The sea was calm as Baelon's fleet sailed farther from Tarth, sails shrinking against the horizon. Lord Edwyn stood at the island's edge, the breeze salted and cool, yet his palms had long since grown damp.
For days he had shadowed the young prince, speaking with him, listening to him, kneeling beside maps inked with blood-red currents and trade routes. And with each new secret Baelon revealed, a heavier stone settled upon his heart.
Tyrosh.
Myr.
Lys.
Even distant Volantis, proud in its claim to Valyrian legacy.
To Edwyn, these were giants, ancient, immovable, steeped in wealth and sorcery and cruelty.But in Baelon's grasp they had seemed… small. Like swollen hogs penned for slaughter, blind to the blade already at their throats.
He feeds them when he wishes, Edwyn thought. Bleeds them when he chooses. Turns their hunger against one another, and fattens himself upon the chaos.
And then there had been that night.
The memory sent a shiver down his spine. Moonlight had flickered on Baelon's skin like scales; the air around him had trembled, as if something vast and ancient stirred beneath the surface. Edwyn had said nothing, not even to his most trusted knight. For two nights he had not slept, convincing himself he had imagined it.
But no, he remembered the feeling clearly.
He had met Prince Daemon. He had met Princess Rhaenyra.... Yet neither had ever radiated such suffocating power.
The prince… he's terrifying.
The thought came again as the last glimmer of Baelon's fleet slipped behind the horizon.
After the Great Council of 101, Daemon's claim should have stood above Rhaenyra's. And Baelon, born of that same branch, held blood that was older, purer, closer to Jaehaerys's favored line.
A reckless idea crept into Edwyn's mind.It felt naïve at first, foolish even.But the longer he stared at the emptying sea, the firmer it became.
He turned abruptly.
"Send a raven," Edwyn said to his attendant, his voice steadying with purpose. "To Lord Jason Lannister. Tell him I wish to discuss the future of our houses. Ask when he might receive me."
*
King Viserys was in fine spirits when the doors to the Small Council flew open.
"Your Grace!" cried Tyland Lannister, young and bright-eyed in his new velvet robes. He strode in with a parchment held high. "A triumph! A glorious triumph!"
Viserys straightened at once, his fatigue lifting.
"Prince Baelon struck Tyrosh by surprise," Tyland announced, unable to restrain his excitement. "Nearly two-fifths of the city's inhabitants slain. The Archon is dead, and half their merchant princes with him. Tyrosh will be licking its wounds for years."
"Good!"
The word came not from Viserys but from Rhaenyra, lounging in her chair with a cup of wine, her braid draped over her shoulder.
"Let me see it," she demanded, leaning forward.
But Tyland approached the king first. Viserys took the parchment like a man accepting some long-awaited gift. His smile grew as he read, then doubled, brightening his whole face.
"Good," he murmured. "Good!"
"Seven hells, this is excellent!"
He laughed, truly laughed, the sound unexpectedly youthful.
The dispatch was unmistakably Edwyn Tarth's work: lines crisp and clear, no detail omitted. It chronicled the fall of Tyrosh, yes, but also Myr's swift capitulation and Baelon's designs stretching far beyond the Stepstones. Every paragraph gleamed with admiration.
"Look at this," Viserys said proudly, lifting the parchment for the council to see. "All of it! I never imagined such a mind would come from our own house. A strategist of the highest order… a true genius."
He tapped the parchment with a finger, savoring every word.
"Baelon is right," he continued. "Let the Free Cities bleed one another dry. If he means to arm Lys, he shall have my support. We can clear out the armory's old stock, send it north to Harrenhal for him to distribute."
Rhaenyra watched him over the rim of her cup.
The parchment reached Otto Hightower last.
He accepted it with stiff, cautious fingers. His eyes scanned each line, and with every sentence a fresh chill crept down his spine.
He knew precisely what the prince thought of him, and why.
I was the one who pushed to send him away. The king listened because my arguments were sound, reasonable… necessary.
Otto swallowed hard.
But now? Now Baelon returned to them not as a troublesome youth but as a conqueror, and with a mind that made even Daemon seem reckless and small.
Forgiveness? Otto doubted he could buy it with a lifetime of prayer.
His hand trembled faintly as he folded the parchment and slid it back toward the center of the table.
Viserys, oblivious to Otto's dread, leaned forward eagerly.
"Now then," the king said, pleased with himself, "Baelon has performed heroically. We must reward him accordingly. What do you all suggest?"
Lyman Beesbury stepped in first, bowing slightly.
"Your Grace," he said, voice steady. "Prince Baelon seized more treasure in Tyrosh than most kingdoms see in a hundred years. And with Myr's tribute besides, he needs no coin. Financial reward would be meaningless."
"Aye," the High Septon agreed. "We should elevate him instead. The title of Lord of Harrenhal is far too meager for such accomplishment."
"But Harrenhal's lordship cannot be elevated beyond a prince's standing," another councillor objected. "And the Trident is already ruled by Grover Tully. There are no titles left to grant."
"There are," someone countered. "The offices of Master of the Bay of Crabs and the CrackClaw Peninsula. Both have been vacant for years. Perhaps His Grace might bestow one upon the prince?"
Rhaenyra's brows lifted slightly.Her voice did not enter the debate, but her presence lingered like a spark awaiting tinder.
Otto's jaw tightened.If Baelon already hated him, silence would not save him now.
He rose from his seat.
"The CrackClaw belongs under direct royal authority," Otto declared, bowing his head just enough. "But Master of the Bay of Crabs is an honorable post. The waters are vast, and the duties significant. A fitting reward."
His tone was controlled, the tone of a man choosing the least dangerous battlefield.
Viserys considered it, fingers drumming lightly on the table.
At length he nodded.
"Very well," he said. "Prepare my decree."
Tyland stepped forward, quill poised.
"Prince Baelon," Viserys recited, "is to be raised to the rank of Prince in his own right."
A murmur rippled through the room.
"He shall be granted the office of Master of the Bay of Crabs. All waters from the northern mouth of the bay to the forks of the Trident fall beneath his authority. He may levy tolls, enforce passage, and build watchtowers at his discretion."
The councillors exchanged impressed glances.
Viserys was not finished.
"And furthermore," he added, his voice warm with satisfaction, "Harrenhal and its surrounding lands are to be removed from the royal demesne and recognized as an independent administrative domain. From this day forth, the Lord of Harrenhal shall answer only to the Crown, and his standing shall equal that of any lord in Westeros."
The council dispersed in murmurs. Tyland hurried off to draft the decree, Lyman to tally figures, the High Septon to sift through legal precedents.
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A/N: If you think you know what comes next… you don't.The answers are already waiting ahead.
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