I sat in silence for several heartbeats, the implications of Vaelen's words swirling in my mind like smoke. The opportunity was perfect and dangerous. Stannis Baratheon was a man of duty and law, someone who would respect a direct approach but would also be deeply suspicious of any Targaryen prince wandering his lands without permission.
"Vaelen," I said, my voice dropping to a serious register that demanded his full attention. "We've agreed that the Crown doesn't care about what I am doing here. They think I'm a child playing at being a lord in a wasteland."
I leaned forward, my eyes locked on the Master of Whisperers. "Would they care if I went to see Stannis personally to discuss trade? Would my presence in the Stormlands be seen as a diplomatic gesture, or would it be interpreted as an act of provocation? An attempt to build an alliance behind Rhaegar's back?"
I needed to gauge the political risk. If my visit triggered a royal summons or an angry raven to King's Landing, it would expose our growing strength far sooner than I was ready for. But if I could establish a direct line to a man as formidable as Stannis, the Green Hills would have a powerful, if grudging, ally in the south.
"If the risk is too high, I will send a proxy perhaps Lord Bar Emmon or even Gareth to handle the negotiations," I continued, weighing the options. "But if I can go myself without raising eyebrows, I'd rather look the man in the eye. A prince who shows up to talk trade rather than war is a prince who can be trusted."
I waited, watching for any flicker of hesitation in Vaelen's expression. I was asking him to measure the distance between a merchant's contract and a declaration of rebellion.
Vaelen went still, his one eye studying me with an intensity that felt like he was reading the pages of my mind. He didn't answer immediately; he knew the weight of what I was asking. The difference between a prince sending a letter and a prince boarding a ship was the difference between commerce and politics.
"In the eyes of King Rhaegar? No. He wouldn't care," Vaelen finally said, his voice carrying a trace of something almost bitter. "He would see it as a child seeking a new adventure or perhaps a boy trying to play at being a diplomat. Rhaegar is so convinced of his own narrative that he cannot imagine anyone else playing a game of their own."
But then his expression shifted. The clinical detachment was replaced by a warning. "However, in the eyes of Jon Connington? That's where the danger lies. Connington is obsessed with his standing in Rhaegar's favor. If he sees a young prince the one he was told was useless swooping in to solve the problems he's been failing to manage in the Stormlands, his pride will be wounded."
Vaelen leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Stannis Baratheon will respect the directness. He despises courtly games and flowery letters. Showing up at his door with grain and a fair contract is the only language Stannis truly understands. But you must understand, Your Highness: you won't be visiting a friend. You'll be walking into the lair of a man who is all iron and no mercy."
"So the question isn't whether Rhaegar will notice," Vaelen concluded, "but whether you're ready to deal with the fallout if Connington feels threatened by your competence."
I could feel the other council members watching me. Larys looked intrigued, Gareth looked nervous about the potential for conflict, and Kellan looked like he wanted to personally escort me just to make sure I didn't get eaten alive.
I let out a long sigh, leaning back in my chair. The political tightrope was already beginning to fray. I didn't need to be a hero or a savior; I needed to be a merchant prince with a dragon's name.
"Kellan," I said, my voice carrying the finality of a royal decree. "Send a missive to Stannis Baratheon. Keep it formal, keep it brief. Tell him that the Prince of Dragonstone requests an audience at Storm's End to discuss mutually beneficial trade agreements. No flowery language, no promises of friendship. Just business."
Kellan nodded, already mentally drafting the letter. "I'll have it sent by the fastest raven we have."
I then turned my gaze to Vaelen, the Master of Whisperers. "And Vaelen, I want you to control the rumors before I even set foot on their docks. I need you to plant the right seeds in the right ears." You are reading on g.com, the official source.
I leaned forward, my eyes sharp. "Make it clear that I've come to Storm's End for one reason and one reason only: profit. I want Jon Connington to believe that I'm nothing more than a greedy boy who's discovered he has grain and wants to sell it for as much gold as possible. He shouldn't fear me as a political rival or a threat to his authority."
I smiled, though there was no humor in it. "Connington's pride is his weakness. If he thinks I'm just chasing coin, he'll dismiss me as ambitious but harmless. He'll let me walk right through the front gates because he won't believe a child could be anything more than a merchant in fancy clothes. He must think I'm there to make a profit, not to solve his mess or stain his hold on the Stormlands."
Vaelen's one eye glinted with approval. "A merchant's mask is the best kind of disguise, Your Highness. People see what they expect to see. They'll see a boy who wants gold, and they'll completely miss the prince who's building an empire."
"Perfect," I said, rising from the table. The bruises from Olyvar's training still throbbed, but I felt more alive than I ever had in the Red Keep. "Prepare my ship and a small escort. I'm going to see if Stannis Baratheon is as made of iron as they say."
***
The massive drum tower of Storm's End loomed over us like a sleeping god, its ancient stones dark and battle scarred by centuries of salt and storm. Even from the deck of our ship, the castle felt less like a building and more like a warning. The waves crashed against the foundations with a violence that made the vessel shudder, sending sprays of bitter seawater high into the air.
