They chose a northeast course, aiming straight for Braavos, the most powerful Free Cities across the Narrow Sea, and the one most likely to offer some form of “neutral” asylum.
Just less than two days after they left, a massive joint fleet from the Iron Throne appeared in the waters of Dragonstone.
There were warships with the red grape banners of The Arbor hanging from their masts, as well as a small number of ruggedly built warships from White Harbor in the North.
The commander of the Arbor Fleet, Lord Redwyne, gazed from afar at the sea that had yet to recover from the ravages of the storm, as well as the empty harbor on Dragonstone and the heavily fortified but sparsely defended castle.
He immediately issued the order to “reconnoiter cautiously and blockade the sea”.
He deeply agreed with the admonition of his sister, the “Queen of Thorns” Olenna, far away in Highgarden: while loyalty must be shown, there was no need to shed too much blood for House Baratheon.
If the Targaryens on the island had already fled, that would be just fine for him.
The White Harbor fleet of the North was even more perfunctory.
Led by Ser Willis Manderly, the eldest son of Lord Manderly, he didn’t even let the warships get too close.
He had come by order of Lord Eddard Stark, but more to observe and state a position rather than truly participate in the encirclement and suppression.
House Stark harbored reservations about slaughtering women and children in the first place, so he was glad to take it easy.
The two fleets patrolled the nearby waters for a few days, then symbolically sent a party ashore, only to find that Dragonstone was left with only a few hundred old, weak, sick, and disabled soldiers who offered no resistance when they landed; it turned out that the previous actions were just a play to buy time.
Immediately afterwards, the main force went ashore to take over Dragonstone, and then reported “regretfully” to King’s Landing: the Targaryen remnants had taken advantage of the storm to escape, their whereabouts unknown, and Dragonstone had been recaptured.
When the news reached King’s Landing, Robert Baratheon flew into a rage on the Iron Throne, his roar almost blowing off the roof of the hall.
“Useless, a bunch of useless fools!
You couldn’t stop a storm, and you can’t even catch up to a few broken ships?”
He wished he could personally lead a fleet to pursue the Targaryen remnants to the ends of the earth.
But the Small Council suppressed his impulse.
The newly appointed hand of the king, Lord Jon Arryn, brought an irrefutable rebuttal: “Your Grace, the Seven Kingdoms have just weathered the flames of war and urgently need recuperation and readjustment.
House Martell of Dorne is still making a fuss over the death of Princess Elia, demanding the handover of the ‘murderer’ with a resolute attitude.
Moreover, the treasury is empty right now, and the envoys of the Iron Bank are still waiting outside the Red Keep for a meeting.
What is more, Your Grace’s grand wedding is approaching, and the alliance with the westerlands is of utmost importance; nothing must go wrong.”
Mentioning the marriage made Robert’s expression even gloomier, but he finally sat back down on the throne and gulped down a large mouthful of wine.
He hated these trade-offs, but he had no choice but to accept them.
In order to punish Stannis, who had suffered heavy losses in the storm and retreated in disgrace, and also to keep the rich Storm’s End in the hands of someone he trusted, Robert made a decision that caused the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms to whisper privately behind his back, yet no one opposed: he promoted his young yet favored third brother, Renly Baratheon, to be the Lord of Storm’s End, while “granting” Stannis the remote Dragonstone—a solitary island that had just been completely sacked, leaving only a castle of black stone.
The title of Dragonstone was also downgraded to a duke rather than the “prince” that previously symbolized the direct royal lineage.
When Stannis received this decree stamped with the crowned stag seal, the muscles on his face did not twitch at all; only his tightly pressed lips turned paler, and the chill in his eyes became even more penetrating.
His gaze lingered on the words “Lord of Dragonstone” for a long time, believing this was Robert’s way of reminding him to mind his place.
The three-week voyage across the Narrow Sea gradually blew away the aura of storm and death.
When the world-famous Titan statue emerged from the sea fog, Viserys knew they had entered the waters of Braavos.
The statue’s feet stepped on two reef fortresses, its lower half covered with dark seaweed and barnacles, as if it had grown from the seabed.
As the fleet passed through the channel beneath its crotch, everyone felt a suffocating oppression.
The giant’s hollow stone eyes looked down from above, and the raised stone sword seemed as though it could crash down at any moment.
At the entrance of the channel, three slender Braavosi navy ships blocked the way.
Their hulls were painted dark blue and silver, with a statue of the “Goddess of Liberty” erected at the prow.
“State your identity, purpose, and the cargo on board.” An officer shouted from the bow.
Ser Willem Darry was clearly experienced; he stepped forward to answer, “We are the fleet of House Targaryen, coming from Dragonstone to seek the asylum and trade of Braavos.
The ship carries personnel, personal effects, and goods available for trade.”
The officer first whispered a few words to the person beside him, then looked over the people on board who were obviously dressed as warriors, and finally waved his hand and replied, “Braavos is open to all law-abiding people.
Follow the pilot ship and dock at berths seven to twelve in the West District of the Purple Harbor.
Without permission, armed personnel are not allowed to enter the city; this is the iron law of Braavos.”
The prosperity of the harbor here far exceeded even King’s Landing, after all, merchant ships from all over the world came here to trade.
Hundreds of large and small vessels crowded the waterways, and the air was mixed with the fishy smell of the fish market, the fragrance of spices drifting from merchant ships, and some indescribable odors.
The dock area was bustling with voices.
Sailors, merchants, porters, prostitutes, thieves…
all kinds of people were mixed together.
Viserys saw a dark-skinned merchant from the Summer Isles peddling feather cloaks, next to a Pentoshi hawking “never-rusting” daggers.
Further away, a squad of guards resembling Unsullied were escorting several heavy chests, their paces neat and uniform, expressionless.
They disembarked at the designated location.
When their feet stepped onto the solid dock, many soldiers visibly breathed a sigh of relief; the three weeks of tossing and turning had finally come to an end.
However, Viserys knew that the trials of the future were only just beginning.
Not long after, a squad of guards wearing gray-green uniforms arrived at the dock.
The leader was a lean Braavosi official who called himself the “assistant harbor master”.
“Your Grace Prince Viserys,” he bowed slightly, his etiquette impeccable, “The Sealord has learned of your arrival and invites you to visit The Sealords Manse as a guest.
You may bring a few attendants with you.”
Thus Viserys took Ser Arthur, Ser Alliser, and a squad of trusted followers to follow the official to visit the master of this place.
He left Ser Jonothor behind to protect the women on the ship, and asked Ser Willem to find a piece of land outside the city large enough to settle everyone, where they would take root and stay in the future.
Viserys walked with the official for a while and saw The Sealords Manse.
The Sealords Manse was not a palace, but a huge barge that was permanently moored in the circular waterway in front of the Temple of the Moon Singers.
The hull was made of deep purple cedar wood, carved with patterns of waves and mysterious creatures.