55 Chapter 55: The Young Dragon IV

Early 158 AC

The Submission of Sunspear after the Sack was finally complete. A written and signed document, alongside verbal agreement before witnesses of the Iron Throne's greatest vassals and Dorne, one that would outlaw the practice of peacetime raids, ensure the fealty of these lands to the Iron Throne, and finish the conflict started by his ancestors over a century ago. Duplicates had been made and sent by ship to every major port in Westeros, so that all may know the truth of this war's goals, with each filled with the stamp of submission by every Dornish house that had bent the knee. In time, these recalcitrant Dornishmen would see their lands prosper, no doubt from his own wise policies and their bountiful harvests of exotic goods.

If only others were as openly optimistic as himself, Daeron noted, as the many lesser Reach lords gathered their forces and made for their ships, their garrisons in Lord Tyrell's governorship already in place or en route. The Redwyne, Hightower and other such fleets had somewhat participated in Lord Velaryon's invasion of the Greenblood and smashing of Plankytown, but now they would ferry men and plunder out of Dorne with a likelier far greater enthusiasm. Many men had been bloodied and knighted in this war, which for Reachmen was a rite of passage of unrivalled significance. Fortunes, alliances, and especially marriages could be made or broken if one was a knight or not after war, and with so many now holding such honors, the future of the Reach for the next generation would likely prove to be an interesting one.

Daeron sipped from his wine goblet, both the cup and the wine cleared of any poison by a bevy of tasters and the maester of Sunspear, a former Reachmen who Lord Tyrell had ensured knew where his true loyalties lay. At the dining table of the former Prince of Dorne, upon which a great deal of history weighed like a blanket, he looked across to his assembled guests, a scant few but powerful lords with whom he had yet unfinished business before he too would take a ship and return to Kings Landing. "Lord Velaryon, the basing of our fleet in Sunspear and nearby ports will be paramount to our eventual… pacification of the Stepstones, especially Bloodstone, upon the ending of the governorships," he said. "How long do you believe such preparations would take?"

His distant kin stroked his chin. "Without delay? Perhaps three years to gather and stockpile all we would need. With revolts or subdued trouble from meddlesome minor lords or random smallfolk? Perhaps thrice that. The dryness of the desert will aid in keeping planks from rotting, but the sands could ruin far more if we are not careful. As for stocking up on provisions that will last, well, it is winter, my king, and we've no idea how long this one will last."

"Be that as it may, see to it that whatever possible preparations exist are made, for as my Master of Ships, just as you broke Plankytown and took the lands along the Greenblood, so too would I see you honored with such another task," Daeron replied, his kingly smile gracing the room. There would be much, much more to discuss with his greater lords once he had returned to Kings Landing a conqueror, as well as the book he was writing to chronicle his great achievements and the difficulties he had faced. "Whatever good and trustworthy men you can place in needed positions, do so, for we will require all the allies we can accrue in these lands until they are suitably loyal. As for you, Lord Tyrell," he said, turning to the Lord Paramount of the Reach. "What say you of your duties?"

"A great honor, my king," the man said. "Truly a task worthy of a Reachmen, where tending to our lands comes as easy as breathing. We owe much to the legacy of Garth Greenhand and his wise descendants."

"Yes, indeed," Daeron replied. He said nothing of the role of steward, for while that was what Lord Tyrell would primarily function as in the western lands, it was a touchy subject with the great house. He could not afford to alienate such a prosperous land in the event of a harsh winter requiring grain be sent to Kings Landing, even if many of their vassals obeyed out of family ties and begrudging loyalty, not respect. After all, for 'upjumped stewards' to have been named as successors to the Gardeners, it would likely still breed such potentially… useful resentment for decades to come. "I have heard a rumor, though."

"A rumor, my king?"

"Indeed, a rumor concerning your more… recalcitrant vassals. Specifically, those whose ambitions may prove greater than their sense of loyalty, given the time you will be spending in or near Dorne."

"Aye, too many houses may scramble for whatever crumbs remain after the plunder has been divided and honors bestowed," the man replied. "While my loyalty to the crown cannot be in doubt, the same cannot be said of these troublesome vassals. They may preach their oaths, but if presented with an opportunity, they will more likely take it than not."

"Such as, try to move in on Tyrell influence, while the head of that illustrious house is engaged elsewhere," Daeron replied. "Some might even call it treasonous actions, for who knows what men might attempt while their liege lord is far away, in a hostile land, with potential 'Dornish' bandits and assassins lying in wait? With the smallfolk ready to rebel should their needs not be met, or the boot placed too heavily upon their necks?"

