The Summer Sea.
A vast stretch of water connecting Westeros, Essos, and Sothoryos.
And a pirate’s paradise.
Since Tyrosh, Lys, and Myr formed the Triarchy, the so-called Kingdom of the Three Daughters, the scattered pirates from the Narrow Sea to the Summer Sea had thinned out.
But they were replaced by “legal” ones.
Ironic?
Not at all.
Sea trade made money fast, but nothing beat a business with zero overhead.
Ships from Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh were especially good at switching between merchantman and raider.
Some even teamed up with ironborn longship crews from the Sunset Sea.
The whole ocean existed in a strange superposition of peace and chaos.
On the open water, a large galley was slowly going under.
Another, its sails painted with the naked-girl coin, was trying to flee.
It wasn’t getting far.
A sail-galley a full size larger clung to its stern, hurling stones.
A second towering warship closed from the other flank, the wind perfect, its vast sails bellied out.
Without a single oar, it knifed through the waves and pulled alongside the galley in moments.
Both great ships flew purple sails bearing a fire-breathing silver dragon and a laurel wreath.
Three or four more sail-galleys with the same sails were closing fast.
“Goddess curse it.” The pirate captain ducked a volley of javelins and stones and grabbed his first mate as the man scrambled across the deck.
“You swore this stretch was safe.
Where the hell did the Silver Dragon fleet come from?”
“I don’t know!” The first mate shoved him off.
“Raise the whi-”
A javelin took him through the chest.
Then came the full storm.
Arrows, javelins, stones.
“White flag!
Raise the white flag!” The captain watched the big ship drive straight for his bow.
“No-”
Crunch.
The great ship rammed the pirate bow head-on, its prow riding up and down.
Timbers shattered.
The whole galley slewed sideways.
After that, it was simple.
The second sail-galley closed in, threw grappling hooks, and took the prize.
Standard procedure for a Valezeth warship was to strip a pirate vessel of its valuables, free any slaves the Lysene had taken, and scuttle the hull.
House Valezeth had been doing it for a long time.
This time, the routine slowed down.
Because they found a young man aboard.
“That’s the whole story.”
Evans Dayne laid out his origins with earnest sincerity.
He came from distant Westeros, a younger son of House Dayne of Starfall in Dorne.
No inheritance, so his family sent him to the Citadel in Oldtown to study.
Pirates took him during an excursion.
He and several companions were captured.
This was the shipyard and docks near Volantis’s deepwater harbor.
Volantis possessed a natural deepwater port that stretched beyond sight, the reason it had always held its place as a trade power.
The shipyard and docks belonged to House Valezeth.
The moment word reached him that his fleet had rescued a maester from Westeros, Lancel rushed over from the Senate, still worn out from the endless wrangling.
Doctor Vysaris, who had stayed behind, came too.
He was, after all, the only one who could confirm this “maester” was the real thing.
“An assistant maester.” Doctor Vysaris pronounced the verdict the instant he saw Evans.
Evans went red.
He scratched his head, embarrassed.
He hadn’t sworn his vows yet.
His chain held only three links: black iron for ravenry, gold for economics, red copper for history.
Nothing next to Doctor Vysaris’s multicolored collar.
Maesters were a profession unique to Westeros.
They trained at the Citadel in Oldtown.
A full maester endured a long apprenticeship and assistant period before swearing his vows, once he proved competent in every field.
A Westerosi maester was scholar, physician, engineer, economist, historian, even military strategist.
The Citadel held the largest library in Westeros and a near-monopoly on knowledge.
Upon taking the vows, a maester gave up his family name, no matter how noble, and all claims to inheritance.
The Citadel assigned sworn maesters to lords’ castles to manage affairs for those often barely literate nobles, or to serve as healers.
One lord had said of his maester: “Sometimes I think my maester is the real lord of the castle.”
They served their assigned castle for life, until death.
The highest office was Grand Maester in King’s Landing.
“Who was your teacher, assistant?”
“Maester Grey,” Evans said carefully.
“Ah.” Doctor Vysaris nodded and turned to Lancel.
“You can trust him.
This boy is my student’s student.”
Lancel looked Evans Dayne over from head to foot.
The young assistant, seventeen, wore a filthy grey robe.
Pale skin, short pale-gold hair, striking violet eyes.
“Matches the books.”
Lancel’s entire impression of Westeros came from the volumes Doctor Vysaris had brought and his mother’s ramblings when she was still lucid.
But Doctor Vysaris had left Westeros decades ago.
When he departed, King Jaehaerys I still sat the Iron Throne.
The Old King was long dead now.
The new king already had grandchildren.
Lancel had been running nonstop for days.
He was tired.
But some things needed asking.
Like the current state of Westeros.
Its lands and customs.
The fire prophecy had told Lancel that if he succeeded in the Valyrian ruins, he would soon sail for Westeros.
He needed intelligence first.
Listening to stories was easier than racking his brain.
Lancel took his seat and motioned for Evans Dayne to sit.
“I-” The young maester looked uneasy, but Lynn Valtaken, barely containing a grin, urged him down.
“Maester Evans, I need to ask you about the Sunset Lands.
The current situation, the people, the customs.” Lancel poured a cup of fruit wine and handed it over.
“I’ll tell you everything I know.” Evans Dayne eyed the cup, hesitated, then drank.
A unique sweet-tart taste.
Rich fruit aroma.
“Start with politics.” Lancel poured himself a cup but didn’t drink.
“The current king of Westeros.
The great lords.”