Westeros, The Stormlands, The Narrow Sea
Estermont sat like a jagged tooth in the churning waters off Cape Wrath. As the outermost sentinel of the Stormlands, the island of Greenstone had long served as the realm's maritime shield. It lacked the lush wealth of Tarth, but its strategic value was absolute—a fortress in the sea that had stood for a century, shielding the mainland from the corsairs of the Stepstones.
House Estermont was a young house by the standards of the First Men, its history spanning barely a hundred years. Yet, it now stood as one of the most envied houses in the Seven Kingdoms. The blood of the "Green Turtle" flowed in the veins of the royal family; the mother of Robert, Stannis, and Renly had been an Estermont.
But with Renly Baratheon's rebellion, the island had been hollowed out. Lord Eldon Estermont had taken the cream of the island's knights to join the host at Bitterbridge, leaving his second son, Ser Lomas Estermont, to hold the ancestral seat. Like the turtle on his banner, Lomas was a man of shell and shadow—cautious, timid, and ill-equipped for the storm brewing on the horizon.
Shadows on the Horizon
Twenty leagues off the coast, a small scout vessel flying the green turtle of Estermont pitched and rolled in the swell. The winds were contrary, forcing the crew to strain against their oars to maintain their patrol pattern.
"Can we head back yet, Captain Tass?" a freckle-faced young sailor asked, leaning heavily on his oar. "We're far enough out. Any further and we'll be food for the krakens."
Tass, a scarred veteran with a beard like a thicket, laughed hoarsely. "What's the matter, Jommy? Eager to get back to your girl Acacia? Once your old man scrapes together the marriage tax, you can sleep all you like. For now, pull!"
The crew shared a rough laugh, the petty concerns of taxes and weddings filling the air. To these men, it mattered little who sat the Iron Throne in King's Landing, provided the lords didn't squeeze their purses too thin this winter.
Then, the laughter died.
One sailor stopped rowing, his eyes fixed on the eastern horizon. Slowly, a forest of masts began to rise from the sea, so numerous they seemed to stitch the water to the sky.
"Seven save us..." Tass whispered, his face draining of color. "Turn! Turn the ship! That's no patrol—that's a godsdamned invasion!"
Under the frantic beat of the drum, the scout boat scrambled to return to port. But no matter how hard they pulled, the gargantuan fleet behind them gained ground with terrifying ease. Yet, every time the lead ships drew within striking distance, they slowed, hovering just out of reach—like a cat batting at a mouse.
After an hour of agonizing pursuit, Tass and his men practically beached their boat in the harbor of Greenstone. Minutes later, the bells of the castle began to toll, a sound Estermont hadn't heard in twenty years.
Inside the Great Hall of Greenstone, Ser Lomas Estermont paced with frantic, heavy steps. He had inherited the Baratheon girth but none of the martial fire.
"What do we do? Did you see the banners? Aegon Targaryen!" Lomas wiped sweat from his brow. "They said he took Tyrosh, but why here? Why us?"
"Father, calm yourself," his son urged, though his own hands shook. "The Reach has declared for King Renly. The Redwyne fleet is massive. If we hold, they will come for us."
Lomas clutched at the hope like a drowning man. "Yes... yes. Renly will not let his mother's kin fall. The ravens are already gone."
He didn't realize that the twins of House Redwyne were currently "guests" of the Lannisters in King's Landing, effectively shackling the Arbor's fleet to their docks.
The Grand Feint
Aboard the Sea Fox, Garo lowered his "Tyrosh Telescope." Since Jon had taken the city, the local glass-workers had been churning out these refined optical tools, shattering the Myrish monopoly on long-range observation.
"Garo, why are we just sitting here?" Kapo asked, his hand itching for the hilt of the frost-enchanted blade Jon had granted him. Though he was now a formidable mage, he still preferred the visceral thrill of a melee. "I want to see if I can freeze their harbor solid."
"Our orders are to attract attention, not to conquer a pile of rocks," Garo replied coldly. His face was a mask of stone, earning him his nickname among the rank-and-file. "We are the bait, Kapo. Aegon's plan requires the world to look here, while the 'Black Lion' strikes there."
Garo turned to the flag-sergeants. "Signal the fleet. Expand the patrol radius. We must ensure Stannis to the north and the Redwynes to the south know exactly where we are. But do not engage. I want the ravens and the merchant cogs to escape."
"You're no fun," Kapo grumbled, though he obeyed.
"Bring the trebuchet ships to the front," Garo commanded, a thin, ruthless smile touching his lips. "Let them see the machines that broke Tyrosh. I want the Estermonts' next letter to their King to be written in pure, unadulterated terror."
As the lumbering, reinforced siege ships moved into position, a gap was intentionally left in the blockade—a corridor for "fleeing" merchants to carry the news of the Dragon's arrival to every port in Westeros and the Free Cities. The trap was set, and the world was watching the wrong hand.