Ch: 9

Driftmark—High Tide

98 AC (Eighth Moon—Day 24)

Corlys I 

Corlys Velaryon slumped in his chair, sawing at a roast capon with a silver knife that caught the pale light of dawn. He chewed slowly, jaw working, thoughts festering like damp wood left too long in the hold. His eyes flicked to the empty seats—two grand chairs clad in sea-green velvet, now dust-patched and hollow. The silence clawed at him.

Across the table, Rhaenys peeled an orange with calm fingers, the rind falling in tight spirals beside her plate. She popped a wedge between her lips, eyes on her hands, a faint smile tugging at her mouth as the sour bite settled. She let the quiet linger, unbothered.

“They’re late,” Corlys growled, tossing the knife onto the porcelain with a clatter. He wiped his hands on a rag, rough enough to redden the skin, then leaned back. The chair creaked beneath him. His fingers drummed once, twice—an old habit from storm-tossed decks. “We set a time.”

Rhaenys looked up, gaze level. She rolled the orange wedge between her knuckles, casual. “A prince and his bride, fresh to the marriage bed,” she said dryly. “I doubt spite’s the cause.”

Corlys didn’t care what the cause was, nor for his wife’s soft-spoken excuses. He’d rather see the prince’s latest scheme done and dusted than sit under the weight of another vague promise.

“It’s about courtesy,” he muttered, voice gritty. “A man’s word ought to carry weight, not shift like waterweed.”

“How noble,” Rhaenys replied, amused. She downed an oyster with practiced ease, her eyes never leaving him. “But let’s not dress it up, husband. It’s not the lateness that’s grating—it’s what you think he’s come for. Be honest.”

She wasn’t wrong, though Corlys had no interest in being seen through. The truth itched at him: he didn’t know what the prince wanted, and that uncertainty scraped like barnacles under the keel. Suspicions churned—some vague, others dark and sharp—but none solid enough to grasp.

He hated debts, hated the weight of them. They didn’t sit right.

At first, the prince’s advice had seemed harmless, even laughable—copper sheathing? It had sounded like madness. But when he’d tried it on the hulls, the difference had hit him square: ships carving the sea like blades, barnacles be damned. It had changed everything. Revolutionary. And he’d been too slow to see it.

Now the boy was back, and Corlys could feel the weight of it coming. The debt. The ask. He didn’t yet know the shape of the cost, but he could sense it creeping close.

“I’m surprised you’re not stewing with me,” he said, pulling a glass toward him and narrowing his eyes. “Or do you think the prince won’t turn everything on its head with one offhand word?”

Rhaenys snorted. “Your concern, not mine,” she said. Her face gave nothing away. “And don’t act like you wouldn’t bite back if he asked for too much.”

But Corlys knew he couldn’t push back too hard—not without risking the fragile trust he’d built. The prince’s advice had filled their coffers, and Corlys wasn’t about to forget that. If the boy came to collect, Corlys would have to decide quick: pay up, or risk the fallout.

The prince wasn’t just some curious royal anymore. He held weight now, and Corlys wasn’t blind to it. He’d even considered maneuvering—binding his son to the prince’s girl, and Laena to the Rogue Prince. A clever pairing or two might just lay the path to the throne.

But he didn’t say any of that aloud.

Instead, he latched onto Rhaenys’s hint—that the prince might have some grand demand. She never did see doubt clearly when it involved those she held close.

“What do you think he’s after?” Corlys asked, voice low. It wasn’t a real question. It was a way to push back against the unease gnawing at him.

“A trade pact,” she answered. “Most likely.”

Plausible. Easy, even. A request he could meet without effort. But Corlys didn’t think it’d be that simple. The crown’s fleet was small, sure, but enough to carry the prince where he needed. And most of his trade clung to the mainland, not the open sea.

No, the prince likely wanted something bigger. Coin, maybe—to build up those scraps of land he’d been granted. Or skilled men: shipwrights, masons, artisans. There’d be a port rising there soon, Corlys would bet. And the lad might just try to mimic the Sea Snake’s success.

