Across an endless expanse of open sea, Viserys sat astride the broad back of a massive turtle, cutting through the waves.
"Viserys," the Old Turtle asked suddenly, "do you know what kind of god I am now?"
The question made Viserys feel a flash of guilt.
"Uh… I forgot to ask."
"You forgot?!" the Old Turtle roared. "I've helped you so much, and now you tell me you forgot? Forgot!"
The enormous creature thrashed beneath him, rocking its body as if it meant to shake Viserys straight into the sea.
Viserys clung desperately to the ridges on the turtle's shell.
In the next instant, the world vanished. Everything dissolved into darkness.
"Viserys," the Old Turtle's voice echoed, "give me ten more days. Ten days from now, the place where your fleet lies will see the tide rise."
Viserys jolted awake.
He sat upright on the soft mattress, realizing that the River Elder had just spoken to him through a dream.
"A rising tide…"
He mulled over the words, rubbing his temples.
"So that's it. He plans to raise the water level and let my fleet pass over the Volantene chains."
After Chroyane fell and Garin was imprisoned in his cage, the Rhoyne had once risen in vengeance against Valyria and Volantis alike.
Now the Old Man was using the same method—whether by coincidence or by prior agreement with Garin, Viserys could not say.
Either way, he finally had a definite answer.
The knot in his chest loosened.
Perhaps it was because of that line—"In Volantis, one must do as the Volantenes do"—but the triarchs seemed especially pleased with him.
The servants assigned to Viserys were the very best.
After bathing and dressing under their careful attention, Arthur entered the room.
"Your Grace, the Volantenes wish to invite you to visit their great library."
"The library?"
For a city as ancient as Volantis, there were many ways to display power.
The vast harbor.
The massive fleets.
The ancient, indestructible Black Walls.
The mature and deeply entrenched slave system.
But in the eyes of Volantis's ruling class, nothing demonstrated their strength more than their enormous library.
Books were the ladder of human progress—and also an excellent way to show off.
Viserys and his entourage were soon led into the Volantene library.
A glass skylight stretched across the roof, flooding the interior with light. The library rose five stories high.
On every level stood more than a dozen mirrors, each three times the size of a full-length looking glass, positioned to reflect sunlight deeper into the building.
Each mirror required a slave to constantly adjust its angle, ensuring that the light never faltered.
"Your Grace," said Alios proudly, "this library holds more than seven hundred thousand volumes. Every single one has been copied by hand. No alterations are permitted."
The moment Viserys heard his name, he remembered—years later, this young noble would become one of Volantis's triarchs.
There was a clear air of an old political family about him. Every gesture was polished, every movement measured.
Using a silk handkerchief, Alios carefully presented Viserys with a massive tome, as thick as two bricks.
Viserys took it and examined the cover—calfskin leather, with brass corner guards.
Stamped on the spine and cover were the words: Chronicles of the Dragons.
Every book here was a finely bound edition.
Even Davos could not help but marvel. The scale of Volantis's library far surpassed that of the Citadel.
Though Essos lacked an institution like the Citadel, knowledge here was firmly bound to noble privilege. Illiterate lords, so common in Westeros, were almost unheard of.
"Volantis truly lives up to its name as Valyria's eldest daughter," Viserys said casually. "Its heritage is indeed profound."
Seven hundred thousand books meant little to someone from another world, but the compliment landed perfectly.
Encouraged, Alios gestured toward a tower-like structure at the center of the library, about three meters tall.
"Your Grace, look there."
Following his gaze, Viserys saw the tower stacked with especially massive volumes, all sealed beneath glass covers.
Alios continued, "That is the complete History of Valyria. The only complete set in the world.
Unlike other books, these were not copied by scribes for hire. A single noble family spent twenty-seven years transcribing it in full."
Viserys suddenly recalled that even the Citadel's copy of the History of Valyria was incomplete.
"Wait… scribes?"
In that instant, something exploded in Viserys's mind.
The problem that had plagued him for so long—the lack of a pillar industry for Gohor—suddenly had an answer.
From Alios's explanation, Viserys now understood why books were so expensive.
Paper itself was not the main issue. Papermaking was decent enough in this era, and the raw material cost was relatively low.
The true expense lay in the scribes.
Copying a single large book could take anywhere from a month to half a year. During that time, the bookseller had to feed, house, and maintain the scribe.
More importantly, copying itself was a skilled trade. Many people could barely write their own names, let alone handle a quill properly.
And scribes were human. Copying was monotonous, delicate work that demanded constant focus.
Mistakes happened—corrections, smudges, revisions—sometimes on nearly every page.
Even so, a skilled scribe earned far more than Viserys had ever made selling captives.
If he could introduce printing technology and put it into use, it would be an absolute crushing blow to the book trade of this world.
The price of a single book was nearly equal to that of a slave.
If Viserys could build a printing press and set it running, it would be no different from a mint.
He had been worrying endlessly about how to make money.
Now he realized how foolish that was.
Why struggle to earn coin when you could print it? Especially in a world with no concept of intellectual property.