Lord Tyrell seemed to understand his insinuation, for while not stupid, the man was by no means adept in the realm of politicking, and even less likely to realize how his actions towards those under his rule affected his standing among them. The latter seemed to be a flaw in many Reach lords, Daeron had noticed, that for all their observance of chivalry and the Faith of the Seven, many truly did not care for their smallfolk outside of what they could offer their lords. An odd dynamic, while being so reliant on them for so much of their crops and thus wealth, and while Daeron could appreciate some of what the little people did for him, even he could admit he had grown closer to his brother's way of thinking… in a way. Care for the smallfolk, to some extent at least, and they shall love you beyond measure. Lords could be the same, so long as their loyalty did not come with… ambitions. At least the smallfolk had simpler tastes, and thus easier needs.

"Let them underestimate this flower, then, my king. I shall show them the error of their ways should they step out of line, as I will any Dornish foolish enough to revolt."

After all, Lord Tyrell had a daughter near Daeron's age, and would see himself in competition against many other lords potentially seeking a betrothal. There would be no Unwin Peakes this time to sabotage any potential bride processions, no sir, and Daeron would not have any women strutted before him like some prized heifer. Assigning Lord Tyrell this great task was as much a need for a powerful man to oversee it as it was a test of the man's loyalty. That, and though the man did not realize it, Daeron knew this could be seen as a test for a future betrothal, upon whose success might be a great consideration. Not that he was looking for one now, at any rate, for he had Baelor as his heir, and upon their united return to Kings Landing in a few years' time, the whole of Westeros would know of his brother's upcoming nuptials. Hopefully Daena would be more accepting of the news than Naerys had told him she might be…

"That brings me to another rumor, Lord Tyrell," he continued, finishing his wine. Best not to seek more, he needn't become drunk on his victory just yet. He would save that for Kings Landing, where he and… others might better celebrate in private.

"Yes?"

"It would seem there is trouble brewing between the lords of the Marches and those in the Reach bordering their lands. More specifically, from the ravens I have received, that of Houses Selmy and Fossoway."

"My vassal has been wronged, my king. His granddaughter is the rightful heir to the seat of Harvest Hall, through her deceased father Borros Selmy."

"Aye, if Lord Selmy had passed in battle, that would be true. Yet Lord Selmy yet lives and should be nearing the border within a few days' time. I take it you need little reminder of the laws of inheritance when the lord yet lives? Of a second son over a granddaughter?"

"I need no such lessons, my king, but I thank you for your attention to this issue," Lord Tyrell replied. "I will see to Fossoway's claims and determine if there is a peaceful solution to this issue of succession."

There was no issue, for while it was a dangerous thread to tread, Daeron would side against one Reach lord over the entirety of the Marches, and indeed all the Stormlands. Intruding on such an issue in clear favor over them would see the entire kingdom turn their backs on him, or worse, look to his brother as a replacement to ease their collective outrage. His brother was proving to be a dangerous heir, the kind which paranoid ancient kings would have seen sent to the Wall upon the first squeals of a newborn son of their own.

Yet Daeron was not that kind of king. For all Baelor's potential to be used against him, as uncle Viserys had warned his father and then himself these past few years, Daeron saw his brother as far greater of an asset than a threat. He practically had an entire kingdom's respect, near to where they would at least consider anything he had to say no matter how seemingly foolish or outlandish. Their discussions of his time in the Stormlands had brought to bear the idea that a Targaryen fostering in a kingdom could win a greater loyalty from those lands than any mere praises or plunder could… so long as the dragon residing there sought to better that same kingdom. His own Crownland vassals were loyal enough, but the idea of working with them to better the lands… it was a task unfit for a king, but for his relatives, it was something to be considered.

After all, though Aemon was sworn to the Kingsguard, and uncle Viserys remained his Lord Hand, sending Aegon to another kingdom might help. Or, given his cousin's… proclivities, turn an entire kingdom against their house, something that could not be afforded, no matter the kingdom in question. His own sisters had been planned on being fostered with kingdoms, but with father's death, Daeron was not so sure such an idea held merit. Despite her being only three and ten, Daena would not tolerate any other kingdom without causing heaps of trouble, and Daeron hoped her eventual marriage would settle her more… unladylike tendencies. Rhaena and Elaena, however, with them laid a promise passed from his father, one to reward the great lords that had served under his grandmother during the Dance.

