89 AC. The Red Keep
POV: Corlys Velaryon
Blackwater Bay greeted us with a gray shroud of mist that slowly unraveled under the first rays of the morning sun. The Sea Snake, my flagship, cut through the swells with confidence, leaving my two escort ships in her wake. I felt the vibration of the deck beneath my boots—it wasn't just timber, it was the culmination of hundreds of minute refinements I had implemented over the years. The ship sailed swifter and proved more nimble than than any vessel in the royal fleet, affording me the cold, professional satisfaction of an engineer.
I stood at the prow, my hand resting on the chilled scales of the carved seahorse that adorned the stem. To my right, crouched low against the deck, was Ares. The small panther I had brought from the forests of southern Essos had matured into my silent sentinel. His massive black form served as a hushed reminder to all that the Lord of Driftmark was no mere merchant. Ares remained still, only the tip of his tail twitching rhythmically against the planks, his amber eyes tracking the frantic movements of the deckhands.
"By the Gods, Corlys, I had forgotten how much this place reeks," Daeron muttered, approaching me while pressing a perfumed silk square to his nose.
My brother looked impeccable in his sea-foam green doublet, yet his face wore a mask of disgust and faint bewilderment.
"The scent of the capital is unmistakable," I replied without turning. "A confluence of tallow, open sewers, and hurried ambitions. This is what a city becomes when one fails to plan its growth before hundreds thousands souls take root."
"Praise the Seven you insisted on those maddeningly expensive subterranean channels in Spicetown," Daeron huffed. "When we were building our city, I begrudged every gold dragon spent on 'shit-pipes,' as I called them. Now, I see it was the finest investment of my life. How can people dwell here and name this the center of the continent?"
" People get used to the rot as long as it's covered in gold," I remarked. "But we are not here to teach them hygiene. That is not our concern."
Behind us, Adam Right, my loyal Sworn Shield and Captain of the Guard, was barking final orders to fifty guardsmen. Their plate, forged of the finest steel with ocean-hued enamel inlays, gleamed in the sun. These were no raw recruits—they were veterans who had weathered storms and skirmishes with pirates at my side. Adam, a towering man with cropped fair hair and a jagged scar across his chin, checked the seat of his longsword and stepped toward us.
"We are prepared for disembarkation, my lord," he reported. "The guard will form two columns. Your clerks and stewards shall take the center. No one shall approach within a sword's length unless you command it."
I nodded. My men were my strength. I had brought more than a mere retinue, I had brought a machinery of governance. Legalists, navigators, masters of logistics. If I was to be Master of Ships, I would not rely on the dubious scriveners left behind by my predecessor.
The port of King's Landing was choked to capacity, yet the prime berth had been cleared for the Sea Snake. When the gangplank touched stone, I was the first to step onto the quay. Ares paced beside me, his padded paws making no sound. The cacophony of the smallfolk and dockworkers vanished instantly. Fear and curiosity—a potent vintage for a first impression.
A detachment of the City Watch awaited us, but it was a knight in white plate who stepped forward. Ser Harrold Westerling. He was young, perhaps a few years junior to my current body, but his posture already held that steel-edged rectitude that could one day mark him as a legendary knight.
"Lord Corlys, I am Ser Harrold Westerling," the knight said, bowing, his hand resting easily on the pommel of his sword. "I greet you on behalf of His Grace. King Jaehaerys and the Royal Family await you in the Red Keep."
"My thanks, Ser Harrold," I replied with a measured nod, studying the man. There was no arrogance in him, only duty. A useful trait. "I am pleased to see the Kingsguard remains vigilant. This is my brother, Ser Daeron, and my Captain of the Guard, Adam Right."
Harrold greeted my companions with courtesy, though he struggled to keep his gaze from drifting toward the panther at my heel.
"May I ask, my lord..." he gestured to Ares. "Is the beast... secure?"
"Far safer than most courtiers in this city, Ser," I answered with a thin smile. "Unless you attempt to pet him, he will not deprive you of your hand."
We made our way toward the castle. The path led through the city I had always held in low regard. In my past life as Harry Black, I had seen places far more chaotic, but there was something fundamentally broken about King's Landing. It had been raised in haste, upon ash and bone, without a single guiding plan, driven only by the Targaryens' lust for dominion. The narrow, crooked wynds were choked with filth, and the people looked haggard under the weight of taxes, crime, and pestilence.
