The sea had softened with the hour, its surface turned to beaten silver beneath the dying light. Sails hung slack above, flapping with a lazy rhythm, while gulls wheeled far overhead, their cries little more than whispers on the wind. Ten days gone from King's Landing, and at last the journey neared its end. White Harbor lay just beyond the horizon.
A knock came at the cabin door, firm and familiar.
"Enter," Arthur said, not raising his eyes from the parchment before him.
The door swung wide, and Ser Donnel Locke filled the frame, broad as an oaken beam, his doublet half-unfastened, hair tossed by wind and spray. A dusty bottle of Arbor red dangled from his hand, and two pewter goblets clinked at his belt.
"I thought you might need this," Donnel said, striding forward without waiting for leave.
Arthur raised his eyes from the ledger before him. "Breaking into my stores now, are we?"
Donnel kicked the door shut with his boot and snorted, "You can afford to lose a cask or two." He raised his brow, "Or did you forget you're an anointed knight now?"
"I thought you said I was only a humble bookkeeper," Arthur said, smirking.
"I never said that..... I said you were a bloody annoying one," Donnel set the goblets down with a clang and worked the cork free with all the subtlety of a smith at his forge. The sweet arbor red spilled into the cups. "We'll see White Harbor by dusk tomorrow."
The quill lingered between Arhur's fingers, ink dripping idly upon the parchment. His lips curved faintly, "The gods are merciful, then. Another day at sea and I'd have been forced to bury you over the rail, Donnel."
Donnel snorted and replied. "If I were meant for water, I'd have been born a fish." He passed a brimming goblet across the table and lifted his own with a grunt. He said, voice steady as an oath. "To White Harbor!"
Arthur raised his cup, the iron rim cold against his fingers. "To home."
The goblets rang softly as they touched. The wine was sharp, rich, and heavy on his tongue.
"How do you feel?" Donnel asked at last, lowering his cup, his eyes fixed upon Arthur as if searching for secrets in the lines of his face. "Coming home after eight years gone."
Arthur turned the goblet in his hand, watching the dark wine cling to the sides like blood to steel. "I've returned often enough, you old goat. Last year and the years before."
"You know what I mean," Donnel said, leaning back into the chair, its wood creaking beneath his weight. His voice was steady, but softer now. "Those were visits. This time is different. This time you return not as a guest, but as a son reclaimed. This time you stay."
Arthur's gaze drifted toward the narrow window, where night had claimed the sea. The waters glimmered beneath starlight, each ripple catching the moon's silver glow, shifting like silk drawn across the waves. He let the silence linger. His fingers tapping softly against the rim of the goblet.
He'd been so buried in ledgers, trade figures, loan contracts, and shipping manifests, he'd almost succeeded in forgetting. Almost. A single glance at the misty waters could summon those bright green eyes and pale gold curls. The sound of her voice carried like wind over the tide. Marie.
Arthur pressed the thought down, where it would not betray him in the curve of his mouth or the cloud of his eyes. When he turned back, he did so with a sly grin, "My lord-grandfather will be champing at the bit," he said, forcing a note of levity. "I'd wager he's lined up every maiden in the realm for my inspection already."
Donnel chuckled, "As he should. You're the heir of White Harbor, lad. Marriage is your duty now. Time you stopped pretending otherwise."
Arthur scoffed, raising his brow. "Is that so? Ser Donnel Locke, veteran of the Trident, scion of House Locke, and famed bachelor of the North, now preaches the virtues of matrimony?"
Donnel raised his hands in mock defense. "I'm the fourth son of Lord Ondrew Locke. I was born to no lands, no keep, no title. All my brothers are wed and fed. All thanks to your grandfather's generosity and matchmaking. They've got wives and children, and warm hearths to go back to."
Arthur leaned back, "And you're two-and-thirty and still unmarried. Spare me the lectures."
