty-odd days of travel, the days grew shorter, the Long Summer ended, and when the autumn rain poured down, he arrived at King's Landing: the city didn't seem as smelly as the last time he was here.
After several years, he saw Viserys again.
The eight-year-old prince was tall for his age, thin, and had silver hair styled like Rhaegar's, making it obvious they were brothers. He wore a reddish-brown scarf and a tight black jerkin bearing the three-headed dragon sigil, a black belt, a small sword, a bow, and a quiver, all perfectly in place. He silently led a chestnut colt.
That was a handsome horse. Robert immediately recognized it as a Dothraki Bloodhorse.
The colt carried Viserys's simple traveling belongings: changes of underclothes, a winter fur coat, his usual gold and silver cups and bowls, several bottles of penicillin, and hundreds of golden dragons.
Viserys raised his eyes to size up Robert: the usurper, the Boar King, at this point didn't have a double chin or a potbelly that wouldn't fit in armor. He was a tall young man with bright blue eyes, a clean-shaven face, and hair the color of coal.
Viserys's gaze landed on Robert's Warhammer. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched, curving slightly upwards. He addressed Robert directly, "I will serve you as a page, ser knight."
"Then don't delay, let's go." Robert liked straightforward people, and his impression of the boy was good.
They left King's Landing through the Mud Gate and headed north along the Kingsroad. Torrential rain was their constant companion. By the time they reached the area around Rosby, everyone was soaked and covered in mud.
Robert turned to look at the page. Viserys was expressionless, his silver hair plastered to his head in strands. Thinking, I didn't mean to torment him like this, he ordered them to find a place to spend the night. Fortunately, the local Lord welcomed the party. His castle wasn't large, but because it was on the main road north from King's Landing, it was accustomed to hosting great nobles and was very accommodating.
Viserys immediately demanded a bath, a hot bath. Robert Baratheon wiped his face, thinking that, just like his brother, he was a pain. He needed to find a way to fix this, to make the little guy understand that if he was going to hang around him, he needed to ditch the girly habits. Eating big chunks of meat and drinking heavily was what a good knight did.
"A bath, is it? You'll clean my armor and weapons too," he said. "Today, for sure."
Viserys looked at him. "Can I eat something first? I'm very hungry. Can I have some bread? I haven't eaten in a long time."
His purple eyes were cautious.
Robert wanted to say, eat if you want to! Didn't you chomp down a few big pieces of jerky at noon? Is that what you call a long time? He suddenly realized that Lord Rosby, standing nearby, looked shocked, staring at him incredulously, as if he was abusing Viserys by not feeding him – this was a Targaryen prince! Was he crazy to abuse him?
Annoyed, Robert waved his hand. "Eat if you want to eat, bathe if you want to bathe. I haven't done anything to you."
Viserys gave a grateful smile. "I will definitely clean your armor and weapons for you, Your Grace!"
Lord Rosby looked at Robert, then at Viserys's retreating back, and sighed. The king and the crown prince shouldn't have handed the little prince over to Robert Baratheon. The poor child was living in fear.
Lord Rosby, out of sympathy for the Targaryen prince, served him with even greater care. Besides fine wines and delicious food, he even prepared a pigeon pie – the kind that made pigeons fly out.
After bathing and changing clothes, Viserys, acting as a page, cut the roasted meat on his plate and pushed it towards Robert. He noticed that Robert had been staring at a plump, curvaceous, blonde woman serving wine beside him since earlier.
He buried his head in his food, focusing on the boiled eggs, cheese, and roasted meat with vegetables.
Robert patted the handmaid, his gaze sweeping over Viserys. He was pleased that Viserys didn't frown like his brother, Rhaegar.
"Alright," he cleared his throat. "As a page, you'll sleep in the room outside my door, right? Help me clean my armor and Warhammer. No need to wash the clothes. Take a look at my Warhammer, little prince, guess how heavy it is?"
Viserys mumbled, "Very heavy, Your Grace."
Robert found talking to the boy dull and shifted his attention. He took a gold ring from his finger and stuffed it into the ample cleavage of the buxom beauty. "You know, how long and how much I can lift with my big hammer, don't you?"
He emphasized the word "warhammer," his gaze lascivious.
Viserys didn't even lift his eyelids, turning instead to the Lord: "My Lord, would you mind showing me around the castle?"
The Lord immediately stood up, leaving Robert and the serving girl behind.
Ho-ho, Robert thought. Smart move.
