"Take us out east," Lyonel called out to the oar master, Bearded Benjicot.
"East, my lord?" Ben asked him. He pointed out their target. "They are turning north."
Lyonel ground his teeth. He should not have to explain his orders on the deck of his own ship; they should be being followed without question. "But the currents to the north come south," he said slowly. "They will be caught in them and slowed, if we head out east, we can circle north and overtake them. Now, send us out east." He shook his head as his orders were finally being followed. The wind was heading south, so Lyonel had the main sails rolled up, only the small flag at the top of the sail was an indicator of the fact that this was a royal ship. The captain of the other ship could claim not to have seen it, which would mean he would have to get close enough to the other ship to make it stand down and allow him to escort it back to Dragonstone.
Starstorm, Lyonel's warship, was being rowed by three decks of oarsmen, tough, burly men, with tree trunk arms and backs that rippled with more muscle than most seas did waves. He normally had a catapult at the front of the ship, but had removed it, he didn't need the added weight, especially since he didn't intend to sink any ships, he still had the scorpions and the archers of his crew, more than able to subdue any errant merchantman and his crew. He headed to the railing and got a look at the ship he was going against. It was large, three decks, like his own, with white sails and a figurehead of a woman on the prow, a naked woman. "Turn us north," he called and the ship turned north before they lost sight of the ship. It would mean sharing the currents for a while, but he would break through them long before the merchantmen, since the currents stuck close to the coast in this region. "Keep up the rowing. Do not lose that ship!"
They kept up the rowing, slowly closing in on the ship, although they were still far too far for voices to reach.
A yell of pain made him turn quickly. One of his crew was lying on his back, a long shaft of wood protruding from his chest. Lyonel rushed over and knelt beside him as some of the crew rushed over. The man was coughing blood, speckles landing on his leather jerkin. Then a thud made him look over his shoulder and saw another shaft sticking from the wooden deck of the ship. "Archers!" He yelled. "Cover, now!" He seized the struck man under the arms and dragged him back towards his cabin as other shafts landed in the deck, but no more hit his men as they took cover beneath the gunwales, one tried to reach a scorpion and arm it, but another shaft punched through his chest and he fell to the deck. He slammed the door to his cabin open with his back and pulled the wounded man outside, several crewmen followed him in, including Bearded Ben. He lay the bloody man down gently, but he would have felt nothing if he'd dropped him, he was dead.
"How can they hit us?" One of his crewmen asked, it was a deckhand, so understandable, but three of the men with him were archers. "We are too far away."
Lyonel was wondering that. He wasn't sure he would be able to reach them with his bow at this range, but there was more than one archer sending these arrows at his ship. He took hold of the long shaft in the man's chest, pressed his other hand on the man's chest and yanked the shaft free. It had no metal tip, it was a yard long and made from golden wood. "Goldenheart," he muttered. The bows of the Summer Islands were the only ones who used that kind of arrow, the only kind of bow that could outmatch dragonbone. They weren't chasing a swan ship, swan ships had no oars, but whoever it was had hired summer islanders to help defend it from pirates and raiders
"Get me my helmet and bow," he said calmly, closing the eyes of his sailor and folded his arms over his chest. He raced over to his desk and quickly scrawled out a note identifying them to the enemy, provided one of them could read basic. Then, for good measure, copied it out two more times in case he missed. Someone held out his helmet and he put it on his head, the T shaped slit allowing him peripheral vision, even if it had a gap for arrows to slide between. He tied his quiver to his hip and took up his bow. "Archers, wait here, Ben, bring the ship closer, we need to close with them." He opened the door and looked out.
The arrows were still falling, hitting only the wooden deck of the ship, the crew on the upper deck had taken cover and were safe, and as far as he could tell, there were no more dead men on his ship.
Seeing his chance, he sprinted from the cabin and skidded to the gunwales, ducking below them to hide from the archers, the golden arrows would be able to punch into and through the railings, but they were too far away right now to have seen that. He poked his head up over the barrier as the hail of hard wood began to wane. They were closer now, directly to the east of the enemy, so the wind wouldn't be working against them as long as he aimed a little bit ahead. He drew an arrow and took the first of his notes, wrapping it tightly around the wooden shaft and tying it in place with a thin piece of cord. He looked over again, now should be close enough. He notched the arrow and muttered a quick prayer. "Warrior, guide my shot." He rose to his feet, drawing his bowstring back to his ear and raising his bow into the air, aiming just in front and above the figurehead before letting it fly. He ducked below the railings again, waiting for the intermittent rain of arrows to stop, if it did, his letter his home and someone read it.