The knight's mouth twitched, half amused, half resigned. "And I've no duties but you, Arthur. You've no such freedom. You're your house's heir, and the weight of White Harbor rides on your shoulders. As your sworn shield and the captain of your guards, I'll say it plain: It's time you took a wife."
Arthur teased, raising his cup again. "You've no responsibilities. You could vanish to the Wall and your lord father might send his gratitude."
That earned them both a laugh, deep and rolling, enough to fill the cabin and drown out the groan of wood and crash of waves. For a heartbeat it was easy, light, But laughter, like wine, runs dry soon enough. When the mirth ebbed, Donnel's eyes had gone distant. "Your parents would've wanted you wed by now."
Arthur felt the words strike like a mace. His chest tightened, and for a long moment he had no answer. "Aye," he said at last, voice softer than he meant, the word slipping from him like a sigh.
For a long moment, they drank without words, silence companionable as the waves beyond the hulls. The candle guttered, throwing shadows across the cabin walls, and Arthur found himself staring at the slow sway of flame.
"I think of Ser William often," Donnel said, his voice low, hoarse. "More than I let on. And your mother…"
Arthur raised his eyes. His sworn shield sat opposite, the candlelight deepening the lines carved across his weathered face, years etched like runes. Beneath them sat grief, raw as it had been the day it was born.
"She was kind," Donnel said. staring into the dark red of his wine as though it might conjure her face. "Kind and brave. Ser William made me swear to protect her and you before he rode south. I should have gone with him. I should have protected him. I couldn't save her either. I swore and I couldn't—" His voice cracked then, "I failed her. I failed him."
"You didn't fail them," Arthur said, gently
"Because of me you couldn't have a mother," Donnel said, jaw tight, voice breaking at its edges. "Or a father. You grew up on their stories, not their voices. A boy deserves more than ghosts."
Arthur reached across the table and set a hand on his friend's forearm. "It's not your fault, Donnel." he said, his voice low, measured. "Because of you, I learned courage before I ever held a sword. I knew laughter before the halls went cold. I learned that hope is stronger than gold, stronger than the grief left behind by those we've lost."
Donnel's eyes flicked up, glimmering with something between pride and pain, but the words caught in his throat. He lowered his gaze to the dark wood of the table, a faint tremor running through his jaw.
"They would've wanted to see you now," Donnel whispered, almost to himself, almost afraid the night would steal the words before they could find purchase.
Arthur smiled sadly. "They do, remember?" he said and looked outside "From the stars."
The wine had done its work. Donnel lay sprawled across the cabin floor, snoring with the certainty of a man who had emptied a bottle too freely, a half-remembered song of Dorne slipping from his lips in slurred fragments. His goblet lay scattered near the door, dark liquid staining the wood like spilled ink, and his swordbelt was tangled about him as though it had tried to flee.
Arthur stepped over him, careful not to disturb the chaos, and pushed open the cabin door. On the deck, the air was cold and clean, the sea calm beneath a sky that burned with stars. They glittered in constellations the Sword, the Harp, the Maiden's Kiss, silver jewels spread across the darkness like scattered promises.
Arthur leaned against the railing, letting the wind tug at his cloak and lift strands of hair that had escaped his braid. The Mermaid's Tears rocked gently beneath him, each wave a reminder of why he loved the ocean. There were no letters demanding answers here, no merchants plotting, no noble alliances to be measured. Only the wind, the water and the vast blue sky that stretched as far as the eyes could see.
He breathed deep, tasting the air, and felt the knots in his chest loosen just enough to let thought flow. The roof of manse stretched beneath them, the city humming with distant noise, but there it was only Marie and him, small and warm, and the heavens above.
"That's the Harp," he had told her, pointing upward, his voice steadier than his heart. The constellation glittered faintly, its shape delicate, fragile, eternal. "It is said that the stars were a gift from the Maiden above to Ser Galladon of Morne, who sang so sweetly for her that even the storms bent their fury and grew still."
