The salt spray kissed Rogar Reyne's weathered face as he pressed the far-eye to his right eye, the brass instrument cold against his skin despite the morning sun that painted the waters of Blackwater Bay in shades of gold and azure. Through the lens, the bustling port of Driftmark emerged from the morning mist like a jewel set upon the breast of the sea, its docks teeming with activity that spoke of wealth and maritime power. Merchant vessels from every corner of the known world bobbed at anchor, their masts forming a forest of wood and rope that swayed with the rhythm of the tide. Pentoshi galleys with their distinctive curved prows shared berths with swan ships from the Summer Isles, while closer to shore, the familiar black-hulled warships of House Velaryon dominated the military anchorage with their sea-green sails furled tight against their masts.
"Half sail!" bellowed the Velaryon captain from his position near the helm, his voice carrying easily over the sound of wind and wave. The man was a grizzled veteran of countless voyages, his face bronzed by sun and scarred by service, and his crew responded to his commands with the precision that marked professional sailors. The ship's crew moved with practiced efficiency across the deck, their bare feet sure upon the salt-slicked planking as they adjusted the rigging. The great canvas sail billowed and snapped in the wind before settling into its new configuration, and Rogar felt the vessel's pace slow as they approached the protected waters of the harbor.
Lowering the far-eye from his eye, Rogar allowed himself a moment to appreciate the sight before him without the instrument's magnification. Even at this distance, he could make out the banners that flew from every tower and battlement of High Tide castle, the seahorse sigil of House Velaryon streaming proudly in the morning breeze alongside the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. But it was not these familiar heraldic displays that caught his attention and brought a smile to his lips. There, assembled upon the main dock in perfect formation, stood a contingent of men clad in midnight black armor that gleamed like polished obsidian in the sunlight. Upon each breastplate, worked in bronze that caught the light like captured flame, was emblazoned the dragon sigil that had become synonymous with Prince Aurion's growing power.
At the head of this formation stood a figure that Rogar would have recognized even at twice the distance. Ser Williem Royce cut an impressive figure in his bronze-trimmed plate, his dark hair stirring in the sea breeze beneath a helm crowned with bronze dragon wings. The knight of Runestone had grown broader in the shoulders since their last meeting, his frame filled out by months of constant training and the responsibilities of command. Even from the deck of the approaching ship, Rogar could see the easy confidence in Williem's stance, the way he held himself like a man who had found his place in the world and was content with it.
The ship drew closer to the dock with each passing moment, the skillful hands of the Velaryon sailors guiding her through the crowded harbor with an expertise born of generations spent upon these waters. The smell of the sea grew stronger, that peculiar mixture of salt and seaweed and tar that marked every great port in the known world, but here it was mingled with other scents that spoke of Driftmark's unique character. The smoke from the castle's great kitchens carried the aroma of roasted meats and fresh bread, while from the direction of the shipyards came the sharp tang of wood shavings and the acrid bite of pitch used to seal hull planking.
As the vessel drew alongside the dock with a gentle bump that spoke well of the captain's skill, Rogar raised his hand in greeting toward his friend, and was gratified to see Williem's immediate response. The knight's face split in a broad grin as he raised his own gauntleted hand, and even across the water Rogar could see the genuine pleasure in his expression. It had been months since they had seen each other in person, their communication limited to ravens and the occasional merchant ship bearing letters, and the sight of his friend's familiar face brought a warmth to Rogar's chest that had nothing to do with the morning sun.
The gangplank was lowered with a creak of rope and wood, and Rogar stepped onto the dock with the sure movements of a man who had spent his fair share of time aboard ships, despite his primary identity as a creature of the land. Behind him, his men began to disembark in the ordered fashion that marked professional soldiers, their own black armor bearing the red lion rampant of House Reyne worked in silver thread upon their surcoats. These were not the green levies of a lord's first muster, but seasoned fighters who had served under Rogar's banner for years, men who had bled with him in the campaign against the Kingswood bandits where he had first met Prince Aurion, and who had sworn their swords to his service with the fierce loyalty that marked the best of the Westerlands' fighting men.
"I trust you had a safe journey, Lord Rogar?" Williem asked as he approached, his voice carrying the cultured accent of the Vale nobility but warmed with genuine friendship. The formal address was a necessity in public, maintaining the proper courtesies that were expected between lords, but there was no mistaking the personal affection beneath the words.
Rogar clapped his friend upon the shoulder, feeling the solid weight of well-made steel beneath his palm. "As safe a journey as a rainy storm night can get," he replied with a laugh that held only a trace of the exhaustion he felt after the long voyage from Lannisport. The trip had indeed been rough, with spring storms lashing the narrow sea and turning what should have been a pleasant cruise into a test of seamanship and endurance. But they had made it whole, and that was what mattered.
