Chapter 58: Storm in the Narrow Sea
The dawn after the feast broke pale and mist-laden, its light reflecting off the black waters of the Narrow Sea like steel. The court of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen was once again in session — the Iron Throne gleaming beneath the vaulted dome of the Great Hall.
Foreign envoys from the Free Cities waited in long lines beneath banners of many colors. Their silks and perfumes clashed against the cold air of Westeros, and their jeweled smiles hid daggers of ambition.
Behind the throne sat Queen Alysanne, serene and sharp-eyed as ever, flanked by Maester Barth, Prince Baelon, Prince Daemon, Prince Viserys, Archmaester Yalar, the High Septon, and Lord Corlys Velaryon, Master of Ships — the famed Sea Snake. Each man and woman there represented a power of Westeros, and every glance carried weight.
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The Braavosi Delegation
The first delegation admitted to the throne room was from Braavos — the most secretive and powerful of the Free Cities.
Their leader, Donovan, envoy of the Sea Lord, was a lean man with bronze-colored hair and a fur-trimmed coat of shimmering gray. He bowed deeply.
"Your Grace," he said in a silken tone, "for fifty years, your rule has brought peace and prosperity not only to Westeros, but to Braavos as well. The Sea Lord bids me propose a new harmony — a reduction of tariffs between our ports, so that Braavosi ships might bring cheap goods to White Harbor, Gulltown, King's Landing, Oldtown, Lannisport, and Maidenpool."
Braavos — wealthiest of the Free Cities, master of trade and coin, shipbuilding and shadowed intrigue. Its purple-sailed fleets ruled half the known seas, and its Iron Bank's ledgers stretched farther than any king's realm.
King Jaehaerys leaned forward upon the Iron Throne, his long white beard flowing like winter frost.
"And if I reduce these tariffs," he asked mildly, "will the Iron Bank lower its interest rates in kind?"
Donovan smiled with practiced grace. "That, I fear, would be difficult, Your Grace."
Jaehaerys's pale eyes glinted. "Then we shall maintain the current rates — and strengthen cooperation, not weaken our coffers."
The Braavosi envoy inclined his head. "As the Sea Lord wishes. Yet he bids me speak of another matter — the Triarchy that rises in the Stepstones. Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh — slavers all — seek to dominate the Narrow Sea. Their fleets, if left unchecked, could choke the trade that feeds both Braavos and Westeros."
The King's gaze was cool. "Thus far, they have done nothing that threatens peace."
"Perhaps not yet," Donovan pressed gently. "But the Stepstones, by all logic, belong to Westeros. It was once Dorne's Arm, was it not?"
At this, murmurs rippled through the hall.
Maester Barth's voice broke the silence, calm as a chronicle. "So the tales say. The First Men crossed into Westeros through that land bridge until the Children of the Forest drowned it beneath storm and sea, leaving the Stepstones behind."
"Land and legend both have long memories," Jaehaerys said dryly.
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A Prince's Thoughts
From his place beside the court, Daemon Targaryen listened — eyes half-lidded, mind far from the hall.
The Stepstones.
A barren chain of rocks and reefs, yet more valuable than gold to the one who held them.
Whoever ruled them would command the Narrow Sea, the trade between east and west.
Control the Stepstones, and you control the world's coin.
Daemon saw it clearly: a fleet of his own, rising from Driftmark and Blackwater Bay; dragons above, banners below; tolls and tariffs flowing into his coffers; and the Stepstones as a fortress between realms — a staging ground for whatever destiny demanded next.
His lips curved slightly. A dragon needs not just wings — but a perch to launch from.
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The Clash of Words
The Sea Snake spoke then, voice deep and hard as the tides.
"The Triarchy has merely cleared pirates and collected modest dues. Braavos, however — your oared warships have driven off Westerosi fishers from the Shivering Sea, even from near Skagos and Seal Bay. You claim to hunt pirates, yet your fleet acts as if the northern seas are your private ponds."
Donovan's smile wavered. "Exaggerations, Lord Velaryon. The Sea Lord's ships hunt pirates only. The Shivering Sea is open to all."
Corlys's eyes were cold. "Tell that to my fishermen, chased from their grounds by your purple sails. To them, the Sea Lord's fleet looks no different from pirates."
Daemon suppressed a grin. He knew full well that many of those "fishermen" bore the seahorse sigil of Velaryon — the Sea Snake's private fleet of merchants and smugglers. Still, Corlys was right about one thing: Braavosi hegemony was a chain around Westeros's neck.
"If your ships trespass again," Corlys warned, "know this — Westeros has dragons as well as sails. My wife, Princess Rhaenys, rides one."