Marie had laughed then, the sound so soft it seemed the stars themselves might lean closer to hear. Like chimes, he thought, touched by the autumn wind and untouched by the winter snows. "You speak so lovingly about all the stars in the sky," she teased, eyes bright with mischief. "Are you sure you weren't born to be a bard?"
"Perhaps," Arthur had said, mustering up all his courage, "But if I was, it was only to sing for you."
For a moment, silence lingered. The wind tugged at her hair, carrying the faint scent of lavender that clung to her. Then she turned her face toward him, her smile softer now, "You'll have to sing very sweetly, then," she whispered, "so that when you are gone, I will still remember the sound."
Arthur closed his eyes, the wind and silence his company. Her memory cut deep, more than he thought it would. The Harp still glimmered above him, and her laughter echoed in his mind, soft, bright, and forever beyond reach.
He could see Marie as if she stood before him still, smiling, her silver-blonde hair that shimmered like snow under the moonlight, and her eyes green as spring leaves after the rain. But it had not been her beauty that bound him to her. No, what he loved was sharper, rarer.
Her wit, quick and cutting as a dagger's edge. Her strength, forged not in boasts or shouts but in silence, in the way she endured a world that would sooner forget her name than remember it. She had seen the world as it was and him as he truly was, and she had never looked away.
At first, she kept her distance, always reminding him who they were. A whore and a noble. That was the line she clung to, as if it could save them both from what they were becoming. But over time, that line blurred.
Marie challenged him in ways no one ever had. She never pandered, never groveled. And gods help him, she never backed down from telling him to do what was right. When Arthur was with her, he had been more than just the heir, more than the sum of duties and expectations. With her, he had simply been a man. And Arthur loved her, gods, he loved her.
"Do you love me?" he had asked her once, softly, as though the words themselves might break if he spoke them too loud.
"More than life itself," she had whispered..
And they had fallen, together, into something forbidden. A night carved out of time, stolen from the world, theirs alone. When it ended, she had lain beside him, her hair spilling across his chest like molten silver softly glowing, "I will only have this, I know. This one night. A memory I'll cherish forever, of a love that can never be. And so you must forget about me, Arthur. Grant this one night wholly to me."
He'd wanted to fight her words. Gods, how he wanted to say it could be different. That he'd give it all up for her. His duty, his honor, his blood's legacy. But deep down, he knew she was right. The world would never let them be. Love was no shield against poison or blade. To choose her would be to condemn her. To crown her would be to ruin her.
He had almost done it, in madness or love, he could no longer say which. Almost crowned her before all of King's Landing. Almost shattered the storied prestige his family had built for centuries.
Fool, he thought bitterly. Fool and dreamer.
When Arthur opened his eyes again, she was gone. No silver hair, no green eyes, no melodic laughter. Only the stars above remained, cold and bright. Distant fires, beyond reach, mocking his grief with their beauty.
And in that moment, he wondered if all the songs of gallant knights and their bright loves were lies. For what song would they make of this? Of a love too fierce to live, too fragile to endure?
Arthur's reverie was shattered by the sudden clanging of the alarm bell. A shrill note rang out over the calm night, and men scrambled from belowdecks, shouting and scrambling for stations.
Commodore Hathor burst from his cabin, eyes sharp and movements precise, a coiled spring of readiness. Arthur followed him up to the helm, boots thudding against the deck, hands gripping the polished rail.
"First mate," Hathor barked, voice cutting through the chaos, "what do we have?"
The man came hurrying, voice breathless but steady. "Sir… a fleet. Twenty, maybe more galleys. Black sails. They wait near the coast."
"Pirates," Hathor muttered under his breath, scanning the horizon. His hand rested on the rail, knuckles tight. "These men know the coast well. They'll have the advantage if we fight near land."
Arthur's hands tightened on the rail as his mind raced. In the shallows near the coast, the galleys' oared speed and maneuverability would let them strike from angles impossible to defend. Yet, to turn away now, was unthinkable. The pirates would never pursue them out in open waters. Not without reason.
