Chapter 13: The Leviathan's Bones
Spring arrived, not with a gentle thaw, but with the furious ringing of hammers. The air in White Harbor, always sharp with salt, was now thick with the smells of pine pitch, hot iron, and ambition. The first Leviathan was taking shape.
I stood on the quay beside Lord Medrick Manderly, watching as the monstrous ribs of the warship rose against the grey sky. The Arbormasters and my own engineers swarmed over the skeleton, their shouts echoing across the harbor. It was a beast of a different nature, its proportions all wrong to a traditional shipwright's eye—broader, lower, its hull sheathed in the first batches of iron plate from Duskendale.
"They call it 'The Merman's Folly' behind my back," Medrick grunted, though a flicker of pride was in his eyes. "And 'Targaryen's Vanity'."
"Let them talk," I said, my voice calm. "Soon, they will call it 'Victory'. How long?"
"Two moons. Perhaps three. The ironwork is… slow."
The delay was a stone in my boot. Every day the Leviathan wasn't in the water was a day our naval supremacy remained a theory. Our Swift-class traders were already cutting delivery times in half, earning their name and filling our coffers, but they were prey, not predators. We needed the Leviathan.
The need for speed warred with the Cannibal's restless presence in my mind. His hunger for sky and violence was a constant pressure. Mastery was not suppression; it was a daily, exhausting act of will, of channeling that boundless aggression into a sharp, focused point. It left me feeling hollowed out, a vessel for a fury not entirely my own. Rhaenyra saw it. Her evening visits to my chambers were no longer just for strategy. They were an anchor, a silent vigil where her mere presence helped me rebuild the walls the dragon's rage constantly battered down.
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A moon later, a different kind of ship arrived at Dragonstone. It flew the falcon-and-moon of House Arryn, and it carried not goods, but a personal invitation.
Lady Jeyne Arryn requested the presence of Prince Aemon Targaryen at the Eyrie.
The timing was both perfect and terrible. Perfect, because the Leviathan was stalled, and the Vale alliance was the key to securing our eastern flank against any potential move from the Crown. Terrible, because leaving Dragonstone now felt like abandoning a half-built fortress.
"You must go," Rhaenyra insisted, her tone leaving no room for argument. She stood before a map of Westeros, her finger tracing the mountains of the Vale. "Jeyne trusts you. That trust is a weapon Otto Hightower cannot counter. Secure the Vale, brother. Secure our back. I will hold Dragonstone."
"The Riverlands…" I began, thinking of the delicate, incendiary deals we were weaving with the Blackwoods and Brackens.
"Are a tinderbox you are not yet ready to light," she finished for me. "The Vale is a shield. We need the shield before we draw the sword."
She was right. As always, her political instincts were sharper than mine. I was the strategist, the architect of systems. She was the queen, understanding the hearts of people.
A week later, I found myself on the high road, a contingent of Dragon's Teeth as my escort. The journey was long and arduous, the mountain passes still clutching the cold of winter. But with every step, the oppressive weight of the sea and the dragon's rage lessened, replaced by the thin, clean air of the mountains. It was a physical and mental unclenching I hadn't realized I needed.
The Eyrie was a castle made of sky and white stone, a defiant fist raised against the heavens. And in its sun-drenched courtyard, Lady Jeyne Arryn awaited.
She was not the girl from the letters. She was a young woman now, with a keen, intelligent face and eyes the color of a winter sky that held a strength that belied her years. She did not curtsy deeply, but offered a respectful nod, her gaze assessing me with a frankness that was refreshing after the deceit of King's Landing.
"Prince Aemon," she said, her voice clear and steady. "I see the stories did not lie. You look like a man who argues with dragons."
"And you, my lady," I replied, offering a genuine smile, "look like a woman who commands mountains. It is a far more impressive feat."
A slight, surprised smile touched her lips. The formality broke, just a little.
That first evening, we did not speak of alliances or wars. We spoke of burdens. Of the loneliness of command. Of the frustrating, condescending advice of older lords. We found common ground not in ambition, but in shared experience. She was sharp, witty, and possessed a steely core that had kept the Vale intact through the years of her minority.
On the third day, we got down to business. We walked along the snowy parapets, the world spread out below us.
"My lords are wary," she said bluntly. "They see your friendship with the North. They hear rumors of your… enterprise. They fear trading the neglect of the Iron Throne for the ambition of Dragonstone."
"I do not want the Vale's fealty," I said, matching her directness. "I want its partnership. The Mountain Clans grow bolder. Your ports are few and vulnerable. I can help with both."
I laid out the offer. Swift-class ships for the Vale's merchants, giving them an advantage in trade. A commitment from Dragonstone to help patrol the Bite and the narrow sea approaches, protecting her shores from pirates—and from any naval pressure the Crown might one day apply. In return, we asked for access to the Vale's timber and a formal pact of mutual defense.
"You would be our shield against the sea," she mused, looking out at the endless blue. "And in return, we would be your shield against the continent." She turned to me, her expression serious. "And my cousin's claim? Ser Joffrey Arryn? There are those who still whisper that a man should rule the Vale."
It was the heart of it. "The only claim that matters is the one defended by strength and will," I said, my voice low. "You have the will. Let Dragonstone provide the strength. Let them whisper. When they see our ships in your ports and know our dragon is a mere day's flight away, the whispers will die."
She was silent for a long time, watching the eagles circle below us. Finally, she nodded. "A pact, then. Not with the Crown. Not as a vassal. But between the Eyrie and Dragonstone. Between you and me."
We sealed it not with a kiss, but with a firm, clasping of hands on that windswept parapet. It was a colder, harder deal than the one with the North, born of mutual need and sharp political calculation. But as I looked into Jeyne Arryn's resolute eyes, I saw the most valuable thing of all: a partner who understood the game perfectly.
I had come for a shield. I had found a dagger. And the board of Westeros tilted once more.