"What in Seven Hells did you just say?"
A gobsmacked Baelon leaned forward in his chair, knuckles pressing into the wood of the table as his gaze swept the men before him.
"Ahem!" Rhevos coughed into his fist, turning his head upward as if the ceiling had become a sudden curiosity.
Grey Fist sat still, his expression placid, though his eyes had likewise found the ceiling and clung to it with quiet desperation.
Not that Baelon blamed them. In recent years, he and Helaena had taken a particular interest in redecorating the estate, stripping away its former decadence piece by piece.
The results were…memorable. Now the halls of the estate beheld tapestries copied from what the pair had come across in Valyria, depicting scenes of grand conquest and struggle.
Furthermore, novel intricacies littered the building thanks to their increasing trade with Asshai.
His favourite being a special wind chime that roared like a dragon upon meeting heavy wind.
As for the ceiling, they were now fixed with ornate recreations of constellations from the night sky, and with some lingering Asshai touch, they glowed ever so faintly in the dark.
Moving on from their newly decorated home, Sarhys, for his part, seemed far less concerned than the others. He idly shook a leg beneath the table, but his gaze still dodged Baelon's scrutinising gaze.
Not one of them wished to speak.
So Baelon's attention shifted, settling on the only man left with any appetite for words.
Silvo.
The man harrumphed at the silent display, folding his arms before leaning forward. "Lys' last fleet has been wiped out by the Volantene. Though 'wiped' may be too generous a word." His lips curled faintly. "The Twin Daughters saw to their complete annihilation, with the timely assistance of the Rogue Prince."
He paused, tilting his head as if reconsidering. "Though…" A thin smile followed. "I hear he is Prince Consort now. With this, I dare say even that title sits on uncertain ground."
Baelon's lips twitched despite himself. He pinched the bridge of his nose, steadying his thoughts before speaking again. "If memory serves, Westeros stands allied with Volantis."
He remembered well enough the scorpions, swords and armour fielding Westerosi steel, ended up in Volantene hands, all in the hope of breaking Lys.
Which, in the end, they had. Technically.
"Not for much longer…" Sarhys murmured.
The room stilled as his words dropped.
Leaning back, Baelon exchanged a glance with Helaena at his side. There was a shared understanding there, threaded with something dangerously close to admiration.
As mad as his uncle was, Baelon could not deny it.
The move was…brilliant, as much as it was inelegant.
Volantis' fleet lay shattered. What strength remained had already been bled thin fending off Dothraki incursions in years past.
The city that once stood as a pillar among the Free Cities had slipped from its former glory.
Thus, worth as an ally had diminished just as swiftly.
And the war?
Already over.
Westeros would not cast aside Daemon for this. No lord in their right mind would invite another war over the ashes of one already won.
And if accusations arose, if whispers turned sharp, Daemon need only shrug them off by claiming he fought under his own banner.
Which, to be fair, he had.
After all, he rode alone. No banners, no men.
Only a single dragon.
And that, it seemed, had been more than enough.
"Maybe this is for the best," Rhevos said at last, his voice cutting through the quiet as he straightened up, finally taking on responsibility for his seat on the council. "Volantis commands the mouth of the Rhoyne. Thus, it holds vast fields and endless grain, which is why it was once the breadbasket of Essos itself."
He tapped the table lightly, thoughtful now.
"Conflict with them was never a question of if, only when. After all, grain is one of our most major exports."
A brief pause.
"But now…"
"They won't dare challenge us, at least not in their current capacity." Helaena inclined her head thoughtfully.
"Then what of the Twin Daughters?" Grey Fist asked at last, dragging his gaze down from the ceiling. "Are they not still a threat?"
Baelon shook his head, dismissive. "Do not mistake what happened for strength. Their destruction of the Volantene fleet came from surprise, and my uncle's presence." His finger began to rap idly against the table, a steady rhythm. "Strip either away, and they would have been ground down as they have been for years by Lys and Pentos alike."
He leaned forward slightly, voice cooling. "And my uncle's value to them dwindles the moment they look our way. Caraxes can be restrained; one of ours is enough for that." A faint curl of his lip followed. "That still leaves us with two."
His implication hung plainly in the air.
Yet as he spoke, a thought surfaced, one sharp enough to halt the rhythm of his hand.
"Say…the matter I set you to." Baelon turned his gaze to Silvo. "Any luck?"
Meereen lingered unpleasantly in his mind. He had been attacked there neatly, cleanly, and far too coordinated for the broken remnants of slave masters clinging to scraps of power.
Even rifling through the memories of the dead had yielded little.
Pawns. The lot of the fools.
"It was as you suspected," Silvo replied with a nod. "Your uncle has been in quiet contact with the Twin Daughters for some time now. The attempt on your life was theirs."
A brief pause.
"Though I would hesitate to call it a true attempt," he added. "It felt more like a…probe."
Baelon's eyes narrowed.
"Meaning they will try again," Helaena said, brows knitting. "Especially if we return to King's Landing…"
Her words settled heavily over the hall, pressing into the silence that followed.
"Regardless, it changes nothing." Baelon broke it cleanly. His voice did not rise, yet it carried. "I have delayed long enough. I will return."
There was no room for debate in it.
Still, he exhaled softly, tension bleeding into thought. "Before that, we prepare. With our dragons gone and us, our deterrence here will fade, and others will notice."
His hand came up, stroking his chin as his mind turned.
"Priestess Zhayla has already reached Meereen," Sarhys offered. "By all accounts, she has been…effective. The New Faith spreads well. Slaver's Bay should hold."
