"Gods, look at that!" Marcus cried out, pointing at the water.
Clement followed his finger and saw a stone-gray hand rising from the surface. Looking closer, he caught sight of a pair of numb, despairing eyes beneath the water.
Then the eyes moved.
"AHh!"
Gorys, who had also noticed, let out a strangled yell and dropped straight onto his backside.
Corpses in the water were not unusual—but corpses that moved were another matter entirely.
On another ship, Viserys saw even more of the same scene.
Near a shallow stretch, hundreds of such hands were thrusting up from the water.
Bodies were piled beneath the surface, and through the distortion of the rippling water, they looked like densely writhing masses of flesh.
Judging by the scale, this place seemed to be a deliberately created dumping ground for corpses.
Even so, none of that was what concerned Viserys the most.
His true focus was on the stone men standing on the Bridge of Dreams, all staring straight at him.
He recalled the Old Turtle's warning.
'Prince Garin delights in tormenting those with Valyrian blood.'
It was said that victims of greyscale moved slowly, their bodies weakened and even their minds impaired.
Yet as Viserys scanned the surroundings, he felt that more stone men could burst out of the fog and ruins at any moment.
They felt no pain, fought without fear—like crude imitations of the Others.
As the fleet drew closer, the scene atop the broken bridge became clearer. There were hundreds of stone men, their exposed skin like dried bark.
Their tattered clothing resembled burial shrouds, or perhaps diseased flesh fused with fabric.
They all shared one trait: emaciation.
Every one of them looked like a bundle of dry kindling.
Driven by hunger, these wretched figures stood on the bridge, gazing at the fleet in hope of food.
The ships halted before the Bridge of Dreams.
Following Viserys's orders, Clement brought food toward the bridge.
"Everyone be careful," he warned. "Do not touch them. Their minds are long gone. If they get too close, drive them back with torches!"
Before the ships even reached the shore, the stone men rushed down from the bridge in a chaotic wave.
Those on the other side could only watch helplessly.
Some of the more deranged stone men leapt straight from the broken span, splashing into the river below.
The white columns of water rose as high as a man. It meant their bodies were far denser than those of ordinary people.
Those who failed to get food slapped desperately at the stone railings of the bridge.
Soon, Marcus brought another ship around to deliver food to the stone men on the opposite side.
Once again, there was a frantic scramble, and in moments the bridge—previously packed with figures—was completely emptied.
Was it just my imagination earlier?
Recalling the looks in those stone men's eyes, Viserys felt a trace of doubt.
But with the immediate danger gone, there was no reason to linger.
He ordered the soldiers to clear parts of the channel to ensure the rest of the fleet could pass.
Greyscale damaged eyesight, something evident in the stone men's cloudy eyes. Their sense of smell, however, remained sharp.
Some sniffed the air vigorously, trying to catch the scent of food.
Viserys stood on deck, watching them while keeping alert to his surroundings. He noticed more scattered stone men emerging from ruins within the fog.
It seemed the Bridge of Dreams was occupied by those with relatively milder symptoms—only the stronger among them could hold such a position.
Soon, fights broke out over the food.
Stone men clawed at each other, tearing at the rags clinging to their bodies.
Perhaps because their throats had also "turned to stone," they made no curses or shouts while fighting.
The scene was twisted, eerie, and faintly absurd.
Even a mute man would normally grunt or cry out. Here, the silent struggle only made it stranger.
Viserys did not mock them.
As a ruler intent on bringing the Rhoyne under his control, he was more interested in finding a way to cure—or at least prevent—greyscale.
The Golden Fields, caught between Nasar and Chroyane, were far too tempting.
Gohor was safe enough for defense, but limited in ambition.
In the future, Nasar would be Viserys's second target.
And after seeing Nasar and Chroyane, he had lost all interest in building mere castles. Within the Walls of Balerion, a palace would be far more fitting.
Just as Viserys raised his spyglass again, he suddenly noticed the fog thickening.
He looked back toward the stone men fighting over food—and could barely make them out.
At that moment, a violent surge of water magic erupted behind him.
Prince Garin?!
His heart clenched.
"Get them back on the ships!" he shouted to the guards beside him.
"Now!"
The guards did not hesitate, immediately relaying the order to the soldiers still clearing the channel.
"All hands aboard! Get back on the ships!"
The sudden command threw the entire fleet into chaos.
Before long, the Bridge of Dreams was once again crowded with stone men, packed together like dry twigs.
This time, Viserys could clearly feel the hostility radiating from them.
"Your Majesty, a fleet has appeared behind us!"
Arthur's voice rang out.
Viserys climbed to the top of the ship and looked back—there truly was a fleet behind them.
At least thirty or forty ships, blocking the river completely. The sight instantly reminded him of ghost ships from old tales.
The sails were in tatters, the hulls riddled with holes. Seaweed hung from the masts, as if the vessels had just risen from the riverbed.
Encountering a single ghost ship would have been bad enough.
He had run into an entire ghost fleet.
This kind of spectacle was nowhere in the original histories.
There was no time to dwell on it. Viserys touched the turtle shell hidden on his person, just in case.
"Battle formation one!"
Arthur roared the command.
With enemies ahead and behind, they were completely trapped. They could flee to the shore—but whatever awaited there would likely be even worse.
Arthur had already steeled himself for sacrifice.
Then he saw a figure standing at the prow of the lead ghost ship. A man wrapped head to toe in strips of cloth.
The leader of the fleet.
Prince Garin himself.
The one who took pleasure in tormenting those with Valyrian blood.
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