Gaemon XIV
In the early dawn hours over the Narrow Sea, the waters were a mesmerizing deep hue, of the like that Gaemon had never before seen. The seas here were nothing like the waters off of Dragonstone, which were a dark, almost navy blue. Instead, depending on the sunlight, they ranged from a deep sapphire to a beautiful aquamarine. As the rays of light lit the earth from the east, Gaemon admired the beauty of the sunrise, allowing himself a moment of tranquil silence, whereupon only the sea breeze whistled in his ears and gently buffeted the Cannibal's great leathery wings.
To his mount's right, Moondancer soared, allowing herself to glide upon the ebb and flow of the winds like a galley in a storm. Her pearlescent wings gleamed in the dawn light, almost glowing. Clad in black scale mail, her rider was finishing the process of retrieving her helm, her silver hair snapping in the wind. Baela finished fastening her helm moments later, pausing to meet Gaemon's gaze with a look of grim determination as she lowered her visor. Gaemon raised a clenched fist in response, his black steel gauntlets clenched tightly around the Cannibal's reins.
In theory, the plan for attack was simple, eerily echoing the preparations for the battle of Tumbleton that he had partaken in what felt like an eternity before. After departing Dragonstone, he and Baela had flown for Greenstone, using the knowledge of its maester and castellan along with its impressive array of nautical maps to plan their final steps. According to the castle's occupants, in the aftermath of the earlier siege, there had been no sign of further Essosi raiders. This seemed to support what Johanna Swann had written, detailing that Tyrosh and Lys had fully turned their attention to the war for the Stepstones, reeling in their disparate bands of raiders and slavers in the hopes that they could be put to better use fighting for the islands.
Once Lord Alyn had arrived, the final pieces of the assault took shape. The Velaryon fleet, while mighty, was terribly exposed to any unexpected attacks from Silverwing, and the risk of it attempting to thread its way through the bloodsoaked Stepstones whilst Gaemon and Baela flew ahead exposed it to a surprise strike. It was imperative that the fleet be supported and protected from the air, as it was their greatest asset for both occupying strategic locations in the Isles and imposing an eventual blockade on Tyrosh, in hopes of forcing them to terms.
Thus instead of making for Lys immediately, the decision was instead made to strike at the Stepstones themselves, ideally taking Tyrosh and its dreaded pirate-admiral Ryndoon by surprise whilst his fleet was at anchor. The strike was to be twofold: Gaemon and Baela would lay waste to the fleet, and disrupt any attempt that the fleet undertook to rally, whilst Lord Alyn would encircle the harbor from a distance and thus prevent any escape. Once the fleet action was well-in-hand, Ser Malentine would ideally have been roused from his slumber by the attack and would have mounted Silverwing, whereupon the Cannibal could attack them in the air whilst Moondancer provided any necessary support. It was simple. And simple plans were the least likely to fail.
Gaemon had taken special care to emphasize the dangers of flying too low to Baela. Whilst she was battle hardened, the bows and crossbows that had been brought to bear against her by the Iron Fleet off of Fair Isle paled in comparison to the ballista and mounted catapults of the Tyroshi. He lived in fear for her and her Moondancer, as memories of the Gullet and its grim price swirled darkly in his dreams and waking moments.
Snapping his helmet's visor shut, Gaemon took a deep breath, willing his pre-battle anxieties to dissipate from where they roiled within his stomach. This will be one for the histories. He had faced vast fleets before, of course. He had faced great hosts as well, as well as dragons and their riders. But he had never faced a combination of all three at once. The Cannibal exhaled in a long hiss as it emerged from a cloud bank, still cold from the predawn gloom. Far below, finally visible, was the Isle of Bloodstone. Contrary to its name, vast beaches of white sand stretched as far as the eye could see, giving way to dry grasses and rocky slopes that climbed far above sea level before finally ending in sparse, arid forests. A large wooden fortress had been constructed in the heights overlooking the beaches. But what caught and held Gaemon's full attention was the vast fleet at anchor along Bloodstone's coasts. Nearly two hundred vessels were arrayed, from war galleys with painted hulls to vast dromonds, to humbler cogs that still gleamed with the shining steel tips of stacked spear points and the helms of lookouts.