This city has no foundation, I thought, watching the facades drift by. Only walls and an Iron Throne.
As we neared the gates of the Red Keep, I spotted a familiar group. These were my people from my townhouse on Visenya's Hill. Years ago, I had purchased a dignified estate there to serve as a base in the capital. Now they stood at the gates, holding the reins of heavily laden mules and several covered wains.
"All is in readiness, my lord," one of my stewards said, bowing low. "The gifts for the Royal Family have arrived on schedule. Incense from Qarth, silks from Yi Ti, the new refined sugars you requested... everything has been vetted and crated."
"Excellent," I turned to Ser Harrold. "I thought it might please the King to receive our offerings immediately, rather than waiting for my ships to finish clearing the docks."
Westerling looked impressed by the foresight. Efficiency always confounds those accustomed to palace lethargy.
We entered the castle. The air grew slightly cleaner, but the atmosphere significantly heavier. My guard and clerks remained in the vestibule under Adam's watch, while I, Daeron, and my captains followed Ser Harrold toward the Great Hall.
"Stay here and frighten no one," I murmured to Ares, ruffling his fur one last time.
The massive doors swung open.
The cloying scent of incense hit me. I felt the magic humming in the hall—not the active sorcery I was used to wielding, but the heavy, residual echoes of dragon blood and ancient bone. The Iron Throne loomed at the far end, a grotesque snarl of fused blades—a monument to how much blood had been spilled for a single seat.
"Lord Corlys of House Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark! And his brother, Ser Daeron Velaryon!" the herald's voice echoed through the high arches.
I walked forward, my pace measured and deliberate. I felt hundreds of eyes boring into me. The whispers of the courtiers were like the hissing of vipers, but I ignored them. My gaze was locked on the man upon the throne.
Jaehaerys I Targaryen. Even upon that jagged heap of swords, he looked the very incarnation of order, though deep within his lilac eyes, I read the leaden exhaustion of his years. He was a master builder and a sage, yet he remained a hostage to the era he had forged—a man who sincerely believed that peace and the will of the gods could be bound within the margins of the laws he wrote.
Beside him, like a tranquil harbor, stood Alysanne. Her famed kindness and soft smile always struck me as a flawlessly polished shield, behind which dwelt a mind sharper than any Maester of the Citadel.
To the right of the throne stood Princes Aemon and Baelon—two iron pillars upon which the future of the dynasty rested. Beside them stood Baelon's sons: young Viserys, looking uncharacteristically solemn, and Daemon, in whose restless gaze already flickered that dangerous heat that makes Targaryens either great or mad.
At the base of the throne, like two jewels cast at a monarch's feet, were the ladies. Rhaenys watched me with a direct, unblinking stare, her posture held the steel of a dragonrider and a pride that could not be masked. And Viserra... she was the embodiment of Valyrian perfection, her beauty almost provocative, and the bored gaze with which she swept the hall spoke of the fact that she knew her worth full well.
I stopped at the foot of the dais. I knew this was theater. Jaehaerys had made his decision weeks ago, the raven had reached Driftmark in the last moon. But politics is a stage where the sets are sometimes washed in blood, and a poor performance is paid for in lives. My grandfather Arcturus had repeated this often, drumming the rules of survival among predators into me, and over my long life, I had learned the lesson better than most.
The gathered lords required a spectacle: a merciful monarch elevating his wealthiest vassal. For me, the objective was different. I would not accept this post as a servant taking a handout, but as an indispensable pillar of the realm. A man whose resources and will made him not just a subject, but an ally without whom the majesty of the throne might falter.
I dropped to one knee. The motion was fluid, devoid of subservience.
"Your Grace," my voice rang out, filling the hall.
Behind me, Daeron and the captains mirrored the gesture. The silence became absolute.
"Rise, Lord Corlys," Jaehaerys said, his voice commanding but tinged with genuine interest. "And you, Ser Daeron. We are pleased to welcome you to King's Landing. Your voyages have brought renown not only to your House, but to the entire Realm."
