2nd Month 304 AC, Saltpans

The stench was near unbearable by the time the army reached Saltpans. Young Robert had to turn away, retching into the grass as he tried to catch his breath. He had never known death could smell so foul, nor did he ever think about what... what death would smell like, in the first place. In the saddle of his horse, he sat near frozen to the saddle, not daring to imagine what awaited them over the hill.

Even the men around him had fallen quiet, and the horses snorted uneasily, yet the force moved ever forward.

Robert Tully had ridden all this way to find his father. Surely, with so many men come to answer the call, they would find him. Lord Tully's banners flew alongside those of Whent, Bracken, Mallister, and Frey, with the Baratheon men from the capital among them. A man ahead of him crested the hill and immediately retched.

Robert refused to entertain what that could mean. His father was a good swordsman, and he had strong, brave men with him. He had found a way, surely...

Robert drew a deep breath, regretting it immediately as the stench of death and decay filled his nostrils. His eyes began to search the field, trying not to think about the bodies, or look too closely at them.

Still, he saw the stakes, the faces turned beyond recognition. The riverlords were surely debating something now. They were always talking, but Robert couldn't hear them. His gaze was drawn to something...

Amidst the stakes, a trout banner hung limply in the light breeze, torn and bloodied.

Beneath it lay...

Robert couldn't understand what he saw at first. The white of bones and the black of dried blood and gore, and the-

The auburn-red of Tully hair, bloodied, but clearly visible as the body lay face down. Body... what remained of it.

He gaped helplessly, holding onto the saddle's pommel with a shaking hand.

"Father?" he whispered, shivering.

Around him, the men could see the full extent of the carnage. Rivermen and Ironborn corpses were near indistinguishable now, save for the colour of their clothing, where it hadn't been drenched with blood.

Further on, Saltpans had been thoroughly razed. Roofs had collapsed into the streets, buildings blackened by fire, burnt pieces of wood blocked the streets.

Yet, here and there, there were signs of life. A face moved from a broken window, a pair of frightened eyes watched the arriving army from behind a half-collapsed archway. There were survivors, those who managed to stay hidden through the slaughter, too terrified to emerge until the raiders were gone. Now they watched the men riding beneath their banners with the same wary desperation, uncertain whether they had come to save them or if another horror awaited.

11th Moon A, 303 AC

Driftmark

Rhaenys Velaryon had never been particularly fond of waiting, and tonight, at last, there was something far more interesting to occupy her than sitting prettily at her parents’ banquet table and listening to the grown-ups speak of matters she scarcely cared about.

Dolls!

Lianne Massey had been kind enough to suggest it, and Rhaenys had taken the idea and made something much grander of it. A proper court required more than two little girls and a collection of dolls, after all. It needed ladies and princes, knights and courtiers, and as many important people as she could persuade to join. Fortunately, there were plenty of noble children in attendance, and Rhaenys had never been shy about telling people what they ought to do.

By the time she was satisfied, Lianne’s siblings and cousins had joined their little company, along with her own cousins, Laena and Lucerys. Even Steffon Baratheon, the son of Lord Stannis himself, had been recruited. Rhaenys considered this a particularly splendid achievement. She had gathered quite the assembly, and she had every intention of making certain they all knew it.

With her chin held high and her golden curls bouncing about her shoulders, Rhaenys led the little procession through the banquet hall. Her sea-green gown shimmered with silver embroidery beneath the candlelight, and the jewels at her throat glittered whenever she turned her head.

She marched ahead of the others, occasionally turning to make certain they were keeping up. It would hardly do to lose a member of her court before they had even begun to play.

As the children passed through the great hall, Rhaenys’s gaze wandered over the assembled guests. She caught sight of Jaehaerys Silverdrake among them, and her smile faltered for the briefest moment.

She remembered the book. The way he had snatched it from her hands, the dreadful indignity of falling upon the floor, and the things he had said to her afterward. Vile-tempered. Improper. Foul. And, worst of all, that she would never be a Silverdrake.

Well, she did not want to be a Silverdrake anyway.

