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[color=fff200][b]Westeros, King’s Landing, Corlys’s chambers[/b][/color]

The Starks were close. According to his scouts, the Lads under Kermit Tully had joined with them. If it had only been the Rivermen, then Lord Corlys would have been able to make them see reason but these Northerners were notoriously just, to the point where it became a flaw. These winter wolves would be dispensing indiscriminate justice left and right, paying no heed to allegiance or motive. Being a man of honour was not a matter of seeing things black and white, Corlys knew all too well. He doubted whether the Starks in doling out judgement would agree… Most likely his head would be among those comprising the capital harvest. 

He had sent Alyn to Essos in order to acquaint the lad with his trading deals, and also keep him out of King’s Landing. Before Aegon II, it was just as important to keep the young Velaryon safe from Rhaenyra’s blind scorn. Of course he had done what he could for his house and grandson, Driftmark would survive him, but he was so tired.

He was old, and looked back on his life realising he had fully lived it. The Sea Snake had known everything; untempered joy, ashen sorrow, victory and defeat, hate and love, and more slights than he cared to count now. In his old age he had even overcome the hate he held for the Hightowers, whom he held accountable for the Dance and its horrors. The only hatred he still possessed, which laid curled around his chest like a poisonous snake, was for the game they all played.



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[color=fff200][b]The Narrow Sea, The Gullet, two days after Aegon II’s death[/b][/color]

“Why don’t you make yourself lord of Driftmark? The same blood flows through your veins, you have the same name.”

Ser Gared’s argument was one quickly rationalised, complex in its simplicity, Daeron Thought. He shook his silver head, tresses flowing about his shoulders. “Do you remember the last time someone tried? Vaemond and his sons were killed and maimed. The Sea Snake might be old, but he is still alive. I do not want Driftmark. Besides, the lad is his heir now, by law.”

“Pish on the law,” Ser Gared hissed, spitting a thick glob over the railing. It made its way through the heaving oars and vanished into the salty foam of the Narrow Sea. “Where was the law when Aegon the Elder took the throne from our queen? The same queen, I might add, who threw Lord Corlys in a Black Cell?!” There was a temper on this middle-aged knight indeed. The Dance of Dragons had caused bad blood on all sides.

Daeron smiled wryly and shrugged. “Someone has to uphold the law.” He had no ambition to rule Driftmark at all. Loyal to his House, he had made the choice long ago not to pursue the Driftwood Throne. It was not his in the first place, for he was only a cousin, a distant nephew to the Sea Snake. It had done him much good actually, he found. Lord Corlys had lost his children, grand-children and wife. Even when he gained two others, Addam and Alyn, still one had to be sacrificed on the altar of war. “Remember where and to whom we’re sailing, Frothbarrel.”

Ser Gared muttered something incoherent and stared out across the grey water. The Velaryon knew not to take his malcontent for treason. Gared’s family had bought their knighthood by selling beer, hence the name. To his father it had been an applicable semi-joke, but to Gared it was most annoying. His short temper was a result of a lifetime of scrutiny by the ancient Houses.

Daeron’s wife had drawn a solemn promise from his lips, the day she died, to take care of their daughter Daenaera. That was his first and foremost duty in this world: to uphold that promise and keep his little girl safe. Yet he was not free of duty altogether, for when Queen Rhaenyra had thrown Lord Corlys Velaryon in the Red Keep’s dungeons he had set sail, joined by the Velaryon fleet and most of the blacks supporters. He was after all still a Velaryon and sworn to Driftmark, family and duty overlapped.



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[color=fff200][b]Essos, Pentos, five days after Aegon II’s death[/b][/color]

Pentos was a large port city, likely one of the most populous of the Free Cities. Its many square brick towers, controlled by the spice traders, looked out over the Bay of Pentos off the Narrow Sea. To its east, beyond the Sunrise Gate, laid the Flatland Plains and Velvet Hills. Eventually the road would lead to the Rhoyne and its tributaries, flowing south towards Volantis. However, the First Daughter of Valyria was reached faster over sea. Alyn looked out over the cityscape, admiring the tiled roofing and huge red temple. The huge wall had apparently allowed the Pentoshi to relax in safety, for their manses were splendid and clearly not built to withstand violence, unlike the Westerosi keeps and castles the young Velaryon heir was used to.

A servant, sash of silk along his neck, brought him a saucer of fruits, which he had deposited on an intricately crafted wooden table. Braavos and Pentos had quarrelled off and on for years, and most recently peace had been established between the two mercantile city states. Alyn Velaryon had learnt no less than six wars had been fought over the subject of slavery. Nevertheless, Braavos’ arm was long and strong, and prohibited the use of slavery in Pentos. By law, slavery was forbidden.

Pentos flaunted these laws however, by running Lysene or Myrish banners when challenged, whilst the city was full of "free bond servants", who were collared and branded much like slaves in Lys, Myr, or Tyrosh, and subject to similar savage disciplines. In law, these bond servants were free men and women, with the right to refuse service if they will, provided they were not in debt to their masters. All of them were, however, for the value of their labor was often less than the cost of food, clothing, or shelter provided to them by those they served.

At first, Essos and its wonders had bewitched him, making the young lad forget about his suffered sorrows for nights on end. However, as days turned into weeks, with little word from Westeros and his imprisoned grandfather, Alyn felt caught up and constrained. Even the dyed hair and beards of the Pentoshi started to pale in the dusty streets.

Indeed, he had acted as Corlys's agent, dealing in information, secrets and merchandise. The Sea Snake had spent many years in Essos, and he had sent Alyn to maintain his lines of communication. Managing trade, however lucrative, was not something Alyn Velaryon wanted to be doing the rest of his life. He wanted to return to Westeros and see those responsible receive their just dues. While his zeal was admirable, it still lacked focus; he was like a strong blade that needed a whetstone.

The urge to act seeped into him, fused into his bones and inflamed his marrow, and so Alyn had sent for a man of repute in the Free Cities, though he was of Westerosi descent. Hiring sellswords was one thing, enticing them with a promise and pointing out his lineage another. After days of haggling and dealing with a horde of lawyers, his grandfather’s name had thrown in the necessary weight. Nevertheless, the true issue was getting the mercenaries across the murky depths.

As he nibbled the fruit, he looked from the city to the waterfront and saw the sea green sails of Velaryon ships. There were at least a dozen of them making port. More sails appeared at the horizon, like haphazard pencil strokes. He blinked and subsequently let out a yell of mirth, flinging the peach from the window. Strapping on his sword, he dashed from the room, calling out to his friend Chaule to follow him.

Nigh on a week later they would set sail for home, carrying steel within their holds.


[hider=Summary]
Corlys reminisces about the current geo-political landscape and his life. Meanwhile, Daeron Velaryon, his kinsman, sails for Essos to collect Alyn Velaryon who has taken it upon himself to hire a company of sellswords. Alyn was residing there for his personal safety, as well as to take care of the Sea Snake's trading and information contacts.
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