"I can take it," Ser Olyvar grunted beside me, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He was already scanning the battlements with the practiced eye of a soldier looking for a breach. "Storm's End has never fallen, but I've never met a wall I couldn't climb or a gate I couldn't break."
I couldn't help but chuckle, though the wind threatened to swallow the sound. "The whole Reach tried, Olyvar, and they failed. Their knights came with silk banners and shining armor and left with broken bones. What makes you think you can do it, huh?" I teased, nudging his shoulder with mine. "Unless you've learned how to swim through solid stone."
Olyvar just gave me that wolfish grin of his. "I don't plan on swimming, Prince. I plan on walking through the front door like I own the place."
I turned away from him, shifting my attention to Gareth Sunglass. Unlike the others, Gareth wasn't looking at the walls for weaknesses or the horizon for enemies; he was staring at the castle with the hungry eyes of a man who saw a fortress that could protect a vault of infinite gold.
"You ever been there, Gareth?" I asked, watching his reaction. "Or is this your first time seeing a real seat of power that wasn't built on green hills and riverbeds?"
Gareth shook his head, his fingers nervously drumming against the wooden railing. "Once, as a boy with my father. We were passing through on a trade expedition from Oldtown. I remember the wind it felt like it wanted to peel the skin right off your bones. And the castle... it didn't look like something built by men. It looked like something carved out of the earth by some angry god."
He swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the imposing structure. "It's intimidating, Your Highness. Even from here, you can feel the weight of it. It doesn't welcome visitors; it tolerates them."
"Good," I said, turning my gaze back to the approaching harbor. "I don't want to be welcomed. I want to be acknowledged. Let them see the grain, let them see the coin, but let them never forget that they're dealing with someone who knows exactly what he's worth."
The ship began to slow as we entered the protective embrace of the harbor, the water churning white against the stone quays. Ahead, I could see the figures of guards moving along the battlements, their armor glinting dully in the fading light. The real game was about to begin. New chapters come out on NovelPing first.
The gangplank hit the stone pier with a solid thud that echoed through the harbor. As I stepped off the ship, a line of guards in polished mail snapped to attention, their weapons clattering against their greaves as they bowed in unison.
"Prince Vaegon," they intoned, their voices carrying across the dock like a rehearsed chorus.
I gave them a lazy wave, not bothering to stop my stride. "Rise, rise," I muttered, though the formality still made the hair on my neck prickle. It was unnerving, honestly. Back in the Green Hills, people greeted me with nods of recognition or grateful smiles, but here, the deference felt heavy, almost ceremonial.
I wasn't dressed for a parade. I wore simple clothes of practical black wool and slate grey linen durable, comfortable, and easy to move in. In the Red Keep, that would have been considered an insult to the crown, but here, it felt right. I wasn't here to perform royalty; I was here to conduct business. The black and grey made me blend into the storm washed stone of the castle rather than stand out like a peacock.
Gareth walked beside me, adjusting his robes and looking around at the imposing architecture with undisguised awe. "They certainly know how to make an entrance, don't they?" he whispered, leaning closer. "Though I do wish they'd wear less steel. It's terribly distracting when one is trying to discuss interest rates."
I glanced at him and shook my head. "Just keep your eyes on the ledgers, Gareth. Let me handle the steel."
The guards fell in behind us as we began the long climb up the winding approach to the main gates. The wind here was relentless, howling through the battlements like something wounded, carrying the sharp tang of salt and old stone. Every few paces, more guards would appear, their faces grim and unreadable as they saluted the young prince who had come to bargain with their lord.
As we approached the massive iron studded gates, two mounted knights in dark steel armor rode out to meet us. Their horses' hooves sounded like thunder against the cobblestones.
"Prince Vaegon Targaryen," one of them announced, his voice carrying over the wind. "Lord Stannis has been informed of your approach. He awaits you in the Great Hall."
The knights turned their mounts in perfect synchronization, the armored horses shifting with a practiced grace that spoke of years of drill. "This way, Your Highness."
I followed, my boots clicking against the wet stone as we wound our way through the labyrinthine passages of the outer ward. The castle was a monster of granite and iron, its corridors narrow and oppressive, designed to funnel enemies into killing zones rather than to welcome guests. The air inside was colder than the wind outside, smelling of ancient dust, burning peat, and the metallic tang of wet stone.
Gareth walked beside me, his breathing slightly labored from the steep climb, while the guards maintained a respectful distance, their armor clanking softly with every step. The silence of the castle was heavy, broken only by our footsteps and the distant drip of water somewhere in the depths.
"You know," Gareth whispered, leaning toward me as we passed through a massive archway that seemed to swallow the torchlight, "if we fail here, we won't just be losing a trade route. We'll be losing our reputation. A prince who comes to Storm's End and leaves empty handed is a prince who looks weak."
"Then make sure your numbers are accurate, Gareth," I replied without looking at him. "I'm not here to rely on reputation. I'm here to rely on what we can prove."
We passed through increasingly ornate chambers great halls with vaulted ceilings that disappeared into shadow, tapestries depicting ancient battles that had long since faded into grey threads until we reached the doors to the Great Hall itself. Two more guards stood before the massive oak doors, their faces as stern as the stone they guarded.
"The Lord of Storm's End awaits," one said, stepping aside.