The sea wind carried the first pale light of dawn across Blackwater Bay when the royal cog slipped between the black basalt teeth of Driftmark's harbor. Corlys Velaryon stood upon the quay in a cloak of sea-green wool, the silver seahorse brooch at his throat catching the weak sun like a warning. Behind him a dozen Velaryon spears waited in disciplined silence, their helms crested with the seahorse of his house—that proud creature of the eastern deeps, slender-necked and crowned, which had adorned the Velaryon sigil since the time of old Valyria.
The ship's gangplank thudded down. Six dragonkeepers descended in their dun robes, the embroidered flames upon their breasts still bright from the royal wardrobe. With them came two laden carts: iron-bound cages rattling with bleating lambs and nervous goats, coils of heavy chain glinting dully, and thick leather harnesses and saddles that spoke of long use in the Dragonpit. The eldest among them—a gaunt man with a voice like dry parchment—unrolled a scroll and began to read in the king's own measured cadence.
"By the grace of the gods, Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, to his dear friend and loyal servant Corlys of House Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark–"
"Enough." Corlys's voice cut across the words like a cleaver through sailcloth. "I received the letter last night. Spare me the warmth of it spoken aloud."
The keeper bowed, neither offended nor surprised. Such men were accustomed to the tempers of great lords.
Corlys mounted without another word. At once his guards formed around him: four riding close at the fore, four more at the rear, while the dragonkeepers and their creaking carts kept the middle of the column, contained between steel front and back like some uneasy burden none wished too near their lord. They moved inland along the coastal track—past the whitewashed walls of the fishing village, through lanes where the air smelled of brine and wet nets, and up at last into the wooded ridge where the pines grew thick and the earth gave back the scents of salt, resin, and old needles crushed beneath hooves.
They waited there in the long grass. The carts were drawn into place. The bleating of the lambs sounded thin beneath the trees.
One of the keepers stepped forward bearing a great curved horn banded in bronze. He raised it to his lips and blew a single low note. The sound rolled through the ridge, deep and hollow, carrying over wood and stone and out toward the sea beyond. When it faded, no man spoke. They simply waited, patient and certain that it had been heard.
Then the sky split with the sound of wings.
The horses shifted beneath their riders. Leather creaked. A breath later came the rush of wind through the treetops, and high among the pines a rook burst shrieking into flight, soon followed by another and then a dark scattering of them. Then the dragon Seasmoke came wheeling above the trees, silver-grey scales flashing like hammered steel beneath the climbing sun. Once he circled the clearing, vast and deliberate, and then dropped lower in a gust that bent the grass flat and sent the branches tossing. He landed with a force that made the ground seem to answer him.
Only then did the Velaryon men betray their caution. Grips tightened on reins and spearshafts alike; more than one horse sidled back, checked only by a hard hand and a harder voice. Corlys alone did not move. He sat a little apart from the others, not so near as to seem foolish, yet plainly less fearful than mournful, as though the sight before him were not sudden danger but an old grief returning in living form.
The keepers moved forward at once, murmuring the low, ancient songs of their order. They opened the first cage. A young lamb was dragged forth and its throat slit swift and clean; hot blood steamed darkly on the grass. Seasmoke's head turned toward it, but he did not stoop. His gaze went instead to Corlys.
A second lamb followed. Then a third.
Still the dragon did not feed.
Only with the fourth offering did he lower his neck at last and tear into the carcass with a violence that sent the watching horses tossing their heads. The keepers did not hesitate. They worked with practiced speed while he fed—chains were brought round and fastened, the harness settled into place, buckles were drawn tight, and the heavy saddle was cinched and tested beneath the rise of silver scales. One senior keeper mounted with the care of long experience, moving as a man might upon the deck of a ship in rough water: balanced, deliberate, and never hurried. He spoke softly all the while, one hand upon the dragon's neck, until Seasmoke's wings were half-spread in uneasy readiness.
Hours passed while the sun slid westward and the wind turned colder. The work was not in securing the beast—by then the straps and chains were fixed fast enough—but in making him suffer the insult of them without turning the ridge into slaughter. By the time the keepers were satisfied he might be ridden back across the bay without setting half the Narrow Sea in a panic, the light had gone from bronze to ash.
Seasmoke lifted at last into the darkening sky, a single keeper upon his back. The others gathered up their gear and began the descent from the ridge with the empty cages rattling hollowly behind the carts.
At the foot of the slope the eldest keeper bowed once more before Corlys. "My lord, the hour grows late, and the road back to the cog is long. We beg the hospitality of your hall for the night."
Corlys looked at the man, then past him to the darkening ridge where the dragon had stood not an hour before. "You shall have it," he said.
The words tasted of ash.
By the time they neared the castle, the last light was dying above the sea. Rhaenys joined them before the gates, returning from the outer yards where Meleys was kenneled upon the far side of the stronghold, her red she-dragon's distant cry still faint upon the wind behind her. One glance at the dragonkeepers' robes and the weary satisfaction in their faces was enough to harden her mouth into a line thin as a razor. She said nothing, but the curt inclination of her head spoke volumes. The men were shown to guest chambers with every courtesy the law demanded and none of the warmth that might have been offered them a week earlier.
That night the great hall of High Tide smelled of roasted seabass, dripping wax, and mulled wine, yet the talk was sparse. Corlys sat at the high table and ate little. Rhaenys beside him held her cup by the stem so tightly that her fingers showed pale in the candlelight. The keepers spoke politely of the Dragonpit, of the king's health, and of fair weather for the crossing and tactfully avoided all mention of the day's business.
Corlys excused himself before the sweet course. He had not gone far beyond the hall when a servant, breathing a little fast as though he had been searching from corridor to corridor, appeared out of the dimness and bowed low.
"My lord. A small boat has come to the private landing. One passenger only. She gave no name but asked that word be brought to you alone."
Corlys stopped. "Where is she?"
"In your solar, my lord," the servant answered, lowering his voice still further. "She asked for privacy. I thought it best that she not be seen below, so I brought her by the side stair and set a man to keep the passage empty."
Corlys held the man's gaze a moment, measuring the boldness of the choice and the sense in it.
"Very well," he said at last. "Go."
The solar was warm from the hearth. When he entered, the cloaked figure within rose from beside the fire. The door closed softly behind him, and at once the faint scent of King's Landing—myrrh and crushed roses—mingled with the salt that clung to Driftmark stone and sea-worn wood. Corlys regarded his unexpected guest in silence, the day's long humiliation still heavy upon him.
The woman lowered her hood.
And in the quiet that followed, the Sea Snake understood that the true currents of this night had only just begun to turn.