Southern Narrow Sea, near the Stepstones
The sea rolled beneath the hull of Sea Snake, Corlys Velaryon's flagship, as the prow cut a determined path through choppy waters dyed crimson by the setting sun.
Wind tore through his cloak and silver hair, the brine stinging his face. His eyes, sharp and watchful, swept the vast horizon.
Around him, six warships sailed in a crescent formation, lean, fast Velaryon ships, their sails trimmed to maintain quiet speed.
Behind them trailed three battered merchant cogs, sails patched, hulls scarred. Survivors of the last pirate ambush, now limping home to Driftmark under heavy escort.
Corlys stood without speaking, gloved hands resting lightly on the railing. The silence aboard Sea Snake was not of peace, but anticipation, every man waiting, watching, listening.
The calm was broken by murmurs near the mid-deck, where several sailors clustered by the rigging. One nudged another with his elbow.
"Reckon we'll see 'em again before sunset?" the first whispered, eyeing the horizon nervously.
"If we do," the other muttered, "I hope it's quick. I'm tired of dragging half-dead traders home and watchin' our men get burned by those Myrish fire pots."
A captain approached from the stern, boots echoing on the damp planks. "Lord Corlys," he said, bowing his head slightly. "All ships report readiness. Signalmen have flags raised, and ballistae are loaded. But morale is... wary."
"They're sailors," Corlys replied without turning. "Wary is better than cocky. Keep the line tight. Tell the Silver Shard to fall back slightly. She's drifting too far to port."
The captain nodded and retreated to deliver the orders.
From the quarterdeck stairs came the clatter of boots, Vaemond, Corlys's nephew, clad in fine chainmail and an uneasy scowl. He joined his uncle at the prow, arms crossed tight across his chest.
"This is foolish," Vaemond said low. "We should wait. The Crown will act soon, surely now that word of Tarth's trade losses has reached the Red Keep."
Corlys didn't look at him. "We've waited long enough. Every ship they sink costs us coin. Every sailor they kill costs us more than gold."
"But this, this isn't war. Not yet. It's poking a hornet's nest without a helm. If the pirates strike with full force, we'll lose more than just coin."
"We lose either way, boy," Corlys said, turning finally to face him. "I'd rather lose with my sword drawn than my hands tied waiting on the whims of old men in council chambers."
Vaemond looked away, jaw tightening. "You risk Driftmark's fleet for pride."
"No," Corlys said quietly, eyes hardening, "I risk it for my people. For every widow and fatherless child these pirates leave behind."
At that moment, a shout rang out from the crow's nest above.
"SAILS! STARBOARD!"
All eyes turned. A young sailor sprinted across the deck, skidding to a halt beside Corlys.
"Fast ships, my lord, narrow hulls, dark sails. Coming around the rocks. Not merchants."
The murmurs turned to tension. Crewmen rushed to stations. The signal flags flapped into position, rippling commands to the rest of the fleet.
Corlys's gaze followed the rising shapes on the horizon. Five, six, seven ships. Long and lean. No banners, no colors, just dark, silent hulls bearing down across the broken waters.
He drew a slow breath, the wind biting colder now.
"Pirates," he said flatly.
He turned to his signal officer. "Flank formation. Prepare for boarding. Fire orders on my mark. And gods help them if they get too close."
The sea creaked, the warships turned, and the silence before battle thickened like a storm cloud.
The Broken Waters were about to live up to their name.
The pirate ships came on like a black tide, sleek Essosi galleys rowed in perfect rhythm, their decks bristling with siege contraptions unfamiliar to Westerosi eyes.
Grappling hooks gleamed in the dying light, fire pots were stacked beside iron-slatted ballistae.
Their sails bore sigils from old Myr, forgotten cult symbols, serpents, and warped glyphs that spoke more of blood oaths than of any kingdom or cause.
They didn't parley. They didn't hesitate. They charged.
"Counter-flank!" Corlys roared, his voice cutting through the rising wind. "Signal all ships, turn starboard, sweep around them like a blade!"
The fleet responded with drilled precision. Velaryon warships curved inward like a scythe, their bows turning with grace belying their size.
The catapults aboard Sea Snake loosed first, flaming bolts arcing toward the oncoming galleys. One found its mark. The bolt drove through the mid-hull of the leading pirate ship, striking a stack of fire pots mid-deck.
The result was instantaneous, a thunderclap of fire, black smoke, and men thrown screaming into the sea.
But the others did not break. Four more galleys surged through the fire, hulls low and fast, slamming against the Velaryon line with a sickening crunch.
Grapples flew. Chains clanged. The boarding began.
Corlys met them head-on. He leapt across the collapsing rail of a smaller ship, axe in hand, landing amid a cluster of Myrish sellswords.
Their blades were curved like scimitars, serrated, meant to tear flesh more than cut. One came at him high, he ducked, buried his axe in the man's thigh, then shoved him overboard with a boot to the chest.
Around him, chaos reigned. Velaryon sailors fought shoulder to shoulder against waves of invaders who fought not for coin but out of sheer desperation. Their fire pots exploded on impact, splashing burning oil across the deck.
A second Velaryon ship caught flame bow to stern, its crew forced to jump into the sea, screaming as the fire chased them down the ropes.
Corlys turned just in time to see one of his captains fall, gutted by a spear through the gut, and the crew of Storm Kissed overwhelmed. The pirate flag rose atop her mast, black and jagged. Her surviving crew were tossed into the waves like ballast.
The Velaryon warships rallied, using harpoons to drag one of the pirate galleys between two hulls and bombard it with fire and quarrels until it broke apart, its deck burning red.
Corlys, blood streaked across his face, shoulder torn and cloak tattered, planted his axe in the chest of another sellsail and roared for the men to hold.
