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Eighteen
🕑 Added 2025-12-01 06:49:29 +0000 UTCDriftmark—Hull
98 AC (Eleventh Moon—Day 13)
Corlys II
Corlys prided himself on all he’d accomplished till now. He’d done what no man recorded had managed. In one lifetime—scarce that, even—he’d lifted a house with naught but ties to the ruling kin and forged a power feared and exalted.
His feats weren’t primed gifts—nay, wit, toil, stubbornness, fickle fortune had wrought them, seeing him here today. A handful of ships, a chest of coins. Had he faltered on those voyages, he’d have doomed his house to beggary, prestige withered for a century or two.
Folly, his deeds. Ambition festered to avarice.
Yet he hadn’t failed. There lay his pride—for pride it was. Success upon success upon success. He knew advantage—knew how to seize it, wring it dry to its furthest edge.
The swell of his house’s might after those voyages—such an example. Another: claiming the title and position of Master of Ships. From that perch, he’d courted Rhaenys, won her heart—and Aemon’s blessing.
Advantage spawning advantage.
With Rhaenys claimed, the throne loomed next. But Corlys was no arrogant fool—merely prideful. When he wed her, he aimed not to perch as consort beside her—that’d be grasping, mad. Aemon lived then, and Jocelyn still had been young and fertile. He’d wager the woman still was to this day.
A son from them had been inevitable and unquestioned.
Thus, wedding Rhaenys, he’d hoped their daughter might wed her brother, and that way, Corlys would have had his blood on the throne through his grandson.
He would have had Aemon’s ear as king. His goodson’s ear as king. And finally, left his will through his grandson.
Of course, that never came to being. Aemon had died before siring a son on his wife.
Corlys felt that the point he’d lost his wits—all deeds since reeking of dullness and petulance.
In that witless state, he’d managed only to shove himself further from his intended goal. Idiocy. He ought to have known better and wiser and sharper.
Emotions were fickle things—it was folly to let them reign.
But this was a truth he’d long known. Here, one might prod him: if the truth sat old in his bones, what spurred its gnawing now?
That answer lay in the idiocy of houses—ones with all they needed to flourish, to seize influence unrivalled—having those advantages stripped clean from them.
Yes, Corlys had given himself to foolishness for a time—but how it quelled his heart with pride, knowing he hadn’t squandered opportunities the likes of which the Hightowers had clutched.
“…there are words in here which know no presence in the original text,” Maester Caledran was saying beside him, eyes still tracing the decorated Seven-Pointed Star that had washed to Driftmark alongside a host of other tomes—including a fresh-forged book on his house’s history in its first century of founding.
That had been a pleasant shock—for such recounts scarce filled his house’s library, not that he or his forebears ever chased fascination for times before them.
He glanced at the man, frowning a bit. The maester was a junior to him, though one wouldn’t know it with how much youth the man had lost to whatever cruelties the learned suffered in pursuit of their links.
Caledran was brown-haired, a few strands of grey showing. He had a sharp face—though not handsome. His eyes were onyx, bags of fatigue under them. He was clean-shaven and straight backed, though not tall. He was also thin—a rather hesitant eater.
By the man’s own admitting, he was a son of a once-whore in the lands of Lefford. Though one wouldn’t know that from the wits of him when it came to maritime matters.
He was also pragmatic—undevoted to the oaths of the Citadel. It was better to trust a man slaved to the call of women, the lord liked to believe.
“You mean the clarifications of the scripture’s wisdom?” Corlys wasn’t much learned in the Faith’s word, but even he knew Maelys’s copies bore a script not quite wed to the original. Simpler. Explained. Bland!
By Septon Deron’s words, it lessened the need for consulting the learned devouts on the teachings’ meaning. The man was quite taken by the new rendition—more by the ease of reading than the obvious sorcery that had scribed it.
“Beyond that, my Lord, there are new legen—”
“Watch you don’t spout heresy about the gospel of the Seven, Maester,” Rhaenys cut him off quick. She’d slipped into this minor convening; Corlys found no quarrel with her presence. “Treat the words of the Faith with all due regard.”
“Of course, Princess Rhaenys—do forgive my manners.” The man was quick to say, bowing low. Corlys set Leyton’s missive aside and turned his gaze to Caledran. “As I was saying, new… labours have been included, some even date back to the Age of Heroes.”
Well, it explained the book’s new heft—though whispers claimed this the definitive version.
