Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Viserys still found it strange to see his reflection in the mirror. His once silver hair had been dyed brown to make him less conspicuous. Though he couldn’t change the color of his eyes, he planned to travel to Dorne disguised as a merchant from the Free Cities, relying mostly on Regis to communicate since the man spoke the Common Tongue fluently. To further avoid recognition, Viserys wore a headband to conceal his hair roots, knowing that while Dorne was far from the heart of Westeros and regularly dealt with the Free Cities, it was still wise to be cautious.

"My lord, the ship is ready," Regis informed him.

"Good, let's go," Viserys replied, a thrill of anticipation coursing through him. 'Westeros, here I come!'

When they reached the harbor, a gathering of nobles awaited them, eager for the news Viserys would bring. Tregar and Qaga approached him to offer final instructions.

"Lord Viserys, this is the ship I’ve prepared for you," Tregar said, pointing to a large, wind-powered sailboat.

The ship, from the Summer Isles, was called the Swan. It was renowned for its speed and grace under sail, though it wasn’t as reliable in calm weather. The choice of the Swan was also a strategic move, meant to distract and mislead those with ulterior motives.

"There are twenty sailors, a hundred Unsullied, and two virgins in the bedchamber. Consider this a gift from House Tyrell," Tregar said, handing Viserys a bronze scepter. The scepter was a token of command; the Unsullied, having been rigorously trained, followed the scepter, not the person.

"That will do," Viserys nodded in approval.

"In addition, we’ve arranged for someone to accompany you to Sunspear."

"Who?" Viserys asked.

"Feles Rogare," Tregar answered, gesturing toward a young man standing at the bow of the ship.

Rogare. The name stirred memories. Although it had been over a century since the Targaryens and House Rogare were connected by blood, both houses had seen their fortunes wane. 'Now, we’re in the same boat,' Viserys mused.

"Master Qaga, I’d like to speak with Lord Viserys privately," Tregar said.

Qaga, sensing it was a minor matter, nodded and stepped aside.

"Lord Viserys, I know that Ser Jorah is also in the Windblown with you, so..."

"So you're concerned that I might help him take revenge on you," Viserys interjected. "That’s between the two of you. I won’t get involved."

Tregar felt a wave of relief at Viserys's assurance. At such a critical juncture, it was crucial to minimize suspicion and old grudges.

"But you did take another man’s wife. Just compensate him fairly. The exact amount is up to you two to negotiate—I won’t be part of it."

Tregar agreed, understanding that his methods in taking Lynesse had been less than honorable. If the issue could be resolved with money, it was no longer a concern.

"Oh, by the way, Lord, this ship doesn’t have a name yet. Would you care to christen it?" Tregar asked.

"The Natural Selection," Viserys declared. "Set sail..."

With that command, the white sails unfurled, and the Natural Selection began to glide out of the harbor. Its high, pointed bow resembled a swan’s neck, giving the ship a proud and elegant appearance. Among the more conventional vessels docked nearby, it stood out, cutting a striking figure as it sailed away.

The wind caught the sails with a sudden force, propelling the ship forward as Lys, perched on its rocky island, began to shrink in the distance. The island and its buildings soon blended into the horizon until they were indistinguishable from the landscape. Gazing out at the endless expanse of sea and sky, Viserys felt as if he were suspended in a vast, boundless blue canvas. Overhead, a golden eagle soared, vigilant as it scanned the waters below. In the distance, a few ships dotted the horizon, but Viserys's thoughts were already drifting toward Westeros.

House Targaryen and House Martell had a long and complex history—one marked by both enmity and alliance. When the first Targaryens arrived in Westeros, the Dornish had famously killed one of his dragons. For the next hundred years, the two sides were in a constant cycle of war. Dorne would surrender, only to rebel again, and then surrender once more.

Yet, during the War of the Usurper, Dorne had supported the Iron Throne, standing alongside the Targaryens—a loyalty largely due to Elia Martell. Viserys, however, was too experienced in the world of politics to interpret these alliances in such simple, emotional terms. Dorne's resistance to Targaryen rule when they were strong had bolstered House Martell's internal cohesion and solidified their prestige. When the Iron Throne was in jeopardy, Dorne's decision to support it was a calculated move to secure a better political position. Their survival strategy lay in maintaining a delicate balance.