Below him emerged the Velaryon fleet from where it had been concealed by the mists and the light of dawn. At the tip of the spear sailed the Queen Rhaenys, the proud warship of the late Lord Corlys. As it was buffeted by the waves, its brutal bronze ram could be seen, occasionally rising from beneath the waves like a vast blunted lance. Velaryon sailors sprinted about below, and though they were outnumbered their determination could be felt even from hundreds of feet above. They move with the discipline and eagerness found amongst men seasoned by war. Men with a taste for bitter vengeance in their hearts. Long and bloody is their history with the Triarchy. Now, at long last, they have been granted the chance to return to the Stepstones with Fire and Blood. Lord Alyn's fleet numbered some seven dromonds (including the Queen Rhaenys), sixty war galleys, thirty longships, and more than a hundred cogs, representing the full might of Driftmark. While outnumbered, they could also count upon the pride of the Iron Throne: two battle-tested dragons.
Cracking his whip, Gaemon leaned into the dragon-saddle, attempting to leave himself nearly unexposed to stray fire from below. The Cannibal, descending, kept to its usual unnerving silence until it was little more than one hundred feet from the Tyroshi fleet, only releasing an ear-shattering roar when it was directly above the first of its prey. Gaemon could hear distant shouts of alarm, soon followed by the mournful keen of Essosi warhorns, that signaled the stunned and beleaguered response of the Tyroshi crews below. As he pressed himself to the vast back of his mount, the black scales began to increase in heat, the hellfire within no longer willing to be contained. Opening its maw, the Cannibal poured forth a nightmarish blaze of sorcerous green flame, putting an entire galley alight and catching the rigging of two others aflame.
Moondancer screeched a challenge somewhere to his left, weaving just above the highest masts and rigging of the fleet below her, blasting bright green and silver blasts of flame on all vessels within her reach. She darted back and forth, seemingly at random, catching ship after ship alight. It did not take long for the early glow of the dawn to be lost to ash and smoke, as his own mount soared like the Stranger's own shadow above the assembled might of Tyrosh, burning all within its path. Gaemon watched as ships disappeared in the shadow of the Cannibal's wings, emerging as ruined husks of hellish fire, collapsing from the heat as their sailors tumbled like torches into the waves. In the chaos and terror, ships began to run aground, or ram one another as they attempted to flee in desperation. This, of course, only left them easier targets, and the surf grew choked with the broken and burning hulls of countless vessels. Those who emerged from the choking flame and all-encompassing smoke only sealed their fate by another means, being easy prey for the waiting Velaryons, who began boarding what few ships reached them.
As had been the case, the crackle of flame and the acrid smell of smoke were soon overtaken by the sounds of terror. Shouting in the queer and song-like Tyroshi Valyrian Gaemon remembered from his youth gave way to screams of agony. Men threw themselves into the sea, preferring to drown rather than roast like stuck pigs. While Gaemon had heard the whistling of quarrels and bolts and the more menacing and powerful snap of ballista fire at the opening of the battle, all gave way to the sounds of death and draconic roars of the hunt.
Emerging from a particularly dark column of smoke, Gaemon urged the Cannibal for the largest Tyroshi vessel still unburnt, a vast dromond with several ballista on its prow. Amazingly, despite the fear its men must have felt, it began to fire, bolts arcing through the air and soaring past the Cannibal. Oddly, the shots were far too wide to have been aimed for the Cannibal's body. As the Cannibal reared in the air, buffeting the ship with a blaze of fire-heated wind from the burning fleet behind it, a bolt finally hit the mark it was aiming for, cutting through the black leather of the Cannibal's wing with a hideous wet tearing sound. The Cannibal roared in outrage, righting itself unsteadily in the air as it loosed a massive gout of green flame that consumed its foe.
As his mount took to the skies above, it did so unsteadily, favoring its unmarred left wing and with less grace than before. The burning continued, but Gaemon grew concerned as he watched the great black drops of blood drip with boiling heat from the rents in the Cannibal's wing. As the Tyroshi beneath them were consumed by hellfire, he turned his eyes to the sky in apprehension. Where are you, Silverwing?
