On a quiet stretch of the Upper Rhoyne, near a derelict dock, a Rhoynar boatman maneuvered a pole-boat named The Golden Harp against the current.
Viserys wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, favored by the river folk, shielding his eyes as he surveyed the river and the wildlands beyond. The faint scent of rum drifted from the boat, a favorite comfort of many watermen.
Trailing behind The Golden Harp were several other vessels of varying sizes, all manned by Rhoynar. These shallow-draft skiffs, with their wide beams, were perfectly suited for navigating the narrow channels and sandbars of the upper river.
Every boat in the flotilla flew a small triangular pennant: a red dragon on a black field. It was a symbol of two cultures fused together.
Soldiers in light armor guarded Viserys on the decks—some wielding spears, others sword and shield. They were a mix of Andal and Rhoynar, undistinguished by race, united in purpose.
The Rhoyne was far more dangerous than in days of old. River pirates, Stone Men, slavers, and runaway slaves were scattered along the great waterway.
"The view from the river is quite different from the view on horseback, Your Grace," the boatman remarked to Viserys.
They had turned back before reaching Ghoyan Drohe.
"Indeed," Viserys Targaryen agreed, standing on the deck, watching the languid waters of the Upper Rhoyne flow past the rotting piers.
He spotted turtles basking on the sandy banks. The ones here were modest in size, unlike the legendary Old Men of the River found downstream.
The old dock was half-submerged, nearly swallowed by tall brown reeds.
The Upper Rhoyne was not a massive river, though it was certainly not small. It was said that the Little Rhoyne was similar—that even the smallest fork of the Trident was twice as wide, and all flowed faster. The Upper and Little Rhoynes were the gentler sisters of the great river network.
If the Dothraki wished to cross, these upper reaches were the ideal spots. The Lower Rhoyne was a true leviathan, too wide for the horselords to easily ford.
Viserys was taking a moment of respite. Lately, he had been busy hunting bandits in the hills east of the river to grind his stats, but he hadn't neglected inspecting the waterways.
Though the border Andals dabbled in rivercraft, the true masters were the Rhoynar.
Unlike the ornate pole-boats of the Greenblood in Dorne, often painted in bright colors and intricately carved, these vessels were mostly painted a dull, earthen grey. Viserys understood the logic: low profile. In the chaotic Rhoyne basin, a beautiful boat only attracted the covetous eyes of Dothraki or pirates.
"Small boats have their own agility," Viserys noted as the boatman deftly guided them. Speed was essential.
Their shallow draft allowed them to slip through narrow tributaries and cross sandbars where larger ships would ground. With a sail raised and the current in their favor, they could move with surprising swiftness.
"Speed determines life and death, Your Grace. Especially in the lawless zones," the boatman replied. "For a thousand years, the Sorrows have been the most chaotic."
"Are all these docks abandoned?" Viserys asked.
"All of them, Your Grace. Not just here, but even downstream at the great ruins. Ny Sar, Chroyane," the boatman answered somberly.
Without a unified Rhoynar civilization to maintain the waterways, the river had fallen into disrepair. Qohor, Norvos, Volantis—none loved Mother Rhoyne as her own children did.
It was a dark irony that the Dragonlords of Valyria had destroyed the Rhoynar city-states, yet in the last century, it was the squabbling Free Cities and the Dothraki who had truly ground the Rhoynar into the dust.
Viserys noted the driftwood and hidden reefs in the water, hazards capable of gutting a larger vessel. It was another reason why shallow skiffs were preferred here.
"We must find a way to clear this debris," Viserys thought. Navigating these waters at night would be suicide.
"These waters are but a trickle. Wait until you reach Ny Sar, where the Noyne joins the Rhoyne. The greatest rivers of the Seven Kingdoms are not half as wide as the Rhoyne there. And that is before she swallows the Qhoyne and the Lhorulu," the boatman added with pride.
"I will see it in time. I wish to experience sailing down the Great River myself," Viserys said, watching the glittering water. For now, he could only imagine the grandeur.
"I hope on that day, I may still pole for you, Your Grace," the boatman said hopefully.
"If I sail south, it will be on your boat," Viserys promised.
"That would be my greatest honor. Perhaps Your Grace might even see the Old Man of the River. But the channel remains dangerous. Pirates congregate between Ar Noy and the Sorrows. Above Ar Noy belongs to the Qohorik, below the Sorrows to Volantis. But the stretch between is a no-man's-land. Dagger Lake is full of islands where pirates hide in caves and secret forts, preying on honest folk."
The Old Man of the River was a giant turtle, a minor god to the river people.
Viserys had the geography clear in his mind. Norvos controlled the Noyne, Qohor the Qhoyne. His alliance of Andals and remnant Rhoynar could, for now, only hope to secure the Upper Rhoyne and the Little Rhoyne down to Ny Sar.
The currents were slower here, the river narrower. It wasn't much, but it was a start. The biggest trouble would be the occasional Dothraki crossing, likely resulting in skirmishes.
"If I call this my Navy, people will laugh their teeth out. But as a river fleet... perhaps it is acceptable," Viserys mused, looking at the motley collection of boats trailing him. This was the seed of his Rhoyne Navy.
He had a plan. His naval power would eventually be split: a Rhoyne River Fleet and an Ocean Fleet.
The Andals and the submitting Rhoynar villages had offered up their small skiffs and larger barges to form this "Beggar's Armada." It looked pathetic, but for river warfare—fast, shallow draft—it was exactly what he needed for operations in the Upper Rhoyne.
The Rhoynar once had thousands of ships and excellent shipbuilding techniques, with massive vessels capable of navigating both river and sea. Most of that knowledge was lost, leaving them to scrape by with skiffs. Going out to sea now would be suicide.
Beginnings are always hard. A navy was more troublesome than cavalry, but thankfully he had Rhoynar sailors, which saved him a lot of headaches.
"Secure the footing first," Viserys told himself. The Rhoyne Fleet was his foundation.
An ocean-going fleet would cost a fortune. The easy route would be to hire pirates and smugglers from the Three Daughters, but such men were unreliable and extortionate.
Viserys knew of the famous smugglers. The best of them was Davos Seaworth, but he was fiercely loyal to Stannis. Then there was Salladhor Saan, the pirate lord of Lys, and Morosh the Myrman, an admiral for hire. Those two were fickle, driven only by profit, but perhaps worth contacting.
Viserys needed smugglers to bring in weapons, and perhaps to open a trade route to the North.
As Viserys pondered his future strategies, a flash of red appeared on the riverbank.
A fiery stallion and a wild rider emerged from the reeds, staring across the water at Viserys. The horse whinnied, its coat gleaming.
Viserys looked at the rider. He wore a robe of pale red silk, and his shirt was armored with overlapping scales of copper that shone like a thousand bright new pennies as he rode.
The Red Viper had arrived. Unannounced.