89 AC. The Red Keep
We left the training yard just as the sun finally broke through the morning mist, staining the towers of the Red Keep a deep copper-red. My muscles ached with a pleasant soreness—the honest fatigue that follows a good bout, free of any external interference. We had long since ceased relying on draughts, over years of grueling training and voyages at sea, my body had reached the peak of its natural capabilities. Now, pure discipline and reflexes honed to automaticity were enough to make me feel confident against any foe.
The journey to the Blackwater Bay took half an hour. Daeron, Ser Adam, and I rode at a steady pace, trying not to draw undue attention, though my sea-green cloak and the Velaryon sigil upon it still caused commoners to press themselves against the walls of their houses as we passed.
The air in the port was heavy, thick with salt, tar, and the ubiquitous stench of rotting fish. It was a chaotic, clamorous world that lived by its own harsh rules. A forest of masts crowded the horizon, creating the illusion of a dead wood whose branches clawed at the grey morning sky. Everywhere one could hear the cries of stevedores, the groan of winches, and the rhythmic thud of hammers echoing from the docks.
We dismounted at the Royal Docks. Here, in a secluded section of the harbor protected by massive chains and the vigilance of the City Watch, lay the backbone of the Targaryen fleet. Currently, some forty ships were concentrated here. The number seemed substantial for Westeros, but my eyes saw not power, but squandered opportunity. My voyages to Yi Ti and Qarth had taught me to view a ship not merely as a floating platform for soldiers, but as a complex, almost living engineering mechanism.
"Look at the Peaceful Maid," I said, pointing Daeron toward a heavy galley moored at the quay. "She is twelve years old at most, yet she is already 'dying.' See how the deck sags visibly in the middle, while the stern sits higher than the prow?"
My brother narrowed his eyes, studying the vessel's lines as we stepped around a pool of spilled tar.
"Weight distribution? Too much at the ends?"
"Precisely. Westerosi builders build by tradition: they simply increase the scale without changing the design. They use heavy oak everywhere they can, believing that wall thickness is the only guarantor of strength. But in shipbuilding, excess weight can be a death sentence. This galley has too deep a draft for her length. She does not move through the water, she fights it, creating massive resistance. To make this tub move faster, you would need more oarsmen, but there is nowhere to bench them."
We passed a group of scribes feverishly checking scrolls. One of them, a gaunt clerk stained with ink, barred our way, not immediately recognizing me as the Admiral.
"My lords, access to the vessels is restricted by decree of the Master of..." He broke off, catching my gaze. "Oh, Lord Velaryon! Forgive me, I did not recognize you at once. We are currently calculating the costs for the procurement of hemp for the rigging."
"And how much do you intend to buy?" I asked curtly.
"Five hundred bales, my lord. The standard quota for ten ships for the season."
"Five hundred bales of rubbish," I cut him off, walking past. "You are buying cheap hemp from the Stormlands that soaks up water and grows heavy after a single week in the Narrow Sea."
We reached the moorings for the dromonds. These vessels were the core of the fleet's striking power, but their rigging caused me nothing but frustration. I approached the Seaflame, where the crew was fussing with the canvas.
"Square-rigged, Daeron. The most primitive of schemes," I touched the coarse rope of the foremast. "With this rigging, they can only sail with the wind at their backs. Should the wind shift, or gods forbid, become a headwind, these ships turn into drifting logs. The Lysene and Tyroshi moved to lateen sails long ago. It allows them to sail at a sharp angle to the wind. In the Narrow Sea, where the weather changes five times a day, it is a matter of life and death."
Daeron leaped over a stack of rotting planks and approached the hull of one vessel, where a shipwright in a greasy tunic was furiously hammering a fresh board, trying to patch a hole in the strake.
"Master!" I called out to him. "Why are you putting fresh oak over a rotten frame? You can see the base won't hold the nail."
The laborer wiped sweat from his brow and spat into the water.
"Lord Admiral, I was told to 'patch it by evening.' We haven't the time to strip the whole hull. The Master of the Yard said it'll do for a patrol."
I shook my head.
