I stood at the railing of the Sea Hammer, one of the five swift trade galleys carrying us to the Stormlands. A month had passed since we slipped away from Gulltown... The constant creak of timbers and the scent of salt and tar were becoming familiar, though the sea's restless energy was a far cry from the solid ground I preferred.
With time to fill, I had taken to practicing my lute on deck. Today, I played a complex, driving melody I had composed, one that evoked churning seas and desperate ventures. As the last note faded, I found not only the crew but Robert Baratheon himself watching, a rare moment of quiet attention on his face.
"By the Gods, Julius," Robert boomed, making me start. He laughed, the sound carrying over the wind. "If not for your music, I'd have gone mad from the boredom. What do you call that one?"
"It has no name, my lord," I said. "It's a song of the sea. Of peril and purpose."
"Aye, it has a fight in it," he nodded, leaning against the rail beside me. "Where did you learn such a thing? It's not some maester's lullaby."
"In ports from here to Pentos, you hear all manner of songs," I deflected. "It stays with you."
He grunted, accepting the answer. "Ser Claw!" he called to my subordinate, who stood watchful nearby. "You have the look of my brother Stannis about you—all grim duty. Fetch us some wine, would you? A man needs something to cut the sea air."
Claw gave a curt nod and departed. Robert was not wrong; the man was ruthlessly efficient and unflappable, a rock in any storm.
To pass the time, I told Robert a story—a heavily edited tale of a cunning sea captain navigating treacherous waters and outwitting his enemies. Robert listened with a boy's enthusiasm, laughing at the clever ruses and roaring his approval. It was easy to see why men followed him. His charisma was a force of nature, his passions simple and immense: loyalty to his friends, hatred for his enemies, and a thirst for life's grandest pleasures.
But beneath the bluster, I saw the scars. The Targaryens had taken his parents in a shipwreck the Crown callously dismissed. Then Prince Rhaegar stole the woman he loved, and the Mad King murdered her father, her brother, and his own foster-brother, Elbert Arryn. The crown's demand for his and Ned's heads was the final, unforgivable stroke. His rage was a furnace, and it would fuel this rebellion.
As we talked, our conversation turned to the war. "We'll be landing in a hornet's nest, Robert," I cautioned. "The Stormlands will be divided. We may find enemies on all sides until we can rally the lords to your banner."
He waved a dismissive hand. "They'll come. They know what that dragon-spawned bastard did. They know what Aerys is." His confidence was absolute, a product of his name and his belief in the righteousness of his cause. I held my tongue; now was not the time to list the houses that might value fealty over justice.
I changed the subject to the practical. "The supplies we brought will be crucial. Two ships of food, two of arms and armor from Gulltown's stores. This will give us a foundation to equip your first levies without waiting."
"Aye, that was sharp thinking," Robert acknowledged, his strategic mind cutting through his impulsiveness. "My lords will be glad to see more than just my pretty face arriving to start a war."
He was right. We had not just brought a claimant; we had brought the means to arm his rebellion. The Sea Hammer rode light, kept clear for speed, a decision that might save us if we encountered Crown ships.
As dusk fell, we retired. Lying in my cabin, I thought not of past dalliances, but of the future. Before leaving Gulltown, I had used a portion of the funds Morton had generously provided—a reward for services rendered, not a loan—to secure a property. It was not a home, but a potential base of operations: a well-situated building that could, in time, become an inn or trading post, a set of friendly ears in a major port. I had left its management in the hands of a trustworthy, discreet factor. A lord needed more than swords; he needed eyes and ears.
My thoughts were interrupted by a violent lurch. The ship began to buck and shudder like a spooked horse. Pulling on my tunic, I hurried onto the heaving deck, the wind whipping spray into my face.
The captain, fighting the wheel, shouted to me over the gale. "Ser Julius! We've reached the waters of the Straits of Tarth! The weather's turning, and these are dangerous shores!"
The calm journey was over. We had reached the Stormlands, and it seemed the land itself was rising to meet us with its namesake fury.