Just as the Tullys of Riverrun relied on strategic marriages, the Starks of the North on their vast, icy expanse, and the Arryns of the Vale on the natural fortifications of their mountain streams, so too did House Martell navigate its way through shifting allegiances. With the Targaryens having lost their dragons, the ambitious lords of the Seven Kingdoms had been eager to seize power. Each noble house had its own strategy for survival.

This time, Viserys had brought a significant bargaining chip: the port of Tyrosh. In his vision, if Tyrosh could be captured, it would be jointly governed by Lys, Sunspear, and the Windblown, giving him a foothold in the region. As a crucial maritime hub, Tyrosh was a valuable prize, ripe for exploitation. But what exactly House Martell wanted from this arrangement would have to be discovered in due time.

As Viserys paced the deck, deep in thought, the captain—a seasoned mariner in his forties—watched him with respect. The sailors, though older than Viserys, regarded him with a mixture of awe and caution, aware of his reputation for beheading pirates, including the notorious Bloodbeard. These men belonged to Tregar, and while Viserys had little interest in them, his attention was drawn to the hundred Unsullied aboard the ship. This was his first close encounter with the famed warriors.

The Unsullied were organized into four groups, patrolling the deck with military precision. Unlike the green-haired Unsullied of Tyrosh, these soldiers had short, uniform haircuts. Their eyes were devoid of emotion—blank and numb, a testament to the brutal training they had endured. The Wise Masters of Astapor had learned that selling the Unsullied in small groups made them more prone to developing self-awareness and becoming "disobedient." Thus, they were typically sold in batches of at least one hundred, ensuring their loyalty through sheer numbers.

Viserys was determined to gain complete control over the Unsullied, to transform them from mere weapons into an army under his command. He decided to issue his first order. "Unsullied, assemble!" he commanded.

The captain of the Unsullied echoed the order, and within moments, the hundred warriors had formed ten precise rows. A lieutenant stood to the side, while the captain positioned himself before Viserys.

The sailors on deck paused to watch, curious about what Viserys would do next. "Master, the Unsullied are assembled," the captain reported, staring straight ahead, avoiding Viserys's gaze. The helmets of the squad leaders and captains had spines that were noticeably taller than those of the rank-and-file soldiers, signifying their status.

Viserys, holding the scepter of command, pointed to an ordinary Unsullied in the ranks. "You! Kill him!" he ordered, indicating the captain standing before him.

The captain flinched slightly, closing his eyes as if bracing for death, showing no intention of resisting. The designated Unsullied soldier did not hesitate. He thrust his spear forward, aiming for his captain’s heart. But just before the spear struck, Viserys caught it with one hand, stopping it cold.

The force Viserys exerted stunned the soldier; he had put all his strength into the thrust, yet Viserys had halted it effortlessly. "Return to your unit," Viserys commanded, his gaze now fixed on the captain, whose expression was taut, as if he was suppressing his fear of death.

Feles Rogare, who had been observing from a distance, watched with keen interest. He had seen other masters test the loyalty of their Unsullied in similar ways, but what Viserys did next took him by surprise.

"From now on, you are free men," Viserys declared.

To his surprise, the Unsullied showed no reaction. There was no excitement, no confusion—nothing but the same blank, robotic stares. They remained standing at attention, as if the concept of freedom was utterly foreign to them.

'It seems the deep-seated inhuman training of the Unsullied cannot be undone with just a few words,' Viserys mused, watching the thirty or so Unsullied remain unmoved by his promise of freedom. 'How did the Mother of Dragons command the loyalty of 8,000 Unsullied with a single act of fire?'

This lack of response was troubling, and Viserys knew he needed to take stronger action.

"Regis, bring me five thousand gold dragons," he ordered.

Though uncertain of Viserys's intentions, Regis obediently fetched a money box.

"What is your name?" Viserys asked the captain of the Unsullied.

"Master, today I am Nail," the Unsullied replied, adhering to their practice of changing names daily to erase their identities.