After all, many of the Wardens had sons of suitable betrothing age, or would in a few years' time. A shame about the North, their heir was already married with daughters. Though, there were other families who had remained loyal during the Dance, so looking to them would have to be considered. They were too young to yet be betrothed, however, and while it was even earlier for the children of his cousin, they too could prove useful in a decade.

The talk faded away to lesser discussions, of troop movements and the access to ports. A lack of ports along the Bite would prove troubling but carving a military wharf into the mouth of the Brimstone would certainly aid in administering the western reaches of Dorne. "My king, what of the Martells?" Lord Velaryon asked after some time.

"What about them?"

"After the governorships have ended, and the hostages returned from their time away from Dorne, who is to rule Dorne as Warden and Lord Paramount?"

Daeron smiled. "That's the question, isn't it? What house is worthy to rule this sandy, dry dustball? The Martells have done so for centuries, but only through the combined efforts of their house and the great force brought by Nymeria so long ago. House Yronwood lays claim to the ancient title of Bloodroyal as the old High Kings, but they never truly unified Dorne as far as we know. The Daynes have claims to a large portion of this land, and even the Jordaynes were once great kings of vast swaths of territory. To say nothing of all the ancient kings and houses that have gone extinct over the years, the Drylands included. As for who is to rule… that remains to be determined, Lord Velaryon."

"How so? It might create tension against the Iron Throne if a Dornish house does not rule in your name, and you cannot continue to rule from Kings Landing and travel to these lands every time there is trouble. The danger would be far, far too great for anyone, let alone a king."

Daeron nodded. "Yet it is far too soon to determine let alone appoint any one house for such a position of power. The Martells and many other houses fought until we had breached the last Winding Wall of Sunspear, and I suspect Lord Yronwood surrendered so easily so that he might retain most of his manpower and attempt to overthrow the Martells if we lost the war, or perhaps make a play upon our victory. No house, great or small, has proven their loyalty or their vows of submission as sacrosanct, and thus none will rule until I determine them to have earned it. Come the end of Lord Tyrell's governorship," he said, nodding towards the aforementioned lord, "and that of Lord Baratheon and my brother, we shall see which house, once the hostages are returned, has shown the greatest progress towards unity and peace under my throne."

The ship creaked beneath his feet as the waves and wind carried him away from Sunspear's port. Lord Tyrell's first actions were to see to the rumors of attacks by Greenblood Orphans on errant fishing vessels along that great river. Whether they were true or not, Daeron didn't care, for that small number of people were unlikely to have any real resistance to them. They plied their lives and trades up and down the river, but could never call it their own, for every Dornishman on either side would see to their destruction if they tried to claim complete dominion over it. Water was more precious in these lands than gold, hence his orders that wells be guarded but never poisoned or otherwise tampered with. Besides, the number of these Orphans was already reduced, for many had perished after Lord Velaryon had broken Planky Town and cut through the great river. Now, though, the true war for Dorne would proceed, but not as a series of bloody yet glorious battles.

No, his brother had brought to light, though Daeron did not like it one bit, of how Dorne would not simply fall to his feet and stay there. The culture of the people was far, far more disparate than any other kingdom, being the most recently united of them all, with their ancient 'high kings' having very little power in comparison to the other kings of old. The Starks, the Arryns, the Lannisters, hells even the Mudds had united their kingdoms far better than the Martells had, even in seven centuries. Pulling them together was their hatred of an outside invader, especially given the history between his ancestral peoples and those of Rhoynish descent, but it would take time for that to dissipate. He would need to set them against one another in one way or another, as the Tullys had to in the Riverlands.

It was exactly why he had appointed his brother to take on such a role upon reaching his majority. It would be a good test for his current heir, one that would keep him far from the court of the Red Keep, and perhaps, encourage any treacherous thoughts in other lords from manifesting in a succession crisis. Unless something terrible occurred, Baelor would prove to be the sort of heir he would not need worry about others supporting over himself, but also would face few troubles should he die before his time.

