25 Chapter 25: Home - 111 AC

Under the weighty shroud of the night's embrace, King Viserys found solace amidst a meticulously crafted replica of Valyria, a once majestic city of yore. A goblet of wine graced his grasp, his countenance etched with both weariness and intoxication, while his vacant gaze fixated upon the sprawling cityscape before him. This was his private sanctuary, where he sought respite, immersing himself in contemplation that ran deep within the cocoon of silence. The gentle crackling of the candles provided a soothing soundtrack to his introspection.

Abruptly, the king's tranquility was disrupted by a resolute knock resonating from the door. The intruder, devoid of any request for permission, intruded upon the king's space, meticulously shutting the door behind her upon entering. It was the queen, garbed in a verdant gown that cascaded from her shoulders to the floor, her tresses immaculately coiffed. With measured steps, she approached the king, her gaze scrutinizing the disheveled state she found him in—an inebriated man.

The moon hung high in the sky, casting its pale light upon the weary faces of the royal couple through the windows. With an air of resignation, she gently uttered, "The hour grows late, husband. It would be wise for you to seek respite in slumber."

The king turned his gaze towards his queen, a hint of fatigue etched upon his features, before returning his attention to the miniature cityscape laid out before him. Carefully, he set his wine cup atop the table's polished surface and eased himself into the comfort of his ornate chair. "Indeed, my love, the day has been long and arduous," he acknowledged with a weary sigh.

"Intrigues have once again plagued the council, I assume?" she inquired softly, finding a seat beside her husband, her eyes filled with concern.

Viserys hummed with a mix of weariness and contemplation. "The Celtigars' request was the source of contention," he admitted. "Yet again, my... choice haunts me."

"Choice?" Alicent raised an eyebrow inquisitively, her curiosity piqued.

"The war for control of the Stepstones, Daemon's reservations," the king revealed, his tone tinged with regret. "Our own union."

Understanding began to settle upon Alicent, causing a sense of unease to creep into her being. "And how do you intend to address their request?" she probed cautiously.

"I am uncertain," Viserys admitted, shaking his head. "However, Lyonel proposed a potential solution."

"What sort of proposition did he offer?" the queen inquired, her eyes locked on her husband.

"It is suggested that Ser Clement's third child be wed to one of ours," Viserys responded, turning his attention once more to Alicent. "Should it be a girl, Aegon or Aemond could be potential matches. Should it be a boy... Helaena. By doing so, we would ensure that there are no conflicts of interest, and the Celtigars would be bound by the ties of a marriage alliance."

Alicent fell silent, absorbing the weight of the suggestion. Her gaze drifted downward, lost in contemplation. "But they are mere children, Your Grace," she finally voiced, her tone heavy with concern.

"It is but an early promise, my dear," Viserys clarified. "I must be candid with you; such an arrangement would undoubtedly resolve many issues without unduly displeasing anyone in particular."

"Dragon eggs are not theirs to demand, Viserys," Alicent asserted, her voice filled with conviction. "It is within your power to deny such a request."

A wistful chuckle escaped the king's lips. "The late king did not consider such matters," he remarked. "He granted dragon eggs to the Velaryons, thereby muddling the absolute rule surrounding them. Lords can now make arguments as they please. It brings me little satisfaction to know that, for once, the cause does not solely rest upon my decisions."

"I had thought that Aegon was to be matched with Helaena." Alicent pointed out, a trace of uncertainty in her voice.

"I shared that belief as well," Viserys mused. "However, it is not set in stone. After all, I myself was wed to an Arryn."

Once more, Alicent fell silent, lowering herself onto the seat with a sense of weariness. After a few moments of profound stillness, the queen broke the silence. "Perhaps we should wait until they are older before considering a betrothal."

"Yet the decision regarding the dragon eggs is intertwined with that of their betrothal," Viserys released a weary sigh. However, he grew weary of discussing it further and redirected the conversation. "Enough of that. What has brought you here?" he inquired.

Alicent, while still wanting to talk about the matter of her own children's marriage, she was determined to address her original intention, she sat tall and expressed her desire. "I have been pondering if we might engage in a discussion on a particular subject."

Curiosity flickered in Viserys' eyes as he questioned, "A subject of what nature?"

"Rhaenyra," replied the queen, her words hanging in the air as Viserys took another sip of wine.

"Her marriage?" he mused.

"She has come of age, my husband," Alicent responded. "It is time to commence the search for a suitable match."

Viserys shook his head, voicing his concerns. "The girl is headstrong. The moment we broach the subject, she will likely flee from the Red Keep, defying our wishes."

"It is her duty to wed," Alicent persisted.