A stableman appeared as if summoned, leading a magnificent destrier whose coat gleamed like burnished copper in the morning light. The horse had been bred in the stables of Castamere, where House Reyne had spent generations perfecting their bloodlines, and its quality was immediately apparent in every line of its powerful frame. Rogar swung himself into the saddle with practiced ease, the familiar weight of sword and armor settling around him like a second skin. From horseback, he commanded a better view of the dock and the men assembled there, and he took a moment to survey the scene before him.
His own troops were already forming up under the direction of his master-at-arms, Ser Damon Hill, a bastard of House Tarbeck who had proven his worth in a dozen battles across the Westerlands. The man's voice carried clearly across the dock as he organized the column, his authority unquestioned by men who had learned to trust his judgment in matters of war. These were fighters who bore the scars of real combat, their equipment maintained with the care that marked professional soldiers who understood that their lives might depend upon the sharpness of their blades or the soundness of their armor.
"Guide my men to the main camp at the base of High Tide," Rogar called to his master-at-arms, his voice carrying the tone of absolute command that had been bred into him since childhood. "See them settled and fed, and ensure the supply wagons are properly secured. We march when Prince Aurion gives the word, and I want every man ready."
Williem beckoned to one of the Bronze Company soldiers, a lean man with the weathered look of a veteran campaigner. "Show Lord Rogar's men to their assigned area," he instructed. "See that they have everything they need." The soldier saluted crisply and moved to intercept Rogar's column, falling into step beside Ser Damon as they began the march toward the sprawling camp that had been established in the shadow of High Tide's ancient walls.
As a group of knights fell in behind them, Rogar and Williem spurred their horses into motion, the hoofbeats of their mounts ringing against the stone of the dock before they reached the packed earth of the road that led up to the castle. The morning air was crisp and clean, carrying with it the promise of fair weather that would be welcomed by any army preparing for campaign. Seabirds wheeled overhead, their cries mixing with the distant sounds of men at work and the ever-present whisper of waves against the rocky shore.
"How many men have you brought?" Williem asked as they settled into an easy canter, the horses moving with the synchronized rhythm that marked experienced riders. Around them, the landscape of Driftmark unfolded in all its stark beauty, the island's rolling hills covered with the hardy grass that thrived in the salt air, dotted here and there with groves of wind-bent trees that had learned to bend rather than break before the constant sea winds.
"Four thousand men in total," Rogar replied, his voice carrying easily over the sound of their passage. "Three thousand five hundred soldiers and five hundred armored knights. The flower of Castamere's strength, and volunteers from every lordship that owes fealty to House Reyne." There was pride in his voice as he spoke of his forces, the satisfaction of a commander who knew the quality of the men under his banner. "I've also brought food stocks and rations bought from the Reach, enough to feed an army for months if necessary. And gold and silver, raw from our mines and ready for whatever purpose Prince Aurion has in mind."
Williem's eyebrows rose at this last detail, his curiosity evident in his expression. "I can understand the motivation behind bringing rations, even though we might not need them given the fact that dragons would destroy anything that might prove a hindrance to us. But why bring gold and silver to a battle? Surely the expense of transporting raw precious metal is hardly worth the effort when coin would serve just as well."
Rogar chuckled, a sound rich with knowing amusement. "You're right that there's no immediate need for bringing raw metal to war," he agreed. "But Princess Viserra specifically ordered me to bring gold and silver minted directly from the mines, still bearing the marks of the earth from which they came. I have some guesses about this, but I'm not going to spoil the surprise. Prince Aurion will gather us for a meeting today and reveal his plans to us, I'm sure."
The mention of Princess Viserra brought a knowing look to Williem's face. The dragon princess was renowned for her intelligence and political acuity, and any request from her was certain to have deeper implications than might be immediately apparent. "You're right, Lord Rogar," he said with a nod. "Let's see if our prince finally reveals his plans and schemes regarding this whole Stepstones situation once and for all. By now, I'm sure that this is no mere campaign of cleaning pirate filth from the trading lanes."
"It was never about just killing these worthless scum, Williem," Rogar replied, his voice carrying a note of certainty that spoke of long contemplation on the matter. "The scale of preparation, the careful recruitment, the diplomatic missions to the Free Cities—all of it points to something far grander than a simple anti-piracy expedition. We'll see what our prince reveals today, but I suspect we're about to become part of something that will echo through the histories."
The conversation had whetted their appetite for speed, and both men urged their mounts into a faster pace, the horses responding eagerly to their riders' commands. The group of knights behind them matched their acceleration, the entire party thundering up the winding road toward High Tide like a river of steel and horseflesh. The castle grew larger before them with each stride, its pale walls gleaming in the morning sun like polished pearl, the banners streaming from its towers snapping in the constant sea breeze.
"Come," Rogar called to his companion as they crested the final hill before the castle's gates. "Let's make haste. I'm tired and need a good feast and good rest after sailing in subpar conditions for this long stretch of journey." He spurred his horse into a final burst of speed, the copper-coated destrier stretching its legs with obvious pleasure as they approached the impressive gatehouse of High Tide.
