Chapter 14 — Fire in the Narrow Sea
The wind had almost died.
It wasn't gone, not entirely, but it had shifted from ally to stranger. It hung heavy, pressing the sails like a reluctant breath. The Gullet narrowed before us, steep cliffs rising like jagged fangs on either side. I could hear the gulls crying above the waves. Below, the sea lapped against the hull of the Boreal Star like a predator licking its lips.
The galley that flew the burning heart and crowned stag was now fully in view, her black sails taut with menace, her hull low in the water from the weight of soldiers and scorpions. From her deck came the shout again:
"By command of King Stannis Baratheon, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, you are ordered to surrender your vessel and deliver the head of the Targaryen bastard onboard!"
Every man on deck turned to me.
Even with the sun glaring off steel helms and the sea breeze brushing my face, I felt the heat rising under my collar. The Targaryen bastard. So that's how they wanted to play this. The name I had never claimed now made me a target. They shouldn't even know, what the fuck happened?!
Ser Myles, the commander of the soldier detachment, turned to me, jaw tight beneath his well-trimmed beard. "My lord…?"
I didn't answer immediately. My eyes scanned the horizon.
"Captain Trell," I called. "Options?"
The grizzled old seaman stepped forward from the quarterdeck. His hands were calloused from a lifetime of rope and salt, but they gripped the railing with tension now.
"They've what little wind there is," he said. "And the draft. That galley's oar-driven, she'll outpace us in a straight chase, even with our new hull. If we turn tail now, we won't make it an hour. And—"
"More sails!" came the sharp cry from the lookout in the crow's nest. "Starboard! Two more, closing fast!"
Silence settled across the deck like snowfall.
Fuck.
I turned slowly. Two more black-sailed ships emerging from the haze, like sharks circling in from the depths. Their formation was clean, practiced. They had waited, coordinated. This was no rogue engagement. This was a trap.
How could they know we would be here?
"They were waiting for us," Arren muttered at my side, voice low.
"Aye," I said. "And someone told them who to wait for."
He glanced at me. "Is it true? Who you really are?"
"Not now Arren, if—when we survive this, we will speak."
Myles approached again. "We still have a chance, my lord. If we strike quickly, take the flagship before the two others close—"
"No." I shook my head. "If we commit everything to the first, the other two will hammer our flanks. This is not a brawl. It's a dance."
I looked to the sky, wind weak, but it could still be useful.
"Ser Myles, I want the ballista crews in position. Tell them to aim low, we want to cripple, not warn. Captain Trell, maneuver as close to the cliff walls as you dare. We'll use the terrain to break sightlines with the other ships. If they try to encircle, we strike fast and slip past."
"And if we're boarded?" Trell asked.
I met his eyes. "Then we kill them. Fast. As fast as we can."
Myles nodded grimly. "And if the others close before we can escape?"
I looked at the approaching black sails, growing larger with every heartbeat.
"Then we die on our feet."
Arren gave me a sidelong look. "Dramatic."
"Truthful," I replied, drawing my sword with a soft hiss. The steel glinted with pale fire in the morning light. "They came for our heads. They'll get steel first."
I stepped forward, raising my voice to the full ship.
"Men of the Boreal Star! You know who I am. You know what this ship is. If we run, we die. If we surrender, we die."
I let the silence hang for a beat.
"But if we fight, we might live. And more than that, we send a message. The North bows to no pretender. We are Northmen! We are the fire that burns back the dark!"
The men shouted, sharp, controlled.
I turned to the helm.
"Battle stations," I said. "Load the scorpions. Run out the ballistae. Myles prepare the men for crossbow volleys, we need to kill as many as we can as fast as we can if we want to escape the other two galleys."
I looked down as the men went to do their jobs.
My hand didn't stop shaking no matter how much I tried.
The deck was alive with motion, though no one shouted. Every man knew where he had to be. Ser Myles strode down the line of soldiers with quiet precision, tapping shoulders, checking grips, offering nods instead of words. Shields were raised and locked along the port rail, a bristling wall of Northern iron and oak. Crossbowmen crouched behind them, bolts already notched, sweat running down their brows despite the sea wind.
Some knelt with quivers at the ready, passing fresh ammunition between ranks. The crew, less armored but no less steady, moved like sinew through the bones of the ship, tying down canvas, wetting the deck to keep fire from catching, securing barrels and ropes that might roll free when the fight began. The Boreal Star was no dedicated warship, but she'd been hardened for this, and so had her men.