"This is the rot, Daeron. The fleet isn't just falling apart, it is inefficient in its very essence. Of forty-seven vessels, barely thirty are truly seaworthy. Fifteen have compromised balance—they sit unevenly in the water, and their internal ribs are rotting away due to poor ventilation in the holds. Another twenty need their rigging entirely overhauled and their canvas replaced with something lighter and stronger. If the Triarchy decides to close the Stepstones, the Royal Fleet will take two weeks to get there, and they will arrive exhausted and clumsy. A single slow ship forces the entire squadron to slacken its pace. This is not a fleet, it is a caravan."
The Master Shipwright himself came scurrying toward us—a man with a face the color of dark copper, weathered by constant winds. He was out of breath and clearly trying to mask his anxiety with a broad smile.
"Lord Velaryon! What an honor. We are just preparing the Golden Dragon for a refit, we've assigned our best men..."
"Leave the Dragon," I stopped him. "Show me the storehouses. I want to see what you are building with."
We stepped under a long lean-to. The scent of fresh pine hit my nose. It was clean here, but I saw the problem immediately.
"Pine from the Stormlands and oak from the Kingswood," I noted, running a hand along the beams. "It would be fine work if we were building carts. But for my purposes, it is not enough."
The Master Shipwright tried to interject:
"But it is the finest timber in Westeros, my lord! We have always built with it."
"And that is why your ships are as heavy as stones," I replied. "I understand what you do not: a ship needs flexibility and speed, not just leaden durability."
I turned to Daeron as we returned to our horses.
"We need different vessels," I told him. "Longer, narrower hulls. Such ships will slice through the water rather than pushing it before them. To ensure they do not found in a gale, we shall deepen the holds and weight the very bottom—lowering the center of gravity so the ship sits in the water as if bolted to the sea."
The way back led through narrow streets where the morning bustle had reached its peak. We picked our way through a dense crowd of merchants, shouting hawkers, and onlookers, trying to maintain our pace. Our horses' hooves clattered loudly against the cobblestones of the Street of Steel, which was lined with smithies and armories.
Passing Cobbler's Square, we began the long ascent up Aegon's Hill. The higher we climbed, the cleaner the air became, leaving behind the suffocating vapors of the slums and the harbor. The guardsmen at the castle gates merely saluted us with their pikes in silence, acknowledging our rank. Once in the outer ward, we dismounted and tossed the reins to the stableboys, heading straight for our quarters to wash away the harbor dust before the council began. The Red Keep welcomed us with the cool of its massive walls. We managed to change our travel clothes for doublets more suited to the occasion. I chose a deep sea-blue silk with silver embroidery—the colors of my House, but without excessive opulence.
The Small Council chamber was quiet. It smelled of old parchment, wax, and wine. When we entered, everyone was assembled. The massive oak table, where the fates of the people of the Seven Kingdoms were decided, seemed particularly heavy today.
At the head of the table sat King Jaehaerys I. At fifty-five, he looked like a man upon whose shoulders the world rested. His silver beard was neatly trimmed, and his gaze remained sharp and penetrating. To the King's right sat Prince Aemon Targaryen. He held the office of Master of Laws, and his status as heir gave his presence at the table double the weight. Aemon gave me a short nod—a gesture that left no doubt he expected concrete proposals to improve the fleet.
To the King's left sat the Hand—Septon Barth. A man of humble birth whose intellect was a priceless asset to the Crown and this Council. He wore no silks, preferring simple brown robes, and was constantly marking his papers with a short quill.
Martyn Tyrell, the Master of Coin, looked like a man who had just finished a very hearty breakfast. A heavy-set man with well-groomed hands adorned with emerald rings. He cared only for figures and revenue. Every proposal he viewed through the prism of how many Golden Dragons it would bleed from the treasury.
Grand Maester Elysar sat motionless, his heavy chain clinking faintly against the table's edge. A man of venerable age, he was the keeper of knowledge and healing, but in matters of war, he preferred to remain a detached observer, lost in thought.
