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The morning sun over the Viserys Hills caught the shimmering grey-brown stones of Viserysgrad, making the fortress appear as though it had grown naturally from the earth. On the winding mountain roads below, a small convoy of crude Andal carriages rattled toward the gates.
Escorting them were dozens of tribal guards who gaped at the rising walls like wide-eyed children. To these local Andals, used to living in movable villages or hidden caves, a stone castle was a thing of myth—a relic of a golden age they had only heard of in the songs of the septons.
Inside the lead carriage, the elders of the surrounding villages shifted uneasily. These were the "Wise Men"—former warriors, smiths, and healers who held the prestige of their people. They looked to Umber, the newly appointed High Septon of Viserysgrad, with a mixture of hope and deep skepticism.
"Is he truly a leader, Umber? Or just another sellsword with a fancy name?" the Elder of Stone Village asked, his white hair whipping in the wind. "You are leading us into a dangerous game."
"Even if it is a gamble," Umber replied, his eyes fixed on the black-and-red banner snapping from the watchtower, "can it be worse than our current fate? We are sheep in a den of wolves. Slavers steal our daughters, and the Dothraki burn our fields for sport. Viserys does not just want to rule; he wants the Andals to rise. He wants to be the King of the Andalos."
"We have been in the Seven Hells for a long time," another elder whispered. "Only the Warrior Incarnate can pull us out."
"Believe me," Umber said firmly. "I have found him."
The Gates of the Dragon
As the carriages reached the outer perimeter, the elders noted the discipline of the garrison. This was no chaotic bandit camp. Soldiers in black mail and leather jerkins patrolled the ramparts with heavy crossbows, their movements synchronized and professional.
At the inner gate, they were met by Ser Roland Lake. The black-armored knight sat atop a powerful warhorse, his blue robe embroidered with the crossed warhammers of his station. To the elders, he was a ghost of their ancestors—a true armored knight, a sight almost extinct in the hills of the east.
"Elders, High Septon Umber," Roland said with a polite inclination of his head. "His Majesty awaits you on the training grounds."
As they passed into the courtyard, the elders gasped. The dragon banner was everywhere—towers, barracks, and the newly consecrated sept. But it was the sound of clashing wood and the thunder of hooves that drew their eyes to the center of the fortress.
The King's Joust
A jousting tournament was in progress. For the Andal elders, this was a sacred sight. Their legends were built on the "Field of Roses," where knights championed justice and bravery.
Viserys, clad in black scale armor and mounted on his coal-black Dothraki steed, leaned into a charge. His opponent, a knight in white, lowered his lance. The horses thundered toward each other. At the moment of impact, Viserys shifted his weight with the agility of a leopard—an instinctive grace that bypassed the white knight's aim.
CRACK.
Viserys's lance struck true, unseating the white knight and sending him tumbling into the dirt. The courtyard erupted in cheers.
"LONG LIVE THE KING!" "WARRIOR! WARRIOR!"
Viserys removed his dragon-wing helm, his silver-gold hair shimmering in the sun. He didn't look like a "Beggar King" anymore. With his purple eyes filled with a hard, resolute determination and his blood-stained black cloak fluttering behind him, he looked every inch a conqueror.
He rode his horse toward the group of elders, the dragonbone hilt of his Valyrian dagger gleaming at his waist.
"You have traveled far," Viserys said, his voice carrying the effortless elegance of a highborn lord. "It must have been an arduous journey."
"It is our supreme honor, Majesty," Umber replied, kneeling. The elders followed suit, moved by the sheer charisma of the boy on the black horse.
"The Andals have been in decline for too long," Viserys addressed the group, his gaze sweeping over the village leaders. "Unite with me. In Viserysgrad, Andals shall never be slaves. Let us make Andalos shine with glory once more!"
The elders, dizzy from the speech and the spectacle of the joust, found their voices.
"KING OF THE ANDALS!" they shouted.
In the West, Robert Baratheon claimed the title. But here, in the ancestral cradle of their people, a new King of the Andals had been born.
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