They thundered into the castle's outer courtyard in a clatter of hooves on stone, the sound echoing off the high walls that surrounded them. Stable boys appeared as if by magic, their hands sure and gentle as they took charge of the lathered horses, leading them away to the well-appointed stables where they would be properly cared for. The courtyard itself was a bustle of activity, with servants and soldiers moving about their business with the efficient purpose that marked a great house preparing for war.
Rogar and Williem dismounted with the fluid grace of men who had spent their lives in the saddle, their boots ringing against the cobblestones as they strode toward the castle's main entrance. The walls around them rose to impressive heights, their construction showing the distinctive Valyrian influence that marked the greatest architectural achievements of Old Valyrian blood, though adapted to the practical needs of a fortress built to command the sea lanes. Banners hung from every available surface, the seahorse of House Velaryon prominent among them, but Rogar noted with interest the increasing presence of the bronze dragon that had become associated with Prince Aurion's personal following.
As they entered the castle proper, the sounds of wooden swords clashing against each other grew steadily louder, echoing through the stone corridors with a rhythm that spoke of serious training rather than mere play. The sound drew them onward like a lodestone, and they followed the noise through a series of turns until they emerged into the castle's training yard, a large open space surrounded by high walls and overlooked by several galleries where observers could watch the proceedings below.
The yard itself was impressive, its packed earth carefully maintained to provide secure footing while avoiding the bone-jarring hardness of stone. Weapon racks lined the walls, filled with practice swords, spears, and shields of every description, all showing the wear that marked equipment in constant use. At the center of the space, two young men were engaged in a spirited bout with wooden practice swords, their movements displaying the kind of skill that could only come from years of dedicated training.
Laenor Velaryon, heir to Driftmark and squire to Prince Aurion, moved with the fluid grace that marked the best swordsmen, his silver hair dark with sweat as he pressed an attack against his opponent. Though young, there was nothing childish about his technique; every movement spoke of countless hours spent in practice and the kind of natural athleticism that ran in the blood of dragonlords. His opponent, Tyland Lannister, proved equally skilled, meeting each attack with carefully considered responses that showed both defensive prowess and the patience to wait for the right moment to counterattack.
Both young men were breathing heavily from their exertions, their padded practice armor dark with perspiration as they circled each other with the wariness of experienced fighters. Laenor suddenly launched himself forward with explosive speed, his wooden blade describing a complex pattern in the air as he sought to overwhelm his opponent's defenses through sheer aggression. But Tyland was ready for the assault, his own sword meeting Laenor's with a crack that echoed through the yard, the force of the blow sending both weapons rebounding as the combatants struggled to maintain their grips.
"Good fighting, lads," Rogar called out, his voice carrying clearly across the training yard and causing both young men to pause in their combat. There was genuine appreciation in his tone, the acknowledgment of one warrior recognizing skill in others, regardless of their youth.
Both Laenor and Tyland noticed the arrival of their audience for the first time, their faces brightening with pleasure at the recognition. They approached with the easy confidence of young men who had proven themselves in the lists and on the practice field, their wooden swords still held with the careful respect that marked true students of the blade.
"Lord Rogar, Ser Williem," Laenor said, offering the precise bow that befitted a young lord greeting his elders. "Welcome to Driftmark. I hope your voyage was not too unpleasant." There was genuine concern in his voice, the courtesy of a host who took his responsibilities seriously.
"Thank you for your appreciation, my lord," Tyland added, his own bow equally precise. The young Lannister had grown since Rogar had last seen him, filling out into the broad-shouldered frame that marked his bloodline, his golden hair catching the light as he moved.
"Where is Aurion?" Rogar asked, looking around the training yard as if expecting the prince to emerge from one of the shadowed galleries that overlooked the space.
"Prince Aurion took Vermithor out for some business this morning," Laenor replied, wiping sweat from his brow with a cloth offered by one of the attending servants. "He didn't say when he would return, but I expect it will be soon. The Bronze Fury was restless last night, and you know how dragons can be when they need to stretch their wings."
Even as he spoke, a Velaryon knight approached the group, his black and sea-green surcoat marking him as one of the castle's permanent garrison. The man's bearing was respectful but urgent as he addressed the young heir. "lord Laenor, Lord Corlys has called for you. He waits in his solar and requests your immediate attendance."
Laenor nodded, handing his practice sword to one of the weapon servants before taking his leave with the courteous formality expected of his station. "If you'll excuse me, my lords," he said with another bow. "Duty calls, and my father does not like to be kept waiting when matters of importance are at hand."
Tyland had begun to follow his sparring partner from the yard when Rogar's voice stopped him. "A moment, young Tyland," the Lord of Castamere called, reaching into the leather satchel that hung at his side. From within, he produced a substantial wooden chest bound with iron and secured with a heavy lock, its surface polished smooth by craftsmanship that spoke of considerable expense. Alongside the chest, he withdrew a sealed letter bearing the golden lion of House Lannister.
