Baelon snatched the letter with such sharp, instinctive speed that the motion drew a startled breath from those nearby. Princess Rhaenyra, standing at his side, shot him a glare, half-exasperated, half-concerned.
"This…" he murmured.
His eyes dragged across the parchment, line by line, and with each word his expression darkened. When he reached the end, Baelon rose abruptly, tension rippling through his shoulders.
"Brayden," he said, voice low and firm, "carry my command. Muster every man we brought and load them onto the ships at once. We sail for the Tides immediately."
Rhaenyra took the letter as soon as it left his hand. Her gaze skimmed the script, and her breath caught, her face tightening with alarm.
"The tour is over," she said. "We return to King's Landing, now."
Below the dais, the gathered Riverlands nobles exchanged uneasy glances. No one knew what had transpired, but even fools could sense the shift in the air.
"My apologies, my lords," Baelon said, drawing himself up. His voice was steady, but a blade lay beneath the calm. "An urgent matter in King's Landing demands the Princess's immediate return. The festivities must be suspended. Harrenhal will host a splendid feast in the coming days, enjoy its hospitality, then depart for your own keeps at your leisure."
Baelon was master here, and Harrenhal bowed to his word. None dared challenge him.
And all had seen it, the way Ser Criston Cole had rushed into the hall moments earlier, pale and breathless, thrusting a raven-letter into Baelon's hands. Then the faces of both Prince and Princess changing in an instant, as if the world beneath their feet had shifted.
Unease began to coil through the gathered lords.
A Riverlands bannerman stepped forward. "Rest assured, my Prince. You and the Princess must go. We shall cause no trouble."
"Aye. We'll withdraw without troubling your lands."
"Indeed. Of course."
Once one man pledged obedience, the rest followed swiftly. Loyalty, or at least the appearance of it, was cheap when royalty watched.
"Good," Baelon said. "Stay a few days. Enjoy yourselves. Ser Illis will see to your comfort."
And with that, Baelon swept from the hall, Rhaenyra beside him.
The Northern Inlet – Harrenhal
Wind howled across the dark waters of the Gods Eye as Baelon stared down at the inlet below. Soldiers scrambled up gangplanks to the deck of every ship they could manage to provision.
Too slow.
His jaw tightened.
Behind him, Rhaenyra reined in her horse. "Baelon, why aren't we flying to Tides? Syrax and Tyraxes would be faster than any fleet."
"Because what use would the two of us be alone?" he replied at once. "Can you heal the Sea Snake? Can I? The Stepstones need soldiers, coin, ships, supplies, not two dragons barely grown and their young riders."
Rhaenyra fell silent, though her hands clenched around the reins.
According to King Viserys's letter, Lord Corlys Velaryon had been struck by a stray arrow during the fighting. The wound should have been trivial, yet the arrowhead had been steeped in poison. Corlys's life now hung by a thread.
His younger brother, Vaemond Velaryon, had taken command of the Velaryon fleet in his stead.
But Vaemond was no Sea Snake.
The front that Corlys had held through sheer force of will was collapsing. The Crabfeeder's men surged from their caves and strongholds, unchecked. Only the dragons, Caraxes and Seasmoke, kept the Triarchy from striking the shores of Westeros itself.
But two dragons could not seal an entire sea.
Hence Viserys's letter, not a plea, but an order. He commanded Baelon to send men, ships, anything he could muster, and to do it quickly.
He also summoned the Crownlands lords of Driftmark's sphere, intending to raise an auxiliary host in Daemon's name.
"I'm going to King's Landing," Rhaenyra said suddenly. "And I'll take Syrax straight to the Stepstones myself. Let those Triarchy bastards see what a daughter of the dragon can do."
And before Baelon could protest, she spurred her horse into a gallop, her guards racing after her.
Harrenhal was close to the capital, one hard day's ride down the Kingsroad. She would reach King's Landing before the moon rose.
Baelon watched her vanish, frustration giving way to grim resignation. Rhaenyra was not a woman easily swayed once her mind was set.
He lifted his gaze. Far above, a streak of gold glimmered, Syrax climbing through a break in the clouds, her wings glowing like hammered dawn. Only when she disappeared toward the southwest did Baelon feel a sliver of relief settle in his chest.
Across two lifetimes, this would be his first true war.
Nerves were inevitable. But the rewards buried within this conflict were too great to ignore. He intended to seize them, every one, and he had wagered everything he possessed on a plan he had nurtured for months.
Finally, the soldiers finished boarding. The fleet shifted, ropes loosened, oars dipped.
The ships Baelon had purchased across the Seven Kingdoms were a motley procession, cogs and galleys, warships and weathered traders, their hulls bearing faded carvings and mismatched sigils. But they would serve.
"Prince Baelon," Brayden called, hurrying over with a newly arrived raven-letter. "From Crab Isle. Lord Celtigar has raised five hundred men and seven warships. He's also attached captains familiar with the Essosi coast to guide the fleet."
Baelon unfolded the parchment. The message was short, but every word a relief.
"Good. I'll write to him myself. His loyalty to the Crown will not be forgotten. His men may claim spoils from the war as they earn them, and after the fighting is done, he will receive a fair share besides."
With the Celtigar ships joining his own, the weight on his shoulders eased.
On the open sea, only the Velaryons surpassed the Celtigars. As one of the first houses to bend the knee to Aegon the Conqueror, House Celtigar had maintained a formidable fleet for generations.
Baelon's ships slid out of the inlet, row by row. They drifted past Maidenpool, crossed the quiet waters of Crab Bay, met the red-and-white sails of the Celtigar fleet, then sailed past the volcanic shadow of Dragonstone.
All paths converged upon his destination: the Tides.
Tides – Driftmark
King Viserys had already reached the Tides days earlier, traveling by way of Blackwater Bay. The sea had not been kind to him.
"Cousin."
Rhaenys Targaryen stood at the docks, silver hair rippling in the salt wind. Viserys nearly stumbled as he disembarked, gripping the railing with both hands. It seemed absurd that the man who had once ridden Balerion the Black Dread could be undone by waves, but the King looked paler than milk.
"Are you well?" Rhaenys asked gently.
"I'll live." He dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief, moving as though his stomach had been scraped empty.
"Come. A bath and warm water will help."
She guided him inside.
Not long after, the sky shuddered.
Syrax descended upon the Tides like a falling sun, her golden wings scattering sand across the beach. Rhaenyra leapt down at once and raced into the castle, boots echoing through the stone halls.
"Corlys is gravely wounded," Rhaenys said as she led them toward the chambers. "The arrowhead only grazed him, but it was soaked in poison."
They entered the Sea Snake's room.
Corlys Velaryon lay pale as bleached bone, breath thin, caught between waking and sleep. His eyes fluttered but did not truly open. The smell of herbs filled the chamber, maesters working desperately, though they dared not say so.
"I'm here," Rhaenyra whispered, all her earlier fire softened.
Viserys turned sharply, surprise flickering across his face. In his mind, his daughter was still traveling the Reach and Dorne, charming lords, dancing in halls, weighing suitors. Not flying across half the realm to stand in a sickroom.
"Who told you to come?" Viserys snapped, his voice cracking under the strain. "You should be touring- meeting the noble sons of every great house! Not appearing here uninvited-"
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A/N:The war begins here. If you think you know what comes next, you don't. BUT It's already waiting in the chapters ahead.
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