Driftmark—High Tide
98 AC (Eighth Moon—Day 24)
Corlys I
Corlys Velaryon slumped in his chair, hacking at a roast capon with a silver knife that caught the dawn's thin spill. He chewed slow, jaw grinding, thoughts festering like damp rot. His eyes flicked to the empty seats—two fine hulks, sea-green velvet patched with dust. The quiet scraped at him.
Across the table, Rhaenys picked at an orange, peeling it with steady fingers, rind dropping in tight curls by her plate. She sucked a wedge, lips twitching at the sour sting, her gaze locked on her hands with a faint, soft smile. She let the silence sit, patient to it.
"They're late," Corlys growled, knife clattering on the porcelain as he tossed it down. He scrubbed his hands with a rag, rough enough to redden the skin, and leaned back, the chair creaking under him. His fingers drummed the table—once, twice—a tic from storm-lashed decks. "We set a time for this."
Rhaenys met his glare, her gaze cool. She rolled the wedge between her knuckles, careless-like. "A prince and his bride, fresh to the marital bed," she muttered, voice a low rasp. "I doubt it's spite keeping them."
Corlys gave no whit for the why of it, nor his wife's smooth-tongued reasons. He'd sooner be shut of the prince's newest whim than let some half-sworn vow hang over him like a storm cloud.
"It's a matter of courtesy and honour," Corlys rumbled, voice thick with grit. He slid a hard look toward the doors, his scowl digging deeper. "A man's word should hold weight, not bend like reeds."
"How noble of you," Rhaenys replied, a flicker of real mirth painting her tone. She tilted the oyster shell to her lips, downing the slick meat in one smooth swallow, her eyes never leaving him. "But spare the gallantry, husband. It's not their tardiness gnawing at your patience—it's something meaner, and you'd do well to own it."
Aye, it was so, though Corlys cared little for his wife's keen eye or her prodding tongue naming it plain. Truth gnawed at him—he hadn't a damn clue why the prince had dragged himself here. Suspicions crawled in his gut, some skittish and small, others bold and black as tar, but none with meat enough to grip.
Debts never rested light on him, gnawing like salt in a fresh cut.
The prince's counsel had seemed a trifling thing at first, a whisper of words brushed off easy. Copper sheathing—hells, he'd near laughed at the notion, a madman's fancy. But once he'd set it to the hulls, the truth hit hard: ships cutting waves like knives, barnacles be damned. Revolutionary, aye, and he'd been a blind fool not to see it sooner.
Now the sharp-edged prince was slinking back, come to call that debt due—Corlys could feel it, a prickle deep in his marrow. Only hitch was, the Sea Snake hadn't a guess how steep a price the boy would carve from him.
"I'd wager it's queer you're not stewing with me," he said, fishing a wine glass toward him with a lean hand, his eyes slitting tight on his wife. "Or do you reckon the prince won't upend one of our calls with a single crooked word?"
Rhaenys snorted sharp. "Your petty call, you mean," she shot back, her face a mask, not a twitch to betray her. "And why do you growl it like you've no spine to shove back if his ask rubs you raw?"
Truth was, he hadn't the room to balk, not without souring the thin thread of trust and good blood he'd won from the prince. That boy's counsel had spared him a fat purse of coin, and Corlys knew he'd be wise to keep it sharp in mind—he'd cough up what was asked, or weigh the cost if the demand tipped too far.
And the lad held sway now—no mere coin-grubbing prince anymore. Corlys figured he could knead him a bit, slip some words to bind his son to that lackwit prince's girl and his Laena to the Rogue Prince.
And, if the gods spared a scrap of favour for his line, such would be enough to see his blood atop that thrice-damned throne within the decade.
But he didn't spit that to his wife. Nay, he snatched at her words instead, the ones hinting the prince might come with some wild, grasping want. She'd never had a nose for cold-eyed doubt, not when it came to those she clutched close.
"What do you figure he'll want from us, then?" Corlys muttered, slumping back, the question more a shove at the unease gnawing his gut than any real hunger to know.
"A trade pact, like as not."
Plausible, aye, and better still since he could meet that ask without breaking a sweat. Yet Corlys doubted it'd be so simple. The crown's ships might be few, but they'd suffice for the prince's voyages—especially when the lad's trade clung tighter to the mainland than the open sea.
Nay, his gut whispered the prince was after coin—raw wealth to sink into those scraps of land he'd been handed. Or maybe artisans and shipwrights, for there'd surely be a port rising there, and the lad might fancy aping the Sea Snake's own game.
It'd sting him some if the lad turned rival, carving out his own slice of the sea, but Corlys had scant means to choke it off.