"Your family sent these gifts," Rogar explained, handing both items to the eager young man. "Lord Lannister wanted to ensure you had everything you needed for the campaign ahead, and Lady # Cerelle added her own thoughts as well." There was warmth in Rogar's voice as he spoke of the Lannister lord and his lady wife, the affection of long friendship and mutual respect.
Tyland's face lit up with genuine pleasure as he accepted both chest and letter, his hands trembling slightly with excitement as he examined the familiar seals and heraldic devices that marked his family's correspondence. "Thank you, Lord Rogar," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "It has been months since I've had word from home, and father's letters are always welcome."
Rogar chuckled at the young man's obvious joy, remembering his own youth and the importance that letters from home had held during his own time away from Castamere. "Go on, lad," he said with a gesture toward the castle's interior. "Take your treasures to your chambers and read your news in private. There will be time enough for talk of war and politics later."
Tyland departed with obvious haste, clutching his prizes close to his chest as he disappeared into the castle's depths, leaving Rogar and Williem alone in the training yard save for the ever-present servants who maintained the space. The late morning sun had climbed higher in the sky, its rays slanting down between the walls to paint geometric patterns of light and shadow across the packed earth.
"Where is my chamber?" Rogar asked, suddenly feeling the weight of the long voyage and the sleepless night that had preceded their arrival. The prospect of a soft bed and clean sheets held considerable appeal after weeks of ship's hammocks and the constant motion of the sea.
Williem led him through the castle's corridors, past tapestries that depicted the great sea battles of Velaryon history and through halls lined with the treasures of a hundred trading expeditions. The wealth of House Velaryon was displayed with tasteful subtlety, from the mother-of-pearl inlays that decorated doorframes to the rare woods imported from the Summer Isles that had been used in the construction of furniture and paneling.
The chamber assigned to Rogar proved to be more than adequate to his station, a spacious room with tall windows that looked out over Blackwater Bay, furnished with pieces that spoke of both comfort and quality. The bed was large enough for three men, its frame carved from blackwood and draped with hangings of Myrish silk in the red and gold colors of House Reyne. A writing desk stood near the windows, supplied with paper, ink, and quills of the finest quality, while a wardrobe of sufficient size contained garments that had been prepared for his use.
Rogar dismissed his escort with thanks and proceeded to divest himself of his traveling clothes, the leather and wool that had served him well during the voyage but which now carried the salt and grime of the sea. The bed welcomed him like an old friend, its mattress stuffed with down and herbs that released a pleasant fragrance as his weight settled upon it. Within moments, the Lord of Castamere had surrendered to the exhaustion that had been building throughout the long journey, his dreams filled with the sound of waves and the cry of dragons.
When he woke, the sun had moved considerably across the sky, its rays now slanting through the western windows to paint the chamber walls in shades of gold and amber. His sleep had been deep and dreamless, the kind of restorative rest that only came after prolonged exertion, and he felt considerably more human as he rose and began to prepare himself for the evening ahead.
The castle's bathhouse proved to be a marvel of engineering, fed by hot springs that had been channeled through a series of stone pipes and chambers to create pools of varying temperatures. Rogar settled into the steaming water with a sigh of contentment, feeling the salt and grime of travel dissolving away along with the aches and pains that had accumulated during the voyage. Servants attended him with oils and soaps scented with lavender and rosemary, their ministrations professional and unobtrusive.
Refreshed and properly attired in clean garments, Rogar made his way to the castle's kitchens, where the evening meal was being prepared with the kind of attention to detail that marked a great house. The kitchens themselves were a marvel of organization, with dozens of cooks and servants working in choreographed harmony to produce the massive quantities of food required to feed the castle's inhabitants and guests. The air was thick with the aromas of roasting meats and fresh-baked bread, of exotic spices imported from across the narrow sea and herbs grown in the castle's own gardens.
The meal he was served exceeded even his elevated expectations, a hearty combination of bacon crisp enough to shatter, bread warm from the ovens with a crust that crackled at the touch, and delicacies that showcased the finest ingredients available to the wealthiest house in the Seven Kingdoms after the royal family itself. He ate with the appetite of a man who had spent weeks surviving on ship's rations, savoring each bite.
As he was finishing his meal and preparing to rise from the table, a guard in the midnight black armor of the Bronze Company approached with the measured step of a professional soldier. The man's bearing was respectful but purposeful as he delivered his message. "Lord Rogar, Prince Aurion has called for you. He awaits you in his study and requests your immediate attendance."
Rising from his place at the table, Rogar followed the guard through corridors that seemed to pulse with barely contained energy, past chambers where men made final preparations for war and through halls where the weight of impending history seemed to hang in the air like incense. The study door was flanked by two more Bronze Company guards, their presence a reminder of the importance that Prince Aurion placed on security and privacy.
The study itself was spacious and well-appointed, its walls lined with maps and charts that traced the sea lanes and trade routes of the known world. Lord Corlys Velaryon and Ser Williem Royce were already seated in comfortable chairs arranged before a massive desk of carved driftwood, their faces bearing the expression of men who sensed that momentous events were about to unfold.