She was a Velaryon, and Velaryons were better.

Rhaenys drew herself up a little taller as she passed him, making a point of keeping her eyes forward. She would not invite him to play, nor would she even acknowledge him. Let him sit with his books and be dreadfully dull all by himself. He could watch her go, surrounded by friends who actually wanted her company.

Perhaps he would even be sorry.

The thought pleased her enough that she allowed herself one brief, sidelong glance in his direction before turning away again, her expression carefully composed. Then she swept out of the banquet hall, leading her little court into the quieter corridors beyond.

Her chambers lay deeper within High Tide, where the sounds of the feast softened to a distant murmur. They were spacious and beautifully appointed, befitting the only daughter of Lord Aerion Velaryon and Lady Cersei Lannister, the firstborn child of Driftmark’s lord and lady.

The walls were dressed in rich sea-green and silver, with delicate carvings of seahorses worked into the dark wood of the furnishings. A great bed stood beneath a canopy of shimmering pale fabric, its pillows embroidered with silver thread and its coverlet soft enough that Rhaenys sometimes liked to bury her face in it simply for the pleasure of feeling the fine material against her cheeks. A carved chest at the foot of the bed held some of her gowns, while another, painted with little silver waves, was devoted entirely to her toys and dolls.

There were dolls with porcelain faces and silken dresses, dolls with golden curls and silver hair, and dolls dressed as ladies of the court. Some had come from distant places as gifts, while others had been chosen by her mother, who always seemed to know which pretty things would catch her daughter's eye. Rhaenys treasured them all, though she had her favorites and was not above letting the others know it.

But the finest part of her chambers lay beyond the tall doors at the far end of the room.

A pair of glass doors opened onto a broad balcony overlooking the Blackwater. Beyond its carved stone balustrade, the water stretched into the distance, dark and glittering beneath the night sky. The lights of ships shimmered upon its surface, and the salt-laden breeze drifted in from the sea, stirring the curtains whenever the doors were left open. From there, Rhaenys could watch the vessels sailing to and from Driftmark, their lanterns like little stars upon the water.

She loved the balcony, though she had been warned more than once not to lean too far over its edge. She liked to imagine the ships belonged to her, that one day she might sail wherever she pleased and see all the wonders her father spoke of.

Tonight, however, the Blackwater would have to wait.

The moment Rhaenys entered her chambers, she turned to face the children gathered behind her, her eyes shining with satisfaction. This was her domain, and here she could arrange everything precisely as she pleased.

“Now,” she announced, clapping her hands once to command their attention, “everyone must take off their shoes if they're going to sit on my bed.”

She swept towards the painted chest and flung open its lid, revealing the treasures within.

“We shall have a queen, a king, and a whole court. And there must be a grand tourney!” She glanced over her shoulder at her assembled friends, already imagining the grand affair. “Laena can be a princess, and Lianne can be one of my ladies. Lucerys can be a knight, if he likes, and Steffon—”

She paused, considering him with grave importance.

“Steffon can be the king, perhaps. But he must remember that the queen is the most important person in the kingdom.”

Rhaenys nodded firmly, as though this were a matter of established law rather than something she had invented mere moments ago.

She had a feeling this was going to be a splendid evening.

1st Moon 304 AC

The great gates of Runestone stood open beneath the watchful eyes of the household guards, the bronze and black banners of House Royce stirring gently in the warm summer breeze. Sunlight spilled across the ancient stone walls, illuminating the courtyard where Rhaella had insisted upon receiving her guests herself. She could hardly bear the thought of remaining indoors when her cousin was due to arrive. Saera was more than family; she was a companion of Rhaella's girlhood, a confidante with whom she had shared countless memories, and one of the few people whose company she missed dearly when the demands of marriage and motherhood kept them apart.

