Driftmark — Seat of House Velaryon
Lord Monford Velaryon received news of Alric’s return with far less surprise than the small council had managed.
“Burned three longships and killed their crews near the Stepstones,” he said to his maester, scanning the letter a second time as though searching for details he might have missed.
“That sounds like the boy well enough. He has been picking fights with squids since he was old enough to hold an oar.”
House Velaryon had always watched
Dragonstone more closely than most.
Their islands lay too near one another for anything that happened on Dragonstone to go unnoticed on Driftmark.
They had shared waters, sailors, merchants, and danger for generations.
They were too close not to care and too close not to watch.
Even though The Targaryens have fallen, Another Royal Family kins has taken thier place on Dragonstone.
It has always been important place for the Crown.
Fall of Targaryen was a pretty hard for Houses like Velaryons and Celtigars who have been with them for over 300 years now.
They shared thier Valyriyan Heritage.
But Even we can’t deny the Mad King Tyranny.
Though there was hope in The Silver Prince but it all died in battle of Trident.
Crushed by Demon of the Trident.
“There seem to be difficult times ahead,” Lord Monford said, more to himself than his maester.
“He will surely fuss over the ships. He was angry about them even then and he was but a mere boy then.”
He set the letter down, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
“Now he has grown some fangs. It remains to be seen who he will bare them at. After all, we all took a share of the pie.”
The maester remained silent.
“Though I hope the Crown takes all the blame this time,” Lord Monford added.
“Send word to Dragonstone. Let him know Driftmark stands ready, whatever he intends to do about it.” He is saying knowing things won’t go too bad, After all Robert Baratheon no matter how cold and hard the King is, He still pity and love for his nephew.
He raised him after all or atleast did his part.
The maester nodded, though he looked both nervous and confused.
Claw Isle — Seat of House Celtigar
House Celtigar’s fortunes had been built through centuries of survival and Strategic loyalty to the Iron Throne, rather than any particular devotion to House Baratheon.
“Young Lord Alric has returned, my lord,” his steward reported.
“And it seems he made trouble at sea with the ironborn. We should take precautionary measures. He is dangerous with his fleets and sailors, and he has already defeated ironborn raiders. He also has some reputation in Essos.”
Lord Ardrian scoffed.
“No need to worry about some brat. He is still wet behind the ears. Why should I fear a boy who could not even protect his own assets?”
His steward sighed quietly at his lord’s arrogance.
He couldn’t tell if this was the right decision or not.
Sweetport Sound — Seat of House Sunglass
Lord Guncer Sunglass read the letter three times before he allowed himself to set it down.
Even then, his hands were not quite steady.
He remembered Alric at twelve years old: a solemn, guarded boy freshly arrived at Dragonstone after years spent largely in King’s Landing, still grieving a father he had barely known and a mother lost even before that.
In the years since, Guncer had made certain decisions regarding Dragonstone’s ships, its gold, and its levies.
Decisions made, he told himself, in the boy’s own interest, given how rarely Alric had set foot on the island long enough to manage such matters himself.
Decisions that had, admittedly, benefited House Sunglass more than they had benefited Dragonstone’s treasury.
“My lord?” his steward asked, noticing his stillness.
“The young lord has returned,” Guncer said quietly.
“Permanently, it seems, this time.”
“Is that troubling news, my lord?”
Guncer did not answer immediately.
He was thinking of a boy of twelve who had watched him with quiet, assessing eyes as he swore fealty—eyes that had seemed far too old for the face they belonged to.
“I met him only once, when he first arrived,” Guncer said finally.
“He was quite a mouthy brat then. Angry, but there was nothing he could do really. He was twelve.”
His steward waited.
Guncer’s fingers tightened around the letter.
“He is not twelve anymore.”
Sharp Point — Seat of House Bar Emmon
Ser Willem Cobb had served House Bar Emmon for the better part of two years.
Lord Alric Baratheon himself had sent the knight to help the young Lord Bar Emmon manage a territory far too large for a boy of fourteen to rule alone. New chapters come out on g.com first.
It was not a grand posting in the hindsight, but Willem had come to genuinely like the boy—earnest, quick-tempered in the particular way of children forced to grow up too quickly, and fiercely loyal to the friend who had sent him aid rather than merely demanded blind loyalty.
He found young Lord Duran Bar Emmon exactly where he usually was at that hour, arguing with his steward over grain stores with far more confidence than his age suggested he had earned.
“Ser Willem.” Duran looked up, grateful for the interruption.
“Please tell Maester Wendell that we do not need to stockpile grain as though a siege is coming. It has been a good harvest.”
“I shall leave the grain to you, my lord.” Willem allowed himself a small smile.
“I have news that concerns you rather more.”
Duran’s expression shifted immediately, curiosity replacing irritation.
“What news?”
“Lord Alric has returned to Dragonstone.”
“He is always returning to Dragonstone,” Duran said, though there was eagerness in his voice beneath the dismissiveness.
“He will be gone again soon enough. He usually leaves within a month.”
“Not this time, my lord. Word is he has declared this his last voyage. He intends to stay.”
Willem paused, watching the boy’s face carefully.
“And he intends to visit you once matters at Dragonstone are settled.”
Whatever careful composure Duran had been cultivating for his steward’s benefit vanished entirely.
He grinned, looking for a moment exactly like the fourteen-year-old boy he was rather than the young lord he was still learning to become.
“Truly? He is staying? For good?”
“So it seems, my lord.”
“Well.” Duran tried unsuccessfully to make his face dignified again.
“That is… good. Sharp Point has missed his visits.”
He cleared his throat and glanced toward his steward, who was doing a poor job of hiding his amusement.
“Ser Willem, send word back to Dragonstone. Tell Lord Alric that please look forward to my visit in Dragonstone. I wish to see my friend.”
Willem inclined his head, already composing the raven in his mind.
Privately, however, he suspected no message would reach Dragonstone half as quickly as the news now spreading through every vassal holding upon Blackwater Bay: the Young Lord of Dragonstone was home.
And this time, he intended to stay long enough to settle every debt owed to him.