Prince Aurion sat behind the desk, his powerful frame draped in a doublet of midnight blue silk that had been worked with silver thread in patterns that suggested dragon scales without being overtly heraldic. His silver-gold hair caught the light from the room's many candles, and his violet eyes held the kind of intensity that marked men destined for greatness or destruction, often both. Before him lay a parchment covered with his precise handwriting, the words flowing across the page in the educated script that marked a man of learning as well as action.
"Rogar," the prince said without looking up from his writing, his voice carrying the cultured accent of High Valyrian nobility tempered by years of command. "Please, take a seat. I'll be finished with this in a moment."
Rogar moved to the empty chair and settled himself with the practiced ease of a man accustomed to such formal meetings, offering a respectful nod to Lord Corlys as he did so. The Sea Snake returned the gesture with the kind of acknowledgment that passed between equals, the mutual respect of lords who had proven themselves in their respective spheres.
After completing his writing with a final flourish, Prince Aurion set aside his quill and rose from his chair with fluid grace. He moved to the center of the room, his presence seeming to fill the space with an energy that was almost palpable. Clapping his hands sharply, he summoned the guards from outside, who entered immediately and awaited his orders with the perfect discipline that marked elite soldiers.
"Bring the table that was made by the Essosi woodsmith," Aurion commanded, his voice carrying the authority of absolute command. "Handle it carefully, and ensure that it remains covered until I give the word."
"As you wish, my prince," the guards replied in unison before departing to fulfill their orders.
Williem's curiosity was clearly piqued by this mysterious preparation. "What is this about, Aurion?" he asked, leaning forward in his chair with obvious interest.
"Wait for a minute, Williem," Aurion replied with a smile that held secrets. "I'm going to reveal everything in a moment anyway. No harm in waiting a few more seconds, is there?" He moved to a small wine cellar that occupied one corner of the study, a masterwork of carpentry that held bottles from every corner of the known world. From within, he selected a bottle of vintage Arbor gold that bore the seal of the Redwyne vineyards, its contents gleaming like liquid sunshine as he held it up to the candlelight.
Uncorking the bottle with practiced movements, Aurion took a long draught directly from the neck, his throat working as he swallowed the precious vintage with obvious appreciation. The wine was a wedding gift, one of hundreds that had been presented during the celebration of his marriage to Laena Velaryon, and its quality was immediately apparent even to those who could only smell its bouquet.
The guards returned, carrying between them something large and rectangular that had been covered with a cloth of midnight black silk. They moved with careful precision, clearly aware that whatever lay beneath the covering was both valuable and important. Setting their burden in the center of the room, they nodded respectfully to the prince before withdrawing and closing the door behind them.
Aurion took another drink from the bottle before returning it to its place in the wine cellar, his movements deliberate and controlled as he built the anticipation in the room. When he finally grasped the silk covering and pulled it away with a theatrical flourish, the revelation that followed drew gasps of amazement from his assembled audience.
Before them stood a table unlike any they had ever seen, carved from a single massive block of exotic hardwood and painted with such skill and attention to detail that it seemed to glow with inner life. The surface depicted the Stepstones, Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr in stunning detail, every island and inlet rendered with cartographic precision while maintaining the artistic beauty that marked a master craftsman's work. The surrounding waters of the Narrow Sea stretched away in all directions, painted in shades of blue and green that seemed to shift and move in the candlelight.
The settlements and geographical features of each location were rendered with incredible accuracy, from the pirate strongholds that dotted the Stepstones to the great cities of the Free Cities with their distinctive architecture and harbor fortifications. There were no political boundaries marked upon the map, but the implications were clear to anyone with the strategic vision to understand what they were seeing.
Rogar stared at the magnificent creation, his mind immediately grasping the implications of what Prince Aurion had commissioned. This was not the planning tool for a simple anti-piracy expedition, but the foundation for something far grander and more ambitious. Lord Corlys rose from his seat as if drawn by a lodestone, moving to examine the table more closely, his experienced eyes taking in every detail with the appreciation of a man who had spent his life navigating these very waters.
"Finally, you've decided that it's time to tell me this, hmm?" Corlys said, his voice carrying a mixture of admiration and mild reproach as he looked back at his good-son.
Aurion chuckled, a sound rich with amusement and no small amount of satisfaction. "What did you expect me to say, Corlys? To blabber everything to you at the very first moment? If so, I'd be a damned fool, and I don't think you respect someone who can't keep his schemes hidden. Even if you did, I'm not fool enough to lay all my cards down without thinking about each and every possibility and preparing contingencies or solutions for whatever might arise."
Corlys studied the younger man's face for a long moment before nodding with what might have been approval. "Well, don't keep us waiting now," he said with the hint of a smile. "Do reveal these plans that have kept you scheming quietly these past months."