"Think he's just the king's tongue now?" he ventured, a hand rasping over his shaved jaw. "Old man's got a fresh gust in his sails these days, hasn't he?"
The sewers, the tightening of the cloaks, a flurry of decrees, and the prince's rise—all spilling from the old king's hand. Pity every sharp mind knew Maelys drove the sewer works, else Viserys might've reaped more clout and cheers for it.
Rhaenys's brow pinched, a thin furrow cracking her smooth mask—proof she hadn't weighed the odds as he had. He knew she still harboured an ember of hate for the old king, smoldering deep—took his shoving her from the succession as a slap to her worth, a wound that never scabbed over.
Corlys had let that rage gutter out long ago. Nay, he'd sussed the cold sense in the old man's choices, grasped them, even gave a grudging nod to their steel. Didn't mean he savoured the taste of them, though.
"Maelys isn't the sort to wittingly dance on another's string," she said, a certainty in her tone, "not for some low, craven game like this."
Corlys begged to differ—differed fierce, in truth. The prince had a mind too old for his skin, honed sharp as a flensing knife, and Corlys would bet good gold every move the lad made was weighed thrice over, especially the big ones.
That's why he'd dragged his feet on swallowing the boy's counsel whole—too much cunning in it to trust blind.
They fell into a heavy hush, the clink of knife and plate fading to naught. The Sea Snake seized the quiet, letting his focus drift from the looming talks with the prince.
His mind snagged on thoughts from the east—merchants bleating about pirate blades cutting too close to their hulls. More than the usual roving scum, they swore, and all tied to that bastard Craghas Drahar. The Crabfeeder, he was demanding tolls steep as cliffs from any fool who sought passage through the routes that cut close to the Stepstones.
Corlys had seen this storm brewing years back, a shadow on the horizon he'd marked plain. Honour from Essos? A fool's dream, that—those dogs would slit their own kin for a handful of silver, let alone keep faith with Westeros.
He gnawed on that thought, the old ash of spite sparking hot. He'd bent the king's ear over it once, back when he still had a perch on the council. But nay, the old man just sat there, rooted to that jagged throne, letting those Triarchy dogs swagger and prance. It'd chafed him raw then—still did, a thorn festering. All that coin, bled away to those slaver whoresons.
Why hadn't the old man smashed those islands flat, or at least humbled those sneering bastard daughters of Valyria? A fleet or two, a few pyres—done and dusted.
He drove the knife into the capon again, steel biting deep, and let his thoughts wander jagged paths. These were the barbs he'd have torn out, root and all, if he'd ever sat consort at Rhaenys's side. No weak-kneed stalling, no mincing steps—he'd have forged the crown's grip iron-hard.
Dornish snakes with their venom-dipped steel and twisted lords? Burned to cinders. The Stepstones, that oozing wound? Scraped raw, seahorse banners choking the life from every pirate den.
Westeros would stand taller, freer—cut loose from Essos's grasping paws, its trade bleeding gold into the realm's own veins.
Prosperity—not this limping peace the king nursed, letting foes nibble at the edges. Corlys could see it clear as a noon tide: ports thick with hulls, coffers groaning, the smallfolk fattened on work instead of scraps.
All the things he'd have forged, if the old man hadn't shoved Rhaenys aside and left him to stew on Driftmark. His jaw tightened, the meat turning to grit in his mouth.
That chance was—
The doors groaned wide, and Maelys strode in, boots striking the stone with a sharp, steady rap. His indigo cloak swayed, silver thread glinting at the edges in the dawn's weak spill. A dragon-claw clasp, clutching a fat pearl, pinned it tight at his throat. White hair, slick with sea mist, fell free, and his grey eyes raked the room fast.
"Forgive the delay," the boy offered by way of greeting. The Sea Snake clocked the prince standing lone as the doors thudded shut behind him, no bride in tow. "Some unlooked-for snag clawed up more of my morning than it had any right to."
A wisp of mirth flickered in the prince's tone, faint as a dying ember, but it gave up little else. Strange, that. Rhaenys seemed blind to it, though—a sly twist tugged her lips, mischief brewing there.
"I'd wager that twist's tied to Gael's absence?" His wife said, masking a rare grin behind her words. "Take a seat."
"Aye," Maelys replied, easing into the chair with a touch of care. "Though it's not the sinful notions you're cradling—it's simpler. She woke sour in the gut. You'd think you'd ken me well enough by now, Rhaenys, to know I'd not ditch this meet for some idle romp."
Queer that the prince figured they'd sniff out his purpose plain, without him spilling it. Damned odd, that.
Rhaenys let her shoulders lift in a rare, loose shrug, her calm mood spilling out plain as day. "Time turns friends to strangers, or so the saying runs—your saying, unless I've muddled it, Maelys. Still, here's hoping Gael mends quick."
