I lay sprawled across the sun bleached planks of the deck, staring up at the endless expanse of grey sky. My arms were spread wide, and I let out a sigh so long and dramatic it would have made a court actor weep with envy. The salt spray of the Narrow Sea misted my face, and for a moment, I just wanted to drift away into the horizon.
"Come on, get up," a rough voice rumbled above me. I felt a thick finger poke me sharply in the cheek. "No prince looks like a landed fish."
I didn't even open my eyes. "Shut up, you monster," I groaned, batting at his hand. "I've just left behind a good friend to go back to being tortured by you and settling problems. My life is a tragedy."
A high pitched giggle erupted from behind me. I opened one eye to see Gareth hunched over his ledger again, his quill scratching furiously against the parchment. He looked like a man possessed by a gold fever. For three days, he hadn't talked about anything except profit margins and delivery schedules. He was probably mentally building a second palace out of the coin we were about to make from Stannis's desperation.
"Your Highness," Gareth chirped without looking up, "if we optimize the return voyage with a small shipment of Stormland timber, we could increase our quarterly projections by another eight percent."
"Eight percent," I muttered, rolling onto my side to glare at him. "Gareth, I am mourning my lost childhood and my new friend, and all you can think about is eight percent."
"Eight percent is eight percent, Your Highness."
Olyvar snorted, crossing his arms as he looked down at me with that wolfish grin. "You're getting soft, Vaegon. Three days with a Baratheon and suddenly you're a poet."
The guards around us didn't even glance our way. To them, this was just another day in the life of the Dragonstone crew: a prince who acted like a commoner, a knight who treated his lord like a punching bag, and an accountant who loved numbers more than people. We were a walking disaster of protocol. Any lord from King's Landing would have had a stroke watching us, but as I looked at Olyvar's smirk and Gareth's manic scribbling, I realized I wouldn't trade them for a hundred perfect courtiers.
***
The moment my boots hit the stone quays of Dragonstone, the organized chaos of my return erupted around me. There was no dignified procession, no measured approach just the familiar, glorious madness of my own people.
"Your Highness! Welcome home!" Larys Velaryon practically teleported to my side, his eyes bright with an almost feverish intensity. "The new pier sections are already holding, and I've been thinking about the crane mechanisms we could triple the loading speed if we implement a counterweight system using "
"Larys, Larys," I interrupted, grinning as I stepped past him. "Did the ship survive the crossing? Did anyone fall overboard?"
"Irrelevant! The docks are the priority!" he insisted, already gesturing toward the construction site as if I could read the blueprints in the air.
Behind me, the sound of rapid fire arguing filled the air. Gareth had spotted Kellan and Vaelen near the warehouse district and was charging toward them like a bull in a china shop. "Kellan! Vaelen! You won't believe it the Stormland contract! The margins are magnificent! If we reallocate the silver from the Celtigar trade routes, we can double our grain reserves before the winter solstice!"
Kellan looked like he wanted to retreat into the nearest alley, while Vaelen simply closed his eyes for a moment, as if praying for patience. "Slow down, Master Gareth," Vaelen muttered, though I could see the corner of his mouth twitch. "The coin won't sprout from the stones while you're shouting at it."
And then there was Olyvar. A few yards away, he was surrounded by a cluster of guards who looked like they wanted to be anywhere else.
"You call that a stance?" Olyvar's voice boomed, dripping with theatrical disdain. "If a Stormlander charges you now, you'll be eating dirt before you can draw steel! And this gate " he pointed toward the fortress, " if we had to storm Storm's End, we wouldn't come through the front like idiots. We'd take the seaward approach under cover of fog!" Enjoying the story? Read on at novelping . com.
I stood there for a moment, watching them all my council, my army, my makeshift family. They were loud, they were unprofessional, and they were utterly magnificent.
"Home sweet home," I whispered to myself, then turned to the assembled chaos. "Alright, enough chatter! Larys, show me the docks. Gareth, stop drooling on your ledgers. And Olyvar try not to start a war before lunch!"
***
We stood around the ancient, blackened table in the Small Council chamber, the stone surface cool beneath my palms. The room felt smaller than usual, packed with the energy of our return. Gareth was practically vibrating as he laid out the numbers, his voice carrying the triumphant cadence of a man who had just won a war without firing a single arrow.
"The margins are solid, my lords," Gareth said, tapping a finger on the parchment. "Stannis Baratheon may be as hard as the rock he lives on, but he's pragmatic. The five percent premium is small enough to be palatable but large enough to build our reserves faster than we anticipated."
I nodded, taking over the narrative. I told them about the journey, about the conversations with Stannis, and about the unexpected connection with the young Baratheon heir. I described the way Lyonel had looked at me not as a political pawn, but as an equal.
"He's a good lad," I said, leaning back against the table. "A bit stiff, but he's got more backbone than half the lords in the Crownlands. He wants to see Dragonstone. He wants to see what we're actually building here."
I noticed Vaelen's reaction. The Master of Whisperers had been listening with his usual detached scrutiny, but as I finished, his one eye brightened with something resembling genuine surprise. He had clearly expected me to return with stories of tense standoffs and diplomatic hostility.
"It's not that surprising, actually, now that I think about it," Vaelen said after a moment of silence. His voice was quiet, thoughtful. "The Baratheons are upright people, Prince Vaegon. They value duty, honesty, and bluntness above all else. Knowing the truth of your life at the Red Keep the way you were treated it would have infuriated them. It would have made them want to protect what was denied to you."
