"Seventy-nine years of age, he had served four kings and a queen, sailed to the ends of the earth, raised House Velaryon to unprecedented levels of wealth and power, married a princess who might have been a queen, fathered dragonriders, built towns and fleets, proved his valor in times of war and his wisdom in times of peace. The Seven Kingdoms would never see his like again."

―writings of Gyldayn

…

The world came into focus slowly, hazy shapes and muted sounds blending into a cacophony that made Corlys Velaryon groan low in his throat. It was this, along with the incessant buzzing of flies—those vulgar denizens of rot and filth—that first roused the great lord of Driftmark from his uneasy slumber. As his senses returned, so too did the awareness of his predicament, though clarity, like the shifting tides, was slow to come.

Corlys opened his eyes, his gaze meeting not the familiar grandeur of his hall nor the reassuring sight of his flagship's stately sails, but instead a tattered sail hung limp against a pale blue sky, its edges fraying in the sun. He shifted, his back pressing against rough, splintered wood, and took in the sloop around him—a humble fishing vessel, its deck strewn with baskets of prawns, crabs, and other sea fare. The air was heavy with the mingled odors of brine, tar, and fish—a medley that no amount of fine breeding could render palatable. Around him stood a half-dozen figures, their postures varying from the indolence of laboring fishermen to the more practiced nonchalance of men accustomed to bearing arms. Their scrutiny was neither deferential nor hostile; they merely looked upon him as one might an old figurehead, once splendid, now weathered by years at sea.

"Awake at last," a voice drawled, cutting through the haze. It belonged to a man standing at the prow, arms crossed over a chest that spoke of strength hard-earned rather than inherited. His grin—if it could be called such—was crooked, more the shape of sardonic amusement than genuine mirth.

Corlys turned his head slowly, squinting against the sun to better examine the speaker. Recognition dawned after a moment's hesitation. "Malentine?" he said, his voice rasping from disuse.

His nephew—if such a distant relation could warrant the title—made a shallow bow, the kind that suggested obligation rather than respect. "Uncle," he replied, his tone light. "I was beginning to wonder if you might sleep the whole journey away."

Corlys' confusion only grew. "What is this? Why am I here?"

"You are aboard the Codfather, Uncle," said Malentine, naming the sloop. "We crossed the mouth of the Wendwater but a few hours past. With fair winds, we shall reach King's Landing before the sun sets."

"King's Landing?" Corlys repeated, his brow furrowing. His mind was sluggish, pieces of memory floating just out of reach. He remembered Driftmark, the Hall of Nine, the celebration… the fever. He pressed a hand to his temple, as though the act might jog his thoughts into alignment. "And why, pray, am I bound for King's Landing? I gave no such orders."

Malentine's grin widened, though the humor in it did not reach his eyes. "The summons came from the Crown, of course. It is not for humble men like me to question such commands. I was tasked to bring you, and here you are."

A flicker of confusion passed through Corlys' mind. He recalled, vaguely, a summons delivered to Rhaenys some days—or had it been weeks?—past. But that had been her concern, not his. And if such a call had come for him, he would have answered it aboard his flagship, as befitted his station, not… like this.

Corlys shook once more, dismissing the thought. "Whatever," he said, rubbing his temples. "Just take me back. I am in no mood to deal with this at the moment."

Malentine's response was more than surprising. "I am afraid I cannot do that uncle," he said.

Corlys turned sharply on the younger man. "I would remind you, nephew," he said with the faintest edge of steel in his tone, "that I am lord of Driftmark. My commands supersede any you might have received. Turn this vessel around at once."

Malentine's expression didn't sour, but his feigned pleasantries did vanish like mist before the morning sun. "With respect, uncle, my orders were clear. Your wishes—however grand they may be—are of no consequence here."

The words struck like a slap, not for their insolence, but for the truth they implied. Corlys stilled, his gaze sharpening as he looked around the sloop with renewed interest. The men-at-arms standing near Malentine bore no colors of Driftmark, nor any insignia of note. The fishermen at the rudder seemed equally detached, their eyes fixed firmly on their work. This was no escort in the service of his house. This was something altogether different.