Hathor's voice broke his contemplation. "My lord, what are your commands?"
"Signal the captains, we face them," Arthur said, voice high and firm. "Turn windwards! Keep formation! Towards the open ocean, keep them within range of catapults, trebuchets strike before they reach our hulls."
Orders flew along the decks as the crew scrambled. Ballistae were loaded, catapults stacked, stones and iron hurled into waiting cradles. Arthur's eyes never left the enemy fleet. The first volleys from the long-range siege weapons screamed through the night sky, fire-soaked bolts and stones that burst into flame midair.
Several galleys erupted in fire, black smoke spiraling upward as the wood split and cracked along the midship, flames consuming their decks and oars alike. The rain fire filled his chest with grim satisfaction. Trebuchets and catapults launched again and again, striking galleys that dared come too near.
A galley, bold or desperate, lurched forward. A volley of fire shot through its midsection, breaking the vessel in two. Flames licked the night sky, sparks falling like shooting stars as the timbers splintered, the crew shrieking in panic and smoke filling the air.
The sharp cry of the first mate cut through the roar of the wind and waves. "My lord! We are losing the wind!"
Arthur's stomach clenched. The carracks' advantage lay with the wind filling their sails and carrying their massive deep hulls. Without it… they would be vulnerable to the enemy. His eyes followed the pirate line as a few galleys surged forward, aiming to ram the lead ship of his fleet. But the captain of that carrack spun the wheel in time, the prow slicing clear just as oars splintered against the hull.
Arthur growled, jaw tight. The open-sea plan had failed. There was no more wind to trust, "Broadsides to the galleys! Prepare to fight close!" he barked, "Board when they come within reach. We'll take the fight to them!"
Sailors scrambled, tugging lines and securing rigging, adjusting the heavy carracks so that their broadside guns could sweep the advancing galleys. Archers took their stations along the high deck, crossbows cocked and ready, while the crew trained fire from catapults and trebuchets on any ship daring to draw near. Flames and stones flew, splintering wood and setting galleys ablaze.
Arthur leaned against the rail, eyes narrowing at the fleet. The wind, though waning, still kissed the sails enough to keep the ships maneuverable. Yet he knew it would not hold forever.
Arthur's heart pounded in his ears, the roar of the sea mingling with the clash of steel, the shouts of men, and the hiss of flames from the burning galley beside them. The Mermaid's Tears had slipped between two galleys with a grace that belied its bulk, the wind in their favor pushing her forward like a living thing. Commodore Hathor's voice rang above the chaos.
"Grapples and hooks! Board them, now!"
Arthur vaulted over the side, Nightfall in hand, the Valyrian steel blade catching the moonlight as he landed on the deck of the nearest galley. Sparks flew where steel met steel, men fell screaming, and the smell of blood, sweat, and smoke pressed in on him. Sailors screamed as dozens fell, riddled like rats.
A slender swordsman lunged, precise and fast, but Arthur met him with a swing that ended the duel almost before it began, the man collapsing at his feet. Arthur turned toward the aft, breath burning in his chest, when he caught the glint of a crossbow leveled at his heart. Time slowed, the sounds of battle thinning to the creak of rigging and the rush of his own blood.
So this is how it ends, Arthur thought, Jon would laugh when he'dhear. Suddenly the man with the bow gurgled, choked, and fell, Donnel's dagger buried deep between his shoulders.
"Seven hells, Arthur!" Donnel roared, chest heaving, eyes wide with fear and fury. "Why are you out here at the front?"
Arthur grinned, wiping a smear of blood from his brow, "Donnel, You're here! I'd thought you'd sleep through the battle, Ser knight."
Donnel glared at him, his hands trembled slightly as he wrenched the dagger free. Together, they pressed forward, Arthur's men sweeping the deck in disciplined formation, pikes and blades cutting down the last of the resistance. The pirates broke, fear in their eyes where defiance had lived moments before. One after another, they flung down their weapons, raising their hands in surrender.
