A Song of Ice and Fire: Wrath of the Sleeping Dragon

Lord Paxter Redwyne's fleet approached under the cover of darkness, preparing for a stealthy attack.

Whoosh—

The warships cut through the waves, cloaked in the stillness of the night. All lights were extinguished as they silently neared Dragonstone.

The sea winds howled.

The soldiers on the ships gripped their weapons, standing nervously on the decks, waiting for fate to descend upon them.

No one could guarantee their survival in the upcoming battle.

However, despite Lord Redwyne's well-planned surprise attack, there was a flaw in its execution.

The assault was detected by Dragonstone's forces.

A patrolling longship spotted the silent fleet from the Arbor in the waters, quickly sounding an alarm, alerting the distant lighthouse, and ultimately stirring the entire garrison of Dragonstone.

Boom—

The next moment, thunderous war drums erupted.

Under the command of Ser Joffrey, the last fleet still loyal to the Targaryens boldly engaged the enemy, initiating a standoff on the open seas.

The alarm bell from Dragonstone's lighthouse sounded long and loud, warning everyone on the island to be vigilant and defend against the enemy's attack.

Queen Rhaella, pregnant and emotionally distressed, was quickly moved to the castle for rest.

The steward, Shade, and the master-at-arms hurried to the shore, standing on the soft sand, gazing into the distance.

Viserys wished to join them, longing to witness a real battle. However, his request was heartlessly denied.

As the only known Targaryen boy, Viserys' safety represented more than just his own life.

Reluctantly, the silver-haired boy was led by a handmaid into the castle, where two guards were stationed outside his bedroom door for his "protection" at the master-at-arms' special request.

Bang—

The heavy brown wooden door of the bedroom was firmly closed and bolted.

The two fully armed guards stood guard on either side of the entrance, preventing Viserys from sneaking out.

Viserys was confined to his room, his freedom restricted. The boy sat on the soft bed for a while, running his fingers through his curly silver hair.

Finally, he sighed in frustration.

"Really..."

Compared to six months ago, Viserys' room in Dragonstone was now furnished with more items.

An old, short bedside table held a half-burned candle casting light, and a book with a bookmark laid on its surface. It was a book about the continent of Essos, detailing the experiences of a traveler.

Viserys found such books fascinating and would read them for a while before going to sleep every night.

A bookcase on the other side of the room was filled with various books. Even without the old maester's reminder, Viserys knew the importance of knowledge.

At the time, he had been frightened by the attack and worried about the future, causing him to obsessively practice swordsmanship for self-preservation.

However, he now understood that swordsmanship could not be mastered in a day or two.

Viserys' gaze then fell on a brown wooden chest in the corner of the room. He jumped off the bed and walked over to it.

Thump—

The sound of horns still echoed outside the window, and the rumble of war drums filled the air, faintly accompanied by the cries of battle.

The silver-haired boy could feel his heart pounding in time with the thunderous sounds, his blood boiling as it coursed through his body.

Viserys clutched a hand to his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his accelerating heartbeat.

He didn't know why he felt this way, but the sensation was imbuing him with a fearless courage.

Even though he was just a seven-year-old child.

"Fire and Blood."

The boy didn't know why he suddenly recited the Targaryen family motto, but he opened the wooden chest in the corner, revealing the items inside.

A custom-made set of small leather armor lay neatly arranged, along with a similarly tailored short sword, already sharpened.

Though not sharp enough to cut through iron like mud, at least during his daily practice, Viserys could use this 'short sword' to decapitate a straw mannequin in one stroke.

Viserys put on his leather armor and fastened his short sword.

Then, he moved a small stool over, stepped on it, and climbed up to the narrow window on the wall, poking his head out to look down below.

The nighttime sea breeze played with the boy's silver-gold hair, brushing it softly against his fair forehead.

A pair of pale purple eyes, clear as water, gazed out at the battlefield, where the sounds of fierce combat echoed under the dark night.

"May everything go smoothly," he whispered, closing his eyes and praying softly.

He wasn't a mischievous child who loved to cause trouble, and of course, he wouldn't try to escape through the window.

And then... fall to his death.

Viserys' bedroom was located in a high tower at the edge of the castle, and jagged rocks lay beneath the window. Jumping down from there would almost certainly lead to his demise.

But he didn't plan to run away; he was just a little panicked in the face of his first encounter with war and didn't know with whom to share his unease.

Putting on his small equipment was just a way to offer himself some psychological comfort.

...

In the distance, far from Viserys' line of sight, the sea churned with waves.

Nearly a hundred warships of various sizes from two fleets sailed across the turbulent waters.

A mournful, long horn call sounded.

The fleet from Greenstone Island, their banners clear, arranged themselves into formation, and under the cover of numerous longships, three even larger and higher-tonnage galleys charged towards the Dragonstone Island fleet.

The Dragonstone Island fleet, seemingly less prepared, hurriedly left the harbor without having time to properly form up, and faced the assault of the Redwyne fleet.

However, their response was equally impressive.

The sea winds howled.

The sound of horns continuously rang out from all directions, resonating in the eardrums and involuntarily stirring the blood.

Paxter Redwyne, the naval admiral and Master of Ships during the reign of Aerys II Targaryen, stood on the largest of the three galleys in the Greenstone Island fleet, wearing a blue and white woolen coat, the emblem of a purple grape on a blue field embroidered on his chest.

His appearance wasn't as imposing as one might expect of a seasoned naval commander; he was actually a small, somewhat sleazy-looking middle-aged man.

His shoulders were slightly slumped, and a few strands of sparse orange-yellow hair struggled against the sea wind atop his head.

In the distance, Dragonstone Island answered with the sound of their own horns, accompanied by the low, solemn peal of bells.

As the two fleets inched closer, the tension in the air grew thicker. The clash of iron and wood would soon resound across the waters as the opposing forces met in battle.

Meanwhile, Viserys continued to stand at the window, straining to hear the distant sounds of conflict. He knew that the outcome of this battle would have a profound impact on the future of his house and his people.

As the minutes turned to hours, the sounds of war continued to echo through the night. The silver-haired boy, unable to tear himself away from the window, stood watch with bated breath, his heart racing in his chest.

As dawn approached, the clamor of battle began to fade, replaced by the cries of wounded men and the groans of dying ships. Slowly, the boy's eyes scanned the horizon, searching for any sign of victory or defeat.

His gaze fell upon the banners still flying on the battered ships that remained. The sight of the Targaryen sigil – the red, three-headed dragon on a field of black – among those still standing brought a sigh of relief to his lips.

Though the cost of the battle had been great, it seemed that Dragonstone had held firm against the onslaught, securing their place in the ever-shifting game of thrones.

Viserys stepped back from the window, his heart still pounding, but now filled with a renewed sense of hope and determination. He knew that the road ahead would be fraught with challenges, but he also knew that the Targaryen line would not be extinguished so easily.

"Fire and blood," he whispered once more, before finally stepping away from the window and retreating to his bed, exhaustion overtaking him as he sank into a restless sleep.