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The high-altitude breeze of the Viserys Hills was a blessing during the long summer. It carried the scent of the Rhoyne and the fresh grass of the interior, a far cry from the "dung heap" of King's Landing. But inside the council chamber, the air was thick with a different kind of heat: the rising fury of the Andal elders.
"Tyroshi," the Elder of Stone Village spat, his face twisting as if he had tasted bile. "Those flamboyant bastards."
"They don't just raid; they harvest," Bishop Umber added solemnly. "They sell our sons to the shipyards and our daughters to the pleasure gardens of the Stepstones. They have even been known to sail beyond the Wall just to drag wildlings into chains. To them, the Andals are nothing but 'fresh stock.'"
Viserys watched the elders. He saw the flicker of fear in their eyes—the Tyroshi were not like the local mountain bandits. Tyrosh had once been a Valyrian military outpost; their walls were fused dragonstone, and their mercenaries were among the most aggressive in the Free Cities.
"If the villages on the west bank fall, the slavers will eventually look to the east," the oldest elder argued. "But to provoke Tyrosh... their blades are sharp, and their pockets are deep."
"Where is your courage?" Umber mocked. "Are we men of the hills or sheep waiting for the shearer?"
Viserys stood, his voice cutting through the bickering like a cold blade. "Righteous people are brothers. How can we call ourselves a kingdom if we remain indifferent to the chains on our kin? I have decided. We cross the Upper Rhoyne. We eliminate the slavers."
The declaration acted like a spark in a hayloft. The anger that had been suppressed for generations finally ignited.
"Revenge!" the elders shouted. "Revenge for our brothers!"
The Embassy of Fire
At dusk, Viserys and Ser Roland led their most elite force out of the Viserysgrad gates: thirty fully equipped cavalrymen, their black scale armor dim in the twilight, followed by a hundred of the sturdiest infantry.
They crossed a calm stretch of the Upper Rhoyne and entered the west bank. The first village they encountered was a charnel house. Smoke still rose from the blackened husks of thatched cottages. The scent of charred wood was overtaken by the foul odor of those who had dared to resist—the elderly and the infirm, left to rot while the young and strong were marched away in irons.
Viserys looked at a small, discarded child's toy in the mud. His purple eyes grew hard. "Muzzle the horses," he commanded. "No torches. No noise. We hunt tonight."
The Slavers' Camp
Ser Roland returned from a scouting run, his face grim. "Found them northwest of here. They've established a fenced camp. They're eating, drinking, and celebrating their 'haul.' They have two watchtowers, but they're arrogant—they think no one in these hills has the spine to strike back."
"We wait for the Hour of the Wolf," Viserys said. "The darkest moment, when their wine is heavy and their eyes are tired."
As the moon reached its zenith, the army of Viserysgrad moved like shadows through the muddy hills. The Tyroshi camp was a pocket of noisy light in the vast dark. Inside the wooden fence, Viserys could hear the muffled cries of women and the coarse laughter of mercenaries.
Viserys adjusted his dragon-wing helm. He drew his longsword—the sidearm of the late Ser Willem Darry—and felt the weight of his [Just Judgment] talent thrumming in his chest. These weren't just enemies; they were the "wicked" the system hungered for.
"For Moro," he whispered, "and for every soul in those cages."
He raised his blade, a silver sliver in the moonlight, and signaled the charge. The Dragon was no longer building; the Dragon was preying.
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