After what seemed like an eternity, the forested highlands of Bloodstone were buffeted by the wing beats of a third great beast. Alysanne's Pride shrieked its challenge, taking to the skies with a metallic gleam that glowed with the fires of the dying fleet and the softer rays of the morning sun. Gaemon cracked his whip, urging the Cannibal to abandon its destruction of the enemy below, so as to confront the true threat. But before he could cross the distance, Silverwing opened its maw, and a second sun, argent in its glory, rose above Bloodstone. The great wooden fortress of the corsairs was set aflame as dragon and rider circled it like a bird of prey, utterly immolating all within. When the killing was done, Silverwing roared in acknowledgement of the slowly approaching Cannibal, soaring in ever widening circles before departing for the southeast.
Gaemon cracked his whip, urging the Cannibal in pursuit, but realized the futility moments later as Silverwing disappeared behind a cloudbank.
"Godsdamnit!" He cried in frustration. Only the Cannibal bore witness to his shock and fury. With a guttural rumble, the great dragon beneath him began to descend, its right wing extended awkwardly as the blood continued to drip from its wings. Landing on the white sands of Bloodstone, mount and rider watched in silence as the might of the corsairs died before them.
As the day drew on, the scale of the carnage began to become even more apparent. Ash began to fall like snow, giving the bright isle a muted look. Hundreds of bodies washed ashore, and more still came in with the high tide. Many of the last ships to be lit alight smoldered for hours, slowly collapsing into the surf. Lord Alyn arranged for as many sailors as could be spared to row ashore, where great trenches were being dug for the dead. The Cannibal dragged its great bulk about, feasting upon the slain with a feverous abandon. Gaemon had long ago lost count of the process, his stomach no longer willing to abide the grim sight. Eventually his mount, finally sated, dragged itself to a sandy bluff and fell into a grinding slumber. In the skies above, Baela and her Moondancer drifted in lazy circles, making certain to watch for any sign of Silverwing's presence.
While troubled by Malentine's seeming betrayal of the Tyroshi, as Gaemon turned the concept over in his mind he found himself less and less surprised. The man's motives were seemingly inscrutable, and in that inscrutability there was a pattern in and of itself. His total apparent lack of loyalty made him clearly a man unmotivated by common desires, whether they be for wealth, power, or flesh. It seemed to Gaemon that Malentine was driven by a deeper, baser desire, and in pursuit of that end his only true loyalty was to its fruition. Unfortunately for the Tyroshi, he must have decided upon their uselessness to him as he woke to their fleet afire.
Whilst his mind was exhausted, Gaemon's body burned and itched with an inability to rest. Allowing a young Celtigar squire to assist him with removing his armor, he left the boy with it to clean it whilst he went to assist with the burying process. Handed a pair of thick leather gloves, likely meant for blacksmiths originally, he joined the mass of Velaryon sailors in hefting body after body into the deeply dug trenches. Many of the corpses were burned beyond recognition, hideous things of scorched meat and ashen tufts of hair. Occasionally, however, Gaemon would find himself staring into the still intact eyes of the dead, which met his gaze unblinkingly. Hefting one such corpse, its head lolled backwards, bright blue eyes and blue dyed hair glistening wetly from the surf. With only one arm blackened by the kiss of flame, Gaemon surmised the boy to have only been a few name days less than himself. He must have cast himself into the waves to avoid the flame. The Narrow Sea claimed him instead. They cast the body down with the rest, coming to rest in a grim and haphazard array at the base of the sandy mass grave.
Gaemon continued in his labors for what felt like hours, but what in reality was likely less than two. His labors left him exhausted in both mind and body, until eventually a new wave of Velaryon sailors arrived to begin the work and replace their fellows. Gaemon eyed the Cannibal, still resting upon the sand, and climbed aboard the rowboat that offered to take him to the Queen Rhaenys. Leaning across the bow, he absentmindedly trailed his hand in the cool waters of the Narrow Sea as the midday Sun burned brightly above. Few spoke on the voyage back, with those that did only murmuring in hushed tones. When they reached their destination, he accepted the assistance of others to drag himself aboard the Velaryon flagship, his arms shaking with exhaustion. As he climbed aboard, a firm pair of arms grabbed him, helping him to the captain's own quarters. Lord Alyn, still wearing his mail and leather armor, clothed in a sea green cape, offered him a vast cushioned seat at the end of a table covered in maps.
