The council chamber had long emptied, but the echo of words... those damned, dismissive words... still rang in Lord Corlys Velaryon's ears.
He strode down the steps and out of the Red Keep with a face carved from stormclouds, his cloak of sea-blue silk snapping behind him.
Every servant that crossed his path quickly turned aside.
They could feel it... the kind of fury that boiled low and steady, the kind that drowned ships and split hulls.
The meeting had been a farce. A mockery of sense and reason.
He, Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, Master of Ships, who had sailed bolder than any man currently alive, had brought his warnings before the crown... and been silenced like a petty clerk.
"The crown has heard your report, Lord Corlys, and takes it under advisement."
Otto Hightower's smug, measured tone still scraped against his skull like barnacles on a keel.
The man didn't even look at him kindly as he said it, as though speaking to someone lesser.
Corlys clenched his jaw. At the thought of the Hand of the King.
What an ill-fitted title for a man whose hands has probably never known labor nor blood, whose only craft was whispering in the King's ear and pretending it was wisdom.
He knew the truth well enough.
Otto was jealous... of his house, of his blood, of the Velaryon growing further and greater than his own.
Especially when those at Oldtown was stagnant, so the second son of the Hightowers wanted to put him down in some way.
That scheming man's fortune had been his tongue, not his merit. And that same tongue was what now held sway over that weak and pliant King Viserys.
A pest. That was what the man was. A gilded pest, high on favor and self-importance.
That Prince Daemon had called him worse, and Corlys had brushed it off whenever he heard it.
But now… he almost agreed. Or just agreed entirely...
In any case, Corlys left the Keep without another word, his thoughts black as the depths of the sea.
If only things had gone differently all those years ago.
If only the Great Council had not robbed his wife of her birthright.
If the lords of Westeros had not been so afraid of crowning a woman, Rhaenys would have been queen.
And he... Corlys Velaryon... would have stood beside her as king consort. And maybe even serve as her Hand.
Inadvertently, he remembered the crowd that day at Harrenhal.
How afterwards they had whispered about "The Queen That Never Was".
It had broken something in Rhaenys, though she never said it aloud.
She had smiled, bowed, and accepted the decision.
But Corlys had seen the hurt beneath her calm... the quiet pain of being told that blood and merit meant nothing beside a man's pride.
And he had done everything but it was akin to nothing.
He could have spoken out more. He could have shed the blood of others for her claim.
It was so close... yet also far away.
And now, it was that Viserys sat the Iron Throne... with his soft hands clutching at dreams of sons and heirs while the realm's trade rotted beneath him.
The Triarchy was choking the Stepstones, seizing ships, enslaving sailors as crab feed, and strangling the lanes that fed the ports of Driftmark.
Yet the King sat smiling, talking of tournaments and name days, his head filled with clouds and unborn babes.
Corlys felt the rage rise again. He could almost see Otto's smug smirk and could almost hear Viserys' soft aspirations as if none of it mattered.
The Sea Snake knew better. The sea did not forgive neglect. It took what was left unguarded.
-------------
By the time he reached the docks, the wind had picked up, snapping the Velaryon banners along the pier.
His fleet bobbed on the waves beyond... sleek, proud ships of pale wood and silver sails.
The sight steadied him somewhat. The sea was his. The ships were his. His power remained, even if the court refused to see it.
And as he confided to his awaiting brother in what had happened, Vaemond just raged. "Brother!"
His younger brother fumed as they stood waiting at the dock's edge. With arms crossed and that familiar impatience plain on his face.
"I half expected you to throw Otto Hightower into the harbor." Vaemond said and Corlys just grunted. "The thought crossed my mind."
Vaemond snorted, stepping closer. "You should have pressed harder about the Triarchy. Gods, Corlys, those men makes fools of us all! The Crabfeeder's men have already seized another of our merchant cogs. They're nailing captains to their own masts."
"I know." Corlys said darkly. "But our king does not care. His mind is on an unborn son, not sailors."
"Our ships are being burned, and his mind is still on this upcoming tourney!" Vaemond snapped, pacing. "Does he not see what's coming? If those bastards keep the Stepstones, we lose half our trade. Driftmark bleeds. The realm bleeds!"
"Not all the realm." Corlys muttered. "Only those like us who work the waters."
Vaemond turned sharply. "And you just let them dismiss you?"
Corlys' eyes narrowed. "I let them reveal themselves. The crown does not heed warnings until the fire reaches its doorstep. But it will. And when it does, they'll remember that it was I who cautioned them."
Vaemond opened his mouth to retort... but then both men paused.
For out at sea, a great shadow loomed.
At first it was a smudge on the horizon, a strange bulge rising from the glimmering line of the water. Then it grew larger... too large.
"What in the Seven Hells…" Vaemond whispered.
Corlys stepped forward, squinting against the glare.
The vessel was massive... twice the size of his flagship...
Its body gleamed with traces of bronze that caught the sun like fire.
Its sails billowed with the wind, but in spite of the low breeze, its huge body was still cutting through the waves with uncanny grace.
It glided over the water as though the sea itself bent to let it pass. At a speed that alarmed him.
"That ship…" Corlys said under his breath. "That's no galley. No mere merchant carrack."
As it neared, the details became clear. And it was so much more than its already unique figurehead... a warrior woman in bronze armor...
As the ship's sides were engraved with fine runes. Its sails bore a bronze shield traced with black iron studs and old writings... the sigil of House Royce.
Vaemond followed his gaze. "From the Vale?"
Corlys nodded slowly. "Runestone."
At that, he felt his pulse quicken.
So it would seem that the rumors were true. Rhea Royce and her boy had done more than just build... they had created something massive.
A ship like that… it could cross seas no man dared.
And the name that now circled the docks and taverns alike came to him... Ronan Royce... the Young Bronze, knight and tinkerer both.
Corlys had heard the stories from his own men that dock at Runestone ports... about how the boy had spent his youth making toy ships that actually floated, each one larger and faster than the last.
With the boy's seaworthy design being called the Bronze Cogs. Like the single-sailed cog ships anywhere else... but noticeably better as they claimed.
Then it was the Bronze Junks... with their uniquely battened sails. Reminiscent of the YiTish Junks... but apparently more put together.
Slowly but surely, the Royces' ever-connecting ports were now docked with those ships... but to think they had this!
For it was said that the little toymaker was building something greater, a vessel that could outmatch even Velaryon design.
Corlys had laughed when he first heard it.
But he wasn't laughing now.
"That… is no fisher's or sailor's dream." Vaemond muttered, awe creeping into his voice. "That's a floating fortress!"
Corlys said nothing for a long moment, eyes never leaving the bronze giant as it slid closer to port.
The banner of Runestone flapped proudly atop its mast.
"This changes things." He said at last.
"What do you mean?" Vaemond asked.
"I mean..." Corlys muttered. "That if the bronze boy can build one ship like that, he can build more. And if he does… the sea may soon have a new master."
Then they watched as the bronze-themed vessel cut through the waters with perfect precision, its shadow falling across his fleet like a prophecy.
"The sea is ours." Corlys whispered to himself. "It will always be ours."
And as he said it, his thoughts ran and his mind churned... about how to deal with this unexpected threat... or how to make a deal with someone who might be his most unlikely ally of the future...