Plans, Reformations, and Machinations (3)

The Black Dread groaned like a dying beast as she cut through the waves, her ironwood hull protesting against the relentless assault of the Narrow Sea. From the quarterdeck, I watched Volantis shrink into the horizon—first the Black Walls disappeared, then the Long Bridge, until only the Titan's torch remained visible, a flickering ember against the bruised dawn sky. 

Aserion screeched overhead, his obsidian wings snapping taut as he rode the thermals. Below decks, the rhythmic thud of Gondorian boots echoed through the ship's bones as Boromir drilled his men in the cramped hold. The scent of salt, sweat, and fresh timber filled my nostrils—the perfume of conquest. 

"Making your farewells, Dragonlord?" 

Captain Nycho Testoris appeared at my elbow, his Braavosi accent curling around the words like smoke. The man had a face like sun-bleached driftwood and eyes that missed nothing. 

I took a measured sip of Dornish red. "Admiring my handiwork." 

Nycho chuckled, his gold-capped teeth glinting. "Aye, leaving behind a city that doesn't know whether to worship or fear you. Clever work." He spat over the rail. "Though I'd wager the little princess is the true prize you're leaving undefended." 

My grip tightened on the goblet. Daenerys' silver hair flashed in my memory—how it had caught the lamplight when she'd bid me farewell in the Maegyr manse, her violet eyes unreadable.

I had been avoiding my feelings ever since I arrived in this world, but I had to admit it to myself: I loved her.

People might be quick to judge, saying I barely knew her—but that wasn't true. I had the real Viserys's memories, and I had my own from every time I watched her on the big screen before I was reincarnated. I had been infatuated with her, like a celebrity crush—that was all i could ever hope for in my past life.

Back then, I was an old man with two divorces and five kids, none of whom spoke to me. No one cared whether I lived or died. But in this life, I was a young man with everything I could ever want.

The only thing really holding me back from being with her… was the fact that, in this body, she was my sister.

But who from my world would be here to judge me? It's not like the people I left behind were watching my story.

"Kinvara has two hundred Fiery Hand warriors guarding her," I said evenly. "And Rhaegal." 

The captain made a noncommittal noise. "Dragons and priests. Let's hope they're enough against Volantene politics." 

"Whoever tries anything is getting burned alive," I replied.

Aserion chose that moment to dive, skimming the waves before pulling up sharply to deposit a flopping tuna at my feet. The fish's gills flared as it gasped its last. 

Nycho eyed the offering. "Your beast has peculiar tastes." 

"Breakfast," I said, nudging the fish toward him with my boot. 

The Braavosi captain grinned and shouted for his cabin boy. "Clean this and have it roasted with lemon! We'll eat like kings today!" 

The deckhands cheered. The Gondorians, looking vaguely seasick, did not. 

--- 

The storm hit on the eleventh day. 

It rose on the horizon like a bruise—purple-black and throbbing with lightning. The sea went from glassy calm to churning madness between one watch and the next. 

"All hands!" Tycho bellowed, his voice barely audible over the shrieking wind. "Reef the sails! Batten the—" 

A wave the size of the Red Keep's tallest tower slammed into our port side. The deck tilted at a sickening angle, sending barrels, ropes, and three unfortunate deckhands tumbling into the frothing dark. 

I barely kept my feet, grabbing the mainmast as seawater sloshed around my knees. Aserion clung to the bowsprit like some demonic figurehead, his wings spread wide against the gale. Lightning flashed, illuminating his obsidian scales, and for a heartbeat, he looked like Balerion reborn. 

Then the next wave hit. 

The world upended. Saltwater filled my nose, my mouth, my lungs. I was airborne for a terrifying moment— 

—until Boromir's gauntleted hand caught my wrist, hauling me back onto the deck with a grunt. The Gondorian captain had lashed himself to the helm, his other arm wrapped around a pale-faced cabin boy. 

"Your men can't swim!" he roared over the tempest. 

I spat seawater and activated the system: 

[Emergency Protocol: Storm Survival]

Cost: 5,000 DP

Effect: Stabilize vessel for 12 hours

The DP drained, and a golden light flared along the ship's rails. The Black Dread shuddered, then steadied, cutting through the waves like a blade through silk. 

Nycho crossed himself. "Sorcery." 

Boromir's grip tightened on his sword. "Witchcraft." 

I wiped salt from my eyes. "Practicality." 

For the next twelve hours, we rode out the storm in eerie calm—our ship an island of stillness in the raging sea. The Gondorians huddled below decks, praying to their foreign gods, while the Braavosi sailors drank and sang shanties about mermaids and lost treasure. 

And I was just thinking—planning. That's really all I could do during this trip: think, talk, and plan. I was no sea captain; I was the farthest thing from anyone who could man a boat. I was just an ex–fighter pilot for the U.S. Air Force. The air was more my domain—and the ground too. I had served in Afghanistan. The horrors I saw there were probably what kept me so… sane, ever since I became Viserys.

I didn't think most people could've handled it—but I did.

Now, I have everything I ever wanted. But I want more.

That feeling I get when those Red God fanatics worship me—it's… enthralling. Being seen as a god. Many men dream of it, but few ever come close. No—none do. Even the most ambitious men on Earth never had what I have. They had followers. I am being divinized.

I am divine.