"Lord Gaemon, I am most pleased at your return unharmed. Despite your mount's ferocity one can never be certain who will prevail in the heat of combat."
Nodding in agreement, Gaemon poured himself a glass of wine in a fabulously ornate goblet of Myrish glass. Taking a long drink, he spoke. "My mount did take a wound, although I cannot be certain of its severity. The Tyroshi aimed their ballista for his wings, and succeeded in tearing a rent through one. It damaged the wing enough to slow him. Silverwing easily evaded us."
At the mention of Malentine's dragon, Alyn's eyes narrowed, and in the darkness of the quarters, the purple in them looked almost black. "It is a shame then, that you were not able to put an end to the Tyroshi and their dragonrider in one stroke, as we planned." Pouring himself a glass of wine as well, he continued. "But 'tis no matter. The Tyroshi learned the paucity of Malentine's words of loyalty. I doubt he will be able to seek their aid in the future."
Gaemon finished his first glass and poured himself another. "On the matter of the Tyroshi, we have before us an opportunity greater than any before to force them from the war. Whilst I doubt any seasoned commander would have allowed the entirety of their fleet to lay anchor here, I can only imagine that we have destroyed the greater portion of their might here this morning. We ought to make our terms for peace clear whilst they are reeling from the blow."
Alyn nodded. "There is another matter, as well. Tyrosh may be amongst the larger cities of the world, but its numbers of seamen are not limitless. Thousands burned or drowned in these waters. Even if Tyrosh could quickly secure the lumber to begin the rebuilding of its fleet, the disasters at the Gullet and here will have left it bereft of the men it would need to man those ships. That alone will leave them more likely to sue for terms, especially once their captains make the dire situation apparent to the Archon and the Conclave."
Gaemon thought on his words. "How many did we capture?"
Alyn drained his goblet in response. "We took a handful of galleys and cogs, captured in boarding actions when we decided against the use of our rams. But the greatest prize was the Fist of Trios, a dromond of four oar banks totaling some two hundred and twenty oars. But while it is nearly the equal of the Queen Rhaenys in might, the true prize is who we found upon it. We captured Moro Adarys during our boarding action, and by his bearing and dress he is undoubtedly a member of the Conclave. He was likely sent as an observer to keep Ryndoon and his ilk in line."
Gaemon whistled softly. "He may be just the messenger we need. Is he in any state to travel?"
The new Lord of the Tides smirked. "None wounded him, if that is what you are asking. He threw down his blade when the Fist of Trios grew slick with his men's blood. He awaits our bidding in bindings below."
"Sound the horn for Baela, then. I think it is time that we communicated our terms to Master Moro."
The sea horns rang somberly, carrying a great distance over the waves of the Narrow Sea. In response, Moondancer began to descend with her rider, coming in ever wider and lower circles. The main deck of the Queen Rhaenys cleared rapidly as the dragon began her final approach, landing heavily upon the vessel with a roar and causing the ship itself to rock violently in the water. It seemed to groan with the strain of its newest passengers as the rider dismounted in a fluid flourish. Unclasping her helm, Baela Targaryen's white hair whipped in the sea breeze, dampened from the excursions of the day.
Gaemon smiled at the sight, hefting a barrel with Alyn's help that was filled with freshly caught fish. Baela began to grab and toss the fish to her mount, which grumbled and hissed with pleasure. Moondancer's maw darted like that of a snake, catching each fish before raising its head to the sky and burning them with a flash of flame. Only after each acquisition was thoroughly scorched would the dragon greedily consume it. Her rider watched the process with the pride of a young mother, and her beast finished off two barrel-fulls of fish before refusing any more. Placing an arm around her shoulders, Gaemon grinned wryly.
"My lady, I hesitate to say it, but I feel that it must be said that your Moondancer may be a bit large to be carried atop a sea-going vessel."
Baela laughed, eyeing the dragon as it coiled in the midst of scurrying sailors to sleep and bask in the heat of the sun upon its scales. "Large she may be, but she is of the sea, just as I am. I think she would be loathe to abandon her roots so callously."
Gaemon chuckled. "If she continues the practice for much longer she may also be able to partake in the time-honored tradition of going down with the ship."