"You speak boldly," Corlys said, his voice quieter now, though no less commanding. "Too boldly for a man simply carrying out his orders. Viserys would never dare order this, and neither would the Queen. Tell me, Malentine, whose bidding do you truly follow?"

Malentine didn't answer at once. He adjusted the grip on his belt, his expression slipping away entirely. "What does it matter, uncle?" he said at last, shrugging. "You'll have your answers soon enough. For now, enjoy the voyage. The weather is fair, and the company tolerable. That's more than most ever get."

It was then that the full weight of his predicament settled upon Corlys' shoulders, though his expression betrayed none of it. If he had truly been summoned to King's Landing, it would not be like this—not in secrecy, not in conditions so beneath his dignity. No, this was no act of duty or protocol. This was abduction, thinly veiled in the language of obligation. The question now was a straightforward one.

Who would dare order such a thing?

----------------------------------------

The warm hues of dusk spilled into the chamber, touching upon every gilded edge and finely woven tapestry with a golden softness. It was a room that spoke of luxury—so well-appointed and inviting as to feel almost absurdly out of place given Corlys Velaryon's current predicament. The lord of Driftmark had spent the better part of the evening alternating between restless pacing and stewing in silence, his thoughts a tempest as tumultuous as the seas he had once commanded so masterfully.

The city of King's Landing beyond the narrow windows appeared no less alive for his captivity. The hum of commerce and the cries of street vendors carried up even to this height, mingling with the occasional peal of laughter or burst of song from some distant revelry. Yet all such sounds, vibrant and joyous though they might have seemed, rang hollow to his ears. The knowledge that he was held not as a guest but as a prisoner hung heavily over him, and the elegance of his accommodations only deepened the insult.

When a knock sounded at the door, Corlys turned sharply, his brow furrowing as the guard stepped inside and announced a visitor. Relief flooded his expression when Rhaenys stepped into the room. For the first time since his arrival, his tightly held composure gave way, and he strode toward her without hesitation.

"Rhaenys," he said, his voice heavy with both concern and an almost imperceptible softness, the kind he reserved for her alone. He closed the distance between them, his arms encircling her as though she might vanish if he let go. She returned the embrace fiercely, her fingers gripping his shoulders, her head pressed to his chest.

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"For once, the gods show mercy," she murmured, her voice trembling as she pulled back just enough to study his face. "When they told me you were here, I feared... I feared what they might have done."

He smiled faintly, though the expression was more an attempt to reassure her than any reflection of his own feelings. "They have yet to do anything but test my patience," he replied, his tone wry. "But seeing you unharmed eases my heart."

For a moment, they stood in silence, the weight of their shared relief filling the room like a balm. But soon, the questions that had plagued Corlys since his awakening resurfaced with fresh urgency. He gestured for her to sit, taking the chair opposite hers, and fixed her with a look of steely resolve.

"Now tell me," he said, his voice lowering, "what is the meaning of this madness? Why are we here, under guard no less? Has the king lost what little sense he once possessed?"

Rhaenys's expression darkened, and she folded her hands in her lap, her fingers tightening briefly. "Viserys had no hand in this, my love. The king... he is dead."

The statement was delivered with a solemnity that struck Corlys harder than he had anticipated. He stared at her, the words sinking into him with the weight of a great stone. "Dead," he repeated quietly, his tone devoid of its usual commanding strength. "When?"

"Two nights ago," Rhaenys replied, her voice steady though her gaze was distant. "Baela and I arrived shortly after it happened. They say it was peaceful, but such claims are convenient for those who stand to gain from his death. The Greens," she spat, her lips pressing into a thin line. "They wasted no time. Aegon has been crowned king. It is Aemond, however, who seems to steer their course."

The words hung in the air between them, cold and heavy. Corlys leaned back in his chair, his expression darkening. "Aemond," he said, almost to himself. "And this—" he gestured around them, to the guards outside and the locked door "—this is his doing?"

Rhaenys hesitated, her gaze falling briefly to the floor. "I believe he wishes to ensure our support—or, failing that, our neutrality. By force if need be. The fleets of Driftmark are too great a prize for him to leave to chance. And we command two dragons, more than enough to tip the scales."

Corlys's jaw tightened, and he rose to his feet, pacing toward the window with long, deliberate strides. "He dares to think he can bend us with chains? To hold my house in thrall as if we are nothing more than pawns on his board?"

