The sea stretched cold and endless, the salt wind biting at the skin and tugging at the sails of The Mermaid's Tears. Three days they had sailed, and still Arthur Manderly felt the restless pulse of the city behind him, King's Landing, with its banners and jesters and deadly shadows. Victory at the tourney should have been sweet, yet it weighed heavy in his chest.
Arthur stood at the prow, sable cloak fluttering behind him like a banner. His silver-blue surcoat glinted in the rising sun. The sea was calm, but Arthur felt the pull of the tides in his blood all the same. He had been at sea many times since he was a child, and it always felt like coming home.
"Land ahead, my lord," came the voice from behind, rough with wind and salt, carrying easily over the deck.
Arthur did not turn. He let his hand brush the hilt of Nightfall, feeling the cold certainty of the steel beneath his fingers. Life could be wrenched from the weak and the foolish in a heartbeat, he reminded himself. Hearts, promises, love, they were far less dependable than a sword in the right hand. Still, Arthur could not entirely banish them from his mind. Her face still haunted him, a thought he had welcomed and feared in equal measure.
Commodore Hothor Flint stepped up beside him, dark hair whipped by the wind, coat trimmed in the gray of his house. Seven years at Arthur's side had made him more than a sailor; he was a commander in his own right, a hero of the Manderly fleet.
"We're nearing Driftmark," Hothor said, his hand sweeping past the morning mist. "Hull lies just beyond that bend, and Castle Driftmark crowns the cliffs above it."
Arthur's eyes narrowed on the thin ribbon of land stretching along the horizon. "Good," he said. "The winds favor us."
"They usually do, my lord," the old man replied with a smirk, "The gods must love this ship, or mayhaps her Lord."
Arthur gave a small laugh, "One must always pray for their love."
Hothor leaned closer, voice low and warm. "Aye, my lord. Yet the tourney… the knights you bested… even the King could not hide his delight at your skill. Surely the Seven themselves have smiled upon you."
"You flatter me far too freely," Arthur said, "I am but a fortunate man, that is all."
The commodore inclined his head with a grin. "Aye, my lord. Fortune, perhaps, but I am certain that the gods walk beside you, as are the men. We will follow where you lead, and perhaps the gods will smile on us too."
The sound of retching carried across the deck, harsh against the rhythm of gulls and waves.
Arthur turned, lips curving despite himself, as Ser Donnel staggered up from below, green and pale and clinging to the rail like a drowning man.
"Gods save me from the sea," Donnel muttered miserably. "I was born for the saddle, not the waves."
"And yet here you are adrift once again and dying on the third day." Arthur shook his head, his voice laced with mock solemnity. "Pathetic."
A few sailors chuckled nearby, though they kept their eyes lowered. Donnel groaned louder at their mirth, glaring weakly at Arthur.
"I'd like to see you last half so well on a long ride," the knight grumbled.
Arthur arched a brow, the sunlight glinting off the silver threads of his surcoat. "Oh, I should think I would sit a horse as well as I do a ship, Ser. Though whether I'd look as comely as you do draped across a saddle… well, I suppose some things cannot be equaled."
The men laughed openly this time. The jest was light, it's sting softened by Arthur's easy tone. Donnel, despite himself, managed a crooked grin.
Donnel grunted, swaying with the deck. "This is your doing, you know. If only you'd listened to me and chosen the land over the sea, I'd not have to suffer like this again. Know this, when I die, I'll come back to haunt you."
Arthur laughed, "You've threatened me with worse, ser," he said, clapping Donnel on the shoulder. "You'll live. We'll reach Hull shortly. Then you may kiss dry land and thank the Seven for it."
"Thank the Seven, aye," Donnel muttered darkly, "then burn the ship."
The sailors broke into easy laughter, some slapping the rail, others shaking their heads with grins. Even Hothor allowed himself a broad smile, teeth flashing in his weathered face.
Arthur spread his hands in mock surrender, "Burn The Mermaid's Tears? I think not. She is far too fair a lady to be treated so cruelly. Better we let you burn incense before the sept once we land, Ser Donnel, and beg forgiveness for all the vile curses you've spat into the sea."