The Lord eagerly led the young prince on a tour of the mansion he had inherited from his ancestors. The young prince was amiable and had no airs about him, listening as the Lord described the family's inherited armor, their glorious history, and finally asking him how much wheat his lands had yielded this year.
The Lord knew that because of the Long Summer, they had harvested two rounds. Ten silver stags could buy a barn full of wheat.
"Do the people on your land all grow wheat? I noticed some land along the King's Road that hasn't been cultivated."
The Lord replied that the farmers also grew beets and kale. The King's Lands were prosperous, but vast tracts of land nearby lacked manpower and oxen for plowing.
After returning to his room, Viserys fell deep in thought. This place was one of King's Landing's granaries. He should officially establish a strategic food reserve. Every Long Summer, when harvests became more frequent and grain prices fell, the kingdom shouldn't rely on the nobles' granaries to provide support in emergencies. The initiative had to be in his hands. He should purchase surplus grain from various territories and store it, renewing the stock annually.
Yes, he would write it down and tell his brother later.
Viserys pulled out a self-made quill and a few pieces of parchment. By the candlelight, he began to write his first letter to Rhaegar: My dearest brother…
He explained his idea of building granaries to regulate the market, and that the nobles should encourage the commoners in their territories, even the vagrants in the cities, to cultivate wasteland, offering preferential treatment for grain procurement. He was confident he could obtain high-yield crop varieties and first promote them in the King's lands.
Unfinished.
Robert Baratheon, with his arm around the golden-haired beauty, entered the castle's guest suite. Viserys listened to the waves of laughter and the subsequent sounds of passionate shouts. He pulled out a small notebook made of cut parchment and recorded: Lord Rosby's castle maid, blonde, plump, blue eyes. Name: Lyla. (Expected to give birth to a bastard in ten months.)
He thought this notebook would be filled by the time they reached their destination. But that still wasn't enough. In the minds of most lords, marriage and love were unrelated, just a union of family interests. Trying to persuade the current Duke of Winterfell on this basis would be difficult.
He would have to influence Lyanna herself and her second brother, Ned. He would make them understand that Robert Baratheon was a man who was always in heat, unable to control his desires, and not happy unless he was sleeping with women – a coarse, vulgar, meat-eating animal. A husband like that? Be prepared to face a dozen bastards every year!
Viserys sneered. He thought about the plot. Robert, he suspected, probably refused to admit that Rhaegar's charm was ten thousand times greater than his own, and that Rhaegar and Lyanna were truly in love, which was why he vented his anger by repeatedly killing his brother in his dreams.
What was he, compared to his brother, who had more self-control and never messed around before marriage? Disgusting. A useless failure.
He cursed inwardly. The man's heavy voice from the inner room only fueled his contempt. To have him, of all people, clean his armor and Warhammer?
The Warhammer was right there. Viserys tried, but he couldn't lift it with all his might. The weapon that killed his brother wasn't made of Valyrian Steel, so it was manageable.
From the roaring fireplace, he reached in with his bare hand and grabbed a piece of burning coal. He found the point where the hammerhead met the handle. The little prince carefully heated the metal with the coal until it glowed red, then he picked up a water cup and poured it over.
Not good enough. It should have been ice, or vinegar. Expansion and contraction, embrittling the metal. A little corrosion, and sooner or later, when Robert Baratheon swung it to hit someone, it would hit himself. Preferably, he'd get a face full of it, with all his teeth knocked out.
Next was the armor.
He disdainfully picked up the set inlaid with green enamel, and the stench of sweat and other unpleasant smells made him immediately throw it down.
Clang! The metal crashed to the ground.
A furious shout erupted from the heated room: "Boy! What are you doing?! I was just getting into the swing of things!!"
"It fell, my apologies, your Grace."
Robert Baratheon didn't dwell on it, continuing his unrestrained release, the girl letting out another urgent cry.
Viserys thought, how does this black-haired boar not get startled into impotence?
He dejectedly picked up the stag-antlered helmet and placed it on the table, staring at it for a moment. He then held his hand up to gauge the size of the eye sockets. Afterward, Viserys stood at the furthest point from the door, nocked an arrow, and drew his bow—
The white-feathered arrow, imbued with murderous intent, struck with precision this time.
The Westeros continent of A Song of Ice and Fire is about the size of South America, with the Seven Kingdoms covering approximately eight million square kilometers… Imagine walking or riding a horse from one province to another, taking over a month?