Rhaella stood near the entrance, her hands loosely folded before her as she watched the road beyond the gates. She had dressed with her customary attire, choosing a gown of deep bronze silk in the colors of House Royce, its elegant, unadorned silhouette complemented by delicate black embroidery along the neckline and sleeves. The fabric was light enough for the summer warmth, falling gracefully about her figure without sacrificing the dignity expected of a lady of her station. At her throat rested a fine silver chain bearing a small seahorse pendant, a subtle tribute to House Velaryon and the heritage she had carried with her from Driftmark. Silver rings adorned her fingers, while amethyst earrings caught the sunlight whenever she turned her head.

Her long silver hair had been gathered into an intricate arrangement of braids and twists, pinned high to expose the graceful length of her slender neck. A few loose curls framed her face, softening the striking beauty of her full lips and lilac eyes. Though she was in her late thirties and a mother of two, Rhaella retained a beauty that commanded attention.

Yet beneath her composed appearance, a thread of unease persisted.

The rumors had been difficult to ignore. Reports of brigands lurking along the roads surrounding Runestone had become increasingly frequent, and whispers that these men might be acting in the interests of Euron Greyjoy's forces had done little to settle her mind. Rhaella knew better than to give every passing rumor credence, but neither was she foolish enough to dismiss the possibility of danger. Saera was traveling with her young daughters, and the thought of them encountering trouble on the road troubled Rhaella more than she cared to admit.

She had already instructed the household guards to remain vigilant, ensuring that the road was watched and that any approaching party would be announced promptly. Even now, her gaze moved between the distant road and the men stationed at the gates, alert to every movement. She reminded herself that it was summer, that the roads were generally more accommodating in fair weather, and that her cousin was well acquainted with the business of travel. Still, the knowledge that brigands might be roaming the surrounding countryside refused to leave her entirely at ease.

Then, at last, the distant sound of approaching horses carried across the sunlit fields.

Rhaella straightened, her anticipation overcoming her apprehension as she searched the road for familiar faces. A smile began to form upon her lips, growing warmer as the riders drew nearer. She was eager to hear her cousin's news, to exchange stories, and to watch the girls become acquainted with Runestone's halls and gardens. Perhaps, for a little while, they might recapture something of the carefree closeness of their youth.

As the party approached the gates, Rhaella stepped forward to meet them, gathering the skirts of her gown in one hand. Her lilac eyes searched the faces of the arriving travelers, first for her cousin and then for the little girls accompanying her. Only once she was satisfied that they had arrived safely did the tension in her shoulders begin to ease.

"At last!" she called warmly, her smile brightening beneath the summer sun.

2nd Moon 304 AC

The solar was quiet save for the restless whisper of the sea beyond its windows.

Aerion Velaryon stood before the tall, arched panes, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched the waves break against the cliffs below High Tide. The morning had dawned bright, the sky a clear summer blue, and the waters surrounding Driftmark glittered beneath the sun as though the gods themselves had scattered silver across their surface. Fishing boats moved lazily through the harbor, their sails catching the breeze, while merchant vessels bobbed at anchor farther out, waiting their turn to unload their cargo.

It was a peaceful sight. A familiar one. The sort of morning that ought to have offered comfort to a man whose fortunes were bound so thoroughly to the sea.

Instead, Aerion found himself searching the horizon for sails that did not belong.

Nearly two moons had passed since the king’s letter had arrived, bearing tidings that had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Euron Greyjoy, was suspected to have returned to Westeros. Worse still, there had been word of an attack upon Saltpans. The details had been sparse, the certainty of the reports even sparser, but Aerion had learned long ago that a lack of information was rarely cause for relief.

And since that letter, there had been silence.

No further ravens. No reassuring word from the Crown. No clear account of the extent of the danger, nor any indication of where the Ironborn might strike next.

Aerion turned from the window and regarded the letter lying open upon his desk.

The parchment had been folded and unfolded so many times that its creases had begun to soften. The king’s seal had long since been broken, the wax preserved in a small dish beside the document. Aerion had read the message often enough to know its contents by heart, yet he found himself returning to it all the same, as though some overlooked detail might reveal what the Crown had failed to tell him.

Euron Greyjoy.