It would sting, having the boy become a rival at sea. But Corlys had no clean way to stop it.

“You think he speaks for the king now?” he asked, rubbing his jaw. “Old man’s got wind in his sails lately.”

The sewers, the city cloaks, a flood of new decrees—it all bore Viserys’s name. But everyone with sense knew the drive came from Maelys. The sewer plan especially—Corlys had heard the truth. Maelys had done the work. If not for that, the king might’ve won some real praise.

Rhaenys’s brow creased. Just a flicker, but he saw it. Proof she hadn’t thought it through. She still carried her bitterness toward Jaehaerys like a splinter in the soul. Being passed over for the throne had wounded her in a way that never fully healed.

Corlys had let go of that anger long ago. He understood old king’s reasoning, even respected it, in a way. That didn’t mean he liked it.

“Maelys doesn’t play puppet,” Rhaenys said, firm. “Not for something petty.”

Corlys disagreed. Fiercely. The prince was sharper than he had any right to be, older in thought than in years. Every move he made had layers. That’s why Corlys had been wary from the start—there was too much mind behind those offers of help.

They let the silence stretch again. The clink of silverware faded to stillness. Corlys let his thoughts drift from the coming talk to the east—where darker storms brewed.

Merchants were sending word—pirates growing bolder near the Stepstones. Not the usual rabble, but something worse. All signs pointed to Craghas Drahar. The Crabfeeder. He was demanding tolls now, bleeding coin from any ship that dared pass.

Corlys had seen this coming years ago. Had warned of it. Honour meant little in Essos—those men would sell their mothers for silver, let alone keep faith with Westeros.

The memory burned. He’d spoken of this before, back when he still had a seat at the council. But the king had done nothing. Sat still while slaver scum strutted through their waters. It had infuriated him then. Still did.

All that coin, lost. All that pride, trampled.

Why hadn’t the king crushed them? Sent a fleet, set the islands ablaze, reminded them what dragons meant?

Corlys plunged the knife into the capon again, steel biting deep. His mind wandered jagged paths.

These were the fights he would have taken on, if he’d ever sat beside Rhaenys as consort. No stalling. No dithering. He’d have ruled with steel, and made the realm remember what strength looked like.

Dornish snakes with their poison-tipped blades and crooked lords? Turned to ash. The Stepstones—bleeding sore of the Narrow Sea? Scraped clean, seahorse banners choking the life from every pirate’s hole.

Westeros could stand prouder, freer—severed from Essos’s grasping hands, its trade flowing gold back into its own veins.

Prosperity—not this limping peace the king coddled, letting enemies nibble at the realm’s edges. Corlys could see it clearly, like a high tide at noon: ports teeming with ships, coffers heavy, the smallfolk thriving on honest work instead of scraps.

All of it—he could have built, had the old man not cast Rhaenys aside and left him to rust on Driftmark. His jaw tightened, the meat on his plate turning dry and bitter in his mouth.

That chance was—

The doors creaked open. Maelys entered, boots striking sharp against the stone floor. His indigo cloak swayed behind him, silver thread catching faint light. A dragon-claw clasp, gripping a pearl, fastened it at his throat. Sea-mist clung to his white hair, and his lilac eyes swept the room with quick precision.

“Apologies for the delay,” he offered, standing alone as the doors shut behind him—no bride beside him. “Some unexpected trouble took more of my morning than it had any right to.”

There was a faint hint of amusement in his tone, brief as a dying ember. Oddly muted. Rhaenys didn’t seem to notice—or didn’t care. A sly smirk tugged at her lips, something playful simmering beneath.

“I’d wager that trouble has a name—Gael, perhaps?” she asked, hiding her grin behind the words. “Take a seat.”

“Aye,” Maelys replied, lowering himself into a chair with care. “But not for the reasons you’re imagining. She woke ill. You’d think you knew me well enough, Rhaenys, to trust I wouldn’t skip this meeting for some idle fling.”

Strange that he expected them to understand without further explanation. Damned strange.

