"What is honour to a drowned man? If I must lose my life, I will lose it fighting for my blood."

―Corlys Velaryon

…

The Sea Snake stood at the prow of his flagship, the salty wind tousling his grizzled hair, his eyes narrowing as Driftmark came into view. A low murmur of satisfaction rumbled in his throat, a sound only the sea might have heard, and perhaps answered, had it cared to. There, in the distance, the jagged cliffs rose from the ocean like the fangs of some ancient beast, familiar as an old lover, as dangerous too. This was home. This was Driftmark, the domain that had risen with him, and that would fall with him, if the gods proved cruel. His banners flew proudly above the harbour—blue and silver, House Velaryon's colours snapping in the breeze like heralds of old. And beyond them lay the Hall of Nine, his hall, the seat of his power, built stone by stone, coin by coin, from the spoils of the sea.

The watchmen on the bluffs had done their duty well; even from the deck of his flagship, he could see the colours of his banners waving their welcome, the blue and silver of House Velaryon dancing against the sky. A balm for a weary soul, but more than that—it was a promise, a whisper of rewards waiting to be claimed. Glory, recognition, respect. The spoils of a lifetime spent at sea. And today, they would all bear witness to what he had won.

A cheer erupted from his crew as the Sea Snake's ensign, a mighty sea horse emblazoned on azure, unfurled and caught the wind. Corlys allowed himself a moment of pride. She was a fine ship, sleek and swift, her sails full and proud, her hold brimming with treasure, her deck lined with men who had survived storms and steel to bring her home. Behind her, a procession of lesser vessels followed, a parade of conquest and plunder that lent magnitude to his arrival.

The harbour was crowded, the docks thronged with villagers, fisherfolk, and nobles alike. Their voices rose in a ragged cheer, echoing across the water as the Sea Snake's ship glided in. Musicians played, horns and drums beating out a rhythm that reverberated in Corlys's chest, and children scrambled up the pilings to catch a glimpse of the returning fleet. This was their lord, the lord who had brought them victory, the lord who had brought them gold. And as he watched their awed faces, Corlys felt it again, that sharp thrill. Their loyalty he had earned, yes, but it was their awe that sustained him. To be above them, to command them, to be the object of their adulation—that was the true prize. That was worth every risk, every storm, every drop of blood.

The air smelled of salt and sweat, mingled with the sweetness of fresh-cut flowers and the sharp tang of garlands woven from sea lavender. His men began to disembark, weighed down with sacks and chests and crates of treasure: pearls as big as a man's thumb, trinkets of gold and silver, carved idols of strange gods, spices and silks from far-off lands. Behind them came the prisoners, shackled and sullen, eyes downcast as they stumbled onto the dock to be paraded before the masses. These were the spoils of his victory, trophies that would further cement his standing as one of the greatest lords of Westerosi history.

As Corlys stepped onto the gangplank, he could hear the shouts of admiration from the crowd. He nodded to them, acknowledging their cheers with a steady, regal bearing. It was not his way to boast openly; no, he would let the treasures speak for themselves. This was his triumph, and he intended for all to see the magnitude of what he had accomplished.

The procession from the harbour to the Hall of Nine was a grand affair, as befitting a lord's return. Corlys walked at the head, surrounded by his most trusted men-at-arms, their banners fluttering proudly in the breeze. Alongside him, retainers carried the treasures they had brought home, tokens of conquest that would be displayed for all to see. Flower petals rained down upon them, children darted forward to offer bread and salt, and the songs of welcome filled the air. Corlys kept his gaze forward, though he took in every detail—the pride on his people's faces, the hope that flickered there. He knew the importance of these moments, of showing strength, of reminding them that he was the lord who had brought prosperity and power to Driftmark. This was why he had ventured into the perilous waters of the Stepstones. This was what made it all worthwhile—not merely the safety of his people, but the elevation of his name and House.

The gates of the Hall of Nine swung open before him, and there she stood, waiting. Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, her beauty undimmed by the years, her bearing as proud as ever. Corlys felt his heart shiver, the only crack in his otherwise unshakable composure. She moved towards him, a goblet in her hand, a wreath of laurel held high, and her smile—ah, her smile. She gave him a kiss then, full of warmth and longing and a thousand unspoken words, and he accepted it, and the laurel, and the goblet. The wine was sweet on his tongue, but her touch was sweeter.

"At last, you've returned to me, my lord," she whispered, her voice barely audible amidst the din. Her eyes held his, her gaze soft and filled with affection. "I feared the sea would keep you this time."

Corlys reached out, his fingers brushing against her cheek, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "The sea may claim many things, but it will never take me from you, my love." His voice was low, meant only for her ears.

She leaned closer, her forehead resting gently against his. "You are a stubborn man, Corlys Velaryon," she said, her voice touched with laughter. "But I am grateful for it, more than you know. Let us go inside, my lord. Tonight, we celebrate your triumph."

He chuckled, a low, rough sound, and slipped his arm around her waist. Together they moved towards the hall, towards the warmth and the laughter and the light. The Hall of Nine was alive with movement, servants laying tables with roast boar and spiced fish, platters of ripe fruits, wheels of cheese, and more wine than the cellars had held in months. The scents of rosemary and honey, of smoke and salt, mingled in the air, and minstrels were already tuning their instruments. The nobles crowded close, eager to offer their congratulations, their smiles wide, their eyes sharp.