And finally, Lord Gilbert Rosby, the acting Master of Whisperers. A short, sickly-looking man with pale skin and a persistent cough, which he muffled by pressing a scented silk square to his lips. He tried to be inconspicuous, but his eyes darted constantly from one councilor to another, recording every reaction.
"Be seated, Lord Corlys," Jaehaerys said, indicating the empty chair. "I trust you found time to inspect our 'floating fortresses' in the harbor."
"More like 'floating targets,' Your Grace," I replied, taking my seat. Daeron stood behind me, ready to provide the necessary papers.
The first hour of the council dragged on tediously. They discussed grain taxes in the Riverlands and new fishing regulations. Tyrell droned on about the costs of maintaining the Kingsroad, while Prince Aemon offered remarks on the legality of certain levies, ensuring that decrees did not infringe upon the rights of the lesser lords. I waited patiently, feeling a growing weariness from such trivial affairs.
Finally, the King turned to me.
"Lord Corlys, have you prepared your report on the state of the fleet?"
I nodded to Daeron, and he laid out detailed plans on the table that I had prepared even before visiting the docks.
"Your Grace, the Royal Fleet is obsolete. Forty-seven ships in this harbor are a mere illusion of security on parchment. Half of them would not survive a serious gale in the Narrow Sea, and the other half could not catch a trading cog from the Free Cities if it sailed at an angle to the wind. We build slow and heavy. Westerosi ships are floating targets, whereas the sea demands flexibility and speed."
"You suggest we scrap it all and start anew?" Martyn Tyrell asked ironically, arching a brow.
"I suggest the first stage of a massive modernization. We need, at the very least, forty new ships of a fundamentally different design. Double-hulled, lateen-rigged, and with reinforced rams integrated into the keel's frame. These ships will be a third faster than the current ones and capable of carrying heavy scorpions at prow and stern. But that is only half the battle."
I traced a finger over the map.
"We have another twenty vessels at Dragonstone which I have yet to inspect. But those standing here in King's Landing require immediate refit. If we do not tend to them, they will rot at the piers. I propose starting repair work here and at the Dragonstone docks immediately. Replacing the hulls, reinforcing masts, and updating the rigging for thirty existing ships will cost approximately eighty thousand golden dragons."
"Eighty thousand just for patching holes?" Tyrell protested. "And the new ships? What is the price of this... progress?"
"Building a single caravel at the shipyards of Spicetown and Hull—where I have already secured supplies of the necessary timber and employed the finest masters—will cost the Crown thirty-five thousand golden dragons. Forty ships would be one million, four hundred thousand. The order will take three years to complete. The first fifteen vessels will be launched within fourteen months."
Tyrell nearly choked on his wine, his face flushing.
"One million four hundred thousand! Do you realize, Lord Corlys, that this is the annual income of several Great Houses? We cannot simply throw such sums to the wind!"
"I realize that if we do not build this fleet, Westeros will lose thrice as much in plunder and the tolls that others will soon begin to levy," I countered calmly, looking him straight in the eye. "Of course, Your Grace, you are not obligated to give the entire order to my House. There are other shipyards in Westeros capable of building large vessels. We can distribute the order, and each option will have its own merits."
I pointed to the coastline on the map.
"Oldtown. The Hightower shipyards are famed for their precision. They might build the ships cheaper, perhaps thirty-two thousand, using oak from the Reach. But Oldtown is far. Delivering a fleet to the Narrow Sea takes time, and their current capacity is occupied guarding the Sunset Sea against the Ironborn and other reavers."
"And Lannisport?" the Hand of the King interjected. "The western shipyards are also vast."
"Lannisport builds excellent cogs and galleasses," I nodded. "But their design is intended for the long swells of the Sunset Sea. In the Narrow Sea, with its short, angry waves and the treacherous currents of the Stepstones, their ships will be too cumbersome. Moreover, transporting them around Dorne is an enormous risk and an added expense."
I turned my gaze back to the King.