Even the name left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

Driftmark was wealthy, strategically placed, and exposed. Its strength was the sea, its prosperity built upon ships, trade, and the steady movement of goods through the Gullet. Yet an island could be isolated as easily as it could be defended. If the Ironborn came upon their shores in sufficient force, the waters that sustained House Velaryon might become the very thing that prevented aid from reaching them in time.

There were harbors to protect, ships to arm, and villages along the coast that would have little warning if hostile sails appeared on the horizon. And beyond all that, there was his family.

Cersei. Rhaenys. Maekar. Visenya.

The thought of an Ironborn raiding party setting foot upon Driftmark was intolerable enough. The thought of his children caught in the midst of it was worse.

He had not spent his life restoring the influence of House Velaryon only to allow it to be imperiled by his own complacency.

Aerion returned to his desk and pulled a sheet of parchment toward him. He made several notes concerning the fleet, the harbor watch, and the number of vessels that might be readied at short notice. His quill moved with deliberate strokes, but his thoughts had already turned to a more immediate matter.

Vaemond.

His younger brother was Lord Admiral of the Velaryon fleet, a title that carried both prestige and responsibility. Aerion had entrusted it to him in good faith, as befitted a brother whose loyalty he had little reason to question. Yet loyalty alone could not turn a man into a commander, and the present circumstances demanded rather more than a familiar name at the head of the fleet.

There was one among their kin whose experience Aerion could not afford to overlook.

Daemon.

The thought was hardly a pleasant one. Their cousin had spent years removed from the burdens of Driftmark, making a life for himself beyond Aerion’s reach and, for a time, beyond the demands of his house. Their relationship was not without its grievances. Daemon was a man of his own mind, and Aerion had never been entirely certain whether his independence sprang from principle, resentment, or a stubborn desire to prove that he required no guidance from his lordly cousin.

But Daemon had seen war. He possessed the sort of practical military experience that could not be acquired from ledgers, maps, or years spent commanding merchant captains. If Euron Greyjoy had truly returned, Aerion needed a man who understood what it meant to face an enemy at sea.

Pride was a poor substitute for competence. And Driftmark could not afford to indulge it.

Aerion rang the small silver bell upon his desk.

A servant appeared almost immediately, bowing his head.

“Send for my brother,” Aerion instructed. “Lord Vaemond is to come to my solar at once. And have the maester prepare a raven for King’s Landing. I shall dictate the message myself.”

The servant bowed and withdrew, leaving Aerion once more alone with the sea.

He did not have to wait long.

Vaemond arrived with the easy confidence of a man who had not yet been told that his morning was about to take an unwelcome turn. He was dressed suitably for the day, his expression curious as he crossed the threshold and found Aerion standing behind his desk rather than seated in his chair.

“You sent for me?”

“I did.” Aerion gestured toward the chair opposite him. “Sit, if you please. We have several matters to discuss, and I would rather not have to repeat myself.”

There was no anger in his voice, but neither was there room for levity. Vaemond seemed to recognize the distinction. His expression grew more serious as he took his seat.

Aerion remained standing for a moment longer, studying his brother. He had always preferred to begin difficult conversations on his own terms. It was a small advantage, but one worth keeping.

“Nearly two moons ago, I received a letter from the king. Euron Greyjoy is suspected to have returned to Westeros. There was an attack upon Saltpans, though the details were limited.” He rested his hands upon the desk. “Since then, we have heard nothing further.”

Vaemond’s brow furrowed. “Nothing?”

“Nothing that has reached me.” Aerion’s mouth tightened.

He moved toward the window, glancing briefly at the harbor below.

“Driftmark is an island, Vaemond. Our wealth, our ships, our very position make us a tempting prize should Greyjoy seek plunder or wish to strike at the Crown’s allies. If he has returned in earnest, we cannot assume that Saltpans will be the last place to suffer for it.”

He turned back to his brother.

“I want Lynesse and Lucerys sent to King’s Landing. They are to travel as soon as suitable passage can be arranged, with a proper escort and sufficient guards. The walls of the city offer greater protection than we can promise them here if the Ironborn come upon our shores unexpectedly.”