“I heard it said those were included with the urging of the High Septon.” Rhaenys fixed the maester in her eyes—daring him to refute it. “It was a revelation received during his day-long prayer.”
Corlys nodded to that, affirming to the message that the maester should mind his tongue, lest he be flamed as the new scriptures taught. It was all a bunch of nonsense.
The two continued to discuss of theology, and he thought on why such topics were popular…
The developments in King’s Landing had sparked a new fervour in the Faith. Illyn—that halfwit—had proclaimed Maelys and his wife blessed children of the Seven. That alone was no great proclamation. It was the deeds and efforts the twins had cultivated—and still were cultivating to this day—that made the act so grand…
Corlys was half-tempted to call the High Septon a pawn of the prince at this point.
…the orphanages, the feeding houses, the decrees spearheaded by Maelys, the charities managed and funded by Gael, the work opportunities, and now—mayhap the biggest of them all—the creation of the scribing contraptions. With that, Maelys had promised a copy of the Seven-Pointed Star in each household in the city and his own lands.
Worse, he urged all lords to do the same for their subjects—therein making sure to call in mountains of coins to his own pressing company and creating great support and desire for the new royal bank still in development.
In one fell swoop, he had silenced the discontent this might summon from scribes, the Citadel, the most devout, and all manner of folks who might find issue with this power grab—and it was a power grab.
In a decade, the Faith would be entirely under the control of the Crown. The Citadel would lose their monopoly over the distribution of knowledge in Westeros. And the royal family’s grasp on power would spread beyond just their dragons.
Who would dare question the chosen of the gods? Who dared summon the masses’ wrath upon themselves?
Maelys was shrewd—too shrewd, even. He’d twisted the Faith into his own sword and shield. Thus, Corlys whispered now in his own halls, lest a servant slink off spreading tales of his faithlessness.
“Let’s be done with that,” Corlys finally said, severing the topic of faith before it devoured the true intent of this convening. “We’re here to discuss the royal bank’s founding—and how we might stay beyond its grasp.”
That was the true thorn here, at least for now. The Old King’s decrees of late were… vexing.
“I don’t see why we can’t create a bank of our own,” his wife suggested—poorly, at that.
“That would have been excellent if our ties to the royal family weren’t soured,” he argued. It wasn’t as though the notion hadn’t crossed his mind before. Wealthy as he was, Westerosi nobles still dealt with his house with caution. “Additionally, we’d have no grand clientele in the realm. Our dealings would run to Essos alone—and we’ve seen the reputation those bring.”
What house would dare court House Targaryen’s ire and the scorn of its peers? Not many.
Besides that, Essos lay gripped by the banks of House Rogare—and the Iron Bank of Braavos. He’d scarce flourished in this banking venture—not with the animosity sown thick between his house and the Old King.
This was why he despised his follies after Rhaenys’s scorning. He had acted the part of a woman through and through.
“Lord Crabb’s proposal for founding a trading company still stands, my lord,” the maester reminded him. The man set the holy book aside and took a seat. “You’ve already the makings for such, including a close tie to Prince Maelys. He crafts most of the desired fancies, and though he produces a great deal, there’s still naught enough—if any—for further shores.”
“Hasn’t he struck a deal with the Braavosi Sealord for such things?”
“Maelys has plenty of dealings, but I don’t think he ever allowed monopolised distribution of his wares beyond those plates.” And he doubted the Braavosi shared with the other Free Cities the scraps granted them. “But no—I’ve no desire for such mercantile and subservient ventures.”
Not to mention the pirates prowling the waters unchallenged.
Mayhap after acquiring those pathors, he might pursue such things. “Well, our coffers have long been overflowing with coin, and leaving it there to sit and bloat seems a foolish thing. You best find a use for it, Husband.”
He knew that.
Rhaenys did leave after—doubtless bored of the stagnating talks. He and the maester delved more. About forging ties with powerful lords. About marriage options. About fostering opportunities.
The two ultimately settled on the expansion of his fleet. There, he craved quality wood for the building—that demanded deals struck with Riverlords and Northern lords. That was good. What wasn’t good was the time such an endeavour would take.
The shipyards at Hull bustled without cease, for vessels limped into harbour battered by wind or voyage and left again with their hulls made sound. With the harvest newly gathered and trade at its height, Driftmark throbbed with traffic and silver alike.
Corlys meant to part with a measure of that coin on small indulgences, so he rode out with Vaemond and a modest escort to look upon the holdings of his domain.