"I am aware, Alicent," Viserys sighed wearily. "Numerous proposals have already flooded my desk from every corner of the realm, yet I am certain Rhaenyra herself would reject them all."

"Perhaps... we could make her believe that she possesses the power of choice," Alicent suggested. "Dispatch ravens to the eligible lords of the Seven Kingdoms, inviting them to the Red Keep, allowing her to select a suitor for herself. Ser Gromond, perhaps, to deal with your previous problem too."

"But Ser Gromond is already wedded, my dear. You have witnessed him cavorting with a dark-haired lad," Viserys chuckled.

"Indeed?" The queen's astonishment was evident. "I had assumed it was his illegitimate child to whom he had taken a liking."

Viserys shook his head. "No, the child is legitimate."

"In that case, mayhaps..." Queen Alicent's mind suddenly conceived an idea. "What if we proposed Lord Bartimos to Rhaenyra?"

Viserys burst into laughter. "Alicent, do you not perceive why Rhaenyra resents my involvement? It is precisely to avoid marrying a man much older than herself."

Alicent chuckled in agreement. "I suppose you are right."

"However, your notion is indeed sensible," Viserys pondered. "I shall explore what can be done to address Rhaenyra's marriage. My only hope is that she will find herself a worthy husband on her own..."

Alicent just smiled, but in between her gaze, a cold yet calm feel could be seen, whether she was forced to be here to ask questions or something else, is a matter to be discussed.

======

Several weeks had elapsed since the Celtigar's audience with the king, and presently, Clement and his father embarked on a voyage towards their ancestral seat, Claw Isle. The vessel of choice for their travels was the Iron Claw, now adorned with additional reinforcements and embellishments, serving as a tangible emblem of the Celtigars' commanding authority over the seas, a power rivaling that of the Velaryons. Seated upon the ship's inner deck, Clement found himself in a private chamber where a sprawling map of the seven kingdoms adorned a table, stretching across the room from end to end.

"We had ample opportunities to negotiate the exemption of Claw Isle from taxes for generations to come," lamented Bartimos, his voice tinged with a sigh. "Yet now, we must await the king's decision regarding the bestowal of dragon eggs for your unborn child—a fragile prize that may not even yield a hatchling."

Father Clement's eyes rolled in response, accompanied by a tone of exasperation. "It is far more than a mere egg, father," he countered. "Even if it fails to hatch, it symbolizes the recognition that the Targaryens now accord us—an acknowledgment of our equality rather than treating us as mere subjects who give without reward."

"You have been cautioned repeatedly, my son," Bartimos calmly interjected. "While the pursuit of glory is not inherently wrong, allowing it to consume your life and that of your family will ultimately lead to disaster."

"I am not pursuing glory, father; I am reclaiming what is rightfully ours," Clement declared resolutely. "Our roots trace back to ancient Valyria, yet only the Velaryons and Targaryens have garnered praise. By undertaking this endeavor, our lineage, which can be traced to that once magnificent civilization, shall no longer be ridiculed. Our house's sigil, once met with derision and contempt, will command respect."

Bartimos shook his head, his expression filled with concern. "You have already taken such steps when you embarked upon your campaign in the Stepstones."

"Perchance," Clement mused, his eyes wandering in contemplation. "However, if the king deigns to grant our request, our position as bastions of Valyria shall be fortified more than ever before. Our loyalty to the ruling family shall transcend mere alliances, akin to the bond of kin. In due course, they might even entertain the idea of uniting my sons and daughters, your grandsons and granddaughters, in marriage, thus ensuring the perpetuation of their bloodline, while combining it with ours. Our ancestor, Edwell, once proposed his daughters as second and third wives to Maegor, suggesting to adhere to age-old traditions, only to be met with cold rejection."

"And you take pride in the fact that your forebears were nearly wedded to a tyrant?" Bartimos scoffed, his tone laced with disdain.

Clement let out a weary sigh, his gaze fixed upon his father. "Father, you miss the point entirely," he lamented. "The issue at hand is that when the Targaryens seek marriage alliances, they overlook us in favor of houses bereft of Valyrian lineage. Edwell himself proposed that Maegor should take another wife, yet the cruel despot didn't spare us a glance. Do you not perceive the brazen mockery this signifies? Are you not moved to demand change? We have discussed this many times, and still..."

"That was many decades ago, my son," Bartimos interjected, his voice tempered with a touch of resignation. "Times have changed."

Clement scoffed, a trace of bitterness coloring his words. "Jaehaerys had daughters aplenty, from Daenerys to Gael. Yet none are betrothed to you, your father, or your uncles. Nothing has changed, father. We remain beneath their notice, forever relegated to a lower rung in their lofty eyes."

