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The council hall of Viserysgrad was a far cry from the opulent chambers of the Red Keep. There were no Myrish carpets to soften the step, no carved screens of Summer Isles wood, and no scented beeswax candles. The floor was covered in simple rush mats, and the air smelled of damp stone and sawdust.
Yet, hanging behind the heavy wooden head-table was the black-and-red three-headed dragon banner. In the spartan room, its presence was magnetic—a reminder that while the castle was new, the authority within it was ancient.
Viserys sat at the head of the long table, flanked by Ser Roland, Syrio, and Bishop Umber. Facing them were the white-haired elders of the Andal villages, their eyes darting to the windows where the sounds of construction echoed through the hills.
"Your people are... remarkably motivated, Majesty," the Elder of West River noted. He had seen the former captives—young men from his own village—hauling stone and digging foundations with a fervor that bordered on religious zeal.
"A man works differently when he is building his own future," Viserys said. Unlike the lords of Westeros who treated peasants as mindless cattle to be whipped into labor, Viserys had implemented a system of Silver Incentives. He paid his laborers a daily wage in Braavosi coin—half upfront and the remainder promised upon the completion of the inner keep.
To a boy who had lived as a beggar, the power of a coin was as clear as the power of a sword.
The Secret Advisory Council
"Elders," Viserys said, leaning forward. "I do not wish to rule you as a foreign conqueror. I wish to rule as the King of the Andals. To that end, I am establishing a Secret Advisory Council. I invite each of you to sit upon it as my advisors."
The elders gasped. The title was grander than anything they had ever dreamed of. While in reality, this was a secondary body meant to tether the villages to the throne without giving them seats on the true "Small Council," the psychological impact was absolute.
"We may... offer counsel to the King?" the Elder of Grey Swan asked, his voice trembling with pride.
"I rely on your wisdom," Viserys nodded. "You know the soil, the streams, and the history of these hills better than any maester in Oldtown."
By binding the elders to this council, Viserys was effectively tying every village to his "chariot." If the villages prospered, the elders shared the glory; if Viserys fell, they would fall with him.
Forging the Next Generation
"There is one more requirement," Viserys continued, his tone turning serious. "I am establishing the Viserysgrad Squire Program. I require the most promising young boys from each of your villages to be sent here."
"The cost of a knight is great, Majesty," an elder cautioned. "A warhorse and a suit of mail cost more than a village earns in a year."
"The Crown shall bear the cost," Viserys declared. "Viserysgrad will provide the horses, the steel, and the training. In exchange, these boys will become my personal guards and the future officers of our army. Your taxes and your loyalty will be the price of their glory."
It was a brilliant stroke of "soft" hostage-taking. By raising the sons of the elders as his squires, Viserys ensured the villages would never revolt. But more importantly, he was creating a professional officer class—Andals who would be trained by Syrio in agility and by Roland in heavy cavalry tactics.
"Grey Swan village swears its sons to the Dragon!" "West River village pledges its loyalty!"
One by one, the elders rose and swore their oaths upon the Seven, their voices thick with the realization that their destitute tribes were finally becoming part of something larger.
The Shadow of Tyrosh
As the meeting drew to a close, Bishop Umber leaned in. "Majesty, there are three more villages in the lower hills that wish to pledge. But they are currently under the shadow of Tyroshi slavers. A raiding party has established a camp near the Little Rhoyne to harvest 'fresh stock.'"
Viserys felt a cold spark of anger. The Tyroshi were notorious for their greed, sometimes sailing even beyond the Wall to kidnap Wildlings. To them, the Andals were merely "free labor" waiting to be shackled.
"Andal brothers shall not be slaves," Viserys said, his hand resting on the dragonbone hilt of his dagger. "If these Tyroshi want to trade in flesh, they shall find only the cold meat of their own kin."
He looked at Ser Roland. "Ready the First Centurion. We have an embassy of fire to deliver to these human traffickers."
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