On the right side of the Upper Rhoyne basin, the rolling hills were lush with green. Atop one such hill stood the grey-brown Viserys Fort, imposing and solitary.
A simple, unadorned Andal wagon rattled along the mountain road of Viserys Hill.
Behind the wagon trailed several dozen Andal guards, gawking at their surroundings like country bumpkins seeing the world for the first time.
The current Andals were truly reduced to village-level skirmishes, incomparable to the city-states around them.
They were eager to learn more about this newcomer who had defeated their allied village forces—the one the septon called the "Warrior Incarnate."
Through the wagon windows, the elders gazed up at the stone castle atop the hill.
"Is he a man worth following?" one of the Andal village elders asked Septon Ebony of Andalos with concern.
These elders were mostly the wise old men of the Andals—elderly, white-haired figures.
In their youth, they had been outstanding septons, warriors, merchants, hunters, or skilled in crafts like medicine, smithing, or shipbuilding. In short, they held great prestige in their villages.
"He is handsome, and dangerous. But most importantly, he has charisma. King Viserys fights like a king," Ebony introduced.
"But this 'King' of yours currently commands only a few hundred men and a single hill," an elder grumbled. "You're leading us down a risky path, Ebony."
"Even if it's risky, can it be worse than the Andals' current situation?" Bishop Ebony countered dismissively. "We are sheep living in a wolf's den. Bandits, mercenaries, slavers, Dothraki savages—any power can bully us. Rather than lingering on like this, why not gamble?"
The other elders knew Ebony's description was accurate; they just felt that a collective submission by the villages was a bit radical.
But then again, the native Andals had been in decline for centuries. This muddled existence truly offered no hope.
Bishop Ebony looked at the other elders. "Don't forget, the villages lost many young men in the battle at the hill. Without armed protection, our villages will soon be bullied by others. Defeat is terrifying, but worse are the slavers snatching our wives and children. His Grace Viserys is a magnanimous man; he will not bully the Andals. He intends to revitalize Andalos and become the true King of the Andals."
"I hope you are right," an elder said. "We have languished in the seven hells for too long. Only a messenger of the Seven can revive the Andals."
"Trust me. I have found the Warrior incarnate," Bishop Ebony said with conviction.
Wooooo— The horn on the watchtower sounded, signaling new arrivals.
"We've arrived at Viserys Fort." Bishop Ebony pointed to the fortress in view. The three-headed black dragon banner fluttered from the towers.
Although the fort wasn't particularly magnificent, it was shocking enough for these village Andals. It was a living, breathing new castle.
After all, the Andals had reverted to tribalism. Their towns had been destroyed repeatedly, and they no longer had the courage or strength to build towns and castles.
Myr and Tyrosh were city-states, but those were foreign castles. This time, a castle and town were reappearing in Andalos.
"The defenses here are tight," an elder observed. The inner walls were well-repaired, the outer walls were taking shape, and there was a wooden palisade layer.
Soldiers with crossbows patrolled the walls in rotation.
Guards manned the inner and outer gates of Viserys Fort. Many of them were former Andals.
They had adapted to their new jobs, their demeanor different from their previous half-farmer, half-bandit state.
Most soldiers wore black armor—chainmail or leather—and those without armor wore the badge of the black dragon on red.
"Elders, Bishop Ebony, His Grace Viserys awaits you inside the castle," a middle-aged knight in black armor said politely. His blue surcoat was embroidered with two crossed black warhammers on a white saltire.
"Thank you, Lord Roland," Bishop Ebony replied hastily.
The Andal elders looked at the black-armored knight. His fine clothes, spirited horse, and capable aura set him apart from the local Andals at a glance.
Iron-armored knights were once the pride of the Andals of Andalos, but their descendants had long since lost their ancestors' glory.
The wagon passed through the passage of Viserys Fort. The elders tried to calm their anxious hearts.
Ebony of Andalos had successfully persuaded dozens of Andal villages to submit to Viserys. This fit the Andal status quo; they always clung to the strong.
After alighting from the wagon, Ebony and the village elders followed Roland to the training ground, which was surrounded by soldiers.
A small joust was underway. They saw knights charging at each other on horseback.
The dragon banner was everywhere inside Viserys Fort: on towers, the sept, the kitchen, the barracks.
"A joust." Many Andal elders' eyes lit up. Tourneys between villages were rare, as knights were scarce.
The Andal elders still yearned for the past, when the Smith taught the Andals to forge iron and the Warrior demanded bravery.
Back then, Andal knights had iron armor and iron swords, righteous knights championed justice everywhere, and jousts were held in flower-filled fields. That was the Golden Age of the Andals.
"Please wait a moment; His Grace is jousting," Ser Roland said apologetically.
The Andal elders didn't mind; they watched with relish.
The knight on the black horse in black armor with a visor was the King; the other was a knight in white armor on a white horse.
Both used jousting lances. While jousting didn't fully demonstrate combat strength, it showed horsemanship and balance perfectly.
The two warhorses charged, lances lowered.
As the horses crossed, Viserys smoothly shifted his body, dodging the opponent's strike. His movement was as agile as a cheetah, anticipating the blow.
Then, Viserys struck the white knight with his lance, unhorsing him with a crash.
The Andal elders watched intently. Judging by this horsemanship and power, their fallen warriors like One-Eye and Toadleg were indeed small fry in comparison.
Then a second rider boldly stepped up to challenge the King. After a few rounds, Viserys struck him, sending him tumbling from his horse while his mount grazed leisurely.
This comical display provoked laughter from the crowd.
"Long live the King!"
"Long live Viserys!"
"The Warrior!"
"The Warrior!"
The onlookers chanted Viserys's name, mesmerized.
The Andal elders were thoughtful. Militarily, this little king at least had the personal skill to back himself up.
Viserys removed his helmet. He accepted the praise, but he kept climbing.
Viserys rode over to Ebony and saw the group of elders who had come from afar.
He sat on his black stallion, clad in black scale armor, a longsword and dragonbone Valyrian steel dagger at his waist.
His black cloak bore the Targaryen three-headed red dragon sigil. His short silver-gold hair shone in the sun, and his violet eyes were full of determination.
"You have come a long way. Thank you for your trouble," Viserys said.
"It is our supreme honor," Bishop Ebony replied.
The other elders immediately echoed him.
"This is the elder of Rock Village..."
"This is the elder of Black Swan Village..."
---
Bishop Ebony introduced them to Viserys one by one.
"The Andals have been downtrodden for too long. I am glad you support my cause, which is also the cause of Andal revitalization... Unite! Andals shall never be slaves! Let us make Andalos glorious again," Viserys told the elders, his handsomeness and bearing unmatched.
Viserys's speech left the Andal elders dizzy; they couldn't handle such oratory.
"His Grace Viserys is the incarnation of the Warrior! The Seven light the way ahead! Blessed are the warriors who fight for King Viserys!" Bishop Ebony shouted loudly.
"King of the Andals." The atmosphere was ripe, and the elders shouted a few phrases too.
It was fitting. Robert was King of the Andals in Westeros; Viserys would be King of the Andals in Andalos.