c50: Suppressing the Rebellion
The bravery of the two guards slightly bolstered Viserys' morale,
a small but vital reassurance in the face of imminent danger.
The silver-haired boy remained seated upon the main seat, his grip tightening around the crossbow, the polished wood pressing firmly into his palm.
Bang!
At that moment, another thunderous crash reverberated against the doors of the Hall of Illustrations,
accompanied by the harsh clanging of armor, as though armored men were throwing their full weight against the barricade.
Viserys' heart skipped a beat,
cold sweat forming along his palms and fingers, yet his gaze did not waver, fixed sharply upon the door as if he could pierce through it.
The silver-haired boy could clearly hear the heavier, uneven breathing of the two young soldiers beside him.
They were tense, their nerves stretched to the limit,
yet neither of them showed even the slightest intention of retreating.
Like sworn swords of the realm men who might one day stand among warriors such as Barristan Selmy they held their ground.
The sounds of battle outside the thick wooden doors continued without pause,
echoing through the chamber with relentless intensity.
Thud!
The sickening sound of a longsword slicing through flesh rang out,
followed immediately by a sharp, piercing scream that was abruptly cut short.
Crash!
Furniture was overturned in the struggle,
tables and chairs splintering as bodies collided against them.
Torches were knocked from their brackets, flames licking across the stone floor as firelight flickered wildly against the walls.
The battle outside raged with brutal ferocity,
while the three figures within the Hall of Illustrations remained trapped in tense stillness.
They were like prisoners awaiting judgment, uncertain of what fate awaited them once the doors finally gave way.
Life or death.
The atmosphere within the Hall of Maps had grown so suffocatingly tense it felt as though the very air had frozen in place.
Even breathing became measured and cautious, as beads of cold sweat slid slowly down their foreheads.
Every passing second stretched unbearably long,
each moment of waiting gnawing at their nerves like a slow, relentless torment.
Viserys himself could no longer tell how much time had passed.
Bang!
The heavy wooden doors shuddered violently once more,
snapping Viserys back to awareness as he realized he had once again drifted into a daze.
Since arriving at Dragonstone,
he had often found himself slipping into these strange lapses of focus, moments where reality seemed to blur with memory and imagination.
It was the same sensation he had experienced while staring at the painted table earlier.
And this strange phenomenon only seemed to be growing stronger,
becoming harder to ignore with each passing day.
Yet this time, as he forced himself fully awake, Viserys noticed something different.
The sounds of battle beyond the door had suddenly ceased,
leaving behind an eerie, unnatural silence.
Only the dull, repeated impacts against the door remained, as though the rest of the world had momentarily fallen still.
"Is the battle over?"
Viserys straightened slightly, his eyes locked firmly on the entrance as he tightened his grip on the crossbow.
The cabinet bracing the door had shifted, partially dislodged by the repeated blows.
The barricade was on the verge of collapse.
The next second,
Boom….
Several fully armored knights, their forms looming through the splintering wood,
drove their shoulders forward and smashed through the doors of the Hall of Illustrations with overwhelming force.
Fragments of wood burst outward,
scattering across the floor as the doors were torn apart under the impact.
The once-solid structure was now riddled with jagged holes, its surface smeared with dark, drying blood like spilled paint.
One glance at the scene was enough to send a chill through the spine,
the metallic scent of blood thick in the air, mingling with smoke and the faint stench of burning oil.
It was a smell that turned the stomach and made even hardened men uneasy.
At that very instant, Viserys raised his crossbow,
his movements sharp and decisive despite the fear coursing through him.
Thud, The taut bowstring snapped forward with a crisp, cutting sound,
shattering the brief silence that followed the door's destruction.
The bolt, already set and drawn, shot forward with deadly force, cutting through the air toward its target.
Then, in the horrified eyes of the knight who had rushed into the Hall of Illustrations,
the bolt slammed into the black volcanic stone wall above the doors, the same hardened stone Dragonstone was famed for.
Thud!
Fragments of stone shattered outward, scattering dust across the chamber and striking the armor of the two knights below with a faint rustling sound.
The two knights, though disciplined, were visibly shaken,
their composure briefly disrupted by the sudden near-miss.
