The first place Viserys chose to strike was the Iron Islands. The main island chain consisted of seven major islands. Though the soil on the surface was thin and rocky, the land was rich in iron, lead, and tin. The weapons and armor produced there were of extremely high quality—nothing less than a huge slab of fat meat in Viserys's eyes. He coveted Ironman's Bay, crawling with crabs and lobsters, and the abundant fishing resources of the Sunset Sea. If the royal house was to seize this territory, it first needed a legitimate cause.
For this reason, he devised a plan, and Tyrion also took part in the entire process. The hatred and conflict between the Westerlands and the Iron Islands had stretched back for thousands of years. And with Tyrion's mind and perspective, he too judged that the Iron Islands were in fact a festering sore on the continent of Westeros—one that would burst and suppurate once the time was right.
"When this sore flares up, it won't be fatal," Tyrion said, seated on Viserys's new piece of furniture—the "sponge sofa." He wore a red velvet coat embroidered with golden lions, stretching his short legs and arms with abandon, letting out a satisfied sigh. "But gods, does it hurt like hell. With something like this, you could offer me the Iron Throne and I still wouldn't trade."
Viserys looked at him and smiled faintly. "Isn't it? Harvested sea sponges, washed, dried, then sealed in sheepskin—it's far more comfortable than sitting on chairs covered in fur. So I thought… my brother would like it too. I've had people collect more sponges, to make a new one and send it to Dragonstone."
"The third one must go to me, no matter what, my friend," Tyrion grinned.
"The fourth sofa will be yours. As for the third, I plan to sell it for ten thousand silver stags," Viserys replied honestly. He could not help but maliciously imagine what Robert Baratheon would look like after slumping on a sofa day after day, guzzling ale for years on end… A man with no self-control, easily trapped by indulgence—utterly incomparable to his perfect brother.
The moment Tyrion saw the hazy look in Viserys's eyes, he knew who he was thinking of. Rhaegar's shadow always lingered over Summerhall, capable of ensnaring Viserys's thoughts at any moment. To cut off his friend's reverie, Tyrion coughed lightly and deliberately steered the conversation back to business.
"Let's return to our topic—the Iron Islands. Your Highness, the people of the Iron Islands are different from those of other regions in Westeros. They do not consider themselves descendants of the First Men, and the Children of the Forest never came to those islands where no weirwoods grow. They worship the Drowned God and despise both the Seven of the south and the Old Gods of the north. In principle, faith should be respected—like what we saw in Braavos, where all kinds of gods and believers coexist freely. But the Drowned God of the Iron Islands… is madness itself. Your Highness, if a so-called faith can drive a son to brutally torture his own mother, then that faith is the root of evil."
Viserys immediately understood his meaning. "You mean that former Lannister queen dowager of the Iron Islands—the most beautiful flower of the Westerlands, Lelia."
"Yes—damn it! Those Drowned God priests! The Shrikes! Under fanatical beliefs, hysteria always gathers. Queen Dowager Lelia supported her husband and her heir in banning reaving, believing that kidnapping innocent girls as salt wives was illegal, and sought to abolish the thrall system—how utterly righteous that was! Yet her younger son, Hagon, under the instigation of those Shrikes, declared that his mother and brother had abandoned the true god! He cut off their lips and ears, gouged out their eyes, ripped out their tongues with hot tongs—his brother thrown into a dungeon, his mother sent back to Lannisport—" Tyrion's face was full of contempt. "An idiot. To provoke the Lord of Casterly Rock like that."
"Believe in the Drowned God, lose your brain," Viserys said, propping his cheek on his hand. His long silver hair gleamed coldly. "Utterly stupid, heartless Hagon. That's what they call true ironborn. Even that name disgusts me. They're nothing more than a pack of lunatics who worship plunder and violence, still nostalgic for the bloodthirsty Red Kraken, honoring as great heroes the criminals who burned your Lannister fleet, sacked ports, kidnapped hundreds of girls, and murdered at will. Ha. The so-called ironborn of the Iron Islands despise honest farmers, are addicted to being parasites who seize without labor, and dream day and night of restoring some imagined ancient glory. A bunch like that, occupying the Iron Islands generation after generation, is nothing but a waste of geography and grain. Tyrion—"
He looked the little demon straight in the eyes and said solemnly, "I'm going to turn that place into crownlands—the direct domain of the future king, Rhaegar."
This shocked Tyrion. He had thought that even if the Iron Islands were dealt with, the Greyjoys would ultimately still be allowed to choose their king and rule themselves. He chewed over the meaning of becoming royal domain: it meant the annihilation of the local great houses. Viserys was going to strike hard. Tyrion felt a chill—how far Viserys was willing to go for Rhaegar… Yet the one who would stand beside Rhaegar to receive the cheers could only be his queen. No matter what sacrifices Viserys offered, the Seven would never permit him to marry his brother. Did he… understand that?
The little demon scratched his head. "Your brother will be a great king… But right now, the Iron Islands' King Quellon Greyjoy seems decent enough. At least he's banned reaving."
Viserys smiled and handed him a report. King Quellon of the Iron Islands—severe gastric illness, rapidly deteriorating condition.