Donnel chuckled and winced, "If the gods ever forgive you, they might forgive me too."
"My lord, the harbor pilots signal us to follow in. Do you wish to disembark yourself, or shall we send word first?" asked Hothor.
Arthur replied. "Ready the boats. I'll go ashore with Ser Donnell and a few men. See that the gifts are loaded, and the rest of the fleet kept in order."
"As you command," said the commodore, bowing his head.
Arthur's gaze swept across the ships fanning out behind The Mermaid's Tears. Fifteen carracks, proud and high-decked, each bearing the merman of his house. Some men prized galleys for their swiftness, but Arthur knew better. Galleys lived and died in shallows. The carrack was a creature of the deep, broad-bellied and unyielding, a fortress on the waves, steady even in the rocking of the sea.
His ships bore three tiers of decks, with slitted sides for the new crossbows he'd commissioned, engines of war that spat arrows by the dozen. From those heights, his men could rain death upon any foe. The lower demands of sail and oar meant crews could be drilled not only as sailors but as warriors who could hold a blade as surely as a rope.
Upon each vessel, the siege engines waited, patiently. Stone and fire alike could be hurled at coastal keeps, breaking walls for the sea to pour through. His fleet was no vanity. It was power, wrought in oak and iron.
The boats creaked as they were lowered, ropes groaning like tired old men. Oars dipped into the cold brine, sending ripples across the bay. Arthur climbed down with the ease of long practice, boots striking wood with a sure, steady weight. The salt breeze tugged at his hair as they rowed, the prow cutting the water clean.
Hull's harbor guards in salt-stained mail stood to attention at the docks, spears upright. Beyond them, the castle of Driftmark rose from the cliffs, a black and battered sentinel, its stones scarred by salt and storm yet unbowed, the ancient strength of House Velaryon writ in weathered rock.
Above, the silver seahorse banners strained against the sea wind, their edges snapping like whips. Sailors paused in their work to watch, and dockhands bent the knee as Arthur passed, his sable cloak streaming behind him.
At the gates of the keep, Lord Monford Velaryon waited, clad in sea-blue and silvered mail, his cloak fastened with a white gold brooch. He had long fair hair and a beard that started turning grey. Beside him stood Lady Arwen, her gown a shimmer of pearl-studded silk that caught the morning light. Her blue eyes shone bright with pride.
"Ser Arthur," Lord Monford said, stepping forward to clasp him in a tight embrace. "You return to us a knight now."
"The stories already crossed the Narrow Sea," Lady Arwen added, her voice warm. "The singers have much to thank you for."
Arthur's lips curved into a small, easy smile as he stepped forward and bowed his head slightly. "Lord Monford, Lady Arwen," he said, "it does my heart well to see you both again. Driftmark looks finer for your keeping."
Lady Arwen turned to her children. "Come, little ones. Meet your cousin."
Arthur knelt slightly to meet the children's level, his cloak settling around him like a dark tide. Monterys peeked from behind his father's leg, wide-eyed, while Laena clutched the edge of her mother's gown, curious but cautious. Little Lucerys, however, stepped forward with unsteady courage.
"It is good to see you all. I see you've grown strong, and I hope your mischief has grown as well."
Lady Arwen laughed softly, "They become more troublesome every passing moment."
Arthur laughed, brushing Monterys's hair, "No harm done, cousins. Though I hear it is not polite to bother your elders…But I shall forgive you if you try."
Laena giggled, and even shy little Lucerys offered a tentative smile.
Lord Monford laughed. "Come, come. You've grown thinner than last I saw you. Driftmark is yours, as ever."
"I thank you," Arthur replied, stepping inside. "But my stay must be brief. I've been too long away from White Harbor. My grandfather awaits."
Lord Monford stepped closer, voice warm, "You must stay at least a night, Arthur. Your grandfather has missed you, and so have we. Let the sea wind rest your bones before you brave the journey north."
Lady Arwen's hand brushed lightly against his arm, her smile gentle. "There is time enough for White Harbor. Even a brief stay here would gladden our hearts, and the children would be overjoyed to have their cousin near."