I paced behind the formation, boots thudding on the deck's planks. No one looked at me directly, but I could feel them tracking my steps. The quiet before the clash was always the same , thick with breath and heartbeat.
I passed Arren, who stood near the mast with a crate of bolts and a ledger in hand, pale but composed. He met my gaze and gave a small, tight nod. At the prow, two sailors readied the tar pots and iron tongs for the first volley of flame. From the crow's nest above came the shrill cry: "Two hundred yards!" The enemy galley loomed now, her oars rising and falling like wings. I could make out the glint of helms and drawn bows. "Hold," I muttered, more to myself than to them. "Hold until they see the whites of our eyes."
And the Boreal Star surged forward into the narrowing Gullet, cutting the sight of the other two galleys coming for us, toward blood, fire, and the black-sailed ships waiting to break us.
My blood roared in my ears.
The enemy galley was closing fast, cutting through the waves with cruel precision. She rode lower than us, sleek, deadly, her oars a blur of motion. The sea churned with her coming, white spray fountaining from her prow as she closed the last few dozen yards.
"Brace the rails!" I shouted.
My men were ready. Fifty shields up along the port side, crested like a line of steel teeth. Some bore wolfheads, some sunbursts, others plain northern steel, but all were locked together tight. The sailors crouched behind, crossbows drawn, bolts already notched.
The galley shifted in the waves, lining up the angle of impact. The stag-and-flame banner fluttered above its stern like a curse.
"Hold," I growled, watching the narrowing gap.
The first cry came from the forward scorpion, a deep twang like a bowstring stretched past breaking. A heartbeat later, a thick iron bolt screamed across the water, trailing a spiral of salt spray behind it.
It struck the enemy galley amidships with a crunch of wood and splinters, driving through planking and armor like a spear through cloth. Then came the ballista from the aft tower, its bolt arcing high before plunging down into the galley's deck with a hollow thud, punching a jagged hole through the upper planks and sending a pair of figures sprawling. Cheers erupted from our crew, but only briefly. There wasn't time to savor the hits, the enemy was still coming. Moments later, the first wave of arrows darkened the sky.
Then, whistles overhead. I flinched as the first volley struck.
From the galley's deck, a flaming bolt hissed across the waves. It struck just short of us, skimming water before exploding in a plume of steam and foam. The next flew higher and struck our aft quarter, trailing fire like the tail of a comet. It cracked into the planking and sent sailors scrambling with buckets and soaked cloth. Smoke wafted across the deck , acrid, sharp, as crewmen cursed and stomped and smothered.
Arrows rained down like hail. They thudded into shields, pinged off the mast, slammed into the deck with a sound like meat slapping butcher's stone. A sailor beside me screamed and dropped, an arrow through his throat.
Gods…
"Shields up!" someone shouted. Maybe me. Maybe Myles. Maybe no one.
The groan of the Boreal Star's ballistae sounded again, a deep, snapping crack as the thick cords released their coiled fury. Massive bolts arced through the salty air, glinting briefly in the sun before slamming into the enemy galley's hull with dull, splintering thuds. One struck high and punched through the forward rail, sending a spray of shattered wood and blood as it impaled a sailor mid-shout. Another embedded itself in the galley's bow, but still she came on.
We returned fire. Crossbow bolts hissed back at them, low and angry, and men reloaded as fast as their hands would move. We'd drilled this. Three rows, front kneel and fire, second load, third wait. Rotate. Again.
It worked. For a time.
The enemy archers ducked low behind wicker shields lashed to the rail. But I saw one stagger back, bolt through his chest. Another lost his footing and toppled into the sea.
"Focus fire!" I shouted. "Kill the climbers! The climbers!"
Below their rail, I saw the shape of boarding hooks being prepped, thick iron, chains coiled like serpents ready to strike.
Arrows buzzed past like hornets. Men beside me loosed crossbow quarrels in measured bursts, reloading with speed born of practice, shouting warnings, ducking instinctively when return fire tore into the mast or thudded into a shield. One of our scorpions fired again, the bolt trailing rope behind it. It slammed into the galley's prow, and the rope snapped taut, dragging awkwardly at their advance, but only for a breath.
"She's almost on us!" someone shouted.