His voice hesitant, Bartimos replied, "The daughters of the former king are... considered unconventional, shall we say?"

Clement chuckled softly, his tone tinged with wistfulness. "Ah, but I am certain that if one were to encounter you, they would fall under your spell effortlessly, much like mother did."

Bartimos merely shook his head, amusement dancing in his eyes, signaling the end of the conversation. Suddenly, a resounding knock reverberated from the door, and as it swung open, Selwyn, the long-serving steward of Brackyore and Claw Isle, made his entrance, his countenance now etched with the passage of time, older than when Clement had last laid eyes upon him.

"My lords," Selwyn greeted with deference, his voice laced with respect. "We are approaching Claw Isle, a mere few minutes away from now."

Clement nodded appreciatively, acknowledging the steward's information. "Thank you for reminding us, Selwyn. There is no need for you to voyage from Claw Isle to King's Landing on our behalf, you know?"

A warm smile graced Selwyn's lips as he spoke, "How could I resist escorting back the cherished scion of our island? The golden child returns home, my lord."

Clement chuckled once more, recognizing Selwyn as yet another paternal figure throughout his reign, and grateful for the wisdom the man had imparted. Rising from his seat, he strode toward Selwyn, gently patting the steward's shoulder before passing by him, making his way to the outer deck to behold the island that had remained out of sight for so many years.

With measured strides, Clement and Selwyn ascended the staircase, leaving Bartimos behind in the room. They ascended the steps leisurely, their pace unhurried, until they emerged onto the deck above. Clement proceeded towards the ornate railing, feeling the gentle caress of the warm Blackwater bay breeze upon his skin. And there, in the distance, it finally came into view. Home.

"You have been absent from these familiar lands for a span of five years, my lord," Selwyn remarked, his tone imbued with a noble's longing. "Welcome back to where your heart resides."

Stretching out before him, the sprawling panorama revealed signs of visible progress. The humble lighthouse, perched atop the rugged island, now stood fully operational, its beacon ablaze with radiant fire, diligently guiding weary sailors. Clement's gaze swept across the landscape, taking in the sight of the city walls that, at the time of his departure from the port all those years ago, were merely in their nascent stages. But now, sections of those fortifications had taken form, particularly near the harbor, encircling a significant portion of the island. He also noted the ongoing construction of the seawall, which, despite its unfinished state, already spanned half of the harbor, successfully warding off the relentless assault of wind and waves. In this bustling harbor, evidence of heightened activity was evident, likely a result of newly opened shipping lanes to the south, as merchants steadily unloaded the goods previously stored within this very island.

"It's definitely changed." Clement whistled nonchalantly.

"Your enduring endeavors are beginning to manifest, my lord," Selwyn acknowledged with a dignified nod.

"Well, here's to another five years." Clement declared, his hand coming to rest once more upon Selwyn's back, before descending to the deck below.

======

As Clement strolled along the platform, heading towards the bustling harbor of Brackyore, his observant eyes captured a myriad of noteworthy details that had changed since his last visit. The harbor, once confined to a single corner of the isle, now expanded magnificently, stretching from one end to the other. The shipyard, too, had undergone a substantial transformation, its size amplified to accommodate numerous vessels docked for maintenance and repairs. An incessant flow of goods traversed the area, making their way towards awaiting ships, eager to depart from the isle. The marketplace, teeming with activity, bore witness to a visibly diverse population as an influx of migrants hastened their entry.

Curiosity piqued, Clement turned to his companion Selwyn and inquired, "Pray tell, Selwyn, how many migrants arrive each year?"

Selwyn, ever the loyal servant, replied, "That varies with the seasons, my lord. During the winter a few years ago, a multitude of northerners flocked to the port, whereas in the current summer, we primarily see arrivals from Braavos and the Vale. Typically, the numbers range between fifty and sixty, but during the winter months, it can surge to around two hundred. It is anticipated that the figures will continue to rise in the coming years."

"I see," Clement mused, absorbing this information.

Meanwhile, Bartimos, who looked pale from seasickness, descended the platform alongside Clement, when suddenly, a carriage approached swiftly, maneuvering its way through the bustling port towards their location. The sight of the carriage drew the attention of the common folk, their gazes now fixated upon Clement.

"Did you inform the smallfolk of Clement's arrival, Selwyn?" Bartimos inquired.

"No, my lord," Selwyn responded, shaking his head.

"Excellent. We shall reserve the festivities for when the rest of our men return," Clement asserted. "Make the necessary arrangements, Selwyn."

"My lord?" Selwyn asked, a hint of confusion evident in his voice.