He paused, his gaze turning toward the window where the sea met the sky. "Especially Selyse. A woman like that has little patience for cruelty that serves no purpose. To them, your survival isn't just luck; it's a testament to your character."
Kellan grunted in agreement. "Honest men tend to recognize honest men, even when they're nine years old."
"It's more than that," Larys interjected, his eyes dancing. "You didn't just make an ally, Prince. You created a vulnerability in their armor. They think they know you now. And that makes them dangerous but it also makes them predictable."
I looked around at my council. "Predictable is good. Predictable means I can plan. Now, let's talk about what we do with this momentum."
Larys didn't even wait for me to finish my sentence. The moment the word 'momentum' left my lips, he was leaning over the table, his eyes alight with the manic energy of a man who lived for construction and commerce.
"Speaking of momentum, Your Highness, we must discuss the port immediately," Larys said, his fingers dancing across a freshly inked schematic. "The foundation stones for the new south pier have been laid, but the tide has been treacherous. We need to accelerate the masonry work before the autumn storms arrive."
He pointed to a section of the drawing where the harbor curved inward. "I've been reconsidering the berth depths. If we deepen the eastern channel by another three feet, we won't just accommodate merchant cogs from the Free Cities; we could welcome the larger galleys from Braavos and even some of the heavier Lysene vessels. More depth means more ships, and more ships mean more customs duties for our treasury."
"And more security concerns," Kellan interjected, crossing his arms. "Deeper water means easier access for raiders if our patrols aren't sufficient."
"Which is why I've already proposed the new lighthouse tower as part of the harbor plan," Larys shot back without missing a beat. "Not just for navigation, but as a fortified watchtower. It will give our crossbowmen a clear line of sight over the entire approach. We can turn the harbor itself into a killing field if anyone tries to force their way in."
Gareth chimed in, his mind already three steps ahead. "If we invest in the lighthouse now, we can market Dragonstone as the safest port in the Narrow Sea. Merchants pay a premium for safety, Larys. We could charge a docking fee specifically for the protection of the tower." Visit novelping . com for the full chapter.
I watched them work, the conversation flowing between them like water through a well oiled machine. They weren't just arguing; they were building. The port wasn't just a dock; it was becoming the heartbeat of our growing power.
"How long to complete the primary quays?" I asked, focusing on Larys. "I want to have the first merchant vessels arriving before the winter winds truly bite."
Larys tapped his chin thoughtfully, his fingers tracing the lines of the schematic. "Six months, Your Highness. At least. We're not just building a fishing pier for a few local boats. We're preparing to welcome merchants from Oldtown, White Harbor, probably King's Landing, and certainly the Free Cities. These are ships with deep drafts and crews with short tempers. We need space, decent stone quays, and proper storage facilities. Quality takes time."
I nodded, satisfied with the answer. "Focus on that. Make it solid enough to survive a century of storms."
Then I turned my attention to Vaelen. The Master of Whisperers had been quiet during the technical discussion about docks and depth, his one eye fixed on me with that unsettling, analytical stillness. "What about Connington and the Capital?" I asked. "Have our rumors about this journey worked? Does the world believe I went to Storm's End uniquely for profit?"
Vaelen smiled thinly, the expression not reaching his eye. "More than just believe it, Your Highness. They've embraced it. The word in King's Landing is that Prince Vaegon has finally shown his true colors: those of a merchant prince with no loyalty except to his own purse."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Connington is particularly pleased. He believes he has successfully categorized you as 'ambitious but harmless.' In his mind, you're a child playing at business, and as long as you're chasing gold, you're not chasing power. He's even mentioned to his associates that your presence in the Stormlands is a minor curiosity rather than a threat."
"Perfect," I said, feeling a cold satisfaction. "Let him sleep soundly. The more he dismisses me as a greedy boy, the less he'll notice when I've woven myself into the very fabric of his territory's survival."
I shifted my weight, the playful mood from the docks completely evaporating. Of all the players in this game, there was one whose shadow reached further than any other.
"There is one person that is concerning me," I said, my voice dropping. "Tywin Lannister."
I looked at Vaelen. "That's a man who truly knows how to rule, even if he's blinded by his own pride. He made a great mistake with his own son, Tyrion. In my view, the Imp is the only one of his children worthy of his name. He has the mind his father claims to possess." I paused, the thought of the Old Lion making me wary. "What does he think of me?"
Vaelen's expression darkened. He knew exactly why I was asking. Tywin Lannister didn't deal in rumors or assumptions; he dealt in assets and liabilities. He didn't care if you were a prince or a peasant; he only cared if you were useful or if you were an obstacle.
"Lord Tywin is not like Connington," Vaelen answered slowly. "He does not dismiss things as 'harmless' or 'curious.' He observes. He collects data. He has been tracking your progress in the Green Hills since the first shipment of grain reached the mainland."
Vaelen leaned in, his one eye fixed on mine. "Currently, he views you as an anomaly. An unpredictable variable. He doesn't know if you're a fool who got lucky or a prodigy who's been hiding his claws. But Tywin is a man who despises unpredictability. He cannot control a variable he doesn't understand."
"So he's not dismissing me?" I asked.
"Hardly," Vaelen replied. "He's watching you. He's waiting to see if you're a tool he can use to undermine Rhaegar, or a threat that needs to be neutralized before it grows too large. He doesn't see a greedy boy, Your Highness. He sees a potential power base forming on Dragonstone, and that alone makes you interesting enough to be dangerous in his eyes."