The rain lingered three more days, and in that time the mood within Storm's End shifted from suspicion to something quieter and more dangerous.
Restraint.
The rider from Tarth had not come alone in outrage. He had come prepared. Letters bearing Lord Selwyn's seal were produced in the great hall before assembled bannermen, detailed records of ship construction, rope purchases, timber allocations. The shipments from Rain House were documented cleanly, aligned with ordinary expansion of Tarth's modest fleet.
It was all reasonable.
Too reasonable.
Robert listened with arms folded across his chest, jaw tight but silent. His instinct was to challenge openly, to force clarity through confrontation. But Lord Steffon's earlier command still held the room steady. No accusations without proof.
And so the Stormlands did not fracture that day.
They bent.
Orys observed the hall from a step behind his uncle's seat, watching not the men speaking, but the men listening. Wylde stood composed, neither defensive nor triumphant. The Tarth envoy spoke firmly but without insult. Estermont frowned in thought. Fell whispered to his neighbor.
Lines were being drawn, but softly.
By the time the assembly dissolved, the official conclusion was measured, no bannerman would be publicly accused. Trade would continue. Patrols would increase. The matter remained under investigation.
Outward unity.
Inward tension.
That evening, Orys rode south again, though this time not alone. He brought Stannis and a small escort, not for intimidation but for presence. They stopped at smaller coastal holds along the way, speaking with captains and quartermasters, reviewing manifests, walking docks in silence broken only by the creak of mooring lines and the slap of tide against hull.
He did not search for dramatic evidence.
He searched for pattern.
At Griffin's Roost, a harbor master mentioned a merchant vessel that had docked twice in the past two months under different flags. At Evenfall's smaller southern pier, a dockhand recalled unusual purchases of pitch and tar paid for in mixed coin, some bearing the Rain House mark, others from further inland.
None of it alone meant treason.
Together, it formed a murmur.
When they returned to Storm's End at dusk on the fifth day, Robert was in the yard again, hammer in motion, driving men back through sheer force of impact. Mud and sweat streaked across his armor, and each strike carried an edge of frustration that had little to do with training.
He saw Orys approach and lowered the hammer only after finishing the exchange. "Well?" he demanded.
"We're being fed scraps," Orys replied evenly.
Robert wiped rain and sweat from his brow. "I'm done with scraps."
"You may not have a choice."
Robert's gaze hardened. "There's a third pirate vessel that escaped the strait," he said. "Scouts sighted black sail south of Cape Wrath at dawn."
Orys absorbed the information without outward reaction. "They want us to chase."
"Then we chase."
"And leave our coast thin."
Robert stepped closer. "You think like an old man."
"And you think like a storm," Orys answered calmly.
The tension between them did not erupt into shouting. It coiled instead, taut but contained.
Robert looked away first, though not in surrender. "Father wants us both on the southern patrol," he said. "Joint command."
That was new.
Joint command meant observation.
Comparison.
Measurement.
"Then we go," Orys said.
They departed at first light with four ships this time, not two.
The sea was uneasy but not violent, long swells lifting hulls and lowering them in patient rhythm. The southern coast stretched jagged and exposed, dotted with smaller fishing settlements less defensible than Storm's End.
Robert stood at the prow of the lead vessel again, hammer visible at his back, cloak snapping in the wind. Men looked to him instinctively when sails shifted or oars adjusted.
Orys stood nearer the stern, speaking quietly with the captain about current patterns near Cape Wrath.
"If they hug the coastline," the captain said, "they'll try for shallow cove landings."
"They won't," Orys replied.
The captain glanced at him.
"They know we expect that."
Robert overheard. "Then what?" he asked.
"They'll feint shallow and land deep."
Robert's brow furrowed. "That makes no sense."
"It makes perfect sense," Orys said. "We defend the obvious."
The black sail appeared by mid-afternoon.
One ship only.
Moving deliberately along the horizon before angling closer toward shore.
Robert's eyes brightened. "There."
Orys watched its course carefully. It moved as though uncertain.
Too uncertain.
"They want us to see them," he said quietly.
Robert gave him a sharp look. "They're right there."
"Yes."
The pirate ship altered course suddenly, turning inland toward a narrow inlet that cut deeper than most along that stretch of coast.
