About an hour later, the lords of the island arrived—by that time, I had already returned aboard. The first to come up the gangplank was a slender boy of about eight, with long silver hair and violet eyes, dressed richly and with exquisite taste. The sight was incredibly striking and beautiful. This was Monterys Velaryon.
"Your Grace," the young Velaryon bowed. Despite his age, he carried himself with great dignity, courteous and composed. "We are pleased to welcome you to Driftmark and would be honored to extend our hospitality. Lady Vaena, my mother, invites you to the castle."
"Thank you for the invitation. It's a pity I don't have the time to fully appreciate your loyalty. You are aware of our plans, I trust? So perhaps later, once everything is concluded, I will accept your offer."
"As you wish," the boy nodded. "Allow me to present the castellan of High Tide, Ser Warwick," a stout man with a magnificent beard and sideburns bowed at these words "and my uncle, Aurane Waters."
Aurane Waters, the bastard son of Lord Lucerys, a young man of about twenty-two with a narrow face, a dimple in his chin, and hair much like his nephew's, removed his wide-brimmed hat, swept it in a broad arc, and bowed. At the sight of him, I found myself thinking of a corsair from the age of Captain Blood.
The head of the Crown's Guard, Harald Orm, had begun compiling dossiers on all notable and influential figures almost as soon as the service had been established.Aurane too had his own folder—though not yet a very large one. All indications suggested that he held, or perhaps still holds, the Queen Cersei's hand, and for a short time may even have been her lover.
I even recalled seeing him at my own wedding. There had been so many guests that I remembered few of them. Besides, given his status, he had been seated at the third table—the farthest one.
Afterward, Aurane had disappeared from the capital. I wondered where he had been these past months.
We exchanged recent news and spoke about Driftmark's prospects. Like every house in Westeros, the Velaryons dreamed of power and influence. And now Aurane and Ser Warwick were carefully probing me.
As we parted, I invited young Monterys to the Red Keep. It seemed to me that there was something to be gained from cultivating relations with the Velaryons. I had no concrete plans for them yet, but it was worth considering.
***
An hour later, we cast off from the pier and continued on our way. Our next stop, toward evening, was Dragonstone.
The island shared the same origins as Driftmark, and wherever one looked, the same landscapes and scenery stretched out. Life here was harsh and monotonous—constant storms, dampness, and salt. Rather dull, in my opinion.
We were met by the castellan of Dragonstone, Ser Rolland Storm—a tall, stern, and taciturn man with thin, graying hair to his shoulders and a face marked by pox scars. He was known as a bastard of Nightsong and was the illegitimate son of Bryen Caron. It was this man who had bent the knee and acknowledged my authority after the Boltons killed Stannis.
"Your Grace," his voice, hoarse and harsh like everything around us, sounded lifeless and utterly calm.
Here we were forced to lose nearly three days, waiting out a sudden storm. Still, it gave me time to explore both the island and the fortress.
The ancient stronghold of the Targaryens was impressive—at first glance, at least. It was built entirely of black stone, and all its towers and structures resembled dragons. This served both as decoration and as a means to intimidate potential enemies. Instead of battlements, gargoyles lined the walls—no fewer than a thousand of them.
The Great Hall was shaped like a dragon lying upon its belly, and one entered through its gaping jaws. Dragon-towers crouched or seemed poised for flight. Smaller dragons adorned gates and doors, while their many claws and protrusions jutted from the walls, serving as torch brackets or grates. In my opinion, the Targaryens had rather overdone it with the dragons… After some time, the initial impression faded, and all these architectural details grew tiresome, evoking nothing but mild boredom.
I spoke with the castellan several times. We discussed the future of Dragonstone.
Rolland Storm had received word that Stannis, before his death, had sacrificed his own daughter, Shireen. His wife had hanged herself afterward. In the battle that followed, many knights and lords perished. Ser Davos, the Onion Knight, had not escaped that fate either. Everything the castellan told me had already been reported by Qyburn and Orm, and I had no reason to doubt their competence. If they said these men were dead, then that was how it would be.
I felt sorry both for little Shireen and for Davos, whom I had hoped to meet. But now, with no trueborn Baratheons left, Dragonstone stood without a lord. Before our departure, Kevan and I considered the possibility of granting the island and castle as a dowry for Myrcella, but we had not reached a final decision. We had planned to send Tommen to Storm's End to rule both the castle and the region, as Robert once did with his younger brother Renly. But who should be entrusted with Dragonstone remained unclear. Then again, the castle could remain without a lord for half a year, or even a year.
During those days, I spent a great deal of time exploring the castle and its cellars. There was much to see. What pleased me most were the dungeons—and the vast stores of obsidian, known here as dragonglass.
(End of Chapter)
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