Aurion contemplated for a moment, his violet eyes studying each of the men assembled before him with the calculating gaze of a general assessing his officers. When he finally spoke, his words fell into the silence like stones dropped into still water, creating ripples that would spread far beyond this room.
"We're going to clear the Stepstones of the Triarchy forces and defeat the Triarchy completely," he said, his voice carrying absolute conviction. "We'll conquer Tyrosh, Lys, and Myr, and I will declare myself King of the Stepstones and Narrow Sea."
The words hung in the air like a blade waiting to fall, their implications crashing over the assembled men with the force of a tidal wave. Rogar felt his breath catch in his throat as the full scope of his friend's ambition became clear, the sheer audacity of the plan both thrilling and terrifying in its implications.
"But my prince," Williem said, his voice tight with concern, "isn't this treason? To provoke a conflict without reason, to act against the crown's interests—surely this breaks the King's Peace?"
Aurion's response was immediate and uncompromising. "I say fuck the king, Williem."
The profanity struck the room like a thunderclap, its casual delivery making it even more shocking. Williem's face went pale with amazement and not a little fear. "What?" he whispered, as if unable to believe what he had heard.
"Not literally," Aurion said with another chuckle, though his eyes remained deadly serious. "But Viserys can go fuck himself. He can damn himself with this supposed peace he's brought to the realm. The man rides the biggest dragon in the world yet doesn't have the balls to finish off the Dornish for their impudence in sending another pretender masquerading as a Vulture King, brutalizing and pillaging innocent Westerosi smallfolk and nobles alike."
His voice began to rise with passion as he continued, the careful control slipping to reveal the anger that burned beneath. "Even if we ignore that shameful display of weakness, we cannot ignore his stupidity in staying his hand while Westerosi men, women, and nobles are ransomed or worse—kidnapped and sold as slaves into Lysene pleasure houses and bed slavery. Hundreds of trade ships have been stripped of their wealth, and women have been kidnapped and sold into bondage—smallfolk and nobles alike. The most notorious case being Lady Joanna Swann, a maiden of noble birth who now serves in chains because our king lacks the will to act."
Aurion moved to the wine cellar again, but this time his movements were sharp with controlled fury. "We don't want this peace. I don't want this peace. Time and again I've watched his decisions and his reign from the beginning, but this has proved that he is not the king I would trust my life with. He is not my king."
The final words fell like a death sentence, and Rogar felt a chill run down his spine as he fully grasped what his prince had just declared. "My prince," he said slowly, his voice carefully measured, "you do know that whatever your disagreements with the king might be, to speak those last words is treason. There's no tiptoeing around that fact."
Aurion chuckled as he retrieved three crystal goblets from a cabinet, their surfaces catching the candlelight like captured stars. "False," he replied as he poured generous measures of the golden wine. "It is treason only when I speak of deposing the king and taking the Iron Throne for myself, which I have no intention of doing whatsoever. I merely spoke of his inefficiency and my aspirations for saving the Westerosi people while declaring my independence from this farce of a kingdom and this king."
He handed goblets to both Rogar and Corlys, pointedly leaving Williem without wine in recognition of the younger man's abstinence. "And even if I were to talk of deposing the king," he continued with a meaningful look, "as long as such words don't reach the king's ears, they constitute no treason at all. Isn't that right, Corlys?"
The Sea Snake accepted his wine with the measured movements of a man who had navigated far more treacherous waters than these. "Of course you're right, Aurion," he said after a moment's consideration. "But tell me about the logistics of running an empire without major support from Westeros, especially with barren lands like the Stepstones as our main base."
"We have five dragons at our command," Aurion replied without hesitation, his voice carrying the confidence of a man who had calculated every angle. "Even Aegon the Conqueror didn't have the number of dragons we possess now, and we have far more men and ships than he commanded when he set out to conquer all of Westeros. Leveling the Triarchy forces utterly with dragonfire makes it far easier for our forces to land on the Stepstones and eventually charge forward to the Triarchy cities themselves."
He moved to the magnificent table, drawing an ornamental dagger whose jeweled hilt caught the light as he used its point to indicate specific locations on the painted map. "
The prince moved to his painted map, using an ornamental jeweled dagger to indicate specific strategic points as he outlined his vision. "Our primary focus after securing the Stepstones must be the occupation of Tyrosh. That city will serve as our military capital and royal residence due to its central location and existing infrastructure. The walls of Tyrosh rival those of Dragonstone in their height and defensive capabilities, making them nearly impregnable once properly garrisoned with our forces."
Rogar studied the map with growing appreciation for the prince's strategic acumen, but he felt compelled to voice his concerns about the practical challenges they would face. "How do you plan to transform barren islands like the Stepstones into the foundation of a true kingdom, my prince? I fear we may be attempting to bite off more than we can chew."
Aurion's chuckle suggested he had anticipated this very question. "It is indeed wise to be cautious, my friend, and I appreciate your concern for the welfare of our enterprise. Allow me to explain the complete strategy that will ensure our success."