I rose, drawing myself up to my full height. I was taller than many present, and my bronzed skin and silver hair created a stark contrast with the pale elite of the capital. My eyes met the King's for a fleeting second. We understood the unspoken trade: he needed my gold and my sails, I needed the official station to protect my investments in Westeros and to crush the Triarchy—a threat of which the King was likely still blissfully unaware.
"My thanks, Your Grace," I replied, inclining my head toward the Royal Family.
Jaehaerys spoke of my merits, of the prestige I brought, and the passing of Lord Grafton. It was the necessary exposition for the courtly "audience." He offered me the seat on the Small Council, and I waited just long enough for the pause to emphasize the gravity of the moment without verging into insult.
"My ships have always belonged to the Crown, Your Grace," I said—a technical truth of feudal law, though the reality was far more complex. "But if you deem that my experience and my voice shall serve the Realm at the Council table, I accept this honor. I swear to serve you and Westeros faithfully, guarding our waters as zealously as I have guarded my own decks in the Narrow Sea."
" So shall it be," Jaehaerys proclaimed. "Henceforth, you are Master of Ships, Lord Corlys."
The game had begun. I felt the tension in the hall ebb slightly, replaced by a low hum of discussion. I was officially part of the royal court.
As the voices began to swell, I raised my hand slightly, calling for attention. The theater was not yet concluded. In Westeros, power is not just steel and timber, it is the ability to blind with opulence.
"With your leave, Your Grace," I said, addressing Jaehaerys. "My travels to the world's edge would be but a hollow stroll were I not to bring the fruits of those lands to those who rule these kingdoms with such wisdom. I ask permission to present humble offerings for your family."
The King nodded graciously. At my signal, the heavy doors opened once more, and a procession of my servants entered the hall.
First came crates of aromatic cedar. A thick, spicy fragrance wafted through the room, cutting through the stale temple incense.
"Spices from Qarth and tea leaves from Yi Ti," I explained as the servants lifted the lids, revealing mounds of saffron, nutmeg, and rare black pepper. "And these beans, which the East calls 'coffee.' A draught for those whose minds must remain keen during the midnight hours of labor."
I noticed the nose of old Septon Barth twitch. The old man clearly appreciated the aroma.
Next, my men brought forth heavy oak chests. When the lids were thrown back, the hall was filled with the glint of transparent glass. In Westeros, people were accustomed to ceramic jugs or crude leather skins, but I had brought spirits in elegant, perfectly clear bottles, forged in my new manufactories.
"Your Grace, many bring foreign wines to court, hoping to impress you with another's labor. But these gifts are the fruit of Driftmark's ingenuity," I gestured to the rows of bottles where liquids of amber and ruby shimmered. "Here is the finest vintage from the Hull vineyards, alongside potent spirits we have learned to age in casks of white oak."
I stepped closer, showing the King a label bearing the seahorse sigil.
"These are whiskey and brandy, distilled according to my own designs. And this cognac has rested in the dark cellars of High Tide for ten years, awaiting its moment. You will find their flavor deeper and purer than anything brought across the Narrow Sea."
Jaehaerys watched the play of light through the glass with interest. As a builder of roads and bridges, the fruits of his people's craft meant more to him than foreign contraband. He would appreciate the technology as much as the taste.
Then came the turn of the women. I saw Alysanne straighten and Viserra's eyes ignite. Servants unfurled bolts of Yi Ti silk. The fabric flowed like liquid silver and molten emerald, shifting hues under the sunbeams.
"These silks were woven by masters whose lineages have practiced the craft for a thousand years," I said. "A mere touch from your seamstresses will turn these into gowns worthy of your grace."
But the true masterstroke was the mirrors. When my guards brought in heavy frames shrouded in thick cloth, a hush fell over the hall. I stepped to the first and drew the cloth back before Alysanne, then Rhaenys, and Viserra.
The hall gasped. In a world where most knew their reflection only through buffed bronze or the ripples of a pond, these full-length mirrors of purest glass—backed with a thin layer of silver using techniques I had pulled from my past and realized through the artisans of Spicetown—seemed like sorcery.
"Glass from the works of Driftmark," I added modestly, though I knew each mirror cost as much as a small warship. "So that the majesty of your beauty may always be seen in its true light."