The distance was closing fast. Less than thirty yards now. I could see the white of their eyes, the glint of steel armor beneath storm-painted surcoats. A drum began to beat aboard their deck — deep, rhythmic, fast. A boarding rhythm.
The last of our heavy bolts flew, this one striking home dead center — a blessed shot that tore through two rows of oars and left the galley listing slightly to port. But the drumbeat did not stop. Nor did the ship.
I felt the ship shift under me, the captain trying to angle our hull to glance the ram.
Too slow.
CRACK.
The sound was like nothing I'd ever heard, a great, shuddering crack, wood screaming against wood, iron groaning as the enemy galley slammed broadside into the Boreal Star. The jolt staggered us all. Barrels tipped, men stumbled, and the deck lurched beneath my boots as though the ship had buckled in pain. The grappling hooks came next, wicked, rust-stained claws flung through the air on thick ropes. One struck the railing a foot from me and dug in deep with a thunk, the rope snapping taut. Another whirled past my face, close enough to feel the wind of its passing. I shouted over the chaos, "Cut the lines! Shoot the bastards if you have to!"
But it was too late for most of them. Figures were already clambering up, dark shapes in patched leathers and mismatched mail, faces smeared with ash and oil to ward off fear. The first to crest the rail caught a bolt in the chest and pitched backward with a gurgling cry.
Another scrambled up behind him, only to meet Ser Myles's sword with a wet crunch of bone and steel. The rail became a battlefield in miniature, blades flashing, boots stomping on fingers as men kicked climbers back into the sea. I swung my sword into one who made it over, a short man with a curved blade and murder in his eyes. My cut bit through his collarbone, and he fell wordlessly, blood spraying hot across my arm. All around me, the clash had begun.
"Here they come!" Myles bellowed, drawing his longsword.
The enemy poured over like a black tide. Their armor was mixed, light mail, boiled leather, some with tabards of red and gold. A few wore no sigil at all, just murder in their eyes.
The first man up was tall, scarred, and fast. He cleared the rail before I could speak and swung at me with a short axe. I caught the blow on my sword, sparks flying. He was strong, stronger than I'd expected, and I nearly lost my footing on the blood-slick deck.
I twisted, drove my shoulder into his chest, and thrust. The blade punched through his gut, hot and wet.
He gasped, and I shoved him off with my boot. I didn't have time to think, just act.
Another came behind, smaller, dagger in each hand, but Myles intercepted, shield raised, and crushed the man's skull with a brutal overhead strike.
The air was full of screams, steel, and fire.
A fire arrow embedded itself in a crate beside me. I kicked it away. The flames licked hungrily at the wood.
There came a lull, brief, ragged, like the eye of a storm, and in that moment I saw it clearly. The Boreal Star rode higher in the water than the enemy galley, her deck a wall of sharpened angles and hardened men.
Every time one of their bastards tried to climb, they were met with a sword thrust or a spear from above. Arrows rained down at close range, bolts from scorpions hissed into the enemy deck, and men screamed as they fell back into the churning sea. It was like holding a castle wall, the rail was our battlement, the grapples their siege ladders. And we had the height. We had the discipline. For once, the ship's design was working exactly as I'd imagined, and for the first time in the madness, I allowed myself to hope.
Arren was behind the mast, hauling a wounded sailor by the armpits toward cover. His face was pale, smeared with blood, but he didn't falter. A bolt hissed past his head. He flinched but didn't stop.
"Arren!" I barked. "Get below! Coordinate the bolts! We're running low!"
He nodded and vanished like a ghost into the smoke.
To my left, a pair of sailors with spears skewered a boarder trying to swing over the rail. Another leapt from the enemy ship and landed hard, only to take a mace to the face from one of Trells' men.
The fighting was everywhere, and nowhere. I saw flashes, of flame, of blade, of pain. A man screamed behind me. I spun, just in time to parry a sword aimed for my ribs.
I recognized the sigil, the burning heart. One of Stannis's knights. He fought like a trained man, not a levy. I ducked his slash, hooked his leg, and we both went down hard. We rolled. I got on top. He clawed for his knife.
I took my own dagger and drove it into his throat.
Warm blood sprayed my face.
I rose, gasping.
"Push them back!" I roared.
But I didn't know how many there were. I couldn't see the farther side of the ship; there were too many men in the way. I couldn't hear the quarterdeck over the battle.