The prince's dagger moved across the painted map with the precision of a master tactician as he began outlining his comprehensive battle plan. "First, we will dispatch our assembled forces to the Stepstones as soon as Princess Rhaenys returns with the Stormlander reinforcements that Lord Baratheon has promised for our campaign. The moment our ships approach the islands, I will lead my mother, Rhaenys, and Laena in a coordinated dragon assault that will destroy every Triarchy ship, dock, and settlement without mercy or exception."
His voice carried the cold certainty of a commander who had war-gamed every scenario. "Even if some few manage to survive the initial burning, they will be finished off by our ground forces making landfall immediately afterward. The Stepstones will be completely under our control within hours, or a day at the absolute worst."
The dagger traced paths of attack across the miniature islands as Aurion continued his exposition. "Our forces will be divided into two main assault groups. One fleet will make direct landfall on Bloodstone to eliminate any Triarchy forces that survived the dragon attack and ensure that Crabfeeder meets his deserved end—we cannot allow that butcher to escape our justice. The second force will simultaneously land at the Broken Arm to clear the remaining enemy positions and prevent any coordinated resistance."
Prince Aurion's eyes gleamed with anticipation as he described the next phase of his campaign. "We will repeat this process across all the Stepstone islands, clearing them completely of Triarchy presence. Then I, along with our four remaining dragonriders—my mother Viserra, Rhaenys, Laena, and Laenor—will fly directly to the Free Cities themselves. We will burn their docks, ships, and shipyards without mercy, crippling their ability to project naval power."
The strategic implications of such an assault began to dawn on Rogar as he studied the painted representations of Tyrosh, Lys, and Myr. "We will use our smaller, more agile dragons—Meleys and Seasmoke—to target military outposts and guard positions within the cities themselves, spreading chaos and terror among their defenders. Finally, our completely unscathed fleet and ground forces will assault all three Free Cities simultaneously, overwhelming their disrupted defenses."
Prince Aurion's voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried more menace than any shout. "We will kill every single slaver lord and loot their ill-gotten wealth and treasures. We will end their despicable bloodlines forever and forge a new realm built upon the ashes of their empire."
The chamber fell silent as the prince completed his exposition, the sheer audacity and comprehensive nature of his plans leaving his audience stunned. Finally, Williem found his voice, though it trembled with concern.
"We might encounter few problems if we limited ourselves to the Stepstones alone, my prince, but extending our campaign to include the Triarchy cities themselves will surely bring repercussions. The other Free Cities will not stand idly by while we conquer their neighbors, and King Viserys will be forced to respond to such dramatic action."
Prince Aurion moved to seat himself in a chair positioned near his strategic table, his expression thoughtful as he considered this valid concern. "You are absolutely correct, Williem. We will most certainly face repercussions for such bold action. However, this represents our best opportunity to achieve these goals and emerge victorious, and we may never see circumstances align so favorably again."
The prince's reasoning demonstrated the careful political calculation that had gone into his planning. "First and most importantly, Daemon is currently exiled from Westeros and harbors his own grievances against Viserys. Despite commanding the largest dragon in the world, Daemon serves as Viserys's primary instrument of violence and enforcement, even when the king himself would prefer a gentler approach. Without Daemon at his side, Viserys possesses only one dragon, while we command five—four of them fully mature adults capable of warfare."
"My dragon Vermithor and my mother's Dreamfyre are the next in size to Vhagar. Viserys cannot threaten us with superior dragon power, and we possess legitimate cause for our actions since he has repeatedly ignored Lord Corlys' petitions to intervene against Triarchy atrocities. It is only natural that as Corlys' good-son, I would assist my good-father in protecting his interests and avenging the wrongs done to his house."
Rogar leaned forward with genuine curiosity as Aurion mentioned another element of his strategy. "What do you mean by using the Faith to stay Viserys's hand, my prince? How does religion factor into our conquest?"
"The Faith abhors slavery, does it not?" Aurion asked, his question directed toward Williem.
"Yes, my prince, slavery is considered an abomination by the Seven," Williem confirmed, beginning to understand where this line of reasoning was leading.
Prince Aurion's smile carried the satisfaction of a chess player revealing a winning gambit. "After defeating the Triarchy forces and taking control over their cities, I will immediately free all slaves within our new territories. We will present this campaign as a holy crusade to save innocent Westerosi from evil slavers while granting freedom that the Seven mandate for all of humanity."
The political genius of this approach began to dawn on Rogar as the prince continued his explanation. "We will ensure that our supporters in King's Landing spread word of our righteous cause throughout the capital. The High Septon will hear these accounts and become our staunchest ally, perhaps even requesting that King Viserys arrange a hero's welcome for my return to the capital. Viserys will find it impossible to punish me when public opinion views me as a liberating hero rather than a rebellious prince."
Lord Corlys set down his goblet with the measured movements of a man deeply impressed by what he had heard. "Time and again you manage to astonish me more than I thought possible, Aurion. You have planned this thoroughly, haven't you?"