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Corlys took his place at the head of the table, regal but relaxed, his gaze sweeping across the hall. He listened as a young nephew rose to speak, his voice quivering with excitement as he recounted Corlys's exploits. Tempests defied, enemies outwitted, treasure brought home—the lad spoke well, and Corlys smiled, raising his goblet, cheering with the rest. This was his moment, his triumph, his reward for all he had endured.

But as the night wore on, as the laughter echoed off the stone walls and the musicians played their merry tunes, Corlys felt the weariness settle in his bones. The journey, the battles, the sleepless nights—they weighed on him now, heavy as iron. He glanced towards Rhaenys, and she met his gaze, understanding without words. She approached, slipping her arm through his, leaning in close to whisper that it was time. He nodded, letting her lead him away amidst the cheers and farewells.

The walk to his chambers was a blur, the minutes slipping past like waves in the dark. Rhaenys helped him to his bed, her fingers gentle as they brushed his brow, her words soft and warm, though he could not grasp their meaning. She left him then, her duties pulling her back to the revelry below. A servant girl entered, her steps soft, a chalice balanced on a tray.

"What is this?" Corlys asked, his voice thick with fatigue as he squinted at her.

"A draught, my lord," she whispered. She smiled, her eyes downcast, hidden in shadows, and brought the goblet to his lips. The brew was sweet, and Corlys drank, the warmth spreading through him.

"There, there, my lord," the girl murmured, her fingers dabbing his lips with a linen napkin.

"That should ease your troubles."

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The morning sun crept in through the high windows of the Hall of Nine, a pale gold light that seemed almost mocking, indifferent to the sorrows it illuminated. Rhaenys stood by her husband's bed, her eyes fixed on the fever-wracked form of Corlys Velaryon. The Sea Snake lay still, his face drawn and hollow, the strength leached from him. The fire that lit his gaze just the day before was a mere ember now. Even the greatest among them were still men, and men could be broken. The fever had come for him in the night, sudden as a squall off Shipbreaker Bay, relentless as the tides.

Maester Gerardys bent over Corlys, his long fingers tracing his brow, his lips pursed as though he tasted something bitter. Rhaenys watched him, her face a mask. It was all she could do not to press him, demand answers he plainly did not have. The Maester was not an old man, but his face was creased and worn from years of tending wounds, mending broken bones, and easing pain that could not truly be eased. His eyes, when they met hers, were grave.

"The fever is stubborn, my lady," Gerardys said, his voice low. "I cannot yet divine its cause. The journey and the salt air may have left him weakened. I would give him milk of the poppy, to ease his pain and let him rest."

"No," Corlys rasped, his eyes half-lidded but sharp enough to make Gerardys flinch. "No poppy. I will not have my wits dulled. I have sailed through innumerable storms, Maester. I will weather this one too."

Rhaenys sighed, her eyes flicking between her husband and Gerardys. She knew that stubbornness well—it was that same iron will that had carried Corlys across strange seas to distant lands, that had built their house into a power few dared challenge. But that same stubbornness could also lead him to folly. She opened her mouth to speak, prepared to urge a compromise—perhaps a diluted dose that would not muddle his mind—but felt a small hand slip into hers. Baela stood beside her, looking up at her with those wide, earnest eyes, so much like her mother's. A strained smile found her way to her lips and Rhaenys drew a breath, finding a measure of calm in the gesture.

The knock on the door was soft, hesitant, but it broke the stillness. A servant entered, a scrap of parchment in his hand. "A raven from King's Landing, my lady," he said, offering it to her.

Rhaenys took the letter, her fingers brushing over the wax seal. She broke it and read quickly, her eyes narrowing at the words. The summons was from Viserys himself, requesting her presence at court, along with Baela. He had not mentioned Corlys. He could have not known her husband had returned, nor the state in which he'd found himself. Still, the timing of it...

Corlys stirred, his eyes on her. "What troubles you, Rhaenys?" he asked, his voice softer now, rough with the strain of fever.

"A summons from the king," she said, folding the letter. "Viserys bids me come to King's Landing, and take Baela with me. But you are unwell. I mislike the thought of leaving you."

Corlys gave a faint smile, weary but resolute. "The king's summons must be answered, my love. The crown backed my war against the Triarchy, and now they call. We must answer, lest they think us ungrateful. Besides, I am not so weak as I seem. I have weathered worse than this."

Rhaenys frowned, biting her lip. She glanced at Baela, the girl's eyes filled with worry, her hand still gripping her grandmother's tightly. Rhaenys knew she could not refuse Viserys. She would go, but she would not leave Driftmark undefended. Baela was strong, a dragonrider already, and there was no one she would rather have at her side.

"We will go," she said at last, her voice quiet but firm. "But we will fly. The dragons will take us swiftly, and we will return to you just as swiftly."

Corlys nodded, though his eyes betrayed the concern he would not voice. "As you wish," he said, his eyes drifting closed, the fever drawing him back into sleep.

Rhaenys lingered a moment longer, brushing her fingers against his brow, feeling the heat beneath her touch. Then she turned to Gerardys, her gaze hardening. "Watch him well, Maester. I expect him hale and whole when I return."

Gerardys bowed his head. "Of course, my lady. I will do all that I can."

Baela looked up at Rhaenys, her voice soft but steady. "He will be well, grandmother."

Rhaenys looked down at her, her lips curving into a small smile. "Thank you, child," she whispered, her voice thick with love and the iron of her resolve.

Duty called, as it always had. For her house, for her family, for her lord. She would fly to King's Landing, do what needed doing, and return. Come what may.