Purple sea snails were heaped in baskets across the cabin floor, their shells glistening like amethysts in the lanternlight. A soldier stood before Baelon, helm tucked beneath his arm, his face still flushed from exertion.
"My lord," he said, bowing low, "Ser Samond sent word. He found a great store of purple sea snails in the home of a Tyroshi trader. He asks whether you wish them taken."
Tyroshi purple was prized across half the Free Cities, worth its weight in silver among the dye-makers of Lys and Tyrosh. Here, on the western edge of the Narrow Sea, such luxuries held far less value. Even so, a treasure was a treasure.
"Take them," Baelon answered without hesitation. "Take all of it. Our holds are half-empty still, we've room to spare."
The soldier bowed again and hurried down the gangplank. Baelon watched him go, the faintest curl of amusement touching his lips. They had sailed from Westeros on war galleys built for soldiers and grain, not plunder. Their hulls had little space left for spoils. But fate had proven generous: after Baelon's swift assault on the Tyroshi harbor, they had captured a score of merchant cogs and heavy transports, each built for long voyages and swollen with cargo. Now those same ships drank in loot like thirsty beasts.
Companies of soldiers marched up the planks with armfuls of silks, bronze, spices, and coin. They returned ashore at once, breathless and eager for more, unable to hide the gleam in their eyes. Baelon had promised each man a third of whatever he seized. It had worked wonders on their spirits.
Still, men were men, and greed ran hotter than dragonflame. Baelon had therefore set each squad to watch the other, mutual oversight, he called it. Any man caught hiding plunder for himself would lose far more than his right hand. He would be executed on the spot, and whatever he stole would be granted to his accuser.
The fear of losing both life and loot proved a strong deterrent.
For a time, the spoils poured in like a tide. But the tide ebbed. Slowly, the soldiers returned with fewer goods, their excitement cooling. The best prizes had already been taken.
Baelon knew then, the hour to depart had come.
A cry split the air.
"Baelon!"
A shadow swept across the deck as Sea-Smoke descended from the sky, pale and pearlescent against the crimson dusk. Laenor Velaryon slid from the saddle before the dragon's talons touched the planks. His armor steamed with sweat, and his breath came in ragged pulls.
"I saw a Tyroshi host," he said, wiping an arm across his brow. "More than a thousand men, marching hard for the port. Is Tyraxes strong enough to fly? Sea-Smoke cannot breathe another gout of fire."
Baelon studied him, Laenor was young, but not soft, his shoulders tense with the strain of battle and vigilance. While Baelon and Tyraxes had rested, Laenor had been their watchful hawk, sweeping over land and sea.
"Do not fret," Baelon replied. "Tyraxes has recovered enough."
At his signal, a knot of runners shot off down the quay, shouting orders to recall all men ashore. Drums began to beat the rhythm of withdrawal. Baelon closed his eyes for a moment and reached for the bond that tied him to his dragon, a thread of heat and instinct coiling deep in his chest.
Rise, he commanded silently. Delay them. Buy us the minutes we require.
Slaughter was beyond reach. A thousand trained soldiers were not a thousand pigs in a pen. Pigs scattered under fire; men who expected fire resisted it. A single dragon could harry them, burn their vanguard, sow chaos, but wipe them out? Impossible.
As Baelon turned toward the rising roar of Tyraxes' wings, a voice called out behind him.
"My lord Baelon!"
He looked back. The young knight he had spoken with earlier strode forward, helm under one arm, jaw set with fierce resolve. His eyes gleamed with something sharper than fear.
"Hm?" Baelon lifted a brow.
The knight dropped to one knee, the decision burning through him like a vow made before a sept. "My lord, grant me the honor of covering the retreat. My vows forbid me from raising my blade against helpless smallfolk, but the Tyroshi marching upon us are warriors, and I am not lacking in courage. Let me lead my household in the rearguard. So long as I draw breath, none will break our line."
His voice trembled not with fear, but with fervor. Baelon could almost see the words that had stirred him earlier echoing in his mind.
"Foolish," Baelon said, though the bite had softened. "Tyraxes alone can delay them long enough. Your death would serve no purpose, and change nothing."
