All was as usual near Rook's Rest. The Unsullied patrolled with meticulous precision, and even the Dothraki cavalry—now reformed through labor—were unusually docile. In fact, they were far better off under Viserys than they had been under Drogo. Not only were they given meat to eat from time to time, but they were also equipped with armor. The Dothraki, far from ignorant, quickly realized the value of armor and how it could protect them from injury.
The soldiers recruited from the Golden Company were equally disciplined. After the war, they had the option to retire from the army, and even those without significant achievements were promised 3.000 hectares of land. For every enemy they killed, they would be awarded an additional 6000 hectares, with no upper limit. This generous reward system resulted in an army with high morale, superior combat effectiveness, and strict discipline. There were no distractions in the camp—no circuses or frivolous entertainment, and not a single camp prostitute in sight.
Inside the hall of Rook's Rest, Viserys was in the midst of receiving the High Sparrow. The man before him was tall and thin, his greying hair a sign of his middle years. His clothes were simple—a long woolen shirt, stained and yellowed from infrequent washing. Yet, it was precisely this simplicity that earned him greater respect than the current Hand of the King in King's Landing.
Behind the High Sparrow stood several holy sisters and septons, similarly dressed in humble attire. Viserys listened patiently to the man, though he already knew of his reputation and many of his deeds.
"Your Grace, I have walked barefoot across the Seven Kingdoms," the High Sparrow began, his voice calm and measured. "I have spread the glory of the Seven Gods in the small villages where others do not go. Robert's rule has led even the seventh level of hell to overflow with sin and corruption..."
The High Sparrow spoke with precision, his words well-organized, and some of his ideas—though radical—were grounded in reason. It was no wonder he had managed to judge both Cersei and Margaery in the original timeline. However, Viserys's current accomplishments were too great, his power too vast for the Sparrow to treat him lightly.
Finally, the High Sparrow made his request to Viserys: "The Faith needs its own army."
Though there were no dragon knights within the Faith Militant, the Sparrow did not see this as an obstacle. The Faith's true weapon was not steel but thought. And as long as the Targaryen dragon knights remained mortal, there would always be the potential for some to join the ranks of the Faith Militant. With such power, the Faith could eventually challenge the authority of the crown itself.
In the height of their reign, the Targaryens had nearly twenty dragon knights. If not for Maegor the Cruel, who had crushed the Faith's power, it was possible that others might have followed in the footsteps of the one who, in a fit of passion, flew his dragon to join the Faith.
But Viserys would never allow that to happen.
"The Targaryens are the Wardens of the Seven, as Septon Phornas himself has admitted. I believe that seven dragons and 200,000 troops are more than enough to protect the Seven Gods."
To Viserys's surprise, the High Sparrow, unruffled, began to express his bold views on the role of the High Septon.
"Your Grace, the High Septon of the Seven Gods should be the true spokesperson for the Seven. There should be no crown placed above him." His voice was calm but unwavering. "If the crown is superior to the Faith, then are the Seven Gods not reduced to the same level as the royal family? Forgive me for being presumptuous, but even a king—like yourself—cannot always be right... can you?"
Viserys's eyes narrowed. Very bold, he thought. Whoever dares to challenge me will be rewarded—one way or another.
He realized the High Sparrow wasn't just a power-hungry fanatic; the man had his own ideals and the composure to stand firm in front of Viserys and his officers. This was no ordinary zealot—perhaps the Sparrow had come to Rook's Rest ready to die for his cause.
But Viserys knew better than to dismiss such a man lightly. The Sparrow could be useful—particularly in the battle against the growing influence of the Faith of R'hllor. He could entertain the idea of allowing a Faith Militant, but not within Westeros. If a church army were to be formed, it would have to operate elsewhere—in the Free Cities, the Dothraki Sea, or Slaver's Bay. And no one, aside from the Targaryen royal family, would be permitted to privately possess armor.
Form your army if you wish, Viserys thought. But it will be a 'castrated' version, under my control.
He wouldn't promise anything outright, though. Not yet.
"My lord High Sparrow, you make an excellent point," Viserys responded smoothly. "If kings are not always right, then tell me—are Septons always right?"