"He spoke of marriage as well," Rhaenys scoffed, her voice cutting through his anger. "Wedding Baela to his brother, Daeron."

The muscles in Corlys's jaw worked furiously as he digested her words. But as he was about to respond the door opened once more, and the guards stepped aside to admit a figure who moved with the deliberate stride of a man who knew he had every advantage. Prince Aemond entered the chamber, his hands clasped lightly behind his back, his gaze sweeping over the room. He was dressed plainly, in dark green and black that seemed to drink in the shadows. A spectre.

Corlys stiffened, his entire frame seeming to grow larger as he turned to face the prince. "You have overstepped, boy," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Release us now, and I may yet find it in me to forgive this insult."

Aemond raised a single brow, his expression unchanging as he moved to one of the chairs and seated himself with deliberate ease. "Lord Velaryon," he said, his tone calm, almost cordial. "I trust you are feeling better? The fever was most concerning."

Corlys narrowed his eyes, the pieces falling into place with chilling clarity. "The fever," he repeated. "That was somehow your doing, wasn't it, wyrm?"

Aemond smiled faintly, though the expression carried no warmth. "It was," he admitted without hesitation. "A precaution, nothing more. A means of ensuring certain... eventualities did not come to pass. One cannot be too careful when dealing with a man of your... stubbornness. But rest assured, my lord, had I wished you dead, you would not be standing here now."

Rhaenys stood abruptly, her posture taut as a bowstring, her voice brimming with righteous indignation. "A precaution?" she repeated, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. "You speak of poisoning my husband as though it were no more consequential than plucking a weed from the garden. Have you no shame, no honour?"

Aemond shifted his gaze to her, his single eye cool and unflinching. "Honor is a luxury afforded to those who can afford to lose," he said with maddening composure. "It is not a currency I trade in lightly. Nor should you, Princess."

Corlys took a step forward, his frame casting a shadow across the room as he loomed over the prince. "Poisoning me was reckless. Killing me would be suicide. You cannot expect this treachery to go unanswered."

Aemond tilted his head slightly, as though considering the thought. "As I said, I could have killed you if I wanted," he admitted with the faintest shrug. "And the truth is, there were few reasons not to. Yet here you stand, hale and hearty. That is no accident, Lord Velaryon. It is a choice."

"Hence," the prince continued, leaning forward in his chair, "I will be courteous and also offer you a choice. War is coming, and when it does, there will be no room for divided loyalties. You must choose a side, my lord. And the side you choose now will ultimately determine the fate of your house."

Corlys folded his arms, his expression stony. "I will not entertain this farce."

"But you will," Aemond said, his voice softening just enough to give his words an air of reason. "While you still have the chance to decide at least. Swear fealty to Aegon, disinherit Rhaenyra's sons, and join us in securing the realm. In return, Driftmark remains yours, and your granddaughter strengthens our houses through her marriage to my brother. And in time, a Velaryon might even sit the Iron Throne. It is a generous offer."

"Generous?" Rhaenys interjected, her voice cold and cutting. "To strip us of our dignity, our honour, and our oaths? To ask us to betray the very blood that runs through our veins? Do not mistake survival for submission, Prince Aemond."

Aemond rose then, his movements slow and deliberate, his height and presence suddenly filling the room. "And what do you imagine will come of loyalty to Rhaenyra?" he asked, his voice calm but laced with meaning. "She is isolated, mistrusted, and unprepared for the war she claims to want. Her cause will drown, and you with it. Or worse—you will live to see Driftmark burn. But I would rather not for it still holds great value to me. Which is why I offer you this path—one that ensures your survival and that of your house."

"And if we refuse?" Corlys asked.

Aemond met his gaze directly. "Then your lives are forfeit," he said without a change in his expression. "I will have no choice but to name Vaemond Velaryon Lord of Driftmark. He is eager, loyal, and willing to serve the crown without hesitation. A subpar alternative given his popularity compared to yours, but one nonetheless."

Silence fell over the room, heavy and suffocating. Aemond turned, his cloak sweeping behind him as he made his way to the door. "You have until morning to decide," he said over his shoulder. "I suggest you use the time wisely."