He could print anyone's work, and once it spread widely, the original authors would probably thank him for it.
Besides, there were hardly any truly interesting books in this world.
In the North, the same Long Night stories had been told generation after generation, until children grew tired of hearing them.
Narrative fiction was rare.
But to a former language teacher, that was no obstacle at all. A plagiarist only reached peak efficiency when paired with mass distribution.
Sailors, dockworkers, common folk—they all needed entertainment.
Illustrated books would sell just fine.
Even cheap erotic pamphlets—who was going to stop him?
And even if others eventually stole the printing technology, that would only mark the true beginning of competition.
With the stories in his memory, he would always dominate on content.
If he truly abandoned all shame, he could even sell indulgences. Of course, in the early stages, it would be best to cooperate with the faiths and take the premium route.
The more Viserys thought, the more excited he became.
Gold coins seemed to be pouring into Gohor in his imagination.
Alios noticed the look in Viserys's eyes—like a dragon gazing at a mountain of gold—and felt an urge to shoo him out.
But today's task was not merely to show him the library.
It was also to discuss the fleet.
"Your Grace," Alios said carefully, "this library represents thousands of years of Volantene wisdom and labor. Wouldn't it be a tragedy if it were destroyed by war?"
The blood and sweat of slaves, Viserys thought—but he did not say it aloud.
Pulling himself out of his dream of printed gold, he replied, "Indeed. This is not merely Volantis's treasure, but humanity's."
"Humanity?" Alios paused. The word felt strange, but the more he considered it, the more fitting it seemed.
Seeing Viserys agree, he continued smoothly.
"Your Grace, we believe you intend to sell your fleet. But what if ill-intentioned people were to misuse it?
Forgive my bluntness, but merely having your fleet in the harbor already makes the triarchs uneasy."
The moment the conversation turned to the fleet, everyone around Viserys became alert.
After a moment's thought, Viserys replied, "The price truly cannot go any lower. You know how difficult it is to build a city from ruins."
"No, Your Grace," Alios said calmly. "I believe you misunderstand. The triarchs hope that you will—hand over the sails."
"Hand over the sails?" Davos exclaimed, momentarily losing his composure. He had never imagined the triarchs would make such a demand.
The others were equally stunned, and once they understood, anger followed.
This was open contempt.
"Not hand them over, Ser Davos," Alios corrected gently. "Simply allow us to keep them for safekeeping. Since the fleet will ultimately belong to Volantis, what difference does that make?"
He could not help but admire Malaqo's thinking.
Whatever Viserys truly intended, once the sails were gone, the fleet would be slow even if it tried to flee.
Even if it somehow passed the gates, the Volantene navy would quickly catch up.
Davos understood this all too well.
A sailing fleet drew its power from the wind. Without sails, it was like a man without legs—unable to run or jump, only crawl.
Viserys would never pass the gates by normal means.
Now, even escape would be impossible.
"I have already said that the Dragonstone fleet will be sold to Volantis," Viserys said coldly. "Do you truly lack even this much trust in us?"
He had to show anger. Being cornered like this demanded it.
Feeling the chill in the young king's voice, Alios lowered his head slightly, but did not retreat.
"Your Grace, this is the triarchs' decision. If you refuse to hand over the sails, then please leave Volantis."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop further.
For generations, Volantis had prided itself on hospitality in the name of trade.
Even King Tommen II of Kayakayanaya, who once sailed from the Sunset Sea to the Summer Sea, had been welcomed generously.
Yet now, to Viserys—a man who had come openly to do business—they were issuing what was essentially an expulsion.
It was infuriating.
"Very well," Viserys said at last. "I agree. But I hope the price for the fleet can be raised further. My ships are not worthless.
They distinguished themselves in the war against the usurper."
Seeing Viserys relent, Alios finally smiled.
"I will convey your wishes to the triarchs." As before, he neither agreed nor refused outright.
Davos's heart sank.
Without sails, even if Viserys could open the gates, they would never get far.
"Ser Davos," Viserys said, "the matter of the sails will be yours to handle. Until the final transfer, everything aboard the ships remains ours."
Davos could not comprehend it.
How could a king so wise and perceptive still believe he could move the fleet to Gohor under these conditions?
After leaving the library, everyone reacted differently.
Davos finally could not hold back.
"Your Grace, if this truly cannot be avoided, we should take the fleet back now. Without sails, we won't be able to leave at all."
If the Volantenes were already calling it "safekeeping," reclaiming them later would come at a terrible price—if it was possible at all.
"Leave?" Viserys replied calmly. "Why would we leave? Our goal is to bring the fleet to Gohor, not to return to Dragonstone."
"But—" Davos began, then stopped.
"Have faith, Ser Davos. We will bring the fleet back." Arthur, who knew Viserys best, could tell loyalty from doubt.
Davos, though born a smuggler, had earned Viserys's trust through action and unwavering loyalty.
Seeing his anxiety, Arthur spoke up to reassure him.
At last, Davos swallowed his fears and went to oversee the removal of the sails.
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