The prince's smile carried genuine warmth as he regarded his good-father. "Indeed I have, Corlys. I am not the sort of man to drag my loved ones into danger without careful preparation, nor would I bring hardship upon those who trust me with their lives and fortunes. This move has become necessary for our survival and prosperity. Remaining dependent upon Viserys's uncertain favor is no longer acceptable to me, and I refuse to live my life awaiting his next whim or moment of displeasure."
Prince Aurion's expression grew more serious as he addressed his assembled war council. "I am revealing these plans to you now because you are my closest friends and most trusted allies, the people I respect above all others in this world. Before we make any public declarations or commit irreversibly to this course of action, I wanted to ensure that you understood both the scope of our enterprise and the reasoning behind it."
Rogar rose from his chair and moved to stand beside the strategic table, his weathered hands tracing the painted coastlines as he absorbed the magnitude of what was being proposed. After long moments of contemplation, he raised his eyes to meet those of his prince.
"You have my complete trust and loyalty, my prince. We will storm the Triarchy and inscribe your name in the annals of history for all time to come," he declared with the fervor of a man who had found a cause worthy of his life and honor.
Lord Corlys nodded his agreement with equal conviction. "House Velaryon stands behind you absolutely, Aurion. You are my only daughter's husband, you have been like a little brother to Rhaenys, and you serve as a mentor and big brother figure for my son who looks up to you as his squire. You are a talented and intelligent young man whose accomplishments would be remarkable for someone twice your age. I am proud and grateful that my good-son possesses such competence and brilliance."
All eyes turned to Williem, who had remained silent throughout these declarations of support. The young knight's face reflected the internal struggle between personal loyalty and sworn obligations, but finally he spoke with quiet determination.
"This might be considered treasonous by some, my prince, but I know the quality of your character and believe that your actions serve the greater good of the realm. Moreover, I am not the sort of man to betray a friend who once saved my life." His voice carried the weight of remembered debt and genuine affection as he recalled the mountain clan raid where Prince Aurion had intervened to preserve his life, forging the bond of friendship that had brought him to this moment of decision.
Prince Aurion's expression softened with visible relief and gratitude as he regarded the three men who had pledged themselves to his cause. "I feel deeply relieved and honored to have friends who believe in me and trust me so completely. Let us hope that this alliance and partnership culminates in glorious victory, and that we will celebrate our success with the finest Arbor gold in the halls of our new kingdom."
As if summoned by his words, the distant roar of Vermithor echoed across Driftmark from the dragon pits, the bronze fury's call seeming to herald the momentous decisions made this night. The sound sent shivers through all present, a reminder of the power that would soon be unleashed upon the world
"My friends," Aurion said, rising from his chair with the fluid grace of a born leader, "I believe we have covered the essential elements of our strategy for tonight. Lord Corlys and I have additional logistical matters to discuss regarding fleet positioning and supply lines. Please, take your rest and prepare yourselves for the campaigns to come. Within a fortnight, we shall depart these shores and reshape the very map of the known world."
Rogar and Williem exchanged glances before rising from their seats, understanding that their dismissal was both courteous and necessary. There were clearly matters of naval strategy and Velaryon fleet deployment that required private discussion between prince and sea lord. They offered respectful bows to both Aurion and Lord Corlys before making their way toward the study's heavy oak door.
"Sleep well, my lords," Aurion called after them. "Tomorrow we begin the final preparations for war."
As the door closed behind them with a solid thud, Rogar found himself walking beside Williem through the dimly lit corridors of High Tide, their footsteps echoing softly against the polished marble floors. Neither man spoke immediately, both lost in contemplation of the magnitude of what they had just committed themselves to supporting. The castle around them seemed different somehow, as if the very stones had been transformed by the momentous decisions made within Aurion's study.
Servants moved quietly through the halls, tending to their nighttime duties with the practiced efficiency that marked a well-run noble household, but Rogar barely noticed their presence. His mind was consumed with visions of dragon fire consuming Triarchy fleets, of armies landing on foreign shores under banners bearing the red dragon of House Targaryen.
Retreating to his private chambers to grapple with thoughts too vast for easy sleep, Rogar's room seemed smaller somehow as he entered it, as if the evening's revelations had expanded his perspective beyond the ability of mere physical space to contain it.
Moving to the tall windows that looked out over Blackwater Bay, he could see lights twinkling in the distance where ships rode at anchor, their crews unaware that they would soon carry armies to reshape the political landscape of two continents. The moon hung full and bright above the waters, casting a silver path across the waves that seemed to point toward the east, toward the Stepstones and the Free Cities beyond.
Tomorrow would bring new preparations, new plans to finalize, new weapons to sharpen and supplies to organize. But tonight, in the quiet darkness of his chamber, Rogar Reyne allowed himself to dream of the kingdom they would forge and the legacy they would leave for future generations. The boy from Castamere who had once dreamed of glory in tournaments now stood on the threshold of genuine greatness, ready to follow a Dragonlord into the fires of war and the pages of history.