Robert gave the order to pursue. Orys did not countermand it.
Not yet.
The Stormlander ships closed distance quickly. The black sail slipped into the inlet, vanishing momentarily behind rock outcroppings that shielded the deeper water beyond.
"Shallow," one sailor warned.
"Not shallow enough," Orys murmured.
As they entered the inlet, the world narrowed to stone walls rising on either side and water that seemed calm at first glance.
Too calm.
The first arrow struck from above. Not from the pirate deck. From the cliffs.
The ambush unfolded in seconds.
Two concealed archer positions high on either side loosed volleys downward. The pirate vessel within the inlet swung sharply, not to flee, but to position itself broadside.
It had never meant to escape.
It had meant to lure.
"Shields!" Robert roared, raising his hammer as though it could swat arrows from the air.
Orys moved immediately.
"Pull port!" he shouted to the captain. "Keep distance from the north wall!"
Another volley rained down.
A Stormlander sailor fell, an arrow lodged deep beneath his collarbone. The pirate vessel released grappling lines toward the lead ship.
This time, they meant to lock and burn. Pitch pots arced through the air, shattering against deck planks in bursts of black flame.
Robert leapt forward before the first line secured.
He severed one rope with a single brutal swing of the hammer, splintering the wood rail it had hooked onto.
Orys crossed the deck in three strides and drove his sword downward through another line before it tightened.
"Reverse oars!" he shouted.
The inlet offered little room for maneuver. The cliffs funneled smoke and flame inward, trapping heat and confusion.
Arrows continued to fall.
Orys scanned the rock faces quickly. "There!" he barked, pointing to a narrow ledge where movement flickered.
He grabbed a bow from a fallen sailor and drew without ceremony, releasing toward the shadowed shape. The figure toppled backward from the ledge moments later.
Robert fought at the rail like a man daring the sea to take him, hammer smashing hooks and splintering planks as fast as they landed.
The pirate ship advanced again, closer this time, flames licking along its own deck in calculated risk.
"They mean to set us alight," Stannis said through clenched teeth.
"They mean to trap us," Orys corrected.
He saw it now fully.
The inlet narrowed further ahead. If they pressed too far inward, retreat would become impossible.
"Back us out!" he ordered.
Robert turned toward him. "We have them!"
"No," Orys said sharply, for once letting urgency cut through restraint. "They have us."
For a heartbeat, Robert hesitated.
Then he saw it.
The second pirate vessel emerging from behind the far bend of the inlet.
Hidden until now. Cutting off escape. The trap was elegant.
And nearly closed.
Robert did not argue again.
He moved.
Hammer rising high, he smashed through the remaining grappling line and bellowed for oars to pull hard.
Stormlander ships strained backward against current and flame.
Arrows thudded into shields.
Pitch fire spread across outer planks. Orys directed buckets to douse flame while shouting for the archers to suppress the cliff positions. The inlet became a furnace of smoke and splintered wood.
But inch by inch, they reversed.
The pirate ships pressed forward, confident in narrowing space.
Then the tide shifted. Subtle, but real.
The outgoing current strengthened abruptly, catching the second pirate vessel at a poor angle. Its stern swung wider than intended, scraping against hidden rock beneath the surface.
The hull shuddered violently.
Orys saw opportunity where disaster had been moments before. "Now!" he shouted.
Robert did not need clarification. He ordered full advance.
Stormlander ships surged forward with tide at their backs, crashing into the destabilized pirate vessel before it could correct course.
Boarding followed not as a trap but as a counterstroke.
This time, Robert led without hesitation into prepared ground. And this time, Orys entered with him not to prevent disaster, but to finish it.
Steel rang.
Flame roared.
Men fell into water and did not rise.
By the time the smoke thinned and the inlet quieted, two pirate ships were broken against rock and tide alike. The ambush had failed.
But only narrowly.
As the Stormlander ships cleared the inlet and returned to open sea, Robert stood, sweat streaked across his face, hammer darkened by blood and char.
"That," he said slowly, "was clever."
"Yes," Orys replied.
Robert looked at him, something new in his gaze. "They're learning."
"So are we."
The sea rolled outward again, deceptively calm once more.
But Orys understood now with certainty. This was not piracy.
It was rehearsal for something larger.