Three weeks had passed since the battle at the western beach.
The fishing boats went out less often. The sea birds circled farther from shore. The wind carried a hollow tone through the battlements that made the corridors of Storm's End feel longer than before.
No sails had appeared since. That silence unsettled Orys more than smoke ever had.
He stood before the great table in the solar, studying the carved map of the Stormlands etched into its surface. The wood was old, scarred by years of use, coastlines worn smooth where fingers had traced them repeatedly.
He traced them again now.
Greenwater Cove. Weeping Point. The western shelf beneath Storm's End. Each strike had come along a curve that suggested familiarity with tide and rock alike.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Enter."
Stannis stepped inside, closing the door carefully behind him. He carried a folded parchment sealed with black wax.
"From Tarth," he said.
Orys broke the seal without ceremony. The letter was short.
Two merchant ships had vanished along the southern route. No wreckage found. No survivors.
"Not pirates," Stannis said quietly.
"No."
"Too clean."
Orys folded the parchment once and set it aside. "They're moving south," he said. "Avoiding direct confrontation."
"Why?"
Orys leaned both hands against the table, head slightly bowed in thought. "Because they don't want Storm's End yet."
Stannis regarded him sharply. "You think we are the target."
"Eventually."
Silence settled between them, heavy and unspoken. Footsteps echoed faintly in the corridor beyond. Moments later, the hall doors opened below.
Stormlords had been summoned.
The great hall filled slowly, banners hanging heavy from rafters. The Stag watched from high above the dais, gold threads catching torchlight.
Lord Steffon sat at the head of the hall, composed as ever. Robert stood to his right, arms folded across his chest, hammer resting against the wall behind him like a statement.
Orys stood to the left.
Renly lingered near one of the pillars, small but attentive, eyes flicking between speakers.
The lords spoke in turn. Trade disruptions. Coastal anxiety. Rumors of Stepstones mercenaries reorganizing under a new commander.
A name surfaced quietly among the murmurs, a captain called Maelor of the Black Reef.
Unknown before this year. Now whispered.
"He's disciplined," said Lord Estermont. "Too disciplined for scattered pirates."
"Discipline can be hired," Robert said flatly.
"Yes," Orys agreed. "But loyalty cannot."
Several lords glanced at him. "You suggest sponsorship," one said carefully.
"I suggest someone profits if the Stormlands bleed slowly."
The hall shifted at that. "Who?" Estermont pressed.
Orys did not answer immediately.
Instead, he walked toward the central hearth where the fire burned low.
"Not the Reach," he said at last. "Too visible. Not Dorne. They test openly. The Stepstones have coin but lack coordination."
Robert exhaled sharply. "Then say it."
Orys looked up. "Someone closer."
The suggestion lingered dangerously in the air.
Lord Steffon raised a hand before the speculation could spiral into accusation. "We do not name enemies without proof," he said evenly. "But we do prepare."
He turned toward Robert. "You will take two ships south at first light."
Robert's grin returned instantly. "Gladly."
"And you," Lord Steffon continued, turning to Orys, "will remain."
A flicker passed across Robert's face. Orys inclined his head slightly. "As you command."
Robert frowned faintly. "You should come," he said.
"I will coordinate patrol patterns from here."
"That's not fighting."
"It's winning."
The tension between them did not erupt, but it existed. Renly watched it with keen interest.
The morning Robert departed, the sea lay deceptively calm.
Two Stormlander warships cut through the water cleanly, sails catching early light. Robert stood at the bow of the lead vessel, hammer strapped across his back, hair whipped by wind.
He looked every inch a warlord already. Orys watched from the battlements.
Stannis stood beside him. "He should not go alone," Stannis said quietly.
"He's not alone."
"You know what I mean."
Orys did not respond. Below, sailors adjusted rigging with brisk efficiency. Oars dipped and rose in a steady rhythm.
The ships diminished quickly against the horizon. Renly appeared at Orys's side unexpectedly. "Will he win?" the boy asked.
"Yes."
Renly nodded, satisfied. "And you?"
Orys looked down at him. "I will make sure he can."
Renly frowned slightly at that answer, as though it lacked spectacle. Orys rested a hand briefly on the boy's shoulder before turning back toward the sea.
By nightfall, wind had risen. Not a storm. Not yet.
But a change.
Orys returned to the solar alone.
He unrolled fresh maps, marking possible southern routes with charcoal. He noted trade lanes, narrow straits, coves deep enough for concealment.
He did not assume Robert would fail. He assumed the enemy would adapt. The sea had tested once.
Now it waited, and Orys understood something fully for the first time. This was not about plunder. It was about reputation.
If Storm's End appeared vulnerable, alliances would shift quietly. Lords would hedge loyalty. Rivals would take note.
The Stormlands could not appear reactive. They had to appear inevitable.
A knock came at the door.
A rider had arrived from the southern watch. Orys took the message himself.
Three ships sighted at dawn. Different formation. Heading toward the straits between Tarth and the mainland...Robert's path.
The candle flame near the map flickered in a draft.
Stannis entered without invitation. "Well?" he asked.
Orys handed him the parchment.
Stannis read it once, jaw tightening. "They're drawing him out."
"Yes."
"Then what do we do?"
Orys walked to the window overlooking the black water beyond the cliffs. The tide was turning.
"Light the southern watchfires," he said calmly. "Signal Tarth to move north immediately."
"And us?"
Orys turned. "We ride."
Stannis's eyes sharpened.
"Father said—"
"Lord Steffon said prepare."
He picked up his cloak. "Preparation sometimes moves."
Outside, the wind strengthened. Far beyond sight, somewhere along the southern strait, sails were moving toward collision.
For the first time since the black sails had appeared at dusk weeks before, Orys felt the shape of something larger forming. Not chaos.
Design.
The tide had withdrawn long enough.
Now it meant to crash harder.
He would not let it choose the shore.