It didn't take long for the arrows to stop, but he kept his head down for a while afterwards, they could be stopping, or it could be a slight pause. But a glance over the railings made him smile. He hadn't missed, of course he hadn't. The ship was slowing down. "Ben," he called. "Bring us in closer! Everyone back to decks!"
His archers joined him, ready to secure the enemy ship. They'd left their bows behind this time, armed instead with swords, spears and tridents. Ben pulled them in close, where he soon saw members of the crew waiting for them, including three mud-skinned summer islanders, holding their goldenheart bows close. "Captain," a Tyroshi with a forked green beard called to him, waiving one hand vigorously. "I am most sorry for attacking you, we didn't see your flag. If we had, we"d have never done so."
"My crew suffered for it," he replied coldly. "By order of my father, the Gullet is closed, I need to inspect your hold and bring you back to Dragonstone."
"Is that truly necessary, captain," he replied nervously, his hand twisting circles around each other.
The boarding planks were extended and he led his men across. They spread out across the deck to secure it. "Yes it is," he replied, staying near the captain. "My father, the Lord of Dragonstone has ordered the Gullet closed, and now some form of recompence must be paid for my dead and injured sailors."
"I... understand, I was just in a hurry to be on my way."
"Behave well and you shan't be detained long I'm sure," he lied. "But I must ask, why the rush? This is hardly the easiest route out, going directly east from the gullet would have put you out into the sea, far easier to turn north from there."
He licked his lips and ran his fingers through his hair. He was clearly nervous of something. "I grew up in Tyrosh," he said, unnecessary given his beard, but he was clearly showing something. "I can tell when something is about to explode, and I saw it in that city."
"King's Landing?" He asked. The captain nodded. "What happened?"
"A supposed traitor, he admitted his guilt freely, but he was executed."
"Who was?"
"The Hand of the King, Eddard Stark."
()()()
"So it's done then," Lord Stannis said to his family, gripping the painted table tightly, his knuckles white as winter snow. "The war is assured, but now without the support of the Starks, unless he found a way to tell his son."
His mother took his father's hand gently, rubbing it with her thumb in a soothing circle. "So it would seem, husband."
"I never counted Lord Stark a friend, but he supported my claim. At least at first." The captain had told them that he had confessed to treason, naming Joffrey as the true king before having his head cut off. He'd thought Lord Stark would have more dignity than that, more honour than to whore out for an attempt to preserve his life. Perhaps uncle Robert had been wrong about his friend. If he'd just stuck to his principles, the city would know, damn it the world would know that his father was the rightful king.
"What do we do now, father?" He asked.
His father gestured to the map table. "Stark and Lannister are already at each other's throats in the Riverlands, and Lord Stark's heir has no reason to love me, I have no reason to believe Lord Eddard ever told him the truth; my brother... gods know where he has ridden off to, Highgarden would be my guess, but he has always been a servant of his own whims, and they carry him like a feather on the wind. Balon Greyjoy is not to have forgotten his dreams of independence, though we'll deal with him when the time comes. Tyrell has ambitions enough to fill three times his substantial belly, but would eat out of my brother's hand if he offered him excrement, I could offer him the sweetest peach and he would look at it with suspicion."
"We've tried, husband," his mother replied. "Though I agree, a reply is unlikely."
"Reply?" Shireen asked.
Their father nodded. "We sent missives to Highgarden, proposing talks about a marriage between either Lyonel and Margaery, or you and Lord Willas."
That he had not expected. His father hated the Tyrells, would he really offer both he and Shireen to them? "Father, you swore-"
"I know" he replied quickly. "But your mother's words were wise. A hundred thousand swords to carry us to the throne are too valuable to pass up fully, though if they hope to rule through me, they will be sorely mistaken."
"Perhaps Uncle Renly will convince them of the worthiness of our match," Shireen reasoned.