"Quite," Corlys sliced through the chatter before it could thin long. "But I reckon we'd best not dawdle on small talk and hack into the guts of it, yes?"
"Seems so, Lord Velaryon," Maelys said, locking eyes with a smooth, easy grin. "Though first, let me tip my thanks for that ball you threw in my name—rare as honest men in these parts."
The Sea Snake reckoned it a fine theft of a custom, seeing as the isles lacked the sprawl and throngs to warrant a snap tourney without months of sweat beforehand. This little rite carried its own weight, a sharp kind of sheen all its own.
Knowing the prince took to it warmed him some, though Corlys buried that spark of ease deep, cloaking it under a stony face and giving a curt nod instead.
"Truth be told, I didn't ride here with one lone ask, but a fistful," the boy confessed, his violet eyes darting quick to the spread of meats and the wines nestled close.
He continued, "still, I've got a chief want, and I'll lay it bare. I need your ships to ferry folk, men and women both, and goods from my storehouses scattered across the realm. A year's work, that, and when it's done true, I'll hand you a game-changer of a trinket and a clutch of ship designs to call your own."
The Lord of Driftmark cocked a lone brow, a flicker of mirth tugging at him. This wasn't a gut-punch of a demand, not truly, so long as they hashed out a fair tally of ships to bind to it—plenty sat idle in his docks. Nay, what tickled him was the bait dangled after: rewards, a leash plain as day if he ever saw one.
Still, that didn't mean he'd spit on the deal—couldn't, not clean. Plenty of sea-dogs out there'd leap to haul for a fat coffer or a trade pact. The lad picking him showed some trust, favour-debt aside.
The ploy was bare as bones. The lad knew he'd sniff it out, and likely reckoned Corlys'd know he knew it too—a tangled knot of wits that left naught but to play out this mummer's farce.
"And what's this trinket, then?" Corlys asked.
Maelys dipped a hand into his cloak, fingers fishing deliberate, and drew out a prize—an item, wrought from ironwood and gold, its surface etched with swirling patterns that whispered of the steel of the freehold, if a man trusted his eyes. Atop it, the seahorse of House Velaryon reared proud, carved deep into the casing, glinting faint in the dawn's spill.
Then the boy flicked it open with a soft click, revealing its guts. The face gleamed, a disc of polished obsidian, smooth as a still sea, with fine silver runes etched at the edges—north, south, east, west—each glinting like a blade's edge. A needle, thin as a whisper and red as blood, hovered steady, trembling only a hair as it locked true.
"A Pathor, I've dubbed it," Maelys said, voice low with a hint of pride, "a better name than what those maesters had thought for it…"
The prince slid it across the table, and Corlys took it up, turning it in his hands. He gave it a long, hard stare, the craftsmanship dazzling at first, but it took a stretch of breaths for the weight of it to sink past the shine and settle true in his skull.
He hoisted himself from his seat, stalking the room slow, eyes riveted to the item. His heart thumped wild in his chest and a quiver sparked in his arms. He pivoted, and the needle swung with him. The cardinal runes held firm, the "N" jutting sharp and true toward the North, just as he knew it lay.
"What is it, husband?"
Corlys half-turned to Rhaenys, eyes elsewhere, lost in the churn of his skull. He shoved the trinket her way all the same, mind clawing at the chances this thing cracked open—new veins of wealth, sure as salt, if the boy could churn them out like shipyard planks.
"Is this some witch-work, Maelys?" His wife asked with a touch of… something in her voice. Disbelief, most like. "This what had you scampering through Essos like a whipped cur a year gone?"
The lad twitched, hand stalled mid-reach for a pastry. Corlys didn't flinch at Rhaenys' jab—her game was plain as a tide chart. He chewed on it, sour, wondering again if she'd truly let the years blind her to the growth of her younger kin.
Maelys, bless the lad, didn't bristle, his face easing gentle. "No witchery here, though I see the mistake." His eyes flicked to Corlys, holding a breath, then pressed on. "But stow the loose talk of sorcery—won't get you near the guts of how this Pathor ticks."
The lad's brag stoked a itch in him to chuck the trinket to his crew—let them gut it, see if they could hammer out a twin. But then the ghost of those piss-poor fountain pens crept up, botched copies of the prince's craft that'd sloshed around years back.
Darklyn was a right fool.
"How many you got stashed for this pact?" Corlys kept his eyes locked on the haul. "And why us, eh? Plenty of sea-dogs and coin-grubbers among the lords—Hightower'd snatch this up right quick."