Not that Daeron planned on doing that. Conquest was very risky, he knew, but he had entered and left Dorne unscathed, clearly favored by the gods. Even the armies his lords had led have faced fewer casualties, or the Baratheon and Stark contingents had anyway. In his time planning this final conquest of Dorne, he had expected he would lose at least ten thousand men, a paltry number given their total force, but no less damaging to whatever lands they hailed from. As Sunspear faded from sight, he recalled that the deaths for the eastern front had been less than half of what had been expected. Giving credit where it was due, the speed of those Wytchroads had aided in resupplying men and materiel quicker, and those medics…

Lord Starks heir yet lived from their tender care, slowly en route to House Wyl to rest and recuperate until he was well enough to travel far North once more. Word would spread, and once more, he would have to deal with the headache of his uncle's fretting over the young lord's influence. The man's grandfather may have been a Baratheon bastard, or not, but their family had not even seen its third generation as a lordly house. They were no Hightowers with wealth and prestige to see a daughter married to a king, nor a Velaryon to unite the houses for fear of losing monopoly over dragons. Still… he would allow Viserys' hidden men to keep an eye on the young lord, if only to appease his Lord Hand and settle that small, almost-forgotten worry in his own belly.

Turning from the railing, he made his way to his cabin. There, at a desk so generously donated by a Dornish captain, was the bane of his existence.

Clerical work. Unfit for the likes of him, a king, but a necessary evil for any good ruler. Didn't mean he liked it, far from it. Nobody sang songs or wrote books of kings who spent their days bent over a desk, writing and reading, or good songs at least. After all, while a king in court had more than enough scribes and ink-stained attendants to do this for him, on campaign, for the sake of cost and efficiency, he had had to take on a few of these responsibilities rather than simply appoint someone else to do them in his stead. After all, the written word of a king held greater weight when written by the king himself, and this would be one of great importance. The Braavosi need not fear his conquering gaze, but they did not believe him. Already, he had burned three drafts of proposals for the current Sealord on the matters of diplomacy and trade, in his effort to ease any potential tensions that might one day arise. He would need one fit to send with whatever representatives the Sealord would dispatch to Kings Landing once word of the complete conquest of Dorne reached their shores.

Yet what to appease them with? As much as he was loathe admitting it, Daeron cared little for the plight or feelings of those seaborne merchants, but their power over the seas and finance was something only the foolish could dismiss. Daeron prided himself on never being the fool, and so, despite the fact Westeros could ruin those lands in a great war, he opted for the peaceful route, as it was less likely for Faceless Men would be sent his way. Better to have good trade partners than not, after all, and while Kings Landing was always a rich port to visit, the Sealord and his supporters would want for the ports of Dorne to be open once again. The blockade had hurt Dorne and their Essosi trade partners alike, and now while Dorne rebuilt, those sharks smelled blood, the loss of local merchants meaning many regrators and goods would be, quite literally, ripe for the taking.

"A reduction in tariffs, perhaps even the right to small trade posts for the right families," Daeron muttered, jotting down ideas. Never one to simply mimic another, he had a small journal as his brother did, but one of finer quality of course, and one he kept close to himself. One day he might publish a 'proper' account of it, removing the more… unpopular thoughts within, and portraying himself in the best light possible. 'The Dragon's Journal' he might call it, yes, one that showed his benevolence and wisdom beyond his years.

Yet back to the task at hand. The Essosi slavers of the seas had taken well to the lack of dragons, and even before that, seized whatever defenseless or overwhelmed Westerosi vessels they could get their grubby hands on. This was, among other reasons, why he planned for the Stepstones, or at least part of them, to become a part of the Iron Throne's realm. Bloodstone would be ideal, as with a strong presence on that isle the entire Sea of Dorne would be encircled by non-slaving lands and would be a wondrous place for his future fleet. Of course, taking the isle would be easy, but holding it by ship or by castle would be far more difficult. Now, if only he could convince his uncle of Baelor's plan for the Kingswood…

"My king," a voice said, and turning from his work, Daeron found his Kingsguard by his side. His favorite Kingsguard, but none need know that.

"Olyvar, my good man, come in, I have need of a good man's advice," he said with a smile. There was no secrecy on such a vessel for them to be… intimate with one another, but that did not mean they could not spend time as both friends and a king with his guard.

Kings Landing VII

Early 158 AC

Naerys lay in an unsatisfied silence, any skill her husband had being insufficient to overcome the cold marriage bed they had shared for the first time in near two years. Long had she desired them to be as simply a brother and sister since Daeron's birth, but he had denied such a plea. Instead, she would have to bear the brunt of his 'affection' whenever the mood struck him. At least he did not wish to spend any longer in bed with her than he deemed necessary. While it was not yet midday, it was to be a busy one, for while Aegon did nothing for the war, he had resumed carousing with likeminded lords and noble sons in and around the city.

