I strode into the castle behind Lord Kellan, my boots clicking hollowly on the flagstones. The grandeur of Dragonstone was still there in its bones, but it was a skeleton wrapped in decay. Thick layers of dust coated every surface, and spiderwebs hung from the vaulted ceilings like funeral shrouds. I could see where mortar had crumbled between the stones and where moisture had wept down the walls, leaving dark, ugly stains. The castle didn't need a king; it needed a mason, a carpenter, and a miracle.
The air inside was colder than the wind outside, stagnant and heavy with the smell of old ash.
I glanced sideways at Ser Olyvar as we walked through the dim corridors. His armor clanked softly with every step, but there was something off about his authority or lack thereof.
"Never presented yourself as the head of the guards," I said quietly, testing the waters. I wanted to gauge the actual military strength of this place. "You carry yourself like someone who commands, but you don't look like you're running the show."
Olyvar gave a dismissive shrug, not bothering to hide his irritation at being questioned by a child. "Don't flatter yourself, little prince. There are ten guards at Dragonstone. Ten. We're spread thinner than gruel."
He glanced at the shadows dancing along the walls. "I am just the oldest and the only one that actually fought during my time as a sellsword in the Desolated Lands. That means I get the worst shifts and the most complaints."
"Ten?" I repeated, my stomach sinking. Ten men to guard a fortress built for hundreds? A single ambitious sellsword company could take this place before breakfast. "That's not a garrison. That's a target."
"It's a tomb, more like," Olyvar muttered.
We reached a set of heavy iron bound doors that led into what appeared to be Kellan's solar. The lord stopped, turning to face me one last time before entering. His lined face was unreadable in the torchlight.
"If you want to make this place breathe, boy, you'll need more than pretty words and a royal name," Kellan said grimly. "You'll need gold, steel, and men who don't fear the dark. And right now, we have none of those."
He pushed the doors open, revealing a room filled with maps that were yellowed with age and a hearth that held more ash than flame. "Sit. We'll see if your stomach is as strong as your tongue."
I took the seat Kellan offered, the wooden chair creaking ominously under my weight. A servant a girl who looked scarcely older than myself, with hollow cheeks and eyes that seemed to have seen too many winters set a wooden bowl of porridge before me. It was lukewarm and lumpy, tasting faintly of oats and nothing else, but to me, it was a feast. I ate slowly, methodically, forcing myself to chew each mouthful so I wouldn't choke or fall ill, all while keeping my eyes fixed on the map Kellan spread across the scarred table.
The map was old, the parchment brittle at the edges. It showed Dragonstone as a dark fist thrust into the sea, with the Crownlands to the west and the narrow passages to the east. Get faster updates on novelping . com.
Kellan leaned forward, the torchlight casting deep shadows across his lined face. "Your Highness," he began, his voice dropping into a register of grim seriousness. "I will not lie to you to make you feel welcome. Dragonstone is not a kingdom. It is a corpse that hasn't been buried yet."
He pointed a gnarled finger at the island. "The Velaryons have turned their backs on us. Their ships patrol the Blackwater, but they don't stop here unless they're fleeing a storm. The trade routes that once fed this port have shifted north, toward Driftmark and Gulltown. We are isolated."
His finger moved to the mainland. "The Crownlands themselves are bleeding. The King's taxes have become... creative. What little coin makes its way here is swallowed up by the bureaucracy in King's Landing before it even reaches our docks. The merchants who do come here bring nothing but complaints about prices and pirates."
He looked up at me, his gaze piercing. "And then there is the matter of the people. They are angry, Prince Vaegon. Angry at the Crown for forgetting them, and angry at the Castellan of Dragonstone for failing to protect them. They see the castle as a symbol of everything that has failed. They don't see a protector; they see a vulture sitting on a pile of bones."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle between us. "You say you want to make this place breathe. But how do you feed a population that has forgotten what it feels like to be full? How do you command respect from men who have nothing left to lose?"
"I am seven, Kellan. Don't expect pies to fall from the sky," I said grimly, wiping a stray drop of porridge from my lip. I didn't want platitudes or false hope; I wanted intelligence. "If I wanted comfort, I would have stayed in the Red Keep playing with wooden swords. I want to know who holds the power in these waters."
I leaned over the map, my small fingers tracing the coastline. "I need to know the current situation of the Velaryons and the houses of the peninsula. I need to know who can be an ally, and who is already sharpening their knives to become an enemy."
Kellan stared at me for a long moment, his lined face unreadable. Then, he let out a breath that sounded like wind through dead leaves. "Very well. If you want the truth, you'll have it."
He tapped the waters surrounding Driftmark. "Lord Larys Velaryon is stretched thin. He can barely survive with his trades, clinging to what scraps of maritime influence remain. The title of Lord of Tides is now an empty honor, a hollow shell. From what I've heard from passing sailors, the House Velaryon is in worse shape than it was during the worst days of the Dance of Dragons. They have the name, but they lack the dragons and the gold to back it up. To Larys, Dragonstone isn't an ancestral seat; it's a liability. A burden that costs him coin he doesn't have."
His finger moved inland, toward the rocky coastlines of the Crownlands. "As for the other houses... they are opportunistic vultures. House Rosby grows fat on their proximity to the capital, playing both sides of every court intrigue. House Stokeworth worries more about their grain shipments to King's Landing than they do about the safety of our waters. And House Brown? They left the northern peninsula entirely to install themselves in the Reach like dogs at night, hoarding whatever ancient trinkets they have left."
He leaned back, crossing his arms. "The peninsula is a collection of frightened nobles and greedy merchants, all waiting for someone to either save them or rob them. There is no unity here, Prince. Only survival." The source of this chapter is novelping(.)com.
I didn't look up from the map. I had been paying attention to the geography not just the big players like the Velaryons, but the smaller cogs that kept the machinery of the island running. The vassals. The men who owed their loyalty directly to the seat I now claimed.
"What about the houses that actually answer to Dragonstone castle?" I asked, my finger finding the scattered points of the peninsula. "House Celtigar of Claw Isle, Bar Emmon of Sharp Point, and House Sunglass of Sweetport Sound?"
Kellan's face darkened at the mention of the names. He didn't even bother to point to them on the map this time; he just shook his head.
"Loyalty requires a reason to exist, Your Highness. Right now, those houses have no reason to answer to anyone."
He sighed, rubbing his temples. "House Bar Emmon is... present. They still hold Sharp Point, but they've become isolationists. They've stopped sending their full tithes years ago, and I can't blame them. Why send gold to a castle that sends nothing but orders to keep the fires burning?"
He continued, his voice dripping with bitterness. "House Sunglass is worse. They're more concerned with their own trade than with any obligation to Dragonstone. They've essentially turned Sweetport Sound into their own private fiefdom. They acknowledge the Crown when it's convenient, but they haven't sent a messenger to this castle in three years."
"And Celtigar?" I prompted.
"The Celtigars are... struggling," Kellan admitted. "Their lands are harsh, and the sea has been cruel to them lately. They're the only ones who might still feel some shred of duty, simply because they're too poor to afford the arrogance of the others. But duty doesn't fill bellies."
He looked at me, his eyes hard. "In short: you have three vassals who either don't care if you're alive or don't have the means to help you if you are. You're the Prince of Dragonstone in name, Vaegon. But in reality, you're a king of nothing but rocks and salt."