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Narrow sea, Stepstone.
7th Moon Of 58 AC
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The wind of the Stepstones brought no freshness, but rather carried the pestilential stench of rotting sargassum, burnt salt, and dried blood filtering through the stones that made up the islands. Gallows Island was nothing more than a limestone wart half-submerged in a treacherous sea, a blood-soaked patch of land where not even seagulls dared to nest for long. It was the perfect neutral territory for three men who professed mutual contempt for one another, yet shared a common hatred.
In the center of a cave carved by the surf, lit by whale-fat torches that sputtered and cast green sparks, three figures stood around a table fashioned from shipwreck timber.
Prince Morion Martell paced back and forth like a viper about to strike. He wore an embossed leather cuirass bearing the spear and sun of Sunspear, though the marks of the desert's suffocating heat were visible underneath. Although his father, the old and cautious Prince of Dorne, officially ruled from Sunspear, Morion had managed to drag more than half of the Dornish houses behind him with promises of glory, blood, and fertile lands.
To his right, seated atop a dry rum barrel, the Vulture King chewed on a bitter root, spitting a dark juice toward Morion's feet. Beneath his rags of old leather and his cloak fashioned from birds of prey feathers hid the rigid posture of a man trained in arms. Morion knew well who he was: the second son of a minor Dornish house, a bastard or a second-born whose true name had been buried by infamy. Yet that forgotten noble had accomplished the impossible: uniting the savages of the Red Mountains and winning the favor—or at least the forced respect—of the pirate captains of the Stepstones, secretly financed by the gold of the Triarchy, that bastard alliance of Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys that many called "the Three Whores."
Across from them, standing tall like an oak weathered by the storms of his homeland, Ser Borys Baratheon examined a map sprawled over the rotted wood. He bore the square jaw of his kin, dark eyes, and a deep scar running across his cheek from chin to ear. Ser Borys was an exile, a homeless man, but behind him lay not only the spite of a lost claim in the Stormlands, but the mercenary muscle of Essos. Four of the most ruthless Free Companies of the Disputed Lands marched under his pay.
"Dornish ships are not war galleys built to endure a prolonged siege on the open sea, Morion," Borys said, resting his fists on the map and making the leather of his gloves creak. "If you're going to move your men, we can't just sail blindly west. The Storm Lords will know we're coming as soon as the first sail crosses Cape Wrath."
"No one is talking about sailing blind, Borys," Morion replied, stopping and pointing a long, dark finger at the outline of Westeros's eastern coast. "Our fleet will skirt the cape to the east, keeping well out of reach of the coastal watchtowers, and we will burst straight into Shipbreaker Bay. The key is to strike where the young dragon and his dogs don't expect the land to burn."
The Vulture King let out a harsh laugh, a sound reminiscent of the screech of the bird he was named after.
"Shipbreaker Bay...", he muttered, wiping the back of his hand across his dirty lips. "A pretty name for a graveyard. The waves in that bay wreck ships without any men needing to defend them. Are you going to smash my boys against the cliffs just because you're in a hurry to crown yourself in Sunspear over the corpses of your uncles?"
"Your boys are pirates and mountain men who kill for a bag of silver stags or a barrel of sour wine," Morion retorted in a icy voice, locking eyes with the chieftain's dark gaze. "They will do as I say because my gold pays for the pitch on their ships and the meat they eat. And we won't smash against the cliffs if we land at the precise spots."
Morion unrolled a sheet of fine parchment detailing the strongholds and settlements along the eastern coast.
"Let's go over the priorities," the Dornish prince said. "The first high-priority objective is the area of Cape Wrath and Rain House. It's the closest coast to Dorne, and its defenses are laughable. It's a quick victory, a position to establish a beachhead and resupply. Low to medium difficulty at most."
"And a miserable haul of plunder," the Vulture King grunted. "Nothing there but fishing villages and ruined lords herding goats. My men want gold, Dornishman, not rain and mud."
"The gold will come later," Borys Baratheon interrupted, running his finger along the coastal line. "The second high-priority objective is Weeping Town. It's a minor port, yes, but it has enough draft to land my three mercenary companies without losing horses or siege engines on the rocks. The difficulty is low because they don't expect an attack from the sea in that area. If we take Weeping Town, we cut off communications along the southern coast."
"What about the islands?" asked the Vulture King, leaning over the map. "Estermont and Tarth. They have men, grain, and harbors."
"Estermont is a medium priority," Morion clarified. "It's relatively isolated. If we surround it with a group of galleys, they won't be able to ask for help or send any to the mainland. Its difficulty is medium. Tarth, on the other hand... Tarth is a tougher nut to crack. It's a large island, farther north, and its lords are experienced seafaring men. It holds higher priority, but a higher difficulty. We won't attack Tarth until the Stormlands are burning from the Cape all the way to Storm's End."
