Chapter XVII: What shall we do with a wounded sailor?
The shores of Pentos burned. The fields of Pentos burned. The cities of Pentos burned. The people of the Seven Kingdoms had come with fire and blood and punished the Pentoshi for the gall of involving themselves in a war not their own.
On land, King Baelor and his great host had wreaked such damage that the magisters of Pentos would have preferred a dozen khalasars over them. For khals could be bought, but Baelor's knights could not.
On the sea, it fell to Alyn Velaryon to wage war against Pentos, to destroy whatever warships the Free City had left, and seize or destroy all their merchant ships. Sailing under his orders were the king's own ships and the ships of his native Driftmark - his own ships.
Alyn Velaryon, the Oakenfist, preferred to lead his own ships to greater bounties, disregarding the risks. He would suffer nothing if one of the king's ships were lost and not of his own – but neither would he gain much. Of the bounty captured by the king's ships, he was entitled but to a seventh, his due as admiral. Of the bounty brought by the Velaryon sails, he needed but to give the king his fifth, for it was he who had the ships bought or built, it was he who paid the wages of his sailors, it was he who paid for their arms, it was he who paid for their supplies.
And as the sails of the Sunset made war against those of the Sunrise, he enjoyed the great sight of the coffers of Driftmark filling up with gold and his warehouses filling with the cargoes of the merchant ships, now profiting him and not the cheesemongers of Pentos.
It was no great a fortune to rival that of the Sea Snake, but to return Driftmark and House Velaryon to its former glory would have been the work of generations. He was not Corlys Velaryon, to weep at the sight of a house fallen on its knees.
He was the Oakenfist, Master of Ships and Lord Admiral, Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark. He had long ago been content with whatever fate would give him, since he had thought to claim a dragon and suffered for his folly. But if he happily accepted what fate would give him, he would not throw away the chances that the gods offered.
So now he sailed from Driftmark, boarded some ship or other, deplored the poor show of their men before he killed them, took the ship for his own, and returned from Driftmark, unsatisfied. There was no great glory to be found, not since he had sailed at first too late, for the Braavosi had already destroyed most of Pentos' power at sea. Yet he yearned for the greater valour of his earlier deeds, of the time when he crushed the Braavosi in the Stepstones. He whished to lead his great fleet to a grand battle, and like a commander charging with his knights, joust his seahorse, his ship, and fell the enemy from its mount.
Perhaps striking anew at Dorne when the time came would satisfy his need for renown. If not, he would turn Driftmark to his daughter, and sail to the Jade Sea, beyond Asshai and past the Saffron Straights, or to the ends of the Shivering Sea, or sail round the world, surpassing his own grandsire – exploration rather than deeds of war winning him undying fame.
His daughter was not so jaded, her joy was easier to be found. Laena had named her own ship Moondancer, for her late mother's late dragon. And when she sailed, she did not seek some great deed. She sought to board a ship and wet her sword with the blood of the enemies, singing in joy at them falling before her, never to rise again.
And now she was gone with her ship, and he, thanks to some godsdamned Pentoshi sailor, was home at Driftmark, nursing a wounded leg, and watching from the window of his solar, hoping to see a glimpse of Moondancer's sails. He would listen then to Laena's tales, and accept that paltry replacement for sailing forth himself. He had no shortage of duties to address, overseeing the repairs of ship, the purchase of supplies and their repartition, going through his correspondence from the many ports of the kingdom. But he had little desire now to attend to such.
He was but five and forty, but his wounds made him an older man in truth, and his pains made him tired, tired enough to doze on his chair while watching the sea.
He knew not how much he slept, but his rest was disturbed by one of his men, coming with great haste and much noise, disturbing him from his slumber.
"Milord, the Lady Laena has returned, and with ill news indeed!" said the guard, and bade his lord join him to the docks, to meet his daughter and hear of it in detail.
So, Lord Alyn, with great pain, hobbled over to the docks, cursing the stone steps as he came down from his tower, gripping his cane tight and grinding his teeth. His daughter should have been more dutiful, and should have come to him, not him to her. But he was not a lesser man to show himself too weak to climb down from his castle's tower, even if it ailed him to do so.
His daughter was amid many captains upon the shore, speaking and gesticulating animatedly, a new scar upon her cheek to show of her bravery, or perhaps lack of care.
He called to her: "Laena, come and greet your old father. Pray tell, what grave news you bring that I may be summoned in such haste and with such lack of decorum?"
Hearing his voice, Laena turned her head towards him, and a moment passed, and she ran into his arms, hugging him with her usual exuberance.
"Oh, father! Our prey was paltry, as usual. Few merchants dare to venture forth from Pentos' harbours now they lack warships to escort them. Their offerings are paltry, their men disappointing to fight."
"Those are disappointing news, not ill tidings, Laena" said the Lord Velaryon, suddenly irked. "Should I have you returned to your maester's lessons, so that you might learn the proper use of words?"
"No, father" Laena said gravely, her prior exuberance gone without a trace." When we turned our sails for Driftmark, we glimpsed Lyseni warships sailing north. We gave no battle, for we were too few, and sailed with great haste home."
"Lyseni? Are they fool enough to challenge me? Or perhaps they thought that Baelor meant Pentos' doom for them afterwards." replied the Oakenfist.
He then sat still a moment, a thoughtful gaze in his eye, raised one hand to his eye, gripped his wrist with the other, and moved his wrist and fingers left and right, an aid to declutter his thoughts. Then the moment passed, the silence broke, and the Master of the Tides broke into a loud booming laugh.
He made to speak but laughed again. He made again to speak, but the peals of laughter allowed him not. At last, his bout of sudden hilarity ended and he spoke, trying to make his tone grave: "The Lyseni are masters of their own damnation. They aided Dorne because Daeron thought to ally with Braavos. And when Baelor went with fire and sword to Pentos, they thought they were next and thought they should not stand idly by and await their fate. But they prophesized their own doom and by bringing ships against me, their deeds fulfil their destruction, for I shall sink them into the abyss, the Merling King shall claim them as his thralls, and thank me for the gift."
That said, the Master of Ships turned to his duty: "Summon the captains present for council" he said to his daughter. "Call the maester to my solar, for I mean to write to the Hand" he barked to a man-at-arms. "And someone fetch me a map of the Stepstones."