The ship that eased toward the pier rode like some predatory swan upon the dark water, its hull broad and low, its prow carved in the sleek, curving lines of Summer Island craft.
Only the royal house could afford vessels of that make in all of Westeros, their timbers drank in salt and sun until they gleamed like oil. Purple stains blotted the planks. rich, Tyroshi pigment still clinging in streaks and drips.
Vaemond knew the color at a glance; no people in the world adored purple as the Tyroshi did, and no ship but a prize carried so much of it.
He had watched a hundred ships in his life, but he had never seen men disembark with that particular, disciplined hunger. The war-band came down the gangplank in measured steps, the hollow drum of their boots and the metallic chatter of armor marking them out as soldiers bred to move as one.
Vaemond felt his spine lengthen of its own accord, a reflex older than courtesy, men in perfect order deserved respect. Behind him the knights shifted, the air tasted faintly of iron and sand, and beneath that, the faint, stale tang of dried blood, the souvenir of foreign fights and a mark that these were men who had known slaughter and been made better or worse for it.
A killing, Vaemond thought, could age a man overnight. Sometimes the difference between a recruit and a scoured veteran was no more than one blade through the flesh of a man he loved. This breed of man smelled of that difference.
From the ship's cabin door, Baelon, stepped out. Vaemond blinked.
The boy who had been spoken of in courtly whispers and in fearful, admiring grins across the narrow halls had a body that filled his mail and a face without the softness of boys.
Two hundred guards in blood-red cloaks spread in a perfect fan behind him, their matching plate catching the light with a cold, uniform gleam. Even from the pier they radiated a pressure that made the men on the dock shift, unconsciously seeking purchase.
Brayden, strode ahead of the prince, all long-limbed severity and the slow patience of a man used to keeping his own counsel.
Vaemond, as commander of Grey Gallows' forces, stepped forward. He meant to meet him with the practiced bow of a man who had borne salt-water and duty into his bones. But before he could finish his approach Brayden's mailed hand rose, flat and commanding.
"Halt," Brayden said, his voice rough. The command carried a slight contempt that pricked the crowd into silence.
Vaemond found himself with no choice but the courtesy of ceremony. He dropped to one knee, the stone cool under his palm, and forced his face into the stillness of allegiance. Not for yourself, he told himself. For the house that made you what you are.
"I, Vaemond Velaryon," he declared, breath steady though his heart thudded at his ribs, "offer my highest respect to His Grace, Prince Baelon Targaryen, Dawn's Prince. I beg Your Highness's forgiveness for my offense."
It was the humiliation he had not wanted but had learned to accept when royal blood came aboard and could put men back into their place with a look. Brayden had delivered the opening blow at Baelon's bidding, the boy had known how to let the blade fall unseen. Vaemond tasted the salt of it, as if he had been cut.
"Rise, Ser Vaemond."
The prince's voice was not loud, but it had the same quality that made men listen anyway.
When Vaemond lifted his head, he took in the prince fully, for the first time with no courtly rumor to shade his sight.
Baelon's face was young and severe, his hair the pale silver that marked their blood and his eyes dark, like the deep of a pool where something dwelled and watched. He smiled, just once, a quick upturn of his mouth that did not reach his eyes. It was the smile of a man who had taken what he wanted and had no need to boast.
"My prince," Vaemond said, eager now to steer the coming judgment away from his own failings, "thank the Seven you have come. We have already crushed most of the pirate bands. Only a remnant holds in Bloodstone. They use the rocks and reefs as a shield."
Baelon inclined his head, listening.
A wind lifted the prince's cloak and tossed the purple stains upon the dock into a brief, mocking flutter. "The Crabfeeder," Baelon said then, simple, with a hard undercurrent. "He has been told of men nailed to posts for the crabs. Fishermen, merchants, any who come within his trap."
Vaemond felt the narrative coarse-grain into a weapon he could use. He had rehearsed the lines of outrage since word had reached them on the tides. "Say the word, my prince, and my men will drag Craghas Drahar by his ears. I will have his head on a spike."
There it was... a petty hope, the way a man bargains his conscience for absolution.
Vaemond poured out his grievances with a practiced impatience, Craghas the butcher, Craghas the sacrilegious. Anything to direct the prince's anger away from Grey Gallows' shortcomings.
He felt, dimly, the look Daemon's son gave him, curious, not unkind. Daemon's face held something like calculation. They stood apart by a single measure, Baelon seemed to be listening to more than the facts. He listened as a man might listen to the rhythm of a land, the pauses of what was said, the places left empty.
"Be easy, Ser Vaemond," Baelon said at last. "Craghas Drahar is cruel. I know that. But cruelty has its cunning. There are times a hand that strikes must also offer the other, to gather what it hopes to seize."
Vaemond bristled. "Speak plainly, Your Highness-"
"You would have me," Baelon said, and there was a small, dry laugh in it, "storm the gates and break men upon our spears. That is the instinct of commanders who have fed on victory and grow fat. I would speak with him first."
A murmur rose at that. Vaemond's mouth opened, closed. To speak? To parley with a butcher?
He could not bring himself to voice everything that crowded his throat, his fear that a trap waited, his pride at being a leader among leaders. He had known how to take a blow as a subordinate; surrendering command, as he had done the night before in the presence of so many, still tasted of ash in his mouth.
"No," he said, quicker than he meant. "Your Highness, Craghas is cunning in the cruel way. If we go to his island we go to his ground. To go without an army is folly."
Baelon's gaze met his, steady and unblinking. "Do as I say. Bring two hundred of my guards. Brayden will go with me. The rest of your men will land on the east of Bloodstone, close enough to press, but not so near as to be useless."
Vaemond felt his throat tighten.
The council ended with that, not with strategies or long debates. Orders were given, like cards placed upon a table. Men fell into their appointed places because that was the most sensible thing to do.
Daemon watched his son with a single look, an assessment that passed across his face like the shadow of a hawk. Laena's mouth softened; curiosity shone in her eyes like a candle touched by a breeze.
Vaemond, alone among them, kept his questions where they belonged, folded beneath his armor.
A messenger left before dusk, Baelon's letter folded and sealed with a hand the size of a halberd. By morning the reply came, Craghas Drahar accepted the prince's words, offered a feast, and, with a politeness as dangerous as a knife, added that if Baelon worried for his safety he might bring soldiers ashore.
Vaemond's fist met the table as though some unseen thing had struck him first. "What is that supposed to mean?" he demanded. "That the prince fears this brigand? That he would hide behind his guards?"
Baelon's temper was not like the sudden, volcanic flare of lesser men.
"Let it be," Baelon said mildly. "If he insists, I will bring the soldiers. We intend to take control of the Stepstones regardless. They might as well grow accustomed to our presence."
"As for the feast, I will not attend. I do not eat food prepared by the Free Cities."
He sat at the head of the table, wearing a faint, knowing smile, as if Craghas' answer had been expected all along.
Daemon caught the expression and exhaled as though something had finally fallen into place. Laena, meanwhile, studied Baelon with wide, curious eyes.
Six years separated them, yet Baelon's mind seemed sharper than hers had ever been.
She could not help but wonder, How does he think the way he does?
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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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