Over the past two years, Viserys's legend had spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
Not yet ten years old when he set foot on the battlefield.
He repelled the Redwyne fleet.
He struck at Shipbreaker Bay.
He conquered Gohor. He defeated the combined armies of Braavos and Pentos.
Among the young nobles of Westeros, some had begun to idolize him.
One of them was Domeric Bolton, heir to Roose Bolton.
Domeric had only recently completed his time as a squire when his father sent him across the Narrow Sea to attend Viserys's coronation.
Ordinarily, the sole heir of the Dreadfort would never be permitted to wander so far. But Domeric persuaded his father.
And as heir to House Bolton, he secured entry into the throne hall itself.
He soon noticed that none of the great houses had sent their firstborn sons.
Not one.
He believed House Bolton would leave a favorable impression on Viserys.
As he considered how to address the young king, a trumpet blast announced Viserys's arrival.
Escorted by four white-cloaked Kingsguard, Viserys's black robes seemed even more resplendent.
Amid rising music, he walked steadily toward Rhaella, who stood before the throne.
"Our king cuts a fine figure, does he not?"
The voice came suddenly at Domeric's ear.
"Prince Oberyn."
Domeric was nothing like the infamous Ramsay Snow. He preferred poetry and music, a young nobleman of cultured taste.
"Many nobles from the Seven Kingdoms have come," Oberyn continued, "but not even their heirs. How does it feel, being surrounded by Starks?"
"Your Grace jests."
Domeric did not argue. It was not far from the truth.
After their defeat by House Stark generations ago, House Bolton had lost half its lands.
House Karstark had even raised Karhold northeast of the Dreadfort.
"In truth," Oberyn added casually, "I came to see whether Lyanna Stark truly lives."
The same rumor carried different meanings to different ears.
If Lyanna lived—and had truly loved Prince Rhaegar—then the Starks had lacked justification to rebel.
For a house like Bolton, known to shift allegiance when expedient, this possibility was reason enough to send their heir.
"There," Oberyn gestured with his chin toward the far side of the red carpet. "See for yourself."
The hall was crowded. Domeric had to stretch his neck to glimpse her.
He had seen Lyanna before. The Starks had raised her like a son. She was no stranger to public appearance.
For Oberyn, the matter remained awkward.
When he learned that "Aelia" had in fact been Lyanna, he had thought he misheard.
He had even considered confronting her.
But Elia had grown fond of her, and so he let the matter rest.
As for the dark-haired boy—bearing the name Targaryen—Oberyn still did not understand what Viserys intended.
"Do you believe the Baratheon dynasty will endure?" Domeric asked quietly.
By then, Viserys had reached the throne. Maester Faelor and Elder Lothan advanced together, bearing the Valyrian steel crown.
"You mean Robert?" Oberyn replied. "Without our king here, perhaps. He holds five of the Seven Kingdoms firmly. King Aerys had one and a half at best."
Dorne had been too remote to offer meaningful aid.
History had proven the dangers of overindulging border kingdoms. King Daeron II's concessions to Dorne had fueled the Blackfyre Rebellion.
Viserys showed little enthusiasm for another marriage alliance with House Martell.
Since the rebellion, Robert watched Dorne warily. The Martells needed the Targaryens more than the reverse.
Oberyn had accepted this truth.
"So the tales about King Viserys are true?" Domeric asked softly.
At that moment, Maester Faelor began proclaiming the king's titles.
His voice rang through the hall like a great bell.
"Viserys of House Targaryen, the Third of His Name, Protector of Westeros and All Its Realms, Lord of the Rhoynar—"
"Unless you think his Kingsguard lie," Oberyn murmured.
Then he raised his voice with the others.
"Long may he reign!"
"Long may he reign!"
"Long may he reign!"
Under countless watchful eyes, Viserys placed Aegon the Conqueror's crown upon his head.
After the ceremony, he answered House Bolton's gesture of goodwill.
Domeric was granted the first private audience.
Viserys had designed his reception chamber deliberately.
The floor was a map of the Seven Kingdoms and the Free Cities, covering two-thirds of the room.
It was a statement of ambition.
Domeric noticed it immediately.
Before he could speak, Viserys began weaving promises.
He led Domeric to the portion representing the North and pointed to the central river.
"The North is too vast. History has proven it a mistake to entrust it wholly to House Stark. One day, I will divide it in two. The White Knife and the Long Lake shall be the boundary."
He traced the western lands.
"West of the line, Stark."
Then he pointed east—toward Domeric.
"East... Bolton."
King Torrhen Stark had knelt too swiftly to Aegon the Conqueror.
Aegon had lacked the heart to break the North apart.
For a heartbeat, Domeric felt his blood stir.
Then he mastered himself.
"Your Grace may rest assured," he replied evenly. "House Bolton will gather men and strength, awaiting the day House Targaryen returns to Westeros to reclaim the Iron Throne."
He did not kneel.
His words were warm, but they contained a condition: the Targaryens must first succeed.
Still, House Bolton desired a Targaryen restoration.
Domeric offered intelligence in return.
"Your Grace, the Usurper's war against the Iron Islands nears its end. When it concludes, he may turn his attention to Gohor."
Viserys gave a short, dismissive laugh.
"I imagine Robert's treasury is nearly empty. To Gohor, he would need an expedition of three hundred thousand men."
"...Unless he can muster such a force, he should abandon the dream."
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