"Push them back! To the sea with them!"
It took another ten minutes for the tide to turn. The pirates, realizing their momentum had faltered, began to withdraw.
One by one, their galleys pulled back under cover of smoke, slipping behind rocky islets and out of view, leaving behind a sea littered with broken hulls, charred debris, and floating corpses.
The cost was steep.
Two Velaryon warships sank beneath the waves, their hulls cracked and burning. Over eighty men lay dead or wounded, including three officers and a dozen veteran sailors.
The captured Storm Kissed was lost entirely.
Corlys stood on the deck of Sea Snake, breath heaving, hands slick with blood not entirely his own. Around him, the wounded groaned and the survivors slumped in exhaustion.
"We held them," one captain said beside him, spitting blood into the sea. "But gods help us if they bring more."
Corlys didn't answer. His eyes were still on the horizon.
This had not been a raid. This had been a message.
And the next time, it would be worse.
The scent of salt, smoke, and blood still clung to the sails as the battered remnants of Corlys Velaryon's fleet limped back into Driftmark's harbor.
The dockhands stood in stunned silence as the warships came in, scarred hulls blackened by fire, masts snapped and patched mid-sea, decks stained with dried blood. The great Sea Snake had returned, but not unscathed.
Wounded men were carried ashore on makeshift stretchers, some missing limbs, others too dazed to speak. Women wept on the docks.
The dead were brought out last, shrouded in soaked linen, laid side by side like driftwood at low tide.
Within the stone walls of High Tide's hall, the survivors were given wine and quiet corners to rest. A funeral pyre was being prepared on the cliffs. Corlys stood alone at the head of a large map stretched across a war table, his fingers tracing the curve of the Stepstones.
Three small silver pins marked the last known positions of the lost ships. He moved a fourth pin, representing Storm Kissed, from the fleet's crescent formation to a separate corner of the board, labeled in charcoal: Taken.
Behind him, the heavy doors creaked open.
"You call this a victory?" came a sharp voice. Vaemond entered with his arms crossed tightly across his chest. His jaw was clenched, his manner righteous. "Two ships sunk. Another captured. Nearly a hundred dead or maimed. And still no support from the Crown. This was folly."
Corlys didn't turn. "Those waters are ours, and I'll not have pirates turning them into hunting grounds."
"And what of Driftmark? What of our strength? We are bleeding men and ships while the king does nothing!" Vaemond paced to the window, gesturing toward the sea. "This was the price of pride, Uncle. We should have waited."
"We would have waited ourselves into ruin," Corlys snapped. "You saw what they brought. Siege engines on galleys. Alchemical fire pots. They're not rabble. They're building something."
A silence fell. Outside, the wounded moaned under the hands of healers. The crackle of the pyre fire echoed faintly from the cliffs.
Within the Red Keep, the late afternoon sun slanted through the high windows, casting long golden lines across the stone floor. The air was still, heavy with tension, as Rhaenys entered her father's study without knocking, the scroll clenched in her hand.
Prince Aemon looked up from the parchments before him, brows furrowing at his daughter's expression. "News from Driftmark?"
She handed him the letter in silence. Aemon scanned the first lines, and his face grew hard.
Hours later, the Small Council gathered in full. The letter from Driftmark, penned in Corlys's unmistakable hand, now lay unrolled on the polished table of the council chamber. Prince Aemon, standing at the head of the scroll, read aloud with steady gravity:
"...Two warships lost. A third taken. Over eighty good men dead or maimed. The pirates did not strike in desperation. Their ships were sleek, reinforced, flying the symbols of old Myr. Siege weapons aboard. Firepots. They do not raid. They invade."
A hush settled over the chamber.
Lord Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin, clutched a small ledger to his chest, his lips pressed into a pale line. "They're building an empire," he muttered. "One island at a time."
Grand Maester Elysar leaned forward, eyes glinting with unease behind his spectacles. "Essosi fire pots. Organization. This is no mere rabble."
Seated at the king's right hand, Septon Barth, the Hand of the King, folded his fingers together. "Why is Lord Corlys waging war in the Narrow Sea when His Grace gave no such order?"
Before Barth could speak further, Prince Aemon's voice cut in, controlled but firm. "Because House Velaryon has taken the brunt of these losses, while we debate. The sea is theirs to protect, yet the pirates now patrol it like lords. Shall we fault Corlys for defending his own waters when we do nothing?"
The council shifted at the sharpness in his tone.
"The king ought to take measures," Aemon pressed. "If we do nothing now, we lose control of the Narrow Sea, and the trade routes with it. Today it is Driftmark. Tomorrow it may be Storm's End. Or King's Landing."
Septon Barth gave a long look toward the Iron Throne's shadow looming behind the king's dais. "Your Grace, I believe Prince Aemon speaks the truth. The threat grows with each day we delay."
Queen Alysanne, who had been silent until then, leaned forward slightly, her voice tinged with concern. "And how is Lord Corlys? Has he been injured?"
Prince Aemon inclined his head to her. "No, Your Grace. He was not hurt."
The queen nodded, but her worry did not ease.
All eyes turned to the seat, where King Jaehaerys sat in silence. His face was calm, expression unreadable, as though carved from marble. The crackle of the brazier fire in the corner was the only sound in the chamber.
At last, the old king spoke, his voice slow and cold as stone. "The pirates have not yet stepped on Westerosi soil. They raid, but they have not declared war upon us."
There was a pause. Even Aemon said nothing.
"There will be war," Jaehaerys said, "when they give us cause. Not before." His gaze flicked to Prince Aemon. "Tell Lord Corlys… to continue his patrols. But he is not to provoke open war."
Then, with finality, he stood and left the chamber, his white cloak trailing behind him, leaving his council in silence.
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