"And what about the land of the softlings?" the Vulture King inquired with a malicious grin, referring to the Reach. "My men in the Stepstones say Arbor wine tastes better when drunk from the gold cups of their dead lords."
Morion looked down at the second list prepared on the table.
"The Reach is a sleeping monster, but if we sink our teeth into the right spot, it will bleed out before it can assemble its levies," the prince said. "The Arbor is the primary objective. A wealthy island, the largest wine producer in Westeros, and best of all, relatively isolated from the mainland. If we hit The Arbor with speed, we will capture its riches and deprive the Reach's fleet of its finest southern port. If we strike by surprise, it's a swift taking, though no less bloody for it."
"Whispering Sound is also an option," Borys noted. "The Honeywine estuary gives us direct access inland toward Oldtown. But the risk of taking it goes up. Oldtown is no fishing village; it has walls, the City Watch, and the mass of fanatics protecting the Starry Sept. And I'm ruling out the Shield Islands entirely for now. They're too far north and fortified to the teeth. Attacking them at the start would be suicide."
The Vulture King scratched his thick beard and spat again.
"I like the sound of The Arbor. But to get there and to hold what we take in the Stormlands, we need total control of the Stepstones. If we don't close this passage, any fleet King's Landing sends from the east will cut off our retreat. Every ship crossing this strait must pay tribute or go to the bottom of the sea."
Morion sighed, passing a hand over his sweat-dampened forehead. This was where strategic planning collided with the harsh reality of Essos's political map.
"Levying tolls on the Free Cities is simple enough," Morion admitted, looking at the other two. "Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys are with us thanks to the Triarchy's gold. Pentos and Norvos will prefer paying a cut of their cargo rather than risking their merchant vessels or arming a war fleet over a few silver stags. But we have two problems. And one of them is deadly."
"The first is Braavos," Borys said, frowning. "They have the Arsenal. They can build a war galley in a single day if they set their minds to it. If we block their path and disrupt their trade routes to the Summer Sea, they will send their fleets and shatter any blockade your pirates set up."
"Braavos is a distant problem if we play our diplomatic cards right," the Vulture King interjected. "We promise them exemptions on certain tariffs or look the other way when their main ships pass. They won't seek a war if it isn't profitable. But the second problem...", the man trailed off, and for the first time, the arrogance faded from his face, replaced by a strain of genuine apprehension. "The second problem can't be fixed with diplomacy or tolls."
Morion nodded in silence. The name had hung heavy in the cave like a ghost long before being spoken.
"Xandar," Morion said quietly.
"The Dothraki Khal's new kingdom," Borys muttered, gritting his teeth. "That savage didn't just unify the riders; he took Volantis and crowned himself King."
"That 'savage,' as you call him," Morion corrected sharply, "now commands the most overwhelming and terrifying naval power Essos has ever seen. When Caspian conquered Volantis and renamed it Xandar, he didn't just claim the city; he claimed the largest fleet in the known world. And he didn't stop there. He secured the full backing of Qohor, and endless timber shipments stream down from the Forest of Qohor without interruption. The shipyards of Xandar never stop building vessels, not for a single day."
"It's not just their numbers that inspire fear," added the Vulture King, leaning forward, his voice barely a whisper against the roar of the waves outside. "It's their men. Have you seen Xandar's sailors fight? Those demons wear full suits of steel armor on deck. Heavy armor at sea! They fight as if they have no fear of drowning whatsoever, as though water were dry land beneath their feet. If you try to board one of their ships, you're throwing yourself against an unyielding wall of iron."
"And their vessels...", Morion continued. "They are swift, immense ships with reinforced hulls. Sinking just one takes the combined effort of three of our galleys. And they no longer make the mistakes of the past. Since the attack they suffered moons ago, those ships no longer travel alone. They move in tight combat groups of six or seven vessels, supporting one another. If your corsairs attack one, the other six surround them and tear them apart with scorpions and bolts."
Silence fell over the cave, broken only by the crackle of the torches. Xandar's geopolitical weight was crushing. The Khal's kingdom stretched across almost all of eastern Essos, encompassing every span of land west of the Mountains of the Morn. They controlled trade, rivers, mines, and overland routes.
"And then there are the beasts," Borys added bitterly. "The Targaryens have dragons in King's Landing, yes, but they use them as ornaments to keep their feudal lords in line. They rarely take them out of the Dragonpit. But the Darkwoods of Xandar... Caspian and his kin don't hesitate to use them. If we provoke Xandar by intercepting even a single one of their merchant ships, they won't send a negotiation fleet. They will send fire from the sky and reduce the Stepstones to floating ash. To offend Xandar is to court death."