Rhaenys offered a rare shrug, her mood open and easy. “Time makes strangers of friends—wasn’t that your line once, Maelys? Either way, I hope she recovers swiftly.”

“Quite,” Corlys cut in, keeping the mood from drifting. “But let’s not waste time. Let’s get to the point.”

“Agreed, Lord Velaryon,” Maelys said, meeting his eyes with a smooth, unbothered smile. “But first, my thanks for that ball you threw in my name—rarer than honest men, in these waters.”

Corlys considered the gesture. The islands didn’t host tourneys without months of planning and bodies to fill the stands. This rite carried its own weight, sharper, quieter. That Maelys appreciated it pleased him, though he hid the flicker of warmth under a hard stare and gave only a curt nod.

“I didn’t come with a single ask,” the prince continued, his violet eyes flicking toward the meats and wine spread across the table. “I’ve a handful. But one stands above the rest, and I’ll put it to you plain. I need your ships—to ferry people, supplies, and stockpiled goods from my holdings across the realm. It’ll take a year, start to finish. Once done, I’ll hand you a piece of real power—and a set of ship designs to call your own.”

Corlys raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement brushing past his reserve. Not an outrageous demand, assuming they settled on a fair number of ships—plenty sat idle at Driftmark. What caught his interest was the reward: a lure, plain and deliberate.

Still, no cause to reject it outright. There were men aplenty who’d jump at coin or contract. That the boy had chosen him first showed some measure of trust, beyond old debts.

The play was transparent. Maelys expected him to see it, maybe even counted on it—a quiet game of wits wrapped in courtesies.

“And this token?” Corlys asked.

Maelys reached beneath his cloak, drawing out a small object of ironwood and gold, etched with swirling patterns that hinted at Valyrian steelwork—if one dared believe their eyes. At its crown, the seahorse of House Velaryon reared, carved and gleaming in the pale morning light.

With a soft click, he opened it.

Inside, obsidian gleamed like still water. Silver runes framed the disc—north, south, east, west—sharp and clean. A needle, fine as a thread and red as blood, hovered in place, trembling just slightly as it aligned itself.

“I’ve named it a Pathor,” Maelys said, his voice low and steady. “A finer name than the maesters ever gave it…”

He slid it across the table. Corlys picked it up, turning it over in his hands. The craftsmanship struck him first, beautiful and strange. But with each breath, the weight of it pressed deeper, past the gleam and into something more vital.

He rose from his chair, pacing slowly, eyes locked on the device. His heart hammered in his chest. A faint tremor stirred in his arms. He turned, and the needle shifted with him. Always pointing North. Always true.

“What is it, husband?”

Corlys turned halfway to Rhaenys, eyes distant, mind spinning. Still, he handed her the device, fingers tight around the weight of what it promised—new trade routes, new profits, if the boy could make more like it.

“This some kind of sorcery, Maelys?” Rhaenys asked, a trace of something sharp in her voice. Skepticism, maybe. “That what had you chasing your tail through Essos a year back?”

The prince hesitated, hand paused above a pastry. Corlys didn’t react to the jab—he knew Rhaenys’ tells well enough. It stung all the same, the way she seemed to forget how much the boy had changed.

But Maelys didn’t take the bait. His expression stayed calm, almost indulgent. “No spells here, though I get why you’d think it.” He glanced at Corlys, held the silence for a beat. “But talk of magic won’t get you any closer to how the Pathor works.”

Corlys felt the itch to toss it to his shipwrights, let them tear it apart and see if it could be copied. But then he remembered the mess those knock-off pens had been—cheap, clumsy echoes of the real thing Maelys had once crafted. Darklyn had made a fool of himself.

“How many of these you got tucked away?” Corlys asked, eyes still on the trinket. “And why us? Plenty of greedy lords out there—Hightower’d lunge at this with both hands.”

That wasn’t his real question. What he wanted to know was whether the king had blessed this, or if Maelys was trying on Daemon’s boots. His house had power, gold, reach—but the chill between them and the throne had only deepened, and any wider break might sink them both.