Surprise flickered across the knight's face. But when Baelon's lips curved, just barely, into the ghost of a smile, the young man bowed his head in humbled silence.
He wanted so desperately to prove his worth. Baelon could feel the longing radiating from him like heat from the deck boards.
"What is your name?" Baelon asked as Tyraxes lifted from the courtyard beyond, wings sending gusts of grit and ash swirling through the air.
The youth rose, standing straighter than before. "I am Hasting Cox of Saltpans, my prince. Knighted last year at the tourney of Riverrun. Heir to House Cox." He turned his shoulder, revealing the shield strapped to his back, a blue field painted with a single white seabird.
"Ser Hasting," Baelon said, voice low but firm, "get your men aboard. Only those who cherish their lives deserve to be called knights. You may choose death for yourself, if you wish, but you have no right to drag your men into the grave beside you."
Hasting stiffened. Only then did he notice the uneasy glances his own household guards exchanged, the fear they tried... and failed, to hide.
"My lord…" He swallowed, shame flushing his cheeks. "My apologies."
Baelon nodded once. "Go. Board the ship. I have another task for you, one worthy of a knight's honor."
Relief softened the tension in Hasting's shoulders. He bowed again, deeper this time, and hurried to gather his men. Baelon's gaze lingered on his retreating form, thoughtful.
Saltpans lay close to Baelon's own fledgling domain, one to the southwest, the other to the northeast, divided only by the mouth of the river. If the fleet of Harrenhal ever sought entry into the Riverlands, Saltpans was the gate they must pass.
And Baelon was not a man who tolerated threats at his doorstep.
A young heir bound by ideals was easier to shape than an old lord bound by coin and pride. Better a loyal neighbor than a resentful one. And Hasting Cox, earnest as he was, could be shaped.
So he must live, Baelon thought. And live owing me his life.
If Saltpans fell under his influence, he would control the mouth of the Trident, an advantage priceless in any bid for the Riverlands. Harrenhal alone could never be enough. His ambitions did not end at a single stronghold.
In time, both the Riverlands and the Vale would fall within his grasp.
The Riverlands, fertile, central, resting at the crossroads of the realm, were his first and truest prize. Jason Lannister, his so-called coronator, ruled to the west. Claiming the Riverlands would give Baelon the beating heart of Westeros. The Vale, by contrast, offered mountains unassailable and passes that could choke an army. With Harrenhal guarding the exit of the Bloody Gate, he could strike or withdraw as he pleased.
But whichever conquest he sought next, he would need the sea. Need Saltpans.
And Saltpans required a Cox who could be bent but not broken.
A scream of wind tore through the harbor as Tyraxes soared toward the oncoming Tyroshi host. The dragon's crimson-black wings blotted the sinking sun, casting a long shadow across the ruins of the port. Arrows arced upward, dozens, then scores. Tyraxes banked sharply, fire whirling in his throat. A gout of blood-tinged flame roared over the front ranks of the Tyroshi column.
Men shrieked. Timber shields caught fire. A handful fell, ten here, twenty there, hardly more than sparks against a storm.
They did not break. They scattered behind stone walls and heavy carts, trained to survive dragonflame by wit and discipline rather than courage alone.
Each burst of fire weakened Tyraxes further. Baelon could feel it through their bond, the drag in his wings, the dull ache behind his breastbone, the frustration coiling inside the dragon like a tightening spring.
Enough, Baelon murmured inwardly.
Tyraxes understood. Frustrated, the dragon loosed one final, thunderous bellow, shaking windows, rattling masts, before climbing high into the clouds, leaving the Tyroshi cursing his name.
The delay was all Baelon required.
The last soldiers scrambled aboard the seized merchant cogs. Ropes were cast off. Oars struck water. The fleet eased from the burning quays like geese lifting from a marsh.
Baelon stood at the railing as the fires spread across the harbor, flames licking bright against the hulls of every ship too damaged to sail. He had ordered them put to the torch. Better ashes than weapons for his enemies.
Smoke curled skyward as the fleet slipped into deeper waters, Tyraxes circling above like a guardian spirit.
Baelon watched the flames until they blurred into the horizon, his expression calm, his thoughts anything but.
This raid was merely the beginning.
And the Narrow Sea had only just begun to whisper his name.
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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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