The victory at the Strait of Tarth did not quiet the Stormlands.
It stirred them.
Within a fortnight, Storm's End filled with banners once more. Lords rode in from Rain House, Nightsong, Greenstone, Estermont, Tarth. The courtyard shimmered with color beneath a sky the color of dull steel, the sea restless but not raging.
The talk was not of trade.
It was of Robert.
The tale had grown in the telling. Seven ships had become ten.The pirate captain had grown taller. The duel longer.
By the time Lord Fell recounted it beneath the gallery arches, Robert had slain the captain with a single blow that split helm, skull, and deck plank in one strike.
Robert did not correct him.
He laughed, broad-shouldered and sun-darkened from weeks at sea, hammer resting beside him as though it belonged in the hall as much as any banner.
"You should have seen it," he told a cluster of younger knights. "He thought weight would slow me."
The men roared at that.
Across the hall, Orys listened.
He did not stand alone. Two coastal bannermen spoke quietly with him over a carved map brought from the solar. Supply routes had stabilized. Merchant lanes reopened under escort.
Storm's End had regained control. But control was not loyalty.
He saw it in the way certain lords gravitated toward Robert first before drifting his way for quieter matters.
There were two kinds of respect in the room.
One was loud. The other was measured.
Lord Gawen Wylde of Rain House stepped forward eventually, voice carrying easily.
"We have not seen such strength since your grandsire's day," Wylde declared openly, raising a cup toward Robert. "The Stormlands stand firm because of you."
Robert grinned and raised his own cup. The hall echoed with approval. Orys did not miss the phrasing.
Because of you.
Not because of House Baratheon. Not because of Storm's End.
Because of Robert.
Lord Steffon's expression remained neutral from the high table, but his eyes shifted briefly toward Orys.
The embers were small. But embers grew.
Later that evening, the feast thinned into smaller circles of conversation. Wine loosened tongues that daylight kept cautious.
Orys stood near one of the long windows overlooking the sea when Lord Wylde approached him directly. "You fight well," Wylde said, tone courteous but edged.
"I do what is necessary," Orys replied.
Wylde studied him for a moment. "There is a difference," the lord said slowly, "between necessary and inspiring."
Orys did not answer immediately.
Below the window, waves struck the cliff face in steady rhythm.
"Inspiration is fleeting," Orys said at last. "Necessity endures."
Wylde smiled faintly. "Men march faster for inspiration."
"They die faster for it too."
The lord's gaze sharpened slightly. "You speak as though you command already."
"I speak as though we will fight again."
Wylde tilted his head. "And when we do, will the men look to you?"
The question was not hostile. It was probing.
Orys held his eyes without flinching. "They will look to whoever wins."
Wylde gave a low chuckle. "And you intend for that to be you."
Orys did not deny it.
Wylde inclined his head politely and stepped away.
Across the hall, Robert was recounting the moment the pirate captain's helm collapsed inward. Renly sat near his knee, staring as though listening to legend rather than memory.
Stannis watched from shadow, silent.
Orys turned back toward the sea.
The next morning brought proof that applause could be dangerous.
A rider arrived from Greenstone bearing recovered debris from one of the sunken pirate ships.
Among the wreckage was a sealed chest. It had not sunk. It had been protected.
The chest was carried into the solar under guard.
Lord Steffon, Robert, Stannis, and Orys stood around it as the lid was pried open.
Inside lay coin. Not foreign. Not crude.
Stormlands-minted.
Clean and deliberate. Robert's grin faded.
"Payment," Stannis said flatly.
Orys lifted one coin and turned it in his fingers. The mint mark was subtle but clear.
It had been struck at Rain House. The room went still.
Robert looked immediately toward Orys. "You were speaking with Wylde last night."
"Yes."
"And now this."
Orys placed the coin back in the chest carefully. "It proves nothing yet."
"It proves someone paid them," Robert snapped.
"You're right."
Robert's jaw tightened. "You think Wylde."
"I think coin rarely moves without reason."
Lord Steffon raised a hand. "We accuse no bannerman without proof."
The words were firm.
Measured.
Orys inclined his head slightly. "Then we gather proof."
Robert exhaled sharply and turned away, pacing the length of the solar.
"They nearly sank my ship," he muttered, "And if it was Wylde-"
"It may not be."
Robert stopped pacing and faced him. "You're too calm."
Orys met his gaze evenly. "Because anger does not reveal truth."
For a moment, the tension between them was visible.
Not explosive.
But real.
Lord Steffon closed the lid of the chest slowly. "This remains within these walls," he said. "We investigate quietly."
Robert looked dissatisfied. Orys looked thoughtful.
That evening, Orys rode out alone toward a lesser coastal hold under Wylde's influence.
Not to accuse.
To observe.
The hold was small, stone-built but modest. Ships were docked below, their crews moving with ordinary routine.
Too ordinary.
He dismounted without announcement.
The steward greeted him politely, surprised but respectful.
"My lord Orys."
"I was riding," Orys said evenly. "And thought to see how the coast fares."
He walked the docks slowly. Ships bore no black sails. No suspicious markings. Supplies were accounted for.
On the surface, nothing betrayed disloyalty. But as he turned to leave, he noticed something small.
A rope.
Tarred thickly.
Identical in weave to the one he had severed in the strait. Common enough perhaps.
Or not.
He said nothing.
When he returned to Storm's End, the courtyard was alive again with praise for Robert's victories.
The Stormlands were swelling with pride. But pride was combustible, and someone had introduced flame.
Orys stood beneath the stag banner as wind tugged at its threads.
He understood now what this second half of the conflict would demand.
Not just strength. Not just strategy. But patience.
Because storms were predictable...Men were not.
The embers beneath applause were beginning to glow.