“A hundred, give or take. And a few extras to sharpen a captain’s sense at sea,” Maelys said. “And blood’s why I’m here. Better to share the prize with kin than strangers.”

There was more in that than he said. A quiet offer of peace, maybe. Corlys met Rhaenys’ eyes, a silent exchange passing between them.

“That’s not many,” Corlys said, sinking back into his seat. His joints ached with the weight of it. “Why not lock in something longer while we’re at it?”

His purse could handle the cost. This was about control—about shaping the future on his own terms.

“Name your price.”

“Five years,” Rhaenys answered smoothly. “Ours alone. Like those dishes you gave the crown—exclusive rights. Ask what you want in return, and we’ll build something that serves us both.”

Maelys shook his head. “There’s not much I need from you—and what little there is, you wouldn’t give without a fight.” The meaning behind it was clear.

“Then workers,” Corlys countered. “Paid, housed, and sent to help break ground. Shipwrights too. In exchange, we get first pick and a discount—same five-year window.”

The prince exhaled, tired and sharp. “Same offer, new wrapping. Let me throw in a new angle.”

“What’s your stake?” Corlys asked, eyes narrowing.

“Same deal. Numbers can come later. I’ll break Essos’ trade open for you—ten years of it. In return, I want a vow. Ink on parchment, three copies.”

The boy went still, holding his breath for a beat.

“In five years, I sail east. There’s a fight coming—against the Dothraki, or at least a piece of them. I want House Velaryon to stand with me when the time comes.”

It was madness, picking a fight with those horse-rutting marauders—but a costly sort of madness. The coin would pour like a slashed artery, and the logistics—dealing with slaver ports, greasing palms in cities Corlys loathed—none of that was light work. And yet, their weight mattered.

“That’s a tall ask—and reckless, Maelys.” Rhaenys’ brow creased. “What makes you think tangling with the Free Cities, never mind the Dothraki, isn’t suicide?”

“It’s fair to ask,” Maelys allowed. “But opportunity rarely comes with a warning. I was in Myr, negotiating with merchants and magisters, when a khalasar—Hozar, I think—came storming through. The traders tried to buy them off. I gave them dragonfire instead.”

Corlys said nothing, but his frown deepened.

“This isn’t some bard’s tale for glory or fear. No blood and thunder. When the smoke cleared, we sifted the wreckage and found three Valyrian-forged pieces—a spear, a helm, a wristband. Pulled from the ash where their outriders fell. That’s what a single skirmish turned up. What do you think waits in their hidden stashes and strongholds?”

His voice softened, almost casual now—as if he weren’t speaking of sacking a people. “I think you see where this wind’s blowing, Lord of Driftmark.”

Corlys tilted his head, cautious. “You think you can break them?”

“With Daemon, maybe. But that would burn the poor souls they keep in chains. I need Westerosi troops—and ships to carry them. I’m offering you a place at the helm of this campaign. Good favor, fat coffers, and a higher perch for your house.”

It sounded generous. But gifts could turn to threats if wrapped tight enough.

If Corlys said no, Maelys could whisper his refusal to the Faith, the court, the highborn—say the Sea Snake turned his back on a crusade against slavers and beasts. Wrap it in piety, swell it into duty, until refusal looked like cowardice or corruption.

Velaryon influence would bleed out fast. And the Redwynes? They’d leap at the chance—swords ready, grins wide—especially if dragons led the charge.

His stomach soured. This wasn’t a request. It was a leash, tied with silk but heavy all the same.

He fixed Maelys with a narrow-eyed stare, jaw tight. “Then I’ll want more iron in this promise.”

Rhaenys glanced at him, but he let her look slide off. She didn’t see it yet—didn’t see how the boy was pulling at them like the tide. Or maybe he was the one seeing shadows in light. Either way, it didn’t matter. If Maelys was serious, they couldn’t just walk away.

Maelys dipped his head slightly, leaving room for negotiation. But they both knew the truth—there wasn’t any.