All I knew was the fight right in front of me, blood on the wood, my arms shaking from every parried blow, the stink of burning pitch and death in my nostrils.
And still they came.
They came like a wave of meat and steel, pouring over the rail with grappling hooks and screams. Men crashed together, no distance now, no archery, just blades and fists and blood. For every one man we killed another two tried to climb aboard.
I was already moving.
A man in boiled leather vaulted the rail to my right. I buried my sword in his shoulder before he landed, yanked it free with a grunt, and shoved the body back into the sea. Another came swinging an axe. I ducked low, drove my sword into his gut, and he screamed as he dropped. The sound was wet, human, ugly.
All around me the fight surged like a wildfire in dry brush. The deck was chaos, boots slipping in blood, steel ringing, men screaming curses and prayers. My men held the line. Barely. We fought shoulder to shoulder, blades flashing in tight arcs. Every inch we gave was one more they climbed, one more who could overrun us.
"Push forward!" I roared, voice hoarse. "Keep the rail! Rotate left!"
I wanted to cry. I wanted to panic. But I couldn't, that would mean death.
The formation shifted like clockwork, two rows moving back, fresh spears stepping forward. We'd drilled it a hundred times in the yard of the Moat. Now it saved our lives. A man lunged toward me with a knife; I caught his wrist, slammed my pommel into his face, and shoved him down into the press. Someone else finished him before he hit the deck.
Captain Trell was by the helm, bellowing orders with a sword in one hand and a boarding axe in the other. "Keep the prow clear! Crossbows, stagger your fire! You! Man the scorpion again, load it now!"
To my left, I saw Arren go down, cut across the thigh, but he rolled, stabbed his attacker in the belly, and staggered upright again. His face was pale, blood soaking his boot, but he didn't retreat. Gods, he didn't even flinch. He just rejoined the line, sword slick and shaking in his grip.
A brute in chainmail tried to scramble up one of the grapples. I hacked the rope loose and watched him fall, flailing, arms wide like wings that wouldn't catch the air. He fell into the water and didn't appear again. A crossbow bolt flew past my ear. Another hit a man beside me in the neck. He gurgled, clawing at the shaft, then dropped.
More screams. More blood. One of my men, Willem, a boy from Barrowton no older than nineteen, went down, his arm hacked to the bone. Ser Myles was there a heartbeat later, dragging him back behind the mast, binding the wound with steady hands. His face was white as salt.
"They're breaking!" Trell shouted. "Look at them!"
He was right. The enemy was faltering. Their third wave never came. The men on the galley were fewer now, many dead, others hesitating. Some tried to run back to their ship, they found crossbow bolts waiting for them. Others looked to their captain, but the man was already dead, face split by a hammer blow that had caved half his skull in.
I pressed forward. My sword was heavy now, not from its weight, but from the weight of killing. Each step I took left red behind me. But I couldn't stop. I wouldn't stop.
I reached the rail and looked down into the enemy galley.
They were in disarray. Half the deck was empty. Corpses littered the boards. The remaining crew huddled behind the mast, trying to fire up at us, too late, too disorganized.
This is it!
I turned and shouted:
"First and second squads, with me!"
And two dozen men vaulted over the rail and landed in the galley with hard thuds. I followed. My boots struck wood slick with blood and almost slipped. The enemy raised blades, but they had no line, no formation. We cut through them like threshers through wheat.
One turned to flee, I took his leg out from under him, then slammed the flat of my blade against his helm. He dropped. Another came at me, screaming, wild-eyed. I ducked under his swing and drove my elbow into his nose. Bone crunched. He fell. I kept moving.
Soon it was over.
We stood panting amid the wreckage, our boots soaked in blood, our armor dented, our arms trembling. One man vomited over the rail. Another wept silently, gripping the edge of his shield.
I pulled off my helm and drew in a breath of salt-heavy air. My throat burned. My face was wet, sweat, blood, I didn't know. My heart hammered in my chest, and my sword hung heavy in my hand. I couldn't feel anything. My hand couldn't stop shaking.
But we were alive.
We had won.
"Secure the ship," I rasped. "Chain the rudder. Check beneath."
"Aye, Lord Stark," came a dozen tired voices.
Behind me, two soldiers dragged a prisoner forward, a lean man in stained brigandine with a torn surcoat bearing the crowned stag and red heart. His lip was bleeding. One eye was already swelling shut. He met my gaze and spat on the deck.