Arthur's chest heaved from exertion, muscles burning. Donnel clapped a hand to his shoulder, steadying him as the last prisoners were bound.
"Next time," Donnel muttered, though his mouth twitched as if against a smile, "you stay on your ship."
Arthur shook his head and let his grin linger. "Where's the fun in that?"
By dawn, the battle was finished. Arthur stood at the prow of the Mermaid's Tears, the wind finally filling their sails with a steady push as the last of the fleeing galleys disappeared toward the horizon.
Smoke curled from the seven galleys sunk to the depths, the water around them blackened with pitch and fire. Ten more lay captured, their crews bound and subdued, the decks slick with blood and sweat. Not one of Arthur's ships had gone down. Their victory was absolute. His men cheered the sound rolling across the White Sea like thunder.
The prisoners were brought before him in turn, roped and beaten, but one among them carried himself differently. He walked with dignity even in chains, sword in hand, and stepped onto Arthur's deck with deliberate grace. His eyes, dark and steady, fixed on Arthur's with neither fear nor defiance.
"I offer my sword and surrender," the man said, bowing his head, his voice low, "And my ship, Meera. I am Captain Tomorro, my lord, I plead to you for the lives of my men."
Arthur studied him carefully. This one was no common reaver, no drunken sellsail chasing plunder for sport. There was discipline in him, and a strange, quiet honor. A rare quality among pirates.
"You ask mercy only for your men," Arthur said, "And what of yourself?"
The pirate captain did not flinch beneath Arthur's gaze. His jaw hard with the stubborn resolve of a man who had long since accepted his fate.
"I am marked for death, lord," Tomorro said, his voice calm, "So, I pray it be from the hands of a warrior such as you."
This was no mewling coward begging for scraps of life. The man stood as if he still commanded a fleet, even with his wrists bound in iron.
"You are rather courageous and foolish for a pirate," Arthur said, "Tell me true, how came you to sail into my waters? Did you not know whose sea this is? Did you not know that, come morning, the fleet of the Merman would have fallen upon you, and ground your galleys to splinters?"
Tomorro dipped his head once, "I came because I was bid to, lord. Knowing full well I might not return. I came because I had no choice."
Donnel let out a sharp bark, spitting words like venom. "Liar! I've met the likes of you a thousand times. Every cutthroat criminal sings the same song once caught. No choice, they say, yet always with blood on their hands."
Beside him, Commodore Hathor's heavy voice followed, grim and resolute. "My lord, Ser Donnel speaks true. These are pirates, nothing more. Do not let this one's petty scrapings sour your judgment. They do not deserve the honor of your kindness. Their crimes speak louder than their tongues. Send them to the Wall, I say, or our own dungeons would serve."
Arthur said nothing. He let their words hang in the salt air as his gaze returned to Tomorro. Arthur's thoughts moved as quietly as the tides. He knew well enough whose coin had bought this raid. The Sealord's hand was plain in it, though it hid beneath shadow and deniability. Braavos would send no fleet of its own, not openly, not when the stakes were so high.
But pirates? Pirates could be bought, unleashed, discarded without consequence. A clever ploy. And one that had failed. Nightfall gleamed at Arthur's side, its dark steel whispering for blood. It would be easy stroke and Tomorro's tale would end. Easy, but wasteful.
At last, Arthur spoke, his voice carrying across the deck until every man stilled to hear.
"Your ship, your men, your life, belong to me now. And I alone shall decide what becomes of them. If your honor is worth aught, you will prove it in chains, not by begging for death."
The pirate Tomorro dropped to one knee, lowering his head, he muttered, "Valar Morghulis," the words rasping out like a vow harsh yet solemn.
For a heartbeat, Arthur thought of the stars above, of oaths broken and kept, of how all men truly must die. Yet service, that was the harder part.
"Valar Dohaeris." Arthur answered, the words softer than he intended, almost kind, Almost.