Baela shrugged. "Mayhaps. But who am I to deprive her of her fun whilst the opportunity still exists?"
Making his acquiescence clear, he changed the subject. "Lord Alyn believes that they captured a member of the Tyroshi conclave in the battle. I believe we may be able to have him carry our terms to the rest of his fellows."
His fellow dragon-rider's eyes narrowed. "Do you think they would accept our terms as of yet? We have crushed a portion of their fleet, but the city itself remains untouched, and would be a far more difficult target. Dragonriders have not attempted to take cities of such sizes since the Rhoynish Wars. And whilst Valyria could call upon hundreds of dragons, we have but two."
"My hope is to avoid taking the war to Tyrosh itself at all cost. I mislike what I have read about the Bleeding Tower, and the city slew at least one dragonrider during the Doom, though the means with which it did so are disputed."
Baela smiled. "I do so adore when a man takes the opportunity to avail himself of Dragonstone's libraries." Pursing her lips, she thought on the matter. "I would agree on the matter, though. Gaemon the Glorious and Omessys made no attempt to take the city by force, even though they could have counted upon the support of his sister-wife Daenys and her mount Balerion. If they judged the city a prize too costly to be won, I would expect the same to be true for us. Though if it becomes a necessity, we could perhaps target only the ships in the harbor and the dockyards themselves. It would further cripple the city and prevent it from swift retaliation without exposing us to the dangers of a full attempt at conquest."
Stroking his chin, Gaemon thought on the matter. "I would trust your judgment on the matter more than my own. Your own readings and experience surpass my own, after all. Though I would much prefer to avoid an assault entirely. For all the Tyroshi will know, we could be intending to descend on them within the next fortnight. That would be one hells of a bluff to call, should they choose to refuse our terms." He felt the beginnings of a cruel smile begin to form.
Baela, watching his expression, raised a silvery eyebrow. "What maligned thoughts are dancing in that mind of yours, I wonder?"
"Only this: Tyrosh would have no way of knowing that we would only attack with two dragons. Even if they have spies at court, it is believable that we could call for the Grey Ghost and his rider. But we could lay the seeds of an even more terrifying thought: what if we conspired with Ser Malentine, offering him clemency in return for his betrayal of the Tyroshi?"
His betrothed spat upon the wood of the deck. "Perish the thought, Gaemon. That man must die."
Gaemon nodded in return. "Undoubtedly. But at this rate it seems our final confrontation with him has been postponed. Whilst he lives, his betrayal of his former benefactors would certainly be a believable result of 'negotiations' that we could claim transpired before the events of today. The truth of the matter will not be as important as its believability. And I would wager that we can make the honorable Moro Adarys believe it."
The representative of the Tyroshi Conclave sat dejectedly in the brig of the Queen Rhaenys, his brilliant green hair hanging limply from his head. His once-fabulous clothing had been soiled by ash and spilt-blood, though it appeared the blood was not his own. When the impromptu gaoler wrenched open the locked door, he jumped as though startled out of some internal ruminations.
Lord Alyn spoke first. "You have the honor of speaking with the Lords Alyn Velaryon, Lord of Driftmark and the Tides, Lord Gaemon Waters, rider of the Cannibal, and the Lady Baela Targaryen, rider of Moondancer. Do you have the ability to speak in the tongue of the Westerosi?"
The man stared at the silver-haired Lord before him dully. "I am quite capable of speaking the Andalic tongue, Lord Velaryon. Though I have no love for its coarse phrasing."
Gaemon spoke. "I have had a very long day, Master Adarys. It is tiresome work laying waste to the massed might of an entire Free City. As I find myself wanting for rest, I will ask my betrothed to present the terms of peace, in her capacity as representative of the Iron Throne."
Baela wasted no time. "In order to approve a perpetual peace with Tyrosh, my brother the King has demanded the following terms: firstly, all Westerosi that have been taken by the Tyroshi and impressed into galley service are to be returned; secondly, all slaves of Westerosi origin are to be freed from their bondage and returned, along with any children that they may wish to claim; thirdly, Tyrosh must agree to a total cessation of raiding upon Westerosi shores, and acknowledge that if any occurs that can be traced to it that the peace is voided; lastly, an indemnity of one hundred thousand Tyroshi talents of silver must be paid to the Iron Throne in recognition of the damages done to its lands and people."
