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The endless green fields of the interior were a sharp contrast to the grey stone of Braavos. A small cavalry troop, flying the black banner of the three-headed red dragon, galloped across the rolling landscape. Behind them, small wheeled carts and mule teams groaned under the weight of supplies—flour, dried meat, Tyroshi steel, and the gold of the Black Pearl.
Rhaenys and Daenerys watched through the cart windows, their eyes wide. For the first time in years, the air was free of the stinging salt and the smell of fish; instead, it carried the scent of crushed grass and sun-warmed earth.
They had reached the Velvet Hills, the ancestral heart of the ancient Kingdom of the Hills. These were not the jagged, sky-piercing peaks of the Moon Mountains in Westeros, but gentle, undulating rises that looked like folds of green velvet beneath the Essosi sun.
Viserys rode at the head of the column on a coal-black Dothraki steed, a gift from the Sea Lord. His small "army" was a motley collection: a hundred exiles, Westerosi adventurers, and former crab-fishermen. Ser Roland and Syrio had already begun the work of sorting them. Those who could ride and strike were formed into the vanguard; the rest were assigned as infantry or apprentices to the Tyroshi blacksmith.
"We are building our hearth among tigers and wolves," Viserys noted, his purple eyes scanning the horizon.
"This is the homeland of the Andals," Syrio said, pulling his cloak tight.
"It is holy ground," Ser Roland added, his voice hushed with reverence. "The Father plucked seven stars and fashioned a crown for Hugor of the Hill right here."
"The Andals didn't leave because of the stars, Roland," Viserys said dryly. "They left because they were afraid of Valyria. They fled the Dragonlords only to become kings in a land of First Men. Now, the blood of the Dragon returns to the hills they abandoned."
"Your Majesty," Roland cautioned, "building a fixed settlement here will act as a beacon for the Dothraki. Outside the massive walls of Braavos and Pentos, there are no towns for a reason. The Great Grass Sea does not like the smell of mortar and stone."
Viserys knew the risk. Four centuries ago, the Dothraki had scoured this continent, burning every town to restore the world to grass. But a King without a castle is just a bandit with a pedigree.
"We have already offended the Iron Throne and the nobles of Braavos," Viserys said. "If the Dothraki want our heads, they will have to climb for them."
The scouts returned by midday with news of a vantage point. Hidden among the higher slopes was an old fort—a collection of grey-brown stone barracks once used by bandits. It stood on a hill with a flowing spring at its heart, overlooking the confluence of the Upper Rhoyne and the Little Rhoyne.
From this height, they could see the Valyrian Road winding toward the horizon. It was a perfect strategic nest: it offered a clear view of any approaching khalasar, easy access to water, and mountains behind them for a quick retreat into the wilderness.
"This will be our foothold," Viserys declared, stepping into the moss-covered ruins. "And every castle needs a name."
"What shall we call it, Your Majesty?" Roland asked.
"Viserysgrad," the boy replied. "The Fortress of Viserys."
He looked toward the valley. He knew that near the ruins of Gordohol sat ancient megaliths, and a massive Valyrian sphinx with a woman's face and a dragon's body.
"Ser Roland, the current walls are too thin. I want those megaliths moved. I want the stones of the giants and the sphinxes of the ancients to form our ramparts. If the world wants to move the Dragon, they will have to move the mountains themselves."
Viserys stood on the highest point of the hill, his silver hair whipping in the wind. The "Beggar King" was dead. The Lord of Viserysgrad had begun his reign.
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