It did a lord good to be seen among his people.
“There are whispers that the Lord of Evenfall has taken the Shivers,” Vaemond said as they followed the curve of the shore, watching the gentle breakers roll across the sand.
Fisherfolk dotted the strand and the waters beyond, more by the week it seemed. The stalls in Hull brimmed with their catch, and Corlys found himself weighing the thought of a levy or limit upon the trade before glut thinned the market or stripped the sea.
“Are we certain it is not a common fever?” he asked, offering his brother little real heed. Vaemond was ever irritable and prone to grasp at shadows. “Lord Tarth has seen many winters. How long now has he been stealing breath?”
In truth, Corlys suspected the old fool had caught the clap from some cheap whore whose lungs were sodden with stone dust.
“Three and seventy, my lord.” A guard supplied.
By rights Cameron Tarth should have met his end already, if not on his sickbed then in that foolish skirmish with the Myrish exiles. For a spell Corlys had feared the clash might spark a wider conflict, or at least draw in more than a handful of sodden Stormlanders.
“What of the strange measures the prince has taken in his port?” Vaemond pressed. “Ought we not do the same, should pestilence reach these shores?”
That Maelys was peculiar was no cause to upend the workings of an entire isle in imitation.
“There is no word of plague from Essos, and it is from there such curses drift,” Corlys said, turning his gaze upon his brother at last. “What stirs such craven dread in you, Vaemond?”
“Less fear than plain good sense, I would say,” Vaemond muttered. “The maester has been prattling on about some new finding that ties illness to filth.”
The maesters had been uncovering many such queer notions of late, yet that was no warrant to leap at every whisper of learning. Corlys did not dismiss the danger of sickness slipping across their borders, but there were limits to prudence. Still, he wondered if it might be worth setting the bards to work, weaving ditties that urged the realm toward bathing and keep their halls clean.
“And what would your solution be?” he asked.
They turned into one of the great docks where new hulls rose like skeletons of giants against the sky. Three ships stood in various stages of their making, their timbers fresh cut and their ribs near shapely. Not yet fit for sail, yet promising all the same.
“We ought to do as they do in King’s Landing,” Vaemond proposed, as fool a notion as Corlys had anticipated.
They came upon the shipwrights at work. The overseer, Rhagen, stepped forward at once. He was the son of a sailor who had served beside Corlys on his famed voyages, a steady fellow and loyal to the bone. In these last three years he had taken command of his own ship and prospered by it. At his side stood a small brown haired girl, still uncertain in her balance but bowing as her father did.
Clever child, this.
“My lord,” Rhagen said, hurrying to attend him. “How may I serve?”
His bow was awkward, shaped by honest effort rather than courtly schooling, though Corlys found no fault in it.
“I have come only to look upon the work of your men with my own eyes,” Corlys replied, stepping around the rising hulls. “Have there been any troubles in the building?”
“None save the time they demand, my lord.”
A fair answer. Mastery of these new designs was yet unearned, and slow hands were to be expected.
“See that every step is set to record,” Corlys said, though the command was hardly needed. That practice had been long in motion.
He lingered awhile, inquiring after small matters—the sturdiness of the new glues, the quality of the timber, and the merits of other woods besides. He even asked after Rhagen’s kin. The girl was his, it seemed, born at a dear cost, for her mother had perished at the birthing bed.
It was a sorrowful account and it pricked him more than he cared to admit. In answer, he granted Rhagen and the little Marilda a few silver moons before continuing on toward the town.
The streets swelled with folk, yet they yielded at his approach, parting in quiet respect as he passed.
“… then how fares the marble trade, with the Lord of Evenfall coughing his lungs to ruin?”
Corlys had no doubt that some of his ships would return scraped and groaning once Maelys finished burdening them. The prince was loading them to absurd excess and it had been but two moons since he began.
“Little sign of it slowing,” Vaemond said. “In truth more lords and merchants have grown uneasy. They fear Havenhall might drain Tarth of marble if this pace continues.”
A foolish concern. Corlys would wager that not even a blemish would be made upon the quarries of that white scarred isle. Still, the sheer quantity drew his attention. What in the Seven was the prince fashioning that required so much stone?
If he were forced to place coin on it, he would say yet another strange device.
“I would wager Cameron himself is the one fanning such falsehoods, the grasping old wretch,” Corlys spat, uncaring of his conduct as these men were trusted and loyal to the bone. “What promise was set before him to swell his greed so greatly?”