Their cloaks and armor were dusted with stone fragments, leaving them looking somewhat disheveled despite their otherwise imposing presence.
"Your Majesty!"
At that moment,
following the two knights who had forced entry, an older man clad in polished armor stepped forward, his presence commanding.
He wore a crimson cloak embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, the sigil once feared across all of Westeros since the days of Aegon I Targaryen.
He carried what at first glance appeared to be a blood-soaked bundle in one hand,
its shape unclear beneath the dark, soaked fabric.
Thump, thump...
The old man's footsteps were heavy and deliberate, his expression unwavering even as he faced Viserys and the drawn crossbow.
"Calm down."
The voice was steady, authoritative, carrying the weight of long years of command.
The newcomer was Sir Geoffrey, commander of the Dragonstone fleet, and the object he carried once examined more closely was unmistakably a man.
Blood trailed along the stone floor as he advanced,
leaving a dark, glistening path behind him from the shattered doorway to the center of the hall.
The metallic scent grew stronger with every step, mixing with the lingering smoke of battle.
He reached the massive painted table and released his grip.
Thump
The blood-soaked prisoner collapsed onto the ground without resistance, like a heap of lifeless flesh.
If not for the faint rise and fall of his chest,
and the weak, ragged gasps escaping his lips, one might have mistaken him for a corpse already claimed by death.
"My apologies, Sir."
Viserys, somewhat embarrassed, rose from the main seat,
his hands pressing against the armrests as he pushed himself up.
He inclined his head slightly toward Sir Geoffrey and the two knights who had burst through the doors.
He had been too tense in that moment,
his instincts overriding his judgment.
In his shock, he had nearly loosed a fatal shot upon his own men, a mistake that could have ended in tragedy.
However, Viserys had reacted quickly,
adjusting his aim at the last instant so that the bolt struck harmlessly above the doorway instead of finding flesh.
Fortunately, the error had not claimed a life.
His gaze then shifted to the bloodied figure lying before the painted table,
studying the broken man carefully.
Though the prisoner's face was battered and nearly unrecognizable, Viserys identified him without hesitation.
It was Sir David Shad,
the bastard of Dorne who had once been entrusted by Rhaegar Targaryen to act as castellan of Dragonstone.
He had been left behind to govern the island in Rhaegar's absence, a responsibility he had ultimately betrayed.
This same man had secretly been bought by agents of King's Landing,
where Robert Baratheon now ruled.
They had promised him lands, titles, and power in exchange for betraying House Targaryen and murdering the last remnants of its bloodline.
Yet Sir Shad had hesitated,
fearful that even if he succeeded in killing Queen Rhaella and her children, he would not escape the reach of Dragonstone's fleet.
Thus, he had allowed many opportunities to slip through his grasp.
Until the storm came,
and Viserys departed Dragonstone with the fleet, leaving what seemed like the perfect opening.
Now, however, his final desperate gamble had been utterly crushed by Viserys' preparations.
Every guard, servant, and hidden conspirator he had bribed within Dragonstone had been rooted out and destroyed,
their rebellion extinguished completely.
It was a total and humiliating defeat.
"Do you wish to interrogate him yourself?"
"Your Majesty."
The two knights who had entered first struck their chests in salute, unwilling to accept Viserys's apology for the earlier misfire.
Sir Geoffrey paid them no mind,
his focus remaining fixed upon the young king standing near the head of the table.
His gaze was steady, assessing, as though measuring the boy who now carried the weight of House Targaryen.
"Interrogate him yourself?"
Viserys hesitated briefly at the question,
his pale curls framing his face, lending him an almost fragile appearance despite the gravity of the moment.
Then he shook his head.
"No."
"Lord Geoffrey."
Viserys stepped beside the main seat,
turning slightly as though to sit once more.
He showed little interest in watching the broken man suffer, his mind already moving beyond the immediate aftermath.
Yet suddenly,
as though recalling something of importance, he halted mid-motion.
Turning back toward Sir Geoffrey, he spoke again, his voice steadier now.
"I want to know exactly what he did. I'll leave that to you."
Then, after a brief pause, he added,
"But it would be best to keep him alive… so that I may pass judgment on him myself."
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