The boatswain let out a piercing whistle. The rowers began to work the oars carefully, steering us out of the harbor into open water.
It was morning, and the rising sun on the horizon shone directly into our eyes. A light breeze stirred small waves. Countless seagulls wheeled overhead or bobbed upon the water like floats. Our ship moved forward with confidence, calm and unhurried. Behind us, stretched out, the main fleet advanced. Some vessels were still being loaded—they would join us later.
Several ships were already waiting for us in open water. It was easy to see how, as we approached, they began weighing anchor.
At first, the Hand, Margaery, and Mace Tyrell had tried to dissuade me from this campaign, speaking of unnecessary danger and risk. But I very much wanted to see this through to the end—and to look upon Littlefinger himself, the one who had played his game and done so much in pursuit of his ambition and vanity.
After admiring the open sea, I moved to the stern. Turquoise snorted and took to the air. After circling for a while and stretching her wings, she settled atop one of the masts. To our shared relief, she had the sense not to breathe fire or lash out at the sailors busy with their work.
We had only just departed the capital, and the view from the stern was… less than impressive: a cluttered, overcrowded port choked with ships and people; the River Gate—called the Mud Gate by the poor; the fish market before it; and a jumble of structures and makeshift buildings clinging to the narrow strip between the water and the city walls.
Not so long ago, before the Battle of the Blackwater, Tyrion had burned all of it to the ground. But now the ugly little houses and stalls had sprung up again like mushrooms after rain.
All manner of people bustled about their business or simply stood and stared at the royal fleet.
Beyond the walls rose the city itself, spread across the hills. Streets and houses twisted and interwove as they climbed steadily upward. Above it all loomed the massive bulk of the Red Keep, both beautiful and imposing. The Targaryens had built their royal residence atop the cliffs, and they lent the structure considerable height.
In my view, King's Landing is riddled with flaws and questionable architectural choices. There's a lot that needs to be fixed here. The entire capital stood on the northern bank of the Blackwater, yet there wasn't even a single bridge across the river. And this despite the fact that to the south stretched the Kingsroad all the way to the Stormlands, with the Roseroad branching off from it. And for three hundred years, no one had bothered to build a proper bridge, so countless people and travelers were forced to rely on ferries, ships, or small boats.
That simply wouldn't do—a bridge needed to be built. I made a small mental note of it. In truth, it would be highly profitable as well. In a feudal state, and Westeros is no exception, the passage over any bridge or along any road is subject to a toll collected by the crown or the local lord. So such a bridge would pay for itself within ten years and afterward begin to generate pure profit. The only challenge was finding the initial funds for its construction.
We crossed Blackwater Bay and entered the Gullet. The wind picked up; the water seemed to darken, and the waves grew higher, their crests tipped with white. The wind itself had shifted—it became fresher and cooler.
Our first stop was Driftmark, an island in the Narrow Sea belonging to House Velaryon—a wealthy and proud house that traced its lineage back to Volantis. The Velaryons had always supported the Targaryens and had often joined their houses in marriage. The island itself was also known as Driftmark, though some maps still marked it as the Sea's Edge.
At one time, the Velaryons had risen to great heights through maritime trade, bringing goods from the farthest reaches of the east. During the Dance of the Dragons, their grand and magnificent castle, High Tide, had been heavily damaged, and they had spent many years restoring and rebuilding it.
During the Battle of the Blackwater, Lord Monford Velaryon had supported Stannis, bringing several hundred men and four ships. On his own vessel he perished, caught in Tyrion's trap and burned. After that, the Velaryons continued to support Stannis for a time and even sent a ship north with him.
At present, the house was formally ruled by Lady Vaena and her eight-year-old son, Monterys, the heir to High Tide.
The Lion and Rose dropped anchor in the port town of Hull, which, like everything here, belonged to the Velaryons.
I sent Ser Loras Tyrell to inform the lords of my arrival, while I used the time to inspect the port, known above all for its vast number of shipyards and vessels under construction, the timber for which was brought from two continents.
Hull also maintained a respectable level of maritime trade with the wider world, but of course it was nowhere near the scale of that in the capital.
We stretched our legs, walking through the port and along the market rows. I noticed that Colin Estermont had taken a liking to a dagger from Pentos in one of the shops, so I bought it as a gift for my squire. The merchant turned out to be a sly and sharp-witted fellow who immediately grasped the opportunity. He named an outrageous price for the dagger—unfortunately, it is beneath a king to haggle.
The island itself did not leave much of an impression on me—it appeared to be of volcanic origin and consisted largely of rock, stone, sand, and sparse soil.
Not far from the harbor, a particularly massive rock rose from the water, shaped like the head of a dragon. At its summit stood the Velaryon castle of High Tide, reached by a narrow road.
(End of Chapter)
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