Vaemond had no answer, nor did most. Few cared to pry into the finer bargains struck between other men.
As they walked on, Corlys cast his eye over the stalls lining the street. Many offered fair wares, some humble, some rare. Among them he noted the dark sweets brought up from the Stormlands, rich creamy confections both bitter and sweet. In the capital he had once tasted a cake flavoured with that same delicacy. He had taken to it at once, and had since wished for a cook who could prepare it properly.
It would make a pleasing treat for Laenor and Laena when they returned from Storms End. Truth be told, he could not understand why Jocelyn insisted on remaining there, or why she did not simply join them here or settle upon Driftmark altogether. This isle was far kinder and more comfortable than that grim fortress built by the storm kings of old.
He lingered in the town for a few more hours, purchasing a generous stock of cider from a riverlander who swore it came from the Fossoways of Cider Hall. Corlys doubted the claim, though it mattered little. The barrels were meant for his household servants and guards, not for his own table.
He also hired a blacksmith, offering him sound lodgings and honest coin at Castle Driftmark. Victor had spoken of a growing want for seasoned smiths and gardeners. The latter, Corlys suspected, could easily be filled by kin of those already in service.
When at last he rode back to High Tide, he found something he had not expected, though it was no ill sight.
“A royal messenger awaits you, my lord,” his castellan said. “Ser Guncer Rambton, accompanied by a kingsguard, Ser Clement Crabb.”
For a heartbeat Corlys feared that Rhaenys had paused at Dragonstone and seen fit to have the children claim dragons. He had once weighed that very notion himself, though in the end he had set it aside.
In his solar he received the two men, and they placed a sealed missive in his hands.
“The king commands that you alone may break the seal and read it before any other.” Thus had been Ser Guncer’s words.
Had his whole household been gathered, he might have welcomed the men in the hall upon the Driftwood Throne and impressed upon them the full pride of his house.
Opening the missive, he read the following:
To the Right Honourable Lord Corlys Velaryon
My loyal and distinguished lord
Know that I set quill to parchment in recognition of the past slights and neglect my forebears visited upon your house. In these last moons I have laboured to mend such ills.
House Velaryon has ever stood as a steadfast pillar of House Targaryen. Through unbroken service in oar and sail, in constancy of counsel and in unwavering allegiance, your house has lent strength both to my throne and to the peace of the realm.
In acknowledgement of these long years of faithful service it is my will that you make haste to King’s Landing, that we may speak in person upon matters of reward and the elevation rightly earned by your noble line.
Tributes suitable to the storied service of House Velaryon shall be granted, that its honour and station may rise in just accord with its merit.
Furthermore, let it be proclaimed that a great tourney shall be held upon the twenty third day of the coming month upon the tilting grounds before the city. You are hereby invited to attend as my honoured guest, that your presence may lend distinction to the festivities and bear witness to the chivalry of the realm.
By my hand and seal
Jaehaerys Targaryen
King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men
More lines followed, yet the heart of it had already struck home. Corlys drew a long breath, steadying both mind and pulse. There was promise in this, and not a little power hidden beneath the courteous phrasing. The old king had at last extended an olive branch to his house…
No. It was more than an olive branch. Far more.
“What time has been granted for my reply?” he asked, his face betraying none of the stir within.
“Until the twenty fifth of this moon, my lord,” Ser Guncer answered.
Rhaenys would still be at Storms End by then, yet that posed no great concern. For all her virtues, she held little taste for the hard crafts of court and bargain beyond what her dragon could command.
“Then I shall host you both for a sennight,” Corlys said, dismissing them with a courteous nod.
Once they were gone, he let the mask slip. He would summon his brothers and his counsellors without delay. A smile, rare and sharp with satisfaction, settled upon his lips.
Comments
World of Faction
I try to give an in-story explanation for this decision. You have to understand that this is Jaehaerys’s decision. Maelys is not happy with it, but there’s fuck all he can do about it.
Michael Pepple
This is a bad idea I can't for the life of me see any positive to this
nble1
*Sigh* you’re doing it, aren’t you? You uplifting the Corlys to a prince. The man who stole himself a princess and his two kids had dragons. Rather then limiting him your uplifting him. The first real mistake that lead to the downfall of dragons, was letting Corlys marry Rhaenys and allow their children to claim dragons. I hope you at least set up laws that prevent them gaining them.
