Interlude: The Son of the Seahorse​

After what had felt like an eternity at sea, seeing the coast of Driftmark felt like an image out of a dream. For a moment, Corlys Velaryon thought he had gone as mad as Lew had off the coast Old Ghis at the mouth of Slaver's Bay, seeing dragons and harpies dance where his men saw seagulls. And again, off Sweetport Sound. Luckily, reason reasserted itself quite quickly.

He had already crossed the Stepstones, and keenly remembered the ship full of ivory he had had to sacrifice to distract the pirates patrolling those accursed rocks. The First Dance, she had been called, in the service of House Velaryon for a decade. And now she bore the colors of some pirate. The thought filled his mouth with the taste of bile, and he forced himself to remember the rest of the journey as a distraction.

He had crossed from Cape Wrath straight to the island of Tarth. He had witnessed its beautiful blue waters and avoided losing any more ships in his fleet to the violent storms that plagued Shipbreaker Bay. A point of pride, that.

He had passed through the straits of Tarth, traversing the length of Massey's Hook. From there, he had maintained his heading, staying the course until he reached his grandfather's island of Driftmark.

Home.

He was home.

His holds were crammed full of ivory and jewels and gold and saffron and jade and exotic hides, goods that had made the far eastern lands of Yi-Ti and Leng a legend in the minds of sailors and merchants, and he was home. All that was left was to give Vaegon his share and sell what was left. Slowly, naturally, lest he flood the market.

Even after all these years, that boy remained a mystery. No, Corlys reminded himself, that man. He had come of age two years ago. He was eight-and-ten, a man by more than technicality, a dragon rider, a knight, and a father of two unless he had sired more since last he had seen the man. But damn it all if he still could not quite grasp what that man wanted.

Mayhaps it was greed. Mayhaps it really was just companionship.

It was a mystery he pondered as the Sea Snake sailed towards the port of Hull, weaving through the steady trickle of departing ships in search of an unoccupied pier. Behind him, scores of merchant ships did likewise. Each of the ships, lumbering cogs and smaller galleys alike, flew the seahorse of Velaryon in a triumphant declaration of his will, his ambition, and his talent. He had left with a fleet and returned with a fortune to rival the Lannisters in their golden mountain.

The harbor, never the busiest port in the Seven Kingdoms, was quickly filled with his great fleet. The fully laden ships jostled with smaller fishing vessels for space as the piers were quickly filled with more and more of his ships. Corlys trusted his captains and his crew to dock peacefully and focused his attention on his personal ship.

His Sea Snake pulled came up along a pier, as his sailors shouted at the crowds. They threw ropes overboard for the crew to catch and wind about the capstans that lined the edge of the harbor. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, as the ropes were wound round and round the stone capstans, his ship was dragged ever closer to the shore, inch by inch. Eventually, after what felt like an eternity of waiting so close to his final destination, they were close enough to properly dock and disembark.

The men on land shouted the signal, signaling that they were indeed tied off, and his sailors threw down the gangplank. As was befitting of a lord and captain, Corlys was the first down the swaying plank. For the first time in more than a year, he was back on Driftmark, back home.

Really, with how much time he spent in King's Landing, it had been far longer than that that he had been able to enjoy his home in any meaningful way.

Corlys was able to enjoy a single lungful of air, the air flavored with that curious mix of city and sea, so different from what he had been able to experience while at sea, until he spotted something which soured his mood.

A knight of the Kingsguard.

A giant of a man, clad in white scale armor, stood guard at the entrance to the docks. He was quite a way's away, but his armored head still turned to face Corlys. The armored mask revealed nothing, but Corlys could read between the lines well enough.

The Kingsguard were on Driftmark. Thus, it could reasonably be inferred that the royal family was on Driftmark. Since one of the white knights was spent watching the docks, Corlys was being expected. That giant's sworn brothers were likely within the keep, guarding the members of House Targaryen.

Who else could it be? Who else would merit more than a singular knight of the Kingsguard?

Corlys approached the knight, already dreading what news he would bring. He did not worry about the ships; He could trust his captains. Besides, the harbormaster would take hours, if not days, to fully inspect goods within his holds. The ships were not going anywhere for a while.

"Ser Crabb," he greeted the knight of the Kingsguard who had yet to glance away since Corlys had first noticed him. "I must say, I am surprised to see you on this fair island."

"Ser Velaryon," the knight greeted him in turn. "You return at a fortuitous time. His Grace King Jaehaerys is in the keep, meeting with Lord Velaryon. You are welcome to join them."

Corlys barely repressed a snort. To be 'welcome to join' the king was an order in all but name. And since it was a Kingsguard who had said it, it was all too easy to infer that the king was responsible for giving the order. In other words, it was time to run like a Dornishman to a brothel.

But he was not a Dornishman. He was a noble son of Westeros. The blood of Old Valyria flowed through his veins. He did not run anywhere. At most, he strode briskly, trying not to panic.

