Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 343: Dragonglass

When Robert and his two brothers, Stannis and Renly, lost their father, Lord Steffon Baratheon, to a tragic shipwreck near Storm's End, they were left fatherless and forever shaped by his death.

Compared to Robert and Renly, Stannis was not as likeable. However, Maester Cressen regarded Stannis as his own son and cared for him deeply. The two men shared a bond that ran deeper than most.

Viserys's proposal to send Cressen to King's Landing was not just to rid himself of the old Maester; it was meant to convince Stannis to surrender. If the Red Witch truly had her way, Stannis would fall under her influence, even if she was only an advisor. But could she still lead him?

"So, Prince, you want me to persuade Stannis to surrender?" Cressen asked.

"Maester Cressen, please address my brother as Your Grace," Dany corrected him, a note of irritation in her voice. After two consecutive "mispronunciations," she was losing patience.

"But he has not been crowned in the Temple," Cressen replied calmly. A devout follower of the Seven Gods, Cressen’s faith in tradition ran deep. If Viserys had arrived any later, Cressen might have already prepared poison for Melisandre and accepted his own death as the consequence.

The old Maester was no simple man.

During the War of the Usurper, Mace Tyrell had led a large army in besieging Storm's End. Stannis, always pragmatic, suggested throwing the bodies of the dead over the walls to spread plague among the enemy. Cressen, however, had argued that it would be wiser to use the corpses as food for the starving soldiers within.

Viserys, uninterested in debating with a stubborn old man, interrupted. "Maester Cressen, I don’t care about your theological beliefs. Everything I do is to ensure fewer people die in Westeros. The Night is coming. It was the wish of my Targaryen ancestors that we lead the world through the Long Night."

"The Long Night? The White Walkers?" Cressen scoffed, looking at Viserys with thinly veiled contempt. "You sound just like the Red Witch."

Viserys didn't rise to the bait. Arguing with the Maester was pointless. Whether Cressen believed him or not, Viserys was focused on the outcome. He needed Cressen's help—if only for now.

"Then you will write a letter to Stannis," Viserys said coldly, "telling him I can cure his daughter's illness. As for Robert, he will face execution. But Stannis and Renly—well, they can wear black and take the black, serving at the Wall."

"I will do nothing for you," Cressen said, his voice firm.

The Maesters served the castles to which they were assigned for life, bound by duty. But Cressen had been more than a mere servant; he had followed Stannis to Dragonstone. He didn't believe Viserys's promises, nor did he care for his cause.

Viserys waved away the Maester's defiance. It was of little consequence to him. Calling for his man, Regis, Viserys ordered, "Send Maester Cressen to King's Landing. Let it be known that Stannis abandoned his lifelong Maester when he fled."

"You can't—you can't—cough like that—" Cressen spluttered, suddenly anxious. He could see that if he refused to cooperate, Viserys would ruin Stannis's reputation with falsehoods.

Cressen had once hoped to provoke Viserys into killing him here, using his own life as a final act of defiance. But in this moment, he realized his plan had failed.

"Then you should write him a letter. I don't think that's too much to ask," Viserys said, his tone firm but polite.

Cressen hesitated but offered no reply.

The main reason Viserys was treating Cressen with such unexpected kindness was to show the Citadel that he wasn’t afraid of them. There was a subtle resistance that the weak often used—the 'resistance of the weak,' it was called. They could delay progress by not cooperating or by acting passively, stalling without direct confrontation. The entire Citadel seemed to embody this attitude.

Viserys knew this, and his future plans were already forming. One day, he would split the Citadel in two, weakening its influence. But to do so, he needed a group of scholars who would champion his cause. Cressen’s role in this was minor, but it was part of a larger strategy.

Once matters with Cressen were settled, Viserys received word from Young Connington: Roth of Braavos had arrived on Dragonstone.

It was Roth’s first visit to the island, but he had not come alone. Nearly his entire household was with him—three hundred ships strong.

Roth, ever the astute observer, had sensed the shifting tides. He recognized that Viserys’s centralization of power would inevitably lead to Braavos's decline. Its remote location, which once offered safety and prosperity, would soon become a disadvantage. In the days when the Free Cities were independent and constantly at war, Braavos could dominate the region. But with Viserys bringing a new order, Braavos’s influence would wane.

Before that decline became apparent, House Zalyne sought to safeguard its wealth by moving assets to other Free Cities. To do this, Roth needed Viserys’s blessing, ensuring that no one would dare covet his holdings.

When Viserys requested miners and stonemasons for his own plans, Roth responded promptly.

"Your Grace, I have brought 3,000 miners and 800 stonemasons at your disposal," Roth announced.

"You’ve worked hard, Lord Roth," Viserys said, acknowledging him by his old title, though Roth now held the position of Sealord. "Let’s go inspect the mines first."

Dragonstone, formed by ancient volcanic eruptions, was rich with deposits of dragonglass, or “dragon crystal.” Viserys intended to harvest as much as possible and transport it to the Wall as a safeguard.

As they made their way toward the mines, the ground beneath their feet became littered with jagged pieces of dark glass. The closer they got to the cave, the more abundant the shards became. By the time they reached the entrance, the dragon crystals were scattered in thick clusters, spread like glittering debris across the earth.

"Your Grace, is this truly the material that works against the wights?" Roth asked. Though his question was carefully phrased, there was a hint of skepticism in his voice. Deep down, Roth doubted the tales of the dead rising, even though Jalifah had accompanied Viserys to the Wall and returned with unsettling stories.

"Yes," Viserys answered with conviction. "I need to mine large quantities of this and transport it to the Night's Watch at the Wall. But that’s just the beginning. I plan to establish dragonglass depots not only throughout Westeros but also in the Free Cities. The wights could appear anywhere. We must be prepared."

Roth studied Viserys for a moment, the young king’s certainty unwavering. Seeing the fire in his eyes, Roth’s doubts began to fade.

As Roth stared at the ore, its surface glimmering like a fragment of the night sky, he realized that the value of dragonglass was soaring. Soon, it would become an essential part of every military arsenal—a true goldmine.

Ecstatic, Roth knew his decision to align with Viserys had been the right one.

"Your Grace, rest assured, I will see this through for you," Roth promised confidently.

"Good," Viserys replied, though his thoughts quickly shifted. "Still no word from the Iron Bank?"

Viserys had ruled as emperor for nearly three years, yet the arrogance of the Iron Bank baffled him. Did they truly believe they could remain independent in a world reshaped by his power? How foolish they were!

"The Keyholders at the Iron Bank," Roth continued, "have offered Your Grace an annual tribute of 300,000 golden dragons. Additionally, they will waive the interest on Robert's outstanding debts."

For the first time, a flicker of disbelief crossed Viserys's face. He regarded Roth as if he had just introduced him to some strange and incomprehensible creature.

The Iron Bank, of all institutions?

They couldn’t rebel on their own land, nor could they risk hiring the Faceless Men to pressure him. Yet somehow, they dared to play this game?

The audacity of it! They actually intended to absorb Robert's debts and present it as if they were doing him a favor.

'They have the nerve to swallow dragon dung, and still act as if they hold the upper hand.'

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