Viserys had originally intended to conceal the news that he had obtained the Prince's Spear.
He hoped Lothan would also use the excuse "Viserys didn't find the Prince's Spear" to prepare his own soldiers and prepare to oppose the Targaryens.
But Lothan was still Lothan—an old man nearing eighty, sharp as ever. He added a small patch to Viserys' plan.
Viserys did find the Prince's Spear, but when he arrived, he declared that what he saw was the genuine artifact. Lothan refused to recognize it as real. Viserys insisted.
Their "alliance" fell apart, and conflict erupted, all appearing perfectly natural.
In other words, their "fake play becoming real" had now been reshaped into "real play disguised as fake."
Lothan pointed at a defensive line on the map, a place called the Prince's Forest.
"There's a small path here that only I know. I'll have Gafas place his troops there."
Gafas was one of Freygo's men, and the message that Viserys had gone to find the spear had likely already reached Freygo.
"Don't worry. I'll send Ser Arthur to deal with him," Viserys assured.
Seeing it was Arthur Dayne being deployed, Lothan nodded, reassured. Just as he turned to leave the tent, he suddenly stopped and looked back at Viserys.
The elder's expression shifted—uncertain, questioning, even pleading.
He stared into the king's violet eyes, as though searching for something… entrusting something. Only after a long silence did he finally speak.
"Your Grace… I have entrusted the fate of the Rhoynar to you. You will be responsible for them, won't you?"
Viserys straightened, his face solemn—like a statue of a sacred king.
"Rhoynar, Andal, Westerosi… I shall love them all alike."
Lothan gazed at the young king for a while. Then, with a sigh that seemed both resigned and relieved, he left the tent.
The reason Viserys and Lothan were putting on this act was not merely to fleece the situation for a little more wool. That part was secondary.
The real reason was that Gohor's current strength alone could not withstand the combined pressure of Braavos and Pentos.
It was entirely possible the two cities would join forces and raise an army against Viserys. To stop their soldiers beyond the Upper and Lower Rhoyne, there was only one way—bringing in the fleet.
If he could bring Dragonstone's fleet into the Rhoyne through Gohor, Viserys could extend his influence tenfold, using the river as a direct artery of power.
Viserys summoned Davos and entrusted him with a new mission. But when Davos heard it, he was stunned.
"You want me to lead the fleet… to Volantis?"
Volantis guarded the mouth of the Rhoyne. If the fleet were to reach Gohor, it could only pass through there.
"Yes," Viserys said. "We should still have around a hundred main warships. Fly the banner of the Targaryen expeditionary fleet and sail them to Volantis first."
The weight of the responsibility pressed heavily on Davos.
More than a hundred ships, sailing halfway across the Narrow Sea into the Summer Sea—it would take two or three months just to reach the south, and anything could happen along the way.
He didn't dare imagine what would happen if he lost the fleet, "Your Grace, this mission is too heavy… I fear I am not worthy of it."
Davos bowed his head, looking ashamed, like a child who had done wrong.
If it were just ten ships, perhaps he could handle it. But nearly a hundred—these were the most valuable assets the Targaryens possessed.
Viserys stepped forward and grasped Davos' hand.
"Ser Davos, I believe you can do it. There is no better captain in my service."
Davos still couldn't understand why Viserys trusted a former smuggler so deeply.
Viserys certainly wasn't going to admit it was because he had already "read the script."
He continued, "Whether or not you reach Volantis safely, I will grant you a thousand acres of land in Gohor. In the future, when we reclaim the Iron Throne, you may move your holdings to Westeros.
And if you bring the fleet safely to Volantis, I will grant you the title of viscount."
The promise of a viscountcy made Davos' heart race. But what shocked him more was that Viserys would reward him even if he failed to return.
He had never known a king so generous… so trusting.
Looking at Viserys' slender hand resting on his, Davos bowed his head deeply.
"Your Grace, rest assured— even if I die on the way, I will see the fleet safely delivered to Volantis!"
His chest burned with emotion. Viserys had treated his family like his own.
He had entrusted Davos with great responsibilities and even taken his younger sons into his own retinue—teaching them letters, principles, and discipline.
Marcus had even received guidance from the Dawn Sword itself. Truly, a king whose kindness could never be fully repaid.
A few days later, on the night before Davos' departure from Gohor, he gathered his four sons.
He had always kept his eldest, Dale, and his second son, Allard, at his side. The twins, Marcus and Mathos, were the ones serving near Viserys.
He told them everything the king had promised.
"A viscount! Father, His Grace really said that?" Dale exclaimed, stunned.
Allard lit up as well—if his brother gained a title, he could inherit the Black Betha.
Watching their short-sighted excitement, Davos flicked both their heads sharply, "Fools! Have some ambition!"
The two scratched their heads in embarrassment.
"Father is right," Marcus said, calm and steady. "His Grace entrusted us with this mission. We cannot fail him."
Davos couldn't help but feel proud. Truly, Viserys had shaped the twins well—far better than Dale and Allard.
"Yes," Davos nodded. "Learn from your younger brothers."
Dale and Allard turned to look at the twins… and realized there was now an invisible distance between them.
"I brought you together tonight so you understand how generous His Grace has been to our family," Davos said. "Marcus, Mathos—you must serve him with all your hearts. If either of you falters, I'll throw you into the sea myself."
"We understand, Father," both replied.
They drank together after that, sharing what might be their last peaceful night for a long time.
The next morning, as the wagons rolled out of Gohor, Allard whispered to Dale:
"I'm telling you, our king is far better than Stannis ever was. If not for Father, Stannis would've starved at Storm's End—and he still cut off Father's fingers."
In another wagon, Davos sat with his eyes closed. His hearing was sharp; he caught every word.
And so, his resolve hardened even more—he would bring the fleet to Volantis.
But one troubling thought still lingered.
How exactly would Viserys persuade the Volantenes to let the fleet pass?
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