And that just makes me want to keep going. It's not about survival. I don't want the Iron Throne because I want to survive—I want it because I crave power.

I don't just want the Iron Throne. I want all the thrones in this world. I want to conquer Planetos. I want to be more than just a king, more than an emperor.

I want to be a god. A God-Emperor.

That has a nice ring to it.

The Dragon God-Emperor.

Many in the world of Game of Thrones had ambitions and aspirations—but none as grand as mine.

Aserion, exhausted from battling the winds, curled around my shoulders like a living scarf as I took watch at the prow. 

I stroked the dragon's spines, feeling the heat beneath his scales. "Just a little longer, my friend." 

---

Week three brought pirates. 

They came at dawn's first light—three Lysene galleys with sails the color of dried blood. Their leader, a one-eyed brute who claimed to be Salladhor Saan's less fortunate cousin, stood on the prow waving a notched cutlass. 

"Yield and we'll only rape half of you!" 

His words startled me—there was only one woman on the ship, so this man, who claimed to be Salladhor Saan's cousin, wanted to rape a boat full of men.

My expression was the same as any straight man's would be upon hearing those words.

I turned around and looked toward Boromir.

He didn't wait for orders. 

"Archers!" 

Zauriel and her Gondorian bowmen loosed their first volley before the pirates finished their threat. Steel-tipped arrows found throats, eyes, and hearts with lethal precision. The second volley set the lead galley's sails aflame. 

The third never came, because Aserion got bored. 

My black dragon dove from the clouds like a falling star, his maw opening to unleash a stream of fire that turned the second galley into a floating pyre. The pirates' screams were lost in the roar of the flames.

As I looked at Aserion, the observations I'd been making over the past few weeks proved true—he was growing fast. Faster than Daenerys's dragons did in the show. I didn't know if it was because of the system or the way they were born, but they were maturing at an incredible rate.

Aserion was already the size of a donkey, and he'd only been born two months ago.

We fished a few survivors from the wreckage. 

"Mercy!" the one-eyed leader gurgled as Boromir held him over the rail. 

I crouched beside him. "Tell me, did any of your victims beg for mercy?" 

I paused and looked at him, my face twisted in confusion.

"Also, who screams out that they're going to rape a boat full of men? Are you lot just a crew of gay pirates or something?"

His face answered for him. 

I nodded to Boromir, who dropped him. The sharks finished the rest. 

That night, as the crew celebrated with stolen Lysene wine, Nycho sidled up to me at the prow. 

"You're a ruthless bastard, Dragonlord." He offered me a flask of something that smelled like liquid fire. "I like that in a employer." 

I took a swig, the liquor burning a path to my stomach. "Wait until we reach Astapor." 

---

On the thirty-seventh night i couldn't sleep. 

I was lying on my bed, bored. The past week had been uneventful—nothing interesting to do. Ever since the pirate attack, the voyage had become calm and quiet. I spent most of my free time reading books I bought from the system. They were cheap. I caught up on some light novels I had been reading before I died, but that got boring fast.

So, I decided to browse the system for anything interesting it might have. Not that I had much DP left to spend.

The 2,000 Gondorians were cheap—sure, each individual soldier only cost 20 DP—but multiply that by 2,000, and I had blown 40,000 DP on them. Almost all of my points.

The blue system panel popped up before me, displaying:

[Current DP: 14,432]

As I stared at the number, I sighed. Better than nothing, I supposed.

While thinking back through the system's features, I suddenly remembered one I hadn't touched since the day I arrived—the Wheel of Fortune. I'd been so busy that I'd completely forgotten about it.

Before I died, I had been a gambling addict. I'm sure that crappy goddess knew that when she reincarnated me—and gave me a way to gamble myself into a second death.

Still, with everything that had happened, it had slipped my mind.

Well… it couldn't hurt, right? One spin. It's not like I could afford more. I only had 14,000 DP, and one spin cost 10,000.

Goddamn it—I could've gotten five spins if I hadn't bought that damn army.

Wait… wait. Calm down. This is your new life. Gambling won't hold you back this time.

He thought it was best not to gamble.

"Ah, fuck it. Ninety-nine percent of gamblers quit before a big win," I muttered.

I tapped the wheel and paid for the spin. It started spinning. And spinning. And spinning. My anxiety climbed with every turn—until it finally stopped.

Wait… wait—

"YES! FUCK YES!" I screamed, probably waking the entire ship.

I hadn't wasted my points. I got the Super Soldier Serum.

It wasn't some kind of cosmic power, but it was a hell of a lot better than, say, a shoe with poop inside—yes, that was actually one of the possible prizes.

The Super Soldier Serum would make me strong. Probably the strongest man in this world.

I smiled, feeling more and more prepared for what was to come.

---

At dawn on the forty-second day, the lookout's cry shattered the morning calm: 

"Land ho!" 

Astapor rose from the sea like a festering wound—its infamous red brick walls stained by centuries of blood and shit, the Great Harpy statue looming over the harbor like a vulture over carrion. The stench hit us first, a miasma of slavery and death that made even the battle-hardened Gondorians gag. 

Nycho spat over the rail. "Welcome to hell." 

Boromir adjusted his sword belt, his face grim. "My men are ready." 

I smiled, watching Aserion circle above the city, his shadow darkening the slave markets below. 

"Same as always." 

Fire. 

And.

Blood.