Why would the king visit Driftmark? And why just the king?

If it were a royal progress, the entire royal family would have been in attendance. If it were a royal progress, he would have heard some rumor of it before leaving the court for his voyage. If it were a progress, Corlys would not have been summoned.

Something was wrong on Driftmark. Very wrong.

Corlys strode quite briskly indeed towards the small castle that had been his home. The town of Hull, though barely worthy of the name, had grown beneath the walls of castle Driftmark. But on an island such as this, there was only so much room to grow. From the harbor of Hull, it was only a brief walk along the main road of the town until he reached the main gate of his family's ancestral home.

The castle of grey stone shared its name with the island that bore it. By the standards of the mainland, it was a small thing, Its walls barely rose to twice the height of the houses surrounding it, the crenellations were crumbling, and the whole thing seemed to sag ever so noticeably at its northeastern corner.

A poor castle for a lord of any significant standing, but it was his home. Seven Hells, he had more than enough coin to build a new castle. A new castle worthy of his station, something to proclaim to the realm that House Velaryon was ascendant.

The gate stood open, the portcullis raised as it had been for generations beyond count. When had anyone last dared to raid Driftmark? When had anyone been so foolish as to raid an island so close to the Targaryen heartland? Corlys would not have been surprised to learn the rusted iron had been sold for all the good it did.

He rapidly crossed the small courtyard, not caring for the puddles he had to wade through to reach the entrance of the keep itself. The main hall was small, barely larger than the solar of one of the king's councilors, and Corlys paid its contents no mind as he strode towards the stairs at the rear of the hall, guarded by another white knight.

"Ser Velaryon," the Kingsguard greeted him, this one wielding a spear. "You are required in your grandsire's quarters."

His quarters?

Corlys' stomach dropped at the knight's words.

Had his grandfather fallen ill? Fallen off his horse? He must have, or else why would he be receiving visitors in his quarters instead of the main hall and its legendary driftwood throne? Why else would the king be on Driftmark if not to visit his dying uncle?

Damn it all, why had Corlys not taken his journey a year later? He could have prevented this!

His earlier poise was forgotten as he dashed up the narrow stairs, clearing flight after flight until he reached the top of the keep. Even if he had not grown up there, he would have known which of the quarters belonged to the Lord Velaryon by the white knight standing guard in front of a closed door.

The knight knocked twice upon the door as Corlys approached, uttering not a word as he opened the door on screaming hinges. Muttering his thanks, Corlys slipped into the bedchamber, his face met with a sudden wall of heat and the door squealed shut behind him.

Lord Daemon Velaryon was abed, the covers of the far too large bed pulled up to his neck, while a fire blazed merrily in the hearth. And next to the fine bed, perched on a simple stool, sat King Jaehaerys Targaryen, talking in hushed tones with a sad smile on his lips.

"Ser Corlys," the king interrupted whatever he was telling his bedridden vassal to greet Corlys, and the old man in the bed weakly turned his head to look at his new visitor.

"Corlys?" the old man croaked, a knot immediately forming in Corlys' throat. He had still been vigorous when Corlys had left for the voyage, his voice strong. But now… now he truly looked like a man two years short of his ninetieth name day. His skin was marred by deep creases, and both his hair and eyes had lost most of their former luster. "Come here, my boy, come here. Let me get a look at you."

He tried to shift into a seated position, but the king laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Uncle, save your strength," the king chastised, but the old man brushed him off. Well, rustled his shoulders slightly. It seemed, to Corlys' great discomfort, that his grandfather lacked even the strength for so simple an action. "You need to rest."

"The time for rest will, Your Grace," the old lord said, sinking back into his bed. "Aye, and soon. Rogar had the right of it. No sense wasting what little time I have left by sleeping." He gave a weary shake of the head as if to clear it of old memories. "But I'm glad you made it back from Yi-Ti, my boy. Oh, how you have grown! A shame I could not be there with you."

"Aye, a shame," the king echoed, nodding slowly. "I received a raven from Estermont, not a week past, reporting fourscore ships flying Velaryon colors. Your presence might have made that five."

"Eighty ships? All laden with eastern goods?" Corlys' grandfather gave out a wet bark of laughter that quickly gave way to a coughing fit. "Gods be good, you could build an entire city with half of that wealth!"

"I could," Corlys allowed, a smile growing on his face at the thought. After paying Vaegon his share, he would have more than enough left to do just that. But he had other priorities. "Though I think I shall begin with a castle. I would rather not bring a wife to a castle not worthy of her."

He could feel the king's gaze burrow into his skull while his grandfather gave another laugh, only for it to bring about another fit of coughing.

Corlys could tell that the king did not approve, had never approved of his closeness with his cousins. But things had changed, now. Daella was fond of him. Vaegon was his friend. Corlys was wealthy and one of the most eligible men in the Seven Kingdoms.

Now he had all he needed to do was make a deal.

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This is the last Interlude ... Next week, I try to write a fluffy chapter that is actually engaging.

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