The Arbor Queen crashed through the surging green waves, her three massive burgundy sails straining against a fickle sea wind. Paxter Redwyne stood on the deck, his face pale and salt-crusted, listening to the rhythmic, desperate blare of the retreat horn.
Never since the day Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark crushed the Ironborn had Paxter been in such a sorry state. The irony was a bitter pill; years ago, he had been the one to lure Victarion Greyjoy into Stannis Baratheon's trap. Today, he was the prey, and the target on his tail was the Fury, the very ship that had once been the pride of the Royal Fleet.
Paxter pulled out his telescope, his hands shaking as he surveyed the wreckage of his legacy. The horizon was a jagged line of smoke and fire. At least a third of the Arbor warships, painted with their proud purple grapes, were currently ablaze. He saw fifty or sixty of his vessels being boarded or towed by the Dragonstone fleet. The rest were scattering like frightened minnows, fleeing back toward the safety of Blackwater Bay.
Only a dozen warships remained with the flagship.
"The Small Council is a sieve!" Paxter spat, the wind whipping the words from his mouth. "The enemy knew our shipping lanes before I did! Tywin Lannister will answer for this, or the Arbor will stop providing the gold that keeps his throne upright!"
He looked back at the Fury. On its deck, he didn't see the rigid silhouette of Stannis Baratheon. He saw a man in a weathered green cloak and leather armor, a sailor who moved with the intuitive grace of a man born on a boat.
"Change course," Paxter commanded, glancing at the gathering cumulus clouds to the east. "We head into the Narrow Sea."
"My Lord?" his first mate asked, eyes wide. "The stars are covered. There is a storm brewing in the deep."
"I know," Paxter hissed, glaring at the Fury and the hundred-oar galleys pursuing them. "The Crab Claw is a dead end. Gulltown can shelter a man, but it cannot hide a fleet. We break through the storm. We head for Braavos or Pentos. We regroup in Essos and return when the Lion learns how to keep a secret!"
On the deck of the Fury, Davos Seaworth watched the Redwyne flagship execute a hard turn toward the open sea.
He knew what Paxter was doing. The Arbor Lord was gambling his life on the storm to shake off the pursuit. For a heartbeat, Davos felt the old smuggler's itch, the desire to chase, to capture the prize, to present a High Lord in chains to King Stannis.
But as the dark clouds from the south began to blot out the starry sky, Davos felt the cold weight of responsibility. He had already accomplished the mission. He had broken the blockade, destroyed the Redwyne vanguard, and prevented the troop transport to Gulltown.
"Decision made," Davos said, his voice steady. "Order the fleet to return to port. We've done enough for one day. We let the gods handle the rest of the grapes."
Gulltown.
The city was a forest of fluttering banners. Outside the high granite walls, the fields were packed with the military might of the Vale. There were elite knights in polished plate, excited youths on plow horses carrying pitchforks, and the hardened free-riders who lived for the coin of war.
Lord Royce of Runestone stood on the balcony of Gull Tower, looking down at the naturally sheltered harbor. Nearly a hundred ships bobbed in the water, but they weren't the wine-ships of the Arbor. They were Lysene transport galleys and merchant cogs, recently arrived under the command of Kevan Lannister.
"My Lord, the Lord of Harrenhal invites you to a meeting," Ser Damon Shett reported.
Jon Royce, known as "Bronze Yohn," adjusted his ancient, rune-inscribed bronze plate. He didn't want the hospitality of the Graftons, who were Littlefinger's lapdogs and he certainly didn't want to break bread with Petyr Baelish. But for the sake of the Vale, he followed the messenger.
The meeting room was cramped, filled with the scents of wine and ambition. Kevan Lannister sat at the round table beside Petyr Baelish. Kevan looked haggard; the sea journey from Lys through the Narrow Sea had clearly taken a toll on the older man's health.
"Once the Vale army reaches King's Landing," Kevan said, his voice hoarse but authoritative, "Lord Tywin himself will take command as Marshal. To assist you in the field, he has appointed Ser Adam Marbrand. He is an experienced commander and will act as your guide."
The room went silent. The lords of the Vale shared a look. To them, the message was clear: Tywin didn't trust them to lead their own sons. Adam Marbrand was to be their keeper.
"We do not need Ser Adam's assistance," Bronze Yohn said, stepping forward from the corner. His voice was a low rumble that commanded attention. "The soldiers of the Vale should be commanded by the generals of the Vale."
Kevan Lannister narrowed his eyes, looking at Royce with a sharp, cold irritation. He had spent months on a boat, failed to coordinate with the Redwynes, and was in no mood for Northern-style defiance.
"Lord Royce, I thought you were hesitant to even answer the summons," Petyr Baelish said, offering a smooth, oily smile. "This is the Hand's decision. As loyal subjects, we can only obey, can't we?"
"Lord Petyr," Lady Anya Waynwood interrupted, her voice raspy but firm. "We followed the old Lord through the Trident and all the way to the capital during the Rebellion. It would be a tragedy if we suddenly forgot how to lead our own men."
Lady Waynwood looked at the Lord of Runestone. "The Lord is a child. Lady Lysa is occupied with his care. The Defender of the Vale... well, he is not a man of the battlefield." She offered Littlefinger a polite, sharp nod of apology. "We should elect a general we trust. I recommend Lord Royce. His house is honorable, his son serves the Watch, and the Stormlanders will flee at the mere mention of the Bronze Lord's name."
A chorus of approval erupted from the knights and minor lords in the room.
"Yes! Let Bronze Yohn lead!" "The Vale for the Vale!"
Kevan Lannister looked at Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger simply shrugged, a silent admission that he had no power to suppress the combined will of the Vale's ancient houses without Lysa present.
Kevan gripped the table, hiding his anger behind a mask of Lannister iron. "I will report your... recommendation... to my brother. He will make the final decision."
"Of course," Lady Waynwood said, her smile not reaching her eyes.
Jon Royce looked at Lady Anya with surprise. He hadn't expected her support, but he accepted the mantle with a grave nod. The Vale was finally waking up, and it seemed they weren't interested in being a Lion's paw.
[System Notification: Political Rift detected.]
[Target: Vale Military Command.]
[Outcome: Lannister control over the Vale host is fractured.]
[Strategic Status: Bronze Yohn Royce gains 'People's Choice' status.]
[Soul Power Gained (Indirect Influence): 100 SP.]
Drop Some Power Stones Plz.
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