The captured Tyroshi paled in response. "You cannot be serious. Whilst the first three terms are negotiable, the fourth is extortionate… Tyrosh could never expect to raise such a sum in wartime and…"
Baela raised a hand to cut him off. "These terms are not the basis for beginning negotiations. They are simply the only terms that the Iron Throne will accept. You will deliver them to the Archon and Conclave of Tyrosh, whereupon you will have ten days to determine your response. If we receive no response by the end of that time, we will assume Tyrosh has refused our terms and will be forced to begin our attack on the city."
The magister scoffed. "I have seen the fleet you have assembled. You lack the men to even attempt an assault, let alone a conquest of the city!"
Gaemon interjected. "Allow me to clarify matters for you. We have no interest in a conquest of Tyrosh. If you refuse the Iron Throne's terms, an example will be made of your city for the rest of Essos. We will raze it to the ground, as our ancestors laid low the Westerosi."
The eyes of the Tyroshi widened, before narrowing. "You lack the strength in dragons… Tyrosh was built by the Valyrians, and has faced dragons before! Two will never suffice to raze the city!"
Gaemon smiled. "We can count upon five. Ser Malentine's loyalties were easily bought, and we can count upon the support of two more riders from Westeros."
Baela's eyes burned with an unsettling light. "Urge your fellows to make peace, Master Adarys. Lest you all share your city's fate as we reduce it to a pyre."
The Conclave's observer ran a hand through his lime-green locks. "I fear that it will not be quite so simple. If I may be so bold as to posit a question for you both?"
Gaemon cocked his head in confusion. "I felt that we made our terms quite clear, good Master. But please, ask your question, if it will soothe your mind."
Moro Adarys' eyes narrowed. "Why do you think I was posted aboard the Fist of Trios to begin with? In the Free Cities, fighting is left to those of humble birth, or those paid in gold for their troubles. I am no such man."
Baela crossed her arms. "I have little patience for such talk. Make your point."
The Tyroshi raised his hands in acquiescence. "I was sent, along with a seasoned naval detachment, to observe Racallio Ryndoon and his corsair host. The Archon considered it imperative that we 'stiffen' their ranks with sailors of our own, as opposed to relying upon the pirates to obey our commands from afar. This posting was by no means considered an honor. It was meant as a slight, to punish and ostracize me for my opposition to the continuation of the war." The man fidgeted within the manacles that bound him. "In other words, Tyrosh and its government remain in the hands of those who wish to carve out the largest possible domain for our fair city as is possible by seizing the Stepstones and the fortified towns of the Disputed Lands. With the Triarchy dead, many feel that this is our chance, with the Lyseni caught up in squabbling amongst their great families and the Myrmen fighting for their lives against the Volantenes. I and a few others, however, disagreed. We know our actions to be foolish, and from what I have seen today, I believe I can convince more to adopt our point of view."
Baela glanced at Gaemon. "Even if all you say is true, you yourself admit to your exile. Would that not render you even less useful as an intermediary than we originally surmised?"
The man's hand absentmindedly stroked his wispy green mustache as he spoke. "Not necessarily. As the deliverer of your terms, my return will be viewed as one made under official auspices. Even if you have destroyed much and more of the corsairs we gathered to our banner, Tyrosh still has a mighty fleet of her own to defend herself. If I am forced to deliver the terms in haste, the Conclave will react defensively, and refuse all you ask. They will choose war, believing you can be repelled, whether or not that is true. But given time, gnawing fears and missing profits will turn many ears. If you grant me two moons, mayhaps a third, I am confident that Tyrosh will accept peace, if only because the disruption to our trade will have grown unconscionable."
Gaemon eyed Baela, who stood tensely, clearly weighing their options. He chose to speak to her first. "Baela, he will deliver our terms either way. And if Tyrosh refuses peace, it must burn in the end all the same. It will take time to gather the three other riders regardless. Perhaps we ought to give Master Adarys the chance he requests?"
Baela chewed her lip for a moment. "I will inform the King and the Regency. So long as the terms are presented and the consequences made clear, I do not see a need to deny the man his opportunity for persuasion."
