Dragonstone rose out of the mist as it always did—black stone shaped into dragons, ancient and brooding, with the Dragonmont smoking faintly behind it like a beast that had never truly gone back to sleep.
Alric stood at the prow of his galley and watched the island grow larger.
Coming home always left him with the same feeling: something between comfort and suffocation.
The harbor was quieter than it should have been.
Fewer ships than he remembered from childhood.
Fewer voices calling across the water.
Fewer hands working the docks.
He had noticed it on each return these past two years, and every time the sight settled in his gut like a stone.
Davos noticed him staring.
“Something troubles you, my lord?”
“Nothing.” Alric’s eyes stayed on the harbor.
“Though it seems someone has been a pain in my arse.”
Then his face hardened.
“Not the first time. It is about time I deal with it.”
Davos nodded, but he smelled trouble in those words.
By the time they docked, word of the battle had already outrun them.
Some fisherman or merchant vessel must have seen the smoke, the wreckage, and the ruined longships and carried the tale ahead.
A small crowd waited near the harbor gate.
At its front stood a familiar stooped figure in maester’s robes, his silver chain heavy around his neck.
“Welcome back, my lord,” Maester Cressen said, inclining his head as Alric came down the gangplank.
“I hope your voyage was pleasant.”
“You could say that.” Alric clasped the old man’s forearm, genuine warmth breaking through his usual sharpness.
Whatever else Cressen was—cautious, disapproving, endlessly patient—he was one of the few men alive who had known Alric long enough to speak honestly to him.
“There were some squids in the way,” Alric added.
“They made the journey more interesting. Always a pleasure to crush a few squid skulls.”
Cressen’s eyebrows rose.
“Appropriate language, my lord. You are not at sea now. You are Lord of Dragonstone, nephew to the King, nephew to the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, and—”
“Aye, aye, I understand.” Alric sighed.
Cressen had always been like this.
Always correcting his tongue, his habits, his drinking, his women, and every other part of his life that did not resemble Stannis Baratheon.
“Enough of that. Speaking of the Lord of Stormlands, the squids mistook me for Uncle Renly. Quite interesting isn’t it.”
“Lord Renly?” Cressen frowned.
“Its obvious My Lord Lord Renly has been on journey across realm and has been gathering his fame.That proves what I have told you before, my lord. You must spend more time among the lords of the realm. You cannot sail from port to port forever.”
“I know.” Alric said sighing at the nagging.”But I have been busy as you see.”
“I know you have an ambition, My Lord. Every Great Man has an ambition.You take inspiration from Corlys Velaryon, and that is not foolish. A fleet, trade, wealth, and influence are worthy ambitions. But Lord Corlys was already born into a different circumstances. Your circumstances are different. You can do several more things other than wandering off in the seas.”
“Enough, Cressen.” Alric’s jaw tightened at the old man’s nagging.
“I understand your point. As I told you before, that was my last long voyage for a while. I will make time for the things you keep telling me about.”
Cressen’s expression softened.
“An excellent decision, my lord. Your uncle Renly is traveling the realm as well, attending tourneys and visiting great houses. You might join him on his progress.”
Alric shook his head.
“Nah. I am good.”
Cressen looked ready to argue, but Alric continued.
“We will speak later. There is much to do, and rest is one of those things. We will talk tonight, after supper.”
The maester sighed, but bowed his head.
“Of course, my lord.”
“See to the goods and treasure we brought back,” Alric called to Davos and the harbor men.
“Make sure none of it grows legs before it reaches the castle.”
Then he turned toward Dragonstone’s gates.
Behind him, sailors, guardsmen, and dockworkers began unloading the cargo: trade goods, captured weapons, ironborn plunder, and the hard-earned wealth of Alric’s voyage.
The Solar
Cressen’s chambers had not changed in all the years Alric had known them.
There were shelves of books, the smell of old parchment and dried herbs, and a fire that never seemed to burn warmly enough for the old man’s bones.
Alric dropped into the chair across from Cressen’s desk, stretching his legs out while the maester poured two cups of wine.
His hands trembled slightly as he worked.
“Now,” Alric said, taking the cup, “give me your reports. It was a long voyage. Let us see what the realm has been doing while I was away.”
Cressen nodded.
“Perhaps we should begin with Lord Renly. It seems the most natural place.”
Alric sighed but did not argue.
“Your uncle has been traveling through the realm and attending several tourneys, especially in the Reach. It appears that Lord Renly and House Tyrell have formed a good relationship.”
That seemed to irritate Alric.
“Were we not supposed to hate the Tyrells? The siege, remember? Father and Uncle Robert held that grudge for years.Well Uncle Renly always did seem different from the rest of us.”
He shrugged as though it did not matter, though Cressen had known him too long to miss the edge in his voice.
“It is a wise move by Lord Renly,” the maester replied.
“The Reach feeds much of Westeros. Friendship with the Tyrells is not a thing to dismiss.”
“Perhaps.”
“And the Baratheons have more ties to the Reach than you seem willing to remember,” Cressen continued.
“Your late mother was Lord Randyll Tarly’s sister. Lord Tarly is among the most powerful men in the Reach, and he is your uncle.”
Alric’s expression did not change, but he listened.
“There is always a larger picture in politics, my lord. Not everything is as simple as sailing away whenever the mood takes you.”
Alric smirked.
“Trust me, Cressen. Sailing a ship is not simple either.”
The maester gave him a tired look.
“Of course.”
“But since we are speaking of ships,” Alric said, the smirk fading, “why are there fewer of them in the harbor?”
At thatCressen went quiet.
That was the question he had dreaded.
The question he had hoped would wait another month.
Perhaps another year.
What could he say to his lord?
What could he tell his Lord except that Dragonstone had been robbed while he was too inexperienced and Young to stop it?
He set his wine down.
“The number has reduced because ships have been taken from Dragonstone,” Cressen said at last.
Alric’s eyes narrowed.
“Sent where?”
“That,” Cressen said carefully, “is where the matter becomes difficult.”