The New Faith.
Baelon's creation, though he rarely named it as such.
On its surface, it was merely a refinement of the old Ghiscari beliefs.
Familiar enough to be accepted, altered just enough to be useful. He had recast the fall of Old Ghis as divine judgement, its corruption punished, its sins burned away by Valyrian flame.
And himself?
He positioned himself as neither a king nor a conqueror.
Rather, some sort of divine correction.
A blade in the hands of the gods, sent to guide the misguided back to prosperity.
Whether the people truly believed mattered little. Belief, Baelon had learned, was easily nurtured.
A handful of grain, a show of charity, a promise of stability, and they listened all too well.
More than listened.
They clung to it. Desperately at that.
"What of my men in the Isles of Cedar?" Grey Fist interjected, his tone tightening. "They have been left to rot guarding fields. It wastes them."
"But those fields are much too valuable to cast aside," Sarhys cut in, leaning forward now, his earlier lethargy gone. "The Doom's eruption did more than simply destroy those isles; it enriched them. The tide that buried those islands brought with it volcanic ash, fertilising the soil." His eyes gleamed faintly. "The soil now yields beyond reason. Grain enough to feed Dragon's Bay twice over, if properly managed."
He spread his hands. "This is no mere holding. It is our lifeline."
"We cannot abandon it," Baelon said, obviously agreeing with Sahrys' words.
Thankfully for everyone at the table, the monkeys on the Isle of Cedar had settled down in recent days and had grown used to human presence.
But they were no longer the main concern.
His gaze drifted across the table, though his thoughts were far beyond the room now.
The Isles of Cedar had to be held.
The Gulf of Grief had to remain his.
And soon, he would be gone.
Dragons with him.
Meaning fear, his most reliable weapon would fade from these waters the moment his shadow did.
His eyes narrowed slightly as the pieces turned.
Then the answer was not to hold harder.
But to make it so that none would dare test his absence.
A presence without presence. A confounding thought, but he had to make it work.
Something that would watch, strike, and remind.
Something that did not need dragons…yet could still carry their threat.
Baelon's fingers stilled against the table.
Then—
"I see." Baelon rose to his feet, a faint smile settling across his face as he planted his hands on the table. "I think I may have an idea."
The men straightened instinctively.
"We do not need to hold the Isles of Cedar with soldiers alone," Baelon continued, pacing slowly behind his chair. "We can instead make the Gulf itself our shield."
A few glances were exchanged, but none were interrupted.
"There are fishermen along these waters. Minor captains. Smugglers who know every current and hidden cove." His gaze flicked to Sarhys. "Men who live and die by what passes through the Gulf."
Sarhys' eyes lit with understanding.
"We bind them to us," Baelon went on. "Protection. Trade rights. A share of the grain that feeds half this region. I couldn't care less. In return…" His lips thinned slightly. "They watch."
"Watch?" Grey Fist echoed.
"They do not fight," Baelon said simply. "They are not meant to win wars. Only to see, and to speak. The moment an unfamiliar sail cuts these waters, I want word moving faster than the wind itself."
Silvo gave a quiet chuckle. "A web of whispers."
"Precisely." Baelon inclined his head. "By the time any force reaches the Isles or even the Gulf, we will already know its name, its number, and its intent."
He paused then, expression darkening just a fraction.
"And for those who ignore such… boundaries—"
His gaze shifted, settling somewhere distant.
"We ensure the waters remind them."
A brief silence followed.
Sarhys leaned forward slightly. "You mean to—"
"I mean," Baelon cut in smoothly, "that not all dangers need a banner."
Understanding dawned slowly across the table.
"There are those in these waters already," he continued. "Men who answer to no lord. Pirates, raiders, carrion feeders."
Silvo's smile widened faintly.
"We give them reason to favour us," Baelon said. "Quietly. Coin. Safe harbours. Targets worth their time."
"And in return…" Helaena murmured.
"They prey on any who sail where they should not," Baelon finished.
No sigil. No command.
Only misfortune to those whom he deemed so.
"To the outside world," he added, almost idly, "these accidents will simply be the unfortunate cruelty of fate. Tsk! What a tragedy."
Grey Fist let out a low breath, something between approval and unease. "And our hand remains unseen."
"As it should." Baelon returned to his seat. "Fear that cannot be traced is far more enduring."
As the saying goes, man fears what he cannot see and dreads what he cannot know.
Now that it's settled.
Pat!
He clapped his hands once more, the sound lighter this time, filled with satisfaction. "Then it is decided."
Rising fully, Baelon looked upon the men before him, his men.
"While I am gone, Dragon's Bay rests in your hands."
They moved as one, standing and bowing.
"It is our honour and our duty," Rhevos said firmly.
"You have given my men more than we ever dreamed of," Grey Fist added, thumping his chest. "Wealth. Family. A place to stand. We will hold your realm to the last man."
Sarhys nodded eagerly, his frame trembling with both excitement and determination. "The grain will flow. The coin with it. I swear it."
"And as for whispers…" Silvo drawled, folding his arms with easy confidence. "Rest assured, Your Highness, every rumour, every secret, will find its way to you. Even across the Narrow Sea."
Baelon closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a slow breath, then opened them again.
He was certain his realm would hold.
Silvo's whispers would reach him. The Gulf would watch itself. The Isles would feed his power.
And if, by some misstep, it all began to falter—
He could always return.
On Vermithor, of course.
Though that would be to the misery of many people.