"You'll burn for this," he hissed.
"Maybe," I said quietly, too tired to care. "But not today."
The stench hit me first. Not salt or pitch or seaweed, but blood, thick, coppery, and ripe. And smoke. Gods, the smoke still clung to the sails like ghosts. My boots thudded softly as I stepped across the galley's deck, and I realized they weren't striking wood.
They were stepping on flesh.
Bodies lay tangled like broken dolls, their limbs caught in cruel angles, faces twisted mid-scream or slack with peace. Some had been cleaved clean through, necks opened to the spine, arms missing, skulls caved in. Others were only scratched, but lifeless all the same. Blood pooled between the boards in puddles that shimmered like oil in the morning sun.
I turned and looked back toward the Boreal Star. Her hull was flecked red now on this side, and the deck was no better. Corpses hung half-over the rail, caught on broken grapples or sprawled where they fell. Northern soldiers, Free Cities sailors, enemy men in Baratheon colors, all one and the same now in death. A man groaned somewhere behind me, but I couldn't find him through the carnage.
It was… too much.
I hadn't killed before. This was madness, not war. Too many dead for a single ship. Too many to name. My hands opened and closed around my swords hilt. I looked down and saw the gore still clinging to its fuller, bits of cloth and skin in the crossguard. My stomach turned, but I didn't let it show. The men can't see me be weak.
I just stood there, eyes burning, breathing slow.
A boy was slumped by the main mast, no older than me, fifteen, a smooth-cheeked squire with pale hair and a bolt through the chest. His sword had fallen near his fingertips. I didn't know his name. He was just a child and now he was dead. He is your age. Something on the back of my mind whispered, but I didn't hear it.
So many in the deck of the galley had crossbow bolts in their bodies, it had saved us, that and our ship being higher, they outnumbered us three to one and we negated their advantage. Then came the fury.
The prisoner sat slumped against the mast, wrists bound in coarse rope, his mouth bloodied from the fight and from the fists that followed. He was a lean man with a sun-scorched face, dark beard, and a sailor's rough hands. His breastplate bore the crowned stag in fiery red, the mark of Stannis Baratheon. Not a knight, but not some green deckhand either. A professional killer, and loyal.
Ser Myles stood beside me, one hand on the pommel of his sword, the other holding a waterskin. He offered it to the prisoner, who drank with slow defiance, his eyes locked on mine the whole time.
"Tell me why," I said coldly.
The man spat blood to the deck. "You bear the dragon's banner. That's reason enough."
I crouched, letting my word rest point-down beside me. "You attacked without warning. Why? What orders were you given?"
His lip curled. "King Stannis declared the Targaryen spawn an enemy of the realm. Said there'd be no peace while dragon blood festered in Westeros. Your banner showed a white wolf like we were told. We knew what that meant. Lady Melisandre was right!"
Melisandre? Did she see me in the flames? Did she know we were coming?
"Who told you we were coming? How did you know where to wait for us?!"
The man just laughed. My blood ran hot.
"Stannis... is king?" I asked, voice low. "What happened to Robert? To the capital? Answer me dammit!"
He didn't answer at first. Just looked at me, then laughed, dry and bitter.
It was too soon. It wasn't supposed to happen yet. Dammit… DAMMIT!
I opened my mouth to demand answers, about Ned, about Stannis, about my siblings, about how the fuck did they know I was a Targaryen, maybe threaten to cut a few extremities if he didn't open his mouth, but I never got the chance.
The prisoner surged forward with sudden strength, a glint of silver flashing in his hand, a stiletto, thin and jagged, pulled from a seam in his boot. Myles was fast, but not faster than instinct. I twisted aside, rising too late, but the blade didn't reach me.
It buried itself on a soldiers shoulder instead.
The big man cried out and fell back, and in that instant, Myles struck. His sword pierced through the prisoner's neck clean, and blood sprayed across the deck like red rain. The man twitched once, then fell still over the man he had stabbed.
We dragged his corpse over the rail and let the sea take him.
The soldier winced as the medic bound his shoulder tight with linen and cobweb paste. He was pale under the blood, but breathing steadily. "I'm fine, milord" he muttered, jaw clenched. "Just nicked the muscle."
I nodded once, but my hand lingered on his arm a moment longer than needed. "You saved me."