Their father's jaw tightened but he said nothing.
"Perhaps," their mother said, picking up where their father left off. "Regardless. We have sent out our first ships and envoys, men your father trusts to begin courting some of the lords of the east. We would send you in person, but-"
"But I won't have you seized and turned over to the Lannisters," their father finished, looking up at them with something nearing affection in his eyes. "In the meantime, we hope that the Stark twins take their vengeance upon Tywin Lannister, prepare our vessels and our armies, and prepare for our own war."
His teeth pressed together, dragging along each other like quernstones. "As you say, father."
That night he stared out over the bay from his balcony. The water was still and quiet, a long spear of moonlight shooting out into the sea, the unmoving shadowy hulks of warships bobbing up and down like corks in the bay, and everywhere the silence hung heavy. It was hard to imagine that the Riverlands were aflame, the men and women were being ravaged by war as he stood here, so isolated from it all. But they were, that was the reality. It would all be righted by his father, he told himself. Once his father was on the throne, he would return justice to the kingdoms such as they hadn't known in decades.
A gentle knock sounded from behind him. He turned. Who was visiting him at this hour? Well it could only be one of two people, but he suspected he already knew who. "Enter."
Sure enough Shireen padded through the doorway. She looked ready for bed herself, a white nightgown falling to her knees, exposing her shins and feet and her bare arms, the greyscale marks coursing up her left forearm. Her hair was flowing freely about her and a thick grey fur was wrapped around her shoulders and upper body. They way she walked, the soft padding of her feet on the cold stone, she seemed so... angelic. "Did you know I was awake?" He asked her.
"I suspected," she replied, "I knew when I saw the candle light under your door. I wondered how you were doing, you had trouble sleeping and-"
"You couldn't sleep yourself," he finished, smiling at his sister as a soft flush rose on her sharp cheeks. "It's okay, you needn't have worried. I've been sleeping a lot better but now... now I can't help but think of the wars to come."
"Neither can I," she replied, gliding up to his side and sliding her arm through his, resting his head on her shoulder. They watched the sea in silence, there was nothing to be discussed. Neither of them knew what war was like, neither of them could pretend to reassure the other that it would all be over soon. They simply relished in the presence of the other, each the other's guardian against the outside world. "What do you think of father's letters to the Tyrells?"
He'd thought on it much as well. "It's a sound plan. If it works," he said. "I wouldn't fear on that count. I'm far more likely to be married than you are. If the fat flower is anything like I suspect, he'll want his daughter to be the queen. Which means me, not you."
She gripped his arm tighter. "Perhaps. But after all my worry about the Targaryen, I'm going to lose you to a Tyrell."
"You're not going to lose me," he turned to her and pulled her into a hug, tucking her head under his chin. "I promise. You don't think I'd let a Tyrell come between us do you?"
He felt her cheek twitch in a smile. "No," she replied after a few moments.
"Exactly. If I have to marry her I'll marry her, do my duty by her and father children on her. As long as she is dutiful we'll have no concern; but I would never let my wife try to divide us. Since the days we were kept apart from others left to the gods to heal from this or die," he tapped his stone collar, "we have been together, and a wedding or two won't tear that apart."
"I know," she said quietly, "but it's always nice to hear it from your lips."
He chuckled and stepped back. "Much as I love spending time with you, we'll both need our sleep. You should get back to bed."
She nodded and leant up to kiss him, pressing her soft, warm lips to his. "Goodnight Lyonel, sleep well."
He nodded. "You as well Shireen, and make sure you take some of that potion won't you. You shouldn't be troubled by the dead when we have so many problems with the living."
She let a grin come over her. "I don't know, if the dead know the truth I imagine it might be quite fun to talk with Uncle Robert right now."
"As long as you don't dream of him with a hammer," he retorted. "But maybe some other night. Take the potion Shireen, promise me."
She nodded in a mockingly demure manner. "Yes, my prince."
"Go!"He said laughing at her as she slipped out the door. He lay his head back on the pillow and thought about her last comment. It was true wasn't it. He was a prince now, son of the rightful king. He shed the last of his daywear then leant over to blow out his bedside candle, and Prince Lyonel Baratheon turned himself over to the night.