A flicker of fear passed behind Donovan's practiced mask. "We Braavosi are children of escaped slaves," he said softly. "We remember Valyria's dragons — and have no wish to provoke them."
Daemon caught the glance the envoy threw his way — cautious, calculating. They had spoken privately days before. The Braavosi had promised shipwrights, jewelers, courtesans, and craftsmen for his domain. Even the Iron Bank had whispered an offer: a loan of one hundred thousand gold dragons at low interest. Enough to build fleets, farms, and cities of his own.
Braavos lends to kings — and to dragons yet unhatched.
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The Prince of Pentos
When the Braavosi withdrew, the court received the delegation from Pentos.
Leading them was Prince Cicipas, tall and handsome, his robes of blue and gold gleaming with embroidery.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing low, "while you have ruled in peace for fifty years, Pentos has changed twenty princes. Ours is not a post of leisure — when famine comes or war is lost, the people slit their prince's throat to appease the gods."
A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the court.
"Now the Triarchy gathers armies along our borders. Myrish and Lyseni fleets crowd our harbors. Pentos alone cannot stand. The Triarchy will strangle us — and soon, your own trade as well."
Cicipas's voice rose, pleading but dignified. "Let Pentos, Braavos, and the Iron Throne form an alliance. We have gold, Braavos has ships, and you — dragons. Together, the Triarchy would crumble like salt beneath the waves."
King Jaehaerys regarded him quietly. "I am willing to cooperate in peace, but I will not wage another's war. My reign began with blood; it shall not end in it."
The Sea Snake added smoothly, "The Triarchy has brought order to the Stepstones, where pirates once plagued all shipping. That alone is worth a measure of tolerance."
Daemon watched Corlys's calm words with amusement. The Sea Snake pretended indifference, but Daemon saw the truth: when the Triarchy raised tariffs — and they would — House Velaryon would bleed first.
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The Triarchy Appears
Last came the delegation of the Triarchy itself — three men, each a portrait of their city's pride.
Kuro of Lys, fair-haired and purple-eyed, moved with the grace of a serpent.
Pedro of Tyrosh, his beard dyed emerald green, wore silks that shimmered like oil.
And Sissoko of Myr, short and broad, his laughter booming, seemed half merchant, half jester.
King Jaehaerys's voice carried through the chamber.
"The Stepstones have ever been contested. Now you hold them. Many fear you will raise tolls or claim dominion over the Narrow Sea."
Pedro smiled. "Your Grace, we seek peace, not conquest."
Kuro added sweetly, "We have cleansed the seas of pirates."
Sissoko grinned, proud as a boar. "Our admiral, Craghas Drahar, nailed every pirate he caught to the beaches. The crabs feast well — they call him the Crabfeeder!"
Daemon's mouth curved faintly. "Let us hope he feeds only pirates, not Westerosi sailors next."
Sissoko's laugh faltered. "Surely not, Prince. Between the Triarchy and Westeros there will be only friendship."
Daemon leaned forward slightly. "Then perhaps friendship might include trade. I have interest in Myrish glassmakers, Tyroshi dyers, and Lysene courtesans — skilled artisans all."
Kuro's smile sharpened. "Artisan slaves are expensive. Yet for a prince, anything may be bought — for the right price."
Daemon's eyes cooled. "Perhaps one day I shall pay that price — or change the market altogether."
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The White Worm
When the delegations were gone, Daemon took to the streets of King's Landing under Kingsguard escort. The city buzzed with rumor and song. In Flea Bottom, a familiar voice reached him — the Dornish singer Coleen, performing a new ballad, "The Fall of the Dragon."
Daemon almost laughed. Even mockery had a melody in this city.
Then, from the crowd, a woman approached — pale-skinned, with Lysene beauty and desperation in her eyes. Beside her stood a girl of perhaps ten years, milk-white and honey-haired.
"Prince Daemon," the woman said, bowing low, "I am Martina of Lys. My daughter and I seek work — in your establishments, if you will have us."
Daemon studied the child. Her gaze met his, sharp and fearless despite her age. There was something uncanny in it — intelligence wrapped in innocence, the spark of a future yet to come.
"What is your name, girl?" he asked.
"Mysaria," she said softly.
Daemon looked at her for a long moment.
A Lysene girl with eyes like a storm — and a name that would one day whisper through every shadow in King's Landing.
He nodded once. "Very well. Come to my house. You'll have work — and perhaps a future."
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That night, as he looked out across the black waters of the Narrow Sea, Daemon saw the clouds gathering far to the east — dark, heavy, and full of promise.
A storm was coming.
And he would be its rider.
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