Arthur returned their smiles, "Your hospitality honors me, truly," he said, bowing his head slightly. "But duty calls me north. Perhaps another time."
Lady Arwen sighed softly, as if she had expected it already. Lord Monford sighed, a mixture of amusement and resignation. "Always the prudent one, Arthur. Very well, but you will not leave without taking a meal with us."
Arthur's smile deepened, "I would not dare, my lord."
Servants set each gift before its intended recipient with careful attention, letting the light of the hall catch on polished surfaces and delicate fabrics. Fine Arbor wine, amber as sunset, gleamed in its crystal; three bolts of Merling lace shimmered like water under torchlight; a small chest of saffron perfumed the air with its golden spice.
Jewels sparkled for Lady Arwen and Laena, delicate chains and rings that caught the eye without ostentation. Toys for little Lucerys, wooden ships, carved animals lay neatly arranged, and finally, a blade polished to a pale sheen, rested before Monterys. Its hilt gleamed faintly in the torchlight.
LordnMonford leaned forward, inspecting the blade with the practiced eye, "White Steel?" he asked, his finger tracing the pale, flawless steel.
Arthur inclined his head. "For Monterys. When he is ready."
They dined in the great hall, the scent of roasted fish and salt filling the air, and drank to one another, goblets clinking. Laughter and light conversation rippled around the hall, yet Arthur's mind remained bound to the distant memories. As the hour waned and the tide threatened to turn, Arthur rose, bowing with quiet grace and bidding his goodbyes.
Outside, the wind whipped through his cloak and tangled his hair, carrying the cries of gulls and the brine of the harbor.
Lord Monford walked beside him. "Your ships," he said, gesturing to the fleet arrayed in the bay, "they sail swifter than mine ever could. And your harbormasters speak more tongues than I've heard in a lifetime."
"They've had to learn," Arthur replied, "There are tongues in Qarth and Leng yet they don't know."
Lord Monford shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Ambitious as ever, Arthur. We owe you more than coin or sails. You've breathed life into our harbors."
Arthur inclined his head, "We've made each other stronger,"
Lord Monford, placed a hand on his shoulders. "Monterys turns six next moon. I would be honored if you take him as your page, and when he's of age, your squire."
"It would be an honor," Arthur replied. "He is a good boy and would become a great man like his father."
Lord Monford gave a satisfied smile. Arthur followed him down the winding stone paths from the keep toward the harbor, the scent of salt and seaweed growing sharper with every step.
"Aurane has brought what you asked for," Lord Monford said, his voice low, "He found the cargo near Lys."
Arthur's lips curved in a small, measured smile. "And where is it?"
"The beach," Monford said, nodding toward the white sands below the cliffs. "He awaits you there."
The path opened to a crescent of sand, where the surf licked at the shore. Standing near the tide was Aurane Waters, Lord Monford's baseborn brother, his silver-gold hair slick and shining, flanked by a handful of armed men. Between them, a young man knelt, hands bound, a coarse cloth covering his head.
Aurane bowed low, "My lord," he said, voice steady. "Lord Admiral."
Arthur's eyes swept over him with calm assessment, noting the ease of the guards, the readiness in Aurane's stance. His lips curled into a thin smile. "Good to see you, commodore. How was your expedition?"
Aurane's smirk was thin and confident. "Very easy, my lord. They were right where you told us they'd be. We boarded their galley under cover of night and retrieved him without a whisper of warning."
Arthur nodded approvingly. "Good work, as always." He reached for a pouch at his belt and threw it. "A small bonus for the effort. You earned it."
Aurane accepted it with gratitude measured in the tilt of his head.
Arthur's gaze then settled on the bound figure. He spoke with quiet authority. "Remove the cover."
Aurane lifted the coarse cloth with a swift motion. The young man beneath it spat curses in Bastard Valyrian, his words sharp, proud, venomous. "Do you know who I am, bastards? My father is the Sealord of Braavos!"
Arthur's eyes narrowed as he said, "And that is precisely why you are here. I knew your father would have sent an assassin to kill me sooner or later. But a faceless man, that I did not expect. By the grace of the gods, I survived. Now I'll make certain it stays that way."