"Organize the procurement of barrels upon barrels of ale, beer, and any other alcoholic libations available. If need be, even draw from our own wine reserves to cater to our esteemed guests," Clement commanded. "Once my family and our valiant veterans arrive, let us celebrate. After years drenched in bloodshed, the last thing they desire is a lackluster welcome."

"Very well," Selwyn nodded dutifully. "I shall endeavor to fulfill your wishes, my lord."

The carriage, having reached its destination, came to a halt in front of them. With the door gradually swinging open, a beaming Gromond emerged, accompanied by a six-year-old boy with raven-black locks. It was Arthor, his anxious yet determined countenance expressed through his piercing blue eyes, as he stood before them.

"Ah, my dear brother and nephew, how delightful it is to welcome you back to the embrace of our home," Gromond said with a smug grin. "Do tell me, has the wine in the capital managed to maintain its exquisite taste?"

"We possess far superior wine within the castle walls, Gromond. Let us make haste, for I am plagued by an unsettling sensation in my stomach," Bartimos sighed wearily, briskly striding past his brother and finding refuge within the awaiting carriage.

Meanwhile, Clement strolled towards his youthful cousin, the billowing gray and red robes dancing fervently in the wind's whimsical dance.

"You've certainly grown since the last time I saw you," Clement remarked with a touch of amusement in his voice.

"C-Cousin," the boy stammered, growing increasingly uneasy.

"Why does anxiousness grip you so tightly?" Clement chuckled, playfully tousling the boy's hair before proceeding towards the carriage. "Come now, let us depart and return to the grandeur of our humble abode."

======

The ride towards Claw isle is shaky, with the carriage packed with people. Practically all of the Celtigars except Clement's sons and wife are inside it, but none seem too bothered by it except Bartimos, whose seasickness is starting to kick in. Clement cast a glance at Arthor, who sat quietly by his father's side, gazing pensively out the window.

"Have you ever ventured beyond the castle walls?" Clement inquired with genuine curiosity.

"What?" Arthur stuttered, taken aback. "Uh, well, yes. But it's a rare occurrence."

Clement mused, turning his attention to Gromond. "Perhaps you should show him around from time to time. Take him to the training camp, even. Let him witness the training."

"He's six, nephew," Gromond retorted, rolling his eyes.

"Observing and actively participating are two distinct experiences, father," Arthor interjected, defending his case.

Clement chuckled, appreciating the boy's reasoning. "I already find him quite likable. He speaks with wisdom."

"The training grounds will suffice for now," Gromond asserted. "Perhaps a couple of years from now."

"Very well, you're the father," Clement shrugged nonchalantly. "And what about you, cousin? Are you truly determined to wield a sword? You could lead a comfortable life within the castle, like my father did."

Bartimos scoffed, wiping the perspiration from his brow. "It's noble to remain idle and avoid inconveniencing others."

"I at least want to accompany you, cousin," Arthur declared resolutely, exuding the innocence of a child. "I want to be your knight, fighting by your side."

Clement merely laughed. "I have no need for additional tourney knights; your father is already one."

"First, you mock your own father, and now you mock me," Gromond snorted, displaying his displeasure. "Quite the warm welcome from you, nephew."

Arthor's gaze shifted downward to the floor. "Well..."

"Consider your decision carefully," Clement advised. "You're still young, and the path of a warrior is not your only option."

Arthor emitted a low hum and redirected his attention to the window, as if no longer interested in entertaining the conversation. Clement shook his head, mirroring his cousin's actions, and turned away, fixating on the passing scenery.

"When will your wife return home?" Gromond inquired.

"In approximately a month," Clement replied. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, we need to make preparations for Vhagar's sustenance—sheep and cows, primarily," Gromond explained. "It's not easy to procure such a large number of livestock promptly."

"Of course," Clement murmured thoughtfully. "I will see what I can arrange. I've dealt with that old hag in the Stepstones, so this shouldn't prove overly challenging. Additionally, when our veterans return, I intend to organize a festival, a chance for the common folk to partake in the merriment."

"Like a tournament, perchance?" Gromond raised an eyebrow. "Or perhaps a melee, an opportunity to scout for potential squires to train."

"What is your opinion, father?" Clement inquired.

"It carries its share of risks. Assassins may lurk amidst the smallfolk, so you should abstain from participating at the very least," Bartimos cautioned. "Apart from that, I would say go ahead. It has been quite some time since a large-scale celebration graced these lands."

"Then I shall commence the preparations," Gromond affirmed, nodding resolutely. "I presume Selwyn has been informed of these plans?"

"He is responsible for procuring the alcohol," Clement disclosed.

"Ah, the most crucial component of all," Gromond mused. "Very well."