"Spicetown is the golden mean. As I said, I have established supplies of cedar and ironwood, which are lighter and stronger than oak. My masters have spent five years working with the designs I brought back from my travels. Unlike the others, we do not need to relearn our craft, we simply begin. This will ensure the fleet's unity: the ships will share the same speed and maneuverability, which is critical for naval tactics. If we build five ships in different places, we will not have a fleet, but a motley pack where every captain curses his neighbor for being too slow."
Jaehaerys rubbed his chin thoughtfully, looking over the calculations I had presented. The King looked at Aemon, who in turn nodded to his father.
"We need these ships, Father. I believe in Lord Corlys. The ships of Driftmark have already proven their worth in the Velaryon voyages and in patrolling their own waters. Better to pay now in gold than later in the blood of our subjects."
"Very well," the King slapped his palm onto the table, cutting off Tyrell's objections. "We shall begin with forty. Release the funds in installments, Lord Martyn. Lord Corlys, I expect the first results in a year's time. Your shipyards shall work for the good of the realm. Organize the repairs here and depart for Dragonstone to assess the remainder of the fleet."
I bowed my head in thanks, but I did not sit.
"Your Grace, there is one thing more. The matter of the Stepstones. We have turned a blind eye to the chaos there for too long."
Lord Rosby coughed into his handkerchief.
"We know the pirates have grown bolder, Lord Velaryon, but it is merely a temporary outbreak. Pirates have always been in the Stepstones, my lord. It is like the tide - they come and go."
"It is no outbreak, Lord Rosby. It is a planned action. I will go further—it is a war that has not yet been officially declared. My spies in Myr and Tyrosh have learned what has seemingly escaped your informants. These 'scattered pirates' are now receiving gold directly from the Magisters of the Triarchy. Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys have united. A secret alliance they call The Kingdom of the Three Daughters."
Septon Barth raised his head from his notes.
"An alliance of three Free Cities? That changes much. If they have pooled their purses and their fleets, the Stepstones will cease to be a mere den for brigands."
"Precisely," I confirmed. "They are not just raiding—they are establishing a foothold. Their goal is total control over the passage through the Narrow Sea. They have already begun building fortifications on certain islands. Soon, we will have to pay tribute to Lys or Myr for the passage of every royal ship, or any other ship from Westeros. Your Grace, they are hollowing out our influence in our own waters."
A heavy silence fell over the chamber. Tyrell stopped scratching notes on his parchment, and Maester Elysar frowned. Prince Aemon leaned forward.
"The Triarchy... If they entrench themselves in the Stepstones, they will be able to dictate terms to all trade with Essos. We will find ourselves blockaded without a single battle fought on land."
"Just so, Prince Aemon," I said. "My people have seen their admirals discussing maps of the Stepstones in the taverns of Tyrosh. They are no longer at odds. They are dividing our sea."
Jaehaerys slowly turned his gaze toward Lord Rosby. A dangerous fire ignited in the King's eyes. The Master of Whisperers looked as if he wished to sink through the floor.
"Lord Gilbert, why does my Admiral know more about political alliances in Essos than the man I pay for secrets?"
Rosby looked as if he were having another fit of his malady. His voice trembled:
"Your Grace... we heard rumors of negotiations, but the Magisters are always negotiating... We assumed it was the usual attempt to settle trade disputes... We were monitoring the merchant guilds, not military councils..."
"Monitor further," Jaehaerys interrupted harshly. "Now that you know exactly where to look, I expect a confirmation or a refutation of Lord Corlys's words in two weeks' time. If the Triarchy has truly raised its head, we shall need not forty ships, but a hundred. And we shall need a strategy for a war at sea."
The King rose, signaling that the session was over.
"Aemon, stay a moment. The rest of you are dismissed. Lord Corlys, I thank you for these grave tidings. Prepare a detailed repair plan for the vessels in the harbor and at Dragonstone."
Daeron and I were among the first to leave the Small Council chamber. When the heavy doors closed behind us, I felt a strange satisfaction. The stagnant bureaucracy of Westeros had finally taken a blow to the gut from hard facts. I had the resources, the support of the heir, and the trust of the King. Now I could turn my office into the force that would help me achieve the goals I had harbored for long years.
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A/N
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