Jewelry followed. White gold—an alloy I had forced my jewelers to perfect with specific additives—shone with a cold, noble brilliance. Necklaces, earrings, and rings set with sapphires the color of a storm-tossed sea were a perfect match for the eyes of Rhaenys and Viserra.
For the Princes, I took a different tack.
"Prince Aemon, Prince Baelon," I pointed to the trays and chests. "Tourney plate of the finest steel, light as leather but hardy as dragon scale. And daggers whose hilts are carved with the likenesses of your dragons."
I added that four white stallions, scions of the finest Essosi bloodlines, awaited them in the courtyard, along with bows of goldenheart wood from the Summer Isles.
"They say an arrow from such a bow can pierce an oak shield at three hundred paces," I noted, catching Baelon's predatory grin.
For the younger princes, Viserys and Daemon, the gifts were more personal.
"Knowledge is the foundation for young minds," I presented Viserys with a stack of rare volumes: The Lost Chronicles of Valyria and a treatise on the law and rights of Old Ghis. "And for Prince Daemon—training swords of darkwood, balanced exactly like live steel, so the hand learns the true weight of the blade."
I also mentioned two foals that would grow to be as majestic as their father mounts.
Finally, I approached the King himself. I drew a small, leather-bound casket from my doublet. It fit in the palm of my hand, looking almost humble compared to the towering mirrors. But when I lifted the lid, the Royal Family instinctively leaned forward.
Inside, resting on a cushion of black velvet, was a massive signet ring. It was neither gold nor silver. The metal had a distinct dark, smoky hue with the faint "watered" ripples that are impossible to mistake for anything else.
"Valyrian steel," someone whispered from the ranks of the courtiers, the words rippling through the hall like a prayer of awe and envy.
"Your Grace," I said, looking Jaehaerys in the eye. "Few things remain in this world to remind us of the glory of Old Valyria. Most are blades, forged to take life. But I found a fragment of an ancient dagger in the East, a relic that had lost its form, and commanded the master smiths of Driftmark to forge it into this ring."
I stepped forward, displaying the craftsmanship. The signet bore the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, rendered with such detail one could count every scale.
Jaehaerys rose slowly. His hand, mottled with age but still firm, reached for the casket. He took the ring, held it to the light, and studied the dance of shadows upon the rippled surface. There was something deeply personal in the gesture. To a Targaryen, Valyrian steel is not merely wealth, it is a tether to their ancestors.
"Lord Corlys," he said softly, and for a fleeting moment, I saw a ghost of a smile touch his lips. "You have a talent for surprise. Many gift kings with crowns, but few gift them with a reminder of who they truly are."
He slid the ring onto his finger. The heavy metal fit perfectly.
He looked toward the courtiers, his tone turning crisp:
"That shall be all for today," he announced, signaling the end of the formal session. "We require time to reflect upon these tidings and, I suspect, to admire your gifts more closely. The Court is dismissed."
It was a brisk conclusion, a period at the end of a long working day, which I appreciated far more than empty ceremony. The old man clearly wanted to shed the crowd and inspect his new ring in private.
A chuckle rippled through the room, and the lingering tension vanished. Jaehaerys looked at me once more.
"Lord Corlys, Ser Daeron. The path from Driftmark is long, and the ceremony tedious. I invite you to join our family at supper. Refresh yourselves, rest in your quarters. We shall expect you when the sun touches the horizon."
I bowed, just enough to satisfy decorum.
"It would be an honor, Your Grace."
"You shall be escorted," he said, waving to his stewards.
As we left the hall under the envious and admiring gazes of the lords, Daeron whispered to me:
"Mirrors, Corlys? You truly intend to have every woman in the Red Keep praying to you?"
"Not to me, brother," I replied, looking straight ahead. "At Driftmark. Let them see every morning who they owe for the luxury they love so much."
I felt Ares waiting for me at the doors, and the chessboard of the future unfolding before me. A supper with the Royal Family was where the fate of the realm was decided over venison and wine far more often than in the Throne Room. And I intended to be the one to steer the conversation.
We walked out, and Ares, slipping beside me like a silent shadow, was the only one who shared my cold composure. The capital might reek of rot, but today, it smelled of my triumph.
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A/N
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