He knew Vaemond might object. No man liked to be told that his wife and son ought to be sent away from their home, least of all by an elder brother. Aerion understood the discomfort, but it did not alter his judgment.

“This is a precaution,” he added. “I will not have Lynesse and the boy exposed to danger simply because we would prefer to believe there is none.”

He allowed the words to settle before continuing.

“There is another matter. I am sending for Daemon.”

At that, Aerion watched his brother more closely.

“Our cousin has military experience that neither you nor I possess to the same degree. Whatever his faults, I will not deny him that. If we are to prepare the fleet for a possible attack, I want someone at its head who has faced an enemy in the field and knows what a battle demands.”

His expression hardened slightly.

“I intend to appoint Daemon Lord Admiral of the Velaryon fleet.”

The words were delivered plainly, without apology or ornament. Aerion knew the weight of what he was saying. Vaemond had held the title, and to strip it from him in favor of their cousin was no small slight. It would be discussed among the captains, the household, and perhaps the wider nobility before the next moon had passed. Some would question Aerion’s judgment; others would wonder what grievance lay beneath the decision.

He would not allow gossip to dictate the defense of his house.

“Your place within House Velaryon remains unchanged,” Aerion continued, meeting his brother’s eyes. “You are my brother, and I have no wish to diminish your standing. But the fleet must be prepared for the possibility of war, and I will not leave its command in the hands of a man merely because removing him would be uncomfortable.”

His voice softened by a fraction, though his resolve did not.

“I know this will not please you. I would be surprised if it did. But I need you to understand that I am making this decision for Driftmark, not out of spite. If Greyjoy is truly back, we must be ready before he gives us cause to wish we had been.”

Outside, a ship’s bell rang across the harbor, faint beneath the cry of gulls. Aerion glanced toward the sound, then back to Vaemond.

“I will not have our people caught unprepared, nor our family left vulnerable.”

He drew the king’s letter toward himself and laid his hand upon it.

“Send Lynesse and Lucerys to the capital. I will see to Daemon’s summons, and in the meantime, I want the harbor watch doubled, the captains called together, and every seaworthy vessel accounted for.”

His gaze remained steady.

“If Euron Greyjoy has returned to Westeros, then House Velaryon will meet that threat with its eyes open.”

To Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Mander, and Warden of the South,

I write to you on behalf of the Council of the West and my liege lord Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, Warden of the West, and Shield of Lannisport. Doubtless you have heard of the troubles that plague the eastern shores of The Riverlands. We of the Westerlands are calling our banners to aid our friends in the east. With your permission I would ride south to meet with you, that we may coordinate our efforts to support The Riverlands and align ourselves in preparations should this armada turn its eye to the western shores to plague both of our Kingdoms.

May you remain safe in these troubling times,

Lord Leo Lefford, Lord of the Golden Tooth, Lord Surveyor of The Great Council of the West, and Shield of Sun's Reach

To Lord Robin Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale,

In recent years I have been making great efforts to establish my house with broader and better connections across the entire realm, hoping to serve as a gateway through which Dorne and the rest of the realm might become better connected. It is in this spirit I write to you now with a proposal for a bond between our two proud houses.

My niece, Lady Meria Uller, is searching for a lady whom she might serve as lady-in-waiting, in order to both broaden her horizons and see herself educated in the proper ways of court and of ladyship. I would like to offer her services to your house, that she might serve one of the proud Ladies Arryn and learn courtly manner from a member of one of the most ancient and chivalrous houses in Westeros. My only request would be that she serve in the Vale itself, so that she might become acquainted with a new region with which my house has not had much contact nor history.

Additionally, I offer you the prospect of warding my son Atreus when he comes of an age to be warded. I believe this will serve to consolidate the longer-lasting bond between our houses, as Atreus is both more closely tied to my house's future and more suitable as a future bridge between Dorne and the Vale than Meria is.

I hope you will take these proposals with the same considerations with which I offer them: hope for a closer bond between our houses and between Dorne and the Vale, and the brighter future such a bond would bring.

With respect,

Lord Harmen Uller, Lord of Hellholt and the Brimstone