"He won't live many more days. His heir is named Balon. I've also learned through special channels that this Balon has been secretly building large iron warships. Just wait and see—King Balon will bring about his own destruction."
Tyrion raised no further objections and made no attempt to soften the matter. He knew exactly what building large warships meant. The sore was about to burst again—if it had to be cut out, then so be it. He smiled faintly. "Your intelligence network is impressive."
Dragonstone. Every morning, the thin mist that shrouded the island would disperse as golden sunlight bloomed. The air was damp, carrying a faint salty tang. Lyanna took a deep breath. She was still dressed as she always was for sword practice—linen trousers and a short shirt, her long hair tied up freely. In high spirits, she headed downstairs. She felt marriage had made life wonderfully comfortable! Even in the North, her father would never have allowed her to wear whatever she pleased, nor would he have agreed to let her dine with the family without a lady's gown, without brushing her hair a hundred times and pinning a rose into it.
She inhaled the aromas with satisfaction: freshly baked white bread, creamy mushroom soup, blackberry-and-nut lemon cake, honey-glazed quail, carrots, and boiled pumpkin. Perfect! Since she started sword training, her appetite had grown tremendously—she ate even more than she had at Winterfell—
"Good morning, Lyanna."
Rhaegar, the Prince of Dragonstone, who had risen earlier than her, turned around in a light summer robe.
"Good morning, Your Highness!" Lyanna noticed that her husband looked different today—there was rare indignation and concern in his expression. She grew nervous as well. "What's happened?"
Rhaegar sighed and showed her the newly received message.
"Prince Viserys arrived at the Red Keep from his lands yesterday and accused the Iron Islands of crimes before His Majesty. Ships carrying gold ore he purchased in the Westerlands, along with gold-threaded velvet and jewelry, were robbed off the coast. Survivors and the Fair Isle navy can both testify—it was several longships, ironborn longships. Prince Viserys demands tenfold compensation from the Iron Islands."
"Ah!" Lyanna frowned, furious at such brutality. "Those people again. I've heard that historically they've raided Lannisport dozens of times, even razed prosperous places to the ground three times. It's about time they were dealt with."
Rhaegar nodded approvingly. "Yes. The ironborn worship the Drowned God. Reaving has always been their culture. Their current king, Quellon, is at death's door and can no longer restrain his vassals, which is why this happened. But no one bullies my brother."
"Lyanna, I need to return to King's Landing. I'll depart immediately after breakfast and arrive today. While I'm gone, Dragonstone is in your hands."
"No problem!" Lyanna understood him perfectly. If anyone dared treat Benjen or Ned like that, she would charge over at once and make them pay.
The prince traveled light, with a small retinue of just over twenty, boarding a royal ship docked at the harbor. At parting, he and Lyanna exchanged a cheek-to-cheek farewell. His lips still carried the coolness of morning dew; his silver hair bore the pleasant scent of pine. Lyanna could not help but think that her breathtakingly handsome husband was hardly human at all. She truly could not imagine—as the old nursemaids at Winterfell had whispered to her before her wedding—doing those things in bed with a prince who was like a god… Men were supposed to lose all reason in such moments? Lyanna felt that could never apply to Rhaegar.
As for the letter from her father at Winterfell, subtly asking whether she was pregnant, Lyanna stuck out her tongue and shook her head playfully. On their wedding night, she and the prince had made a secret pact—to enjoy freedom for the first two years of marriage!
After reading all the letters, Lyanna did what the prince usually did: she mounted her horse and went to inspect Dragonstone. Her favorite place was Aegon's Garden, filled with wild roses and thorny bushes, golden cranberries, and a large glasshouse brought from the North. Inside grew all kinds of fruits and vegetables, including the pumpkins and carrots from breakfast. Rhaegar said the produce was enough to supply everyone in the castle. Laughing, she patted a pumpkin as large as a wagon wheel—thanks to the longer sunlight here compared to the North, Winterfell never had harvests this abundant.
Though she lived well, she still missed her homeland. So the Princess of Dragonstone climbed the highest dragon tower and gazed northward. She could see Tidetop Island surrounded by blue seas, the former Velaryon naval base now fallen into decline. Lost in thought, she recalled her father telling her how House Velaryon lost its status and glory after failing to intermarry with the royal house again following Aegon III… As the first Stark to marry into House Targaryen, she ought to produce heirs early to stabilize the bond between the two houses… Lyanna sighed, then comforted herself. The prince hasn't hinted at anything like that at all. When he wants children… we'll talk about it then.
...
The fully completed English PDF of this fan-fic is now available on my Patreon shop.If you want to support my work and enjoy the entire story in one go, grab the PDF and binge-read it from start to finish without any breaks.
Patreon Shop:patreon.com /InkNovels
Here are a few fan-fic titles that I've recently uploaded on my Patreon:
"Game of Thrones: Dragon Prince"
"Game of Thrones: Political Life"
"Game of Thrones: Lannister Kingdom"
"Game of Thrones: Ruler of the Deep Seas "
" Game of Thrones: From the Elden Lord to the Young Wolf"
"Game of Thrones The Glory of a Knight"
(End Chapter)