That wasn't the true cut of it—what gnawed at him was whether the king had blessed this scheme, or if Maelys was playing at Daemon's swagger. His house groaned fat with gold and sway, aye, but the cold grudge simmering between them and the crown stung deeper than it did the throne—and any wider rift would spell rot for the Velaryons.
"A hundred, give or take, plus some tricks to sharpen the helm's eye," the prince said. "And blood's why I'm here—this haul's fit to split with kin before strangers."
Plenty lurked unsaid in that, a sly twig of peace half-buried. Corlys caught Rhaenys' gaze, a quick, wordless parley flashing between them.
"That's scarce enough," the lord told, easing back into his chair, bones settling heavy. "Why not carve a pact for more down the line while we're at it?"
His coffers ran deep—coin wasn't the hitch. This was the whole damn sea bent to his will, served up on a silver tray.
"Make an offer."
"Five years, ours alone—like those ceramic plates." Rhaenys laid it out. "Ask what you will, and we'll stitch a deal that fattens both our hides in time."
Maelys shook his head. "Nay, there's little I crave from you, and the scrap I do, you'd not stomach easy." The want hung plain. "Trim that greed down some, and I might bite without clawing much back."
"Workers, then—fed and funded—to drag out to your fresh dirt and prop up the works. I'll toss in shipwrights to kick your hulls along." Corlys pitched the bargain he'd mulled not an hour past. "All that for first grab and a cut price on the lot, same stretch of years."
The prince let out a gust, sharp and weary. "That's the same meat, just carved different. How's this—I'll toss a new bone?"
"What's your cut?" He narrowed his eyes.
"Same deal, numbers to be scratched out later. I'll crack Essos' trade open for you, ten years' worth, and in trade, I want a vow—inked on parchment, thrice copied." The lad stilled, breath held a beat. "I'm bound for Essos in five years' turn. A scrap with the Dothraki—some of them, leastwise. Swear House Velaryon'll back me when the hour strikes."
Shoving aside the lunacy of crossing blades with those horse-rutting wildlings, it was a hefty demand. The coin would gush like a slit throat, and the men, the greasy handshakes with those slaver dens—fuck, Corlys despised the lot of them, but their weight in this wasn't chaff to sneeze at.
"That's a steep haul and daft to boot, Maelys. What's rattling in your skull to think brawling in the Free Cities—let alone with the Dothraki—isn't a fool's errand?" Rhaenys' face was all creased.
"A fair question, but chances strike when you're half-blind to them. I was in Myr, jawing with merchants and magisters, when a Dothraki pack—Khalasar Hozar, reckon—came howling down. The coin-grubbers tried to grease the savages off, but I threw them a better deal: dragonfire to scour the filth."
Corlys frowned but held his tongue.
Maelys pressed on, "This isn't a bard's yarn of guts or swagger, nor a sly threat, so I'll skip the blood and blaze. When I'd roasted the horse-humping dogs and their loot was scraped up, they handed me three Valyrian-forged trinkets—a spear, a helm, a wristband—stripped from the charred corpses of the outriders. Got me thinking: if that's the take from a scrappy band, what's waiting in their cursed strongholds?"
The prince edged closer, voice soft as a breeze, like he wasn't scheming to gut a whole people. "I trust you smell the wind I'm blowing, my Lord of Driftmark."
Corlys tilted his head, not quite doubting, but probing. "You reckon you can break the Dothraki?"
"With Daemon, aye, I could—but that'd torch the poor sods chained by those wild-men. Nay, I need a Westerosi host, and ships to haul them. I'm handing you a seat at the helm of this war I'm brewing—good favour, fat coffers, and a taller shadow for your house."
Corlys' brow knotted, sifting the prince's words. This looked a gift, aye, but it could twist to a command if Maelys turned spiteful and cunning.
Say he balked—Maelys might whisper through the Faith and the highborn that he, the Sea Snake, spurned a chance to flay a hated scourge. The lad could spin it holy, a crusade, piling weight on the deed until it crushed.
House Velaryon would bleed clout and sway if he turned it down. The others—Redwynes, say—wouldn't need a nudge to leap at the chance, swords out, especially with dragons snarling at the van.
That sucked the marrow from his mirth. This wasn't a plea—it was a yoke, or damn near could be.
He pinned the lad with a slit-eyed glare, jaw grinding slow. Inked oaths weren't the sort you could just shrug off. "I'll want more iron in this vow."
Rhaenys shot him a look, but he let it slide off. She didn't clock it—didn't see how the whelp was working them like a tide. Or maybe Corlys' own mistrust was fouling him, blinding him to a gift with no barbs? Nay, didn't matter—this wasn't a throw they could dodge if the prince was dead-set on the haul.
Maelys dipped his head, like there was still haggling to be had. There bloody wasn't, and the pair of them damn well knew it.