Alyn eyed them both. "If there is nothing else, I'll prepare a portion of the fleet to escort our prestigious guest to Tyrosh. I'll leave the remainder here, to reprovision and to ensure Bloodstone is secure."
Gaemon nodded. Let us hope then that Master Adarys can deliver as he promises. He was growing less eager by the minute to face Tyrosh and all of its defenses. Ser Malentine has ever been our primary target. It is past time that we prepared to pursue him. These negotiations could offer us the time we need to ensure an end to his predations.
Gaemon watched the Queen Rhaenys as it sailed northeast, its back to the sunset. Accompanying it were a score or so of other vessels, in total comprising a third of the Velayon vessels. The deck of the Fist of Trios rocked softly beneath him, recently and thoroughly scrubbed after the bloody boarding action fought during the morning. Velaryon mariners and men-at-arms stalked the deck, ensuring its seaworthiness. The surviving members of its crew, mostly enslaved rowers, had been all too eager to swear their loyalties to Driftmark and the Iron Throne, with a few even casting themselves at Gaemon's feet, weeping in relief at having been freed by their countrymen. He had demanded that all of the rowers be allowed to rest (under guard) in order to ensure that none intended to make their true loyalties clear after nightfall.
The Fist of Trios, while undoubtedly a mighty warship, was home to the garish amenities and luxury that Gaemon had grown to associate with the wealth of the Free Cities, and he had quickly claimed the former quarters of Moro Adarys with no small amount of satisfaction. Casting his eyes about, he could barely make out the resting form of the Cannibal, far across the bay, seemingly unmoved since hours before. The events of the day exhausted even the greatest of beasts. Baela had taken to the skies again, insistent on searching whilst some light remained to ensure that Silverwing was truly gone.
Entering the quarters of the humbled Magister, he explored them with muted interest. There were several chests of exquisite clothing, a beautiful crossbow of what he could only assume was Myrish-make, crafted to resemble the maw of a shark. Across the room stood a mirror of polished glass and silver, and Gaemon eyed himself sheepishly in the reflection, taking note of the ash that coated his face and the exhaustion that lurked beneath his eyes. In the darker hours of the evening, the ash that coated his hair almost gave it a silvered quality, he noted wistfully.
Approaching the mirror, he noticed an ornate bronze basin filled with cool water. Beside it rested many vials, and to his amusement they contained many different hues of dye. Leaving the dye aside, he took a sponge from the table and dipped it in the basin, scrubbing the sweat and ash from himself until he felt a semblance of cleanliness and the basin swirled with gray soot. Stripping himself of his filthy undergarments, he picked out a silken robe to wear whilst he poured himself a glass of lemon-scented water from a jug that had been left upon the main table in the chamber. Scanning the documents, he found that he could not read any of them, and the thought of his appearance and lack of belonging in such a place struck him as absurd. He began to laugh, quietly at first, before being consumed by a fit of cackling. Draining the rest of the goblet, he poured another. Taking the crossbow from its mount, he mounted a bolt upon it, scanning the room before settling on a target. Cranking the crossbow awkwardly, he fired, impaling an ostentatious slipper upon the floor.
Finding himself laughing again, he fell into the vast bed that was nearly impossibly soft. War is horror, but the prizes won are not so contemptible. Draining his goblet once more, his eyes grew heavy. He was exhausted, and the day's events had drained him utterly. He decided against making any effort to remain awake. As his eyes closed, he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
He was insensate when the boat rocked violently in the night. At first he scrambled to his feet, believing them to be under attack, but grinned when he realized that it was the same sort of disturbance encountered on the Queen Rhaenys earlier. Moondancer has returned. After what seemed like an age, the door to his chambers swung open, and Baela strode in imperiously. Casting her mail aside, she too began to wash the ash from herself, smirking as Gaemon watched curiously. As she cast aside her clothing, he turned away, granting her the privacy he felt she deserved. Laying back upon the great bed, he yawned and pulled a blanket upwards to cover himself. A few moments later, she slipped into bed beside him. He smiled as a warm arm wordlessly draped across him, and closed his eyes. The slumber that followed was the most peaceful he had had in weeks.