"So what's the plan, Morion?" the Vulture King demanded, slamming his hand onto the table in frustration. "Are we going to cross the seas looking over our shoulders every five minutes in case a ship flying the Khal's banner decides to sneeze in our direction? Are we going to ask permission from a Dothraki canned in iron just to wage our war in Westeros? We can't win a war against the Iron Throne with Xandar breathing down our necks!"
The Dornish prince observed his two allies. He could smell the fear in the air—a rational, well-founded fear. He himself had felt a chill when reviewing the spy reports coming out of the east. Volantis used to be the sleeping giant of Essos; Xandar was a giant wide awake, hungry, and armed to the teeth.
Yet a slow, calculated smile began to spread across Morion's lips.
"You are right to fear Xandar," Morion said, standing tall with complete composure. "A man who does not fear Caspian Darkwood's dragons is a fool who won't live to see spring. Xandar is the dominant force in this world. But you two are forgetting one very simple thing."
Borys frowned.
"What's that?"
"That we are not alone in this," Morion replied. His voice echoed off the limestone walls of the cave with a sudden confidence that froze the doubts of those present. "I knew Xandar's fleet and the northern lords of Westeros would pose a problem for our forces if we acted in isolation. That's why I made sure we had an ally capable of bloodying the waters as fiercely as we can. A man who fears neither the iron men of Essos nor the flower-boys of Westeros."
Before Borys or the Vulture King could ask a question, the sound of heavy boots echoed from the cavern entrance. The footsteps splashed through the pool of seawater with a slow, deliberate, and menacing rhythm. Two Triarchy guards standing watch at the mouth of the cave backed away awkwardly, hands resting on the pommels of their swords, not daring to draw them.
From the shadows of the tunnel emerged a monumental figure. He was a man of formidable stature, with shoulders as broad as castle gates and a thick beard interwoven with sea-salty braids. He wore a coat of darkened iron scale armor that reeked of whale grease and pitch, and across his shoulders hung a cloak made from the hide of a sea wolf. His eyes, the color of stagnant water before a storm, swept over the cave with near-visceral contempt, ignoring the Vulture King and Borys entirely to lock his gaze onto the Dornish prince.
Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands, stepped forward. The poleaxe strapped to his belt clanked against his armor, producing a sharp metallic sound that drowned out the hum of the wind outside.
"You talk too much, Dornishman," Balon's voice boomed, deep and raspy like the groaning of ship timbers splintering against stone. "Half your words are laments over the men of the east, and the other half are promises that stink of incense and desert."
The Vulture King took a step back, instinctively reaching for the hilt of his dagger, while Borys Baratheon sized up the newcomer with the swift, practiced eye of a veteran of a hundred battles.
"Lord Greyjoy," Morion greeted, bowing his head slightly, keeping his composure. "I see your fleet managed to cross the strait without catching the eye of the northern patrols."
Balon let out a snort that sounded like a throat full of phlegm and saltwater. He looked down at the map spread across the table, his eyes tracing the names of cities, islands, and fortresses.
"My ships sail wherever they damn well please. The sea belongs neither to paper kings nor to savages who dress in iron. If that Khal's men want to taste saltwater, the Drowned God will see to swallowing them up, armor and all."
He stepped up to the table and slammed a massive, calloused, scar-ridden hand onto the map, right over the strip dividing the Stormlands from the Reach. The wood groaned under the weight of his fingers.
"You make too many plans," Balon said, glaring first at Borys and then at the Vulture King. "Priority lists, low difficulty, harbors for offloading horses... All nonsense from green men who fear blood in their boots. The sea is taken by force. Coasts are burned. Men are killed, women are taken, and the iron price is paid."
"We need a coordinated strategy, Lord Greyjoy," Borys chimed in, keeping his voice steady despite the overwhelming presence of the Ironborn. "If we attack without order, the Iron Throne will gather its vassals and crush us one by one."
"Let them try," Balon shot back with a fierce, crooked smile that revealed yellowed, uneven teeth. "While the boy king in King's Landing stares out at the sea waiting for your mercenaries, my Ironborn will land on his back porch. We will steal their grain, burn their shipyards, and turn the waters of Westeros red."
The Lord of the Iron Islands looked at Morion, and for a second, a silent understanding passed between the viper of the desert and the predator of the sea.
"I came here for gold, flesh, and glory, Dornishman," Balon Greyjoy concluded, planting both hands on the table and looking over the group with eyes burning with the promise of slaughter. "Enough cave chatter. It's time to kill green men."