The conversation drifted, though few in the hall were paying much attention to the debate between Viserys and the High Sparrow. The officers present seemed more preoccupied with their own discomfort—sitting in full armor, even Valyrian steel, was far from pleasant.
Viserys and Daenerys, like the others, were both clad in Valyrian steel armor. From time to time, Dany scratched at her neck, visibly irritated by the itch that came from even the lightweight metal.
Ser Jorah watched silently, baffled as to why Viserys insisted on wearing armor inside Rook's Rest. It was a secure location. Dragons patrolled the skies above, and Viserys and Daenerys—the only two dragonriders—had no need to charge into battle. They could simply soar above their enemies and rain fire from the sky. Why bother with armor?
Outside the room, twenty guards stood watch, also in Valyrian steel armor. What kind of assassin could require such preparation? Jorah wondered.
But Viserys wasn't concerned with mere assassins. His thoughts were fixed on something far darker—Melisandre's shadow magic. The Valyrian steel armor he and Dany wore was their last line of defense. And there was more: the room was lined with a mixture of dragon blood and clay, a method Benerro had taught him for protection.
Additionally, Viserys had a reserve of free attribute points—another safeguard. As long as he wasn't beheaded by one of Melisandre's shadows, he believed he wouldn't die.
Besides, Robert's blood, once so potent, had diminished in purity. The strength of shadow magic linked to it would likely weaken as well.
Of course, it was possible since he was still the grandson of Princess Rhaelle, which meant the power of his bloodline remained quite strong. Either way, caution was the wisest course.
As Viserys and the High Sparrow debated fervently, the door's curtain suddenly stirred, as if blown by an evil wind. It swayed weakly, like the tail of a sick horse. Moments later, two dark figures slipped inside.
"Be careful!"
Viserys shouted, quickly moving to protect Dany. The room erupted into chaos as everyone drew their weapons. By now, they had learned how to enchant their blades, and realizing they were facing more than ordinary assassins, each fighter coated their weapons with a thin layer of fire.
Viserys added his own power, igniting the flames into black fire that roared along the steel.
In the dim light, the shadows took form. The room fell silent as their faces became clear.
"Robert! Stannis!" Jorah gasped. He had seen them both before—there was no mistaking their likenesses.
"Don't panic! It's just sorcery!" Viserys called out, but the cold expressions on the faces of 'Robert' and 'Stannis' sent chills through the room. Their eyes were empty, devoid of emotion, much like the White Walkers—focused only on the kill.
Viserys was the first to strike, swinging his sword at 'Robert.' But the shadow moved with unnatural agility, evading his blows effortlessly. Across the room, 'Stannis' brandished a short knife, lunging toward Daenerys with speed that matched the wind. Dany raised her hand, summoning a shield of fire. The shield blocked 'Stannis,' forcing him to retreat.
Meanwhile, 'Robert' and Viserys continued their fierce struggle. Though it wasn't clear how powerful the shadow's attacks were, they were undeniably fast. Viserys's hands flared with flames as he summoned five-foot-long fire dragons, which coiled around 'Robert,' trapping him within their fiery circle.
"Hah!" Viserys growled, and the dragons lunged at the shadow. Each time they tore a piece of 'Robert' away, the shadow regenerated instantly. But Viserys was relentless—he didn't believe it could truly be immortal. He increased the frequency of his attacks, and slowly, 'Robert' began to fade.
Summoning even more fire dragons, Viserys saw his enemy shrink. What had once been a towering figure over two meters tall was now dwindling, the fire eating away at its form.
Dany, seeing her brother's success, followed suit. Though summoning a full dragon was difficult for her, she conjured a flaming owl with ease. Soon, the room was filled with fire-breathing creatures—dragons and owls circling the shadows of 'Robert' and 'Stannis,' burning away at their ethereal bodies.
The shadows began to shrink further under the relentless assault.
The High Sparrow, standing in the corner, was dumbfounded. His eyes flicked from Viserys to Daenerys, unable to comprehend the sight before him—the flames, the shadows, the sheer power these Targaryens commanded. It all felt surreal, like a scene from a dream.