"And what was your name before you became an Unsullied?" Viserys pressed.

The Unsullied captain hesitated, as if dredging up a distant memory. After a moment, he replied, "Master, I was called Conwyra."

"Conwyra," Viserys repeated. "Good. From now on, you all reclaim your original names as the first step toward becoming free men." He then addressed Conwyra directly, "Conwyra, you can count, correct?"

"Yes, my lord," Conwyra answered, though he noticed Viserys’s deliberate use of his old name. He chose not to correct the title and decided to take things slowly.

"Very well. Distribute fifty gold dragons to each of your men as payment for their service this year. Take fifty more for yourself and twenty for your second-in-command."

"Master, we don't need money," Conwyra responded, confused by the order.

"This is not a suggestion; it is an order," Viserys replied firmly. "After we disembark, some of you will remain to guard the ship. The others will each buy five things of their choosing—anything you want, as long as you don’t harm anyone."

"Yes, Master," Conwyra agreed, though the command left him puzzled. Viserys was determined to start retraining these Unsullied, gradually introducing them to the concept of autonomy and reward.

Viserys had a broader plan in mind. If he could gradually liberate and train these Unsullied, he would have a substantial force of at least 10,000 soldiers, both trained and untrained. Each would then adopt two or three orphans, passing on their newly regained family names and creating a loyal, self-perpetuating base of about 100,000 people. Such a force could ensure a steady supply of dedicated soldiers.

Of course, this was a long-term vision, inspired by the ancient Chinese  army system, where the army’s interests were closely aligned with those of the emperor, ensuring unwavering loyalty. However, Viserys recognized the challenges in implementing such a plan.

Meanwhile, Feles Rogare, who had been silently observing, was skeptical of Viserys's approach. To him, the Unsullied were tools—give them weapons and food, and they would fight. If they died, you simply bought more. Why complicate things with notions of freedom? Had it been anyone else, Feles might have openly criticized the effort. But this was Viserys, and he suspected there was a deeper reason behind his actions.

In truth, Feles admired Viserys, a young man who had already faced so much. He had heard about Viserys’s fearless actions in the Great Hall—drinking what was likely poison without so much as flinching. If Viserys could one day reclaim the Iron Throne, Feles saw a chance to restore his own family’s honor.

Sensing an opportunity, Feles stepped forward. "My lord—"

"Brother, we're in this together now," Viserys interrupted, surprising Feles. He hadn’t expected such familiarity. But it made sense; both their houses had suffered great losses. House Rogare, once powerful in Lys, had seen its influence wane, much like House Targaryen’s fall from grace. Both families had once been pillars of power and wealth, only to lose everything and become shadows of their former selves.

"My lord, I actually brought someone else on board," Feles confessed.

"A woman?" Viserys asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes."

"It’s fine. Just be careful," Viserys replied.

"She’s my sister," Feles added, a note of concern in his voice.

"It’s fine. Your sister is my sister. But let this be the last time. Don’t complicate things before we reach our goal," Viserys cautioned, making it clear that he preferred to avoid unnecessary entanglements.

Feles was a bit disappointed by Viserys’s response. Although he hadn’t endorsed Feles’s methods, Viserys hadn’t outright rejected the possibility of collaboration.

"Let me ask you something," Viserys said, shifting the conversation.

"Prince, please go ahead," Feles replied, intrigued.

"During the battle at Dragon’s Flame Fortress, why didn’t you suggest sending an army to contain the Windblown?" Viserys asked, wanting to gauge the tactical acumen of the Free Cities’ generals. If they were all as shortsighted as he feared, he might need to adopt a more aggressive approach.

"My lord, the main reason was that Rovi believed you wouldn’t join a losing battle, so he wanted to end it quickly. I did suggest sending troops to contain the Windblown, but Rovi dismissed my advice," Feles explained.

Viserys was surprised, realizing that Feles might have more potential than he initially thought. If Feles had this level of insight, he could be a valuable ally.

"Let’s share a meal together," Viserys offered, warming to the idea of working more closely with Feles. "And invite your sister to join us."