He turned to Aurane with a single nod. The guards reacted instantly, seizing the young man and forcing his right hand forward. The boy screamed, calling for aid that would not reach the gods, nor any man willing to answer.
Aurane lifted his axe with measured precision. Arthur watched, calm as the tide, as the blade fell and severed the hand at the wrist. A scream split the morning air, raw and desperate. The hand was placed in a carved, gilded box. Aurane wrote on a paper with the man's blood, Take your contract away, or more will follow.
The wound was cauterized, smoke curling from cloth pressed to it, and the young man was bound and gagged. His eyes, wild and terrified, met Arthur's for only a moment before being dragged toward the boats.
Arthur's low voice cut through the chaos, "To the flagship. Keep him alive."
Arthur stood on the wind-battered beach, the tide pulling at the sand like a restless hand. Monford and Aurane were the only ones left beside him, the chaos of the harbor and the captured Braavosi fading into the air.
Monford's gaze was fixed on him, the lines of age and worry softening his usually stern expression. "Did you really face a faceless assassin?" he asked, voice low, almost uncertain.
Arthur's jaw tightened slightly. "Aye. I was lucky," he said. "A few moments later, I would not stand here today."
Monford's brow furrowed further. "Was this… necessary, Arthur? Will it stop the contract?"
Aurane, ever eager to speak before caution, scoffed. "Of course it was. The bastard Braavosi sends assassins in the night. We should invade Braavos, burn the city to the ground, leave none alive to threaten us again."
Monford's voice was sharp, his patience fraying. "Do not speak of war like it is a game, Aurane. Arthur is trying his best to make sure we do not have to go to war."
Arthur's eyes scanned the distant horizon, he spoke, "It seems there may be no options left. And yet, I would see blood spilled only if there is no other path. We have Myr on our side, Tyrosh can be bent if we gain Lys."
Monford's concern deepened, lines etching further into his forehead. "Are matters in Lys truly so dire?"
Arthur's jaw tightened. "Aye. If we do not gain their alliance, we cannot take the Stepstones. Without the Stepstones, the trade route on the Narrow Sea and our holdings remain uncertain and under threat. Control over the isles is everything. Tell me, how goes the preparations?"
Monford straightened, "We have fortified port towns on Sunstone and the Shame Isle. That gives us a clear, safe route, with our previous fortified positions on Estermont and Tarth as well."
Aurane shifted, "My fleet is stretched thin, my lord. Corsairs. Reavers. Pirates. They're all growing bold. The southern fleet, under Ser Desmond Redwyne, can't help either. Without him, the summer isles are vulnerable."
"Then I will dispatch commodore Alyn Storm with a fleet of ten warships," Arthur said, "He will take command at Estermont. That will double our fleet there and protect the route. Our forts will hold."
Arthur returned to the harbor once again. Donnel and his men standing in wait. Monford clasped Arthur's shoulder, a rough, affectionate grip. "May the gods watch over your journey, Arthur."
"Lord Monford, till next time," Arthur replied. With that, he turned, boots crunching over the wooden planks, and climbed into the waiting boat.
Donnel, oblivious to the grim business at the beach, greeted him with a weak smile and a hand to his stomach. "Ready to sail again, my lord?"
Arthur answered with a short chuckle, "Indeed, Ser Donnel. The sea calls, and we must answer."
The oars dipped into the water, and the boat carved a path through the bay toward his flagship, The Mermaid's Tears, her hull gleaming and sails snapping in the wind. As he stepped aboard, the familiar creak of deckboards underfoot brought him a measure of satisfaction.
Commodore Hothor approached, voice low. "My lord, the prisoner, what do you wish done?"
Arthur replied softly, "He is of high value. Keep him alive, keep him safe. When we reach White Harbor, transfer him to the Wolf's Den. His fate will be decided later."
Hothor inclined his head, "It will be done, my lord."
The fleet began to stir, sails snapping, the first mate calling out orders, ropes straining against timbers. The Mermaid's Tears cut into the tide with her usual grace, leading the armada out of the bay.