He gave a faint smile. "That's what the Lord's Swords do, isn't it?"
These men were loyal to me, so loyal. What did I do to deserve this?
Trell came to my side, his face grim, jaw tight with sweat and salt. "They'll be on us within the hour. The wind as picked up northeast."
Myles approached next, helm under his arm, eyes still burning from the fight. "We can't take two more galleys in open battle."
"No," I said quietly. "We can't."
I looked again toward the east, where the Gullet gave way to the deeper waters of Blackwater Bay, and beyond that, the stormy horizon of the Narrow Sea. The Boreal Star could still run, if the wind had picked. But only if we moved now.
"We sail," I said, voice sharp and final. "We cut the lines, burn the galley, and make for deeper water. I want every sail full within five minutes. We won this fight, let's live to win the next."
And with that, we ran again, blood in our wake, wind at our backs, and fire on the sea.
Night fell heavy, cloaked in mist and silence, the sea stretching dark and endless around us. The Boreal Stargroaned as it cut through the waves, battered and bloodstained, but alive. Just barely. I stood alone on the quarterdeck, fingers wrapped around the cold rail, watching the foam slip past the hull. Behind us, the horizon still held fire. Two enemy warships, faster, lighter, drawing ever closer. They were still moving faster, their oars out. By dawn, they'd be on us.
We would fight again.
My hands ached. Not from the swordwork, that pain I understood, but from the weight of command. Decisions made in blood. Lives gambled and lost. We had killed to live, and tomorrow we'd have to do it again. I could see the cost in every set of tired shoulders, in every wounded man sleeping with blade in hand, in the ghosts that lingered beneath the deck.
The captain found me first. Trell limped on a twisted knee, still stiff from the battle, but he bore himself like iron. He said nothing at first, only leaned beside me, watching the sea with that weary, sailor's patience. Then came Arren, his leg bound tight with linen, face pale, eyes sharper than before. Ser Myles behind him. We sat beneath the lanterns at the aft bench, wrapped in wool cloaks, the stars dim behind the clouds.
"We'll have to fight again soon," Trell said softly, not a question.
I nodded. "Aye. By morning, unless the wind turns or the gods strike blind."
"Gods don't strike blind," Arren murmured. "They send kings."
There was a pause. The captain's voice was quieter this time, slower. "You heard what the prisoner said. About Stannis, about the dragons." He looked at me now, not just as a man, but as something else. "You bear that banner. With black and red. Subtle, but I am not an idiot, my lord."
These men weren't stupid; they could connect the dots. They were owed the truth.
I looked at them both. I trusted them. They were my men. One of the sea, one of the sword, one of the pen. Men who had bled for me, stood beside me on a deck slick with blood and ash. Men who would likely die for me if I led them wrong.
"My mother named me Daemon Targaryen," I said quietly. "I am the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Heir of the Iron Throne... if everything didn't go to shit." For the first time in my life I could say the word out loud, if only it were in other circumstances.
They didn't flinch. Didn't speak. The wind hummed through the rigging like a funeral dirge.
Arren broke the silence first. "I knew there was more to you. No bastard thinks like you. No bastard commands like you."
I snorted; the bastard stigma was deep.
Trell gave a slow exhale, eyes narrowed. "The realm will want you dead."
"I know. It already does, apparently."
"It doesn't matter," he said firmly, eyes locked on mine. "Stark, Snow, Targaryen, whatever blood you carry, I don't give a damn. I swore myself to you. And I'm your man to this day… until the day I die."
His voice wasn't loud, but there was steel in it. The kind you can only forge in fire. Trell gave a grunt of agreement, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
"You fought with us," the captain said. "Led us when most lords would've hid behind their names. You killed with us. That's what matters. The rest is winds and whispers."
"You are our commander, my prince," Myles said. "I joined the Lord's Swords because I wanted to serve the man who had changed my family's lives. Your name doesn't change that."
I looked at them. None owed me anything more than duty. But in that moment, I felt something deeper than allegiance. Something older. They believed in me, not because of my name, but because of what I had done.
The men in the deck looked at me differently after that. Not with fear. Not with awe. But with gravity, the sort that follows only those who've earned it. They didn't see a lord anymore. They saw a commander. One who bled beside them. One who'd carry them through fire if he had to.
The stars turned above us, indifferent and distant. And I watched the black line of the sea, waiting for the morning, and the battle yet to come.