"To another hunt?" she softly asked. While she loved her brother in her own way, it was not the way the world expected a Targaryen to, and though she dreaded the day she would pray for such events to occur, she knew hunts could be dangerous for the reckless or impatient. Aegon was both, and more, and it broke her heart to know nothing could be done for him.

She could only pray that Baelor and Daena's future marriage would be far better than her own.

"Aye, mayhaps for a day or two, depends on what we find," he replied, dressing himself quickly. Not that he had undressed all too much, just enough to 'partake' in their marriage bed. "I will see to you in our bed when I return." He had said nothing of it, but no doubt he wished for another child. It had been too long, he had said, that he had lain with her, and she doubted he would remain bound only to their bed for much longer. The lures of the flesh were far too much for him to combat, and his handsome charisma meant many could not resist his charms.

"What of little Daeron and Vaella?"

She did not need to see his face to know he rolled his eyes at her. "I'll see to them on my way out. Old Maggy is looking to them, yes?"

Seven bless the eldest maid, a wondrous woman not even Aegon's good looks could charm, nor presence threaten, which made him very wary of the elder woman. Even her own father respected that woman, who had lived and worked in the Red Keep for nigh on four decades already through how many kings, and from the mutters of the Red Keep staff, would likely outlive them all. "Yes, she has them in the gardens now, I believe."

With a wordless grunt of acknowledgement Aegon left, and Naerys closed her eyes, unmoving save for her gentle breathing. She would need her most discreet maid to prepare a bath, but it was something she looked forward to. Naerys could scrub herself clean of the filth both true and miasmic her husband always laid upon her tender body. To use the Wytch soap that Baelor had sent as a nameday present would only encourage that feeling of cleansing, for it worked far better than the oils and petals she had used long before.

She sighed, the thought of swelling with another babe giving her anxious thoughts. Daeron's birth had been difficult, and Vaella's less so, but the sickness soon after had nearly taken them both, and while Vaella had recovered so greatly one would never suspect she had ever been sick, Naerys could not say the same for herself. She had recovered, yes, but had she recovered to the point where she had been before Daeron's birth?

No. She would never regain her figure, nor the health she had now counted as a blessing.

Before Vaella's birth?

Possibly, but in her heart, she doubted it. She could feel she was healthier then than she was now, and despite Aemon's subtle attempts, she just never had enough of an appetite to eat much. Aegon's foolishness with whores and ladies of court or countryside had brought a sickness upon her, or perhaps more than one, that she could scarcely be expected to recover from, no matter the foods she ate or what the maesters tried. Every birth thus far had proven more and more difficult in some manner, but while her body was indeed weaker than it should be, her mind and spirit were anything but. She was a Targaryen, the blood of the dragon, and while she possessed only what skills she had managed thus far, she honed them well as needed.

There was a gentle knock at the door. "Come in," she called, opening her eyes and rising from her bed.

A maid entered, one she knew fully that even Aegon could never seduce. After all, she bore no interest in men, and from the gossip of some of the other maids, not women either. Hence, her trust in the young woman to be a confidant of the sorts she had lacked for many years. "My lady, a bath then?"

"Indeed, Bessa," she said. "You know me so well."

Her smile was quickly hidden by a demure bow. "I live to serve, my lady. I will have the other maids ensure your husband's… mess is taken care of."

Naerys smiled in return. "Thank you."

Refreshed from her bath and scrubbed clean from whatever her 'dear' husband had left upon her, and within as well, it was not long before Naerys found her children in the gardens. Little Daeron, near five namedays old, toddled up to her, gently wrapping his arms around her leg and pressing into her thigh. Vaella, near two, tried to waddle over but near fell, being saved by one of the maids Old Maggy had with them.

Naerys smiled, leaning down to hug her son. He had grown too heavy for her to lift already, and Vaella would too someday. Not that such truths would deny her affections for them both.

"Did papa come to say goodbye before he went on his hunt?"

Her heart softly cried as he shook his head, his short hair dancing in the light. That insufferable, selfish… no, she was calm, she was collected, Daeron was here and she loved him. It would not do for him to see her angry at his 'father' so soon after he had departed. Best Daeron and Vaella remain as distant from that man as possible, lest his worse tendencies rub off on them, or worse, bring them to harm somehow. If little Daeron began to act as his father did once he grew closer to his majority… she was unsure if she could bear it. Even the thought made her slightly ill.

"Were you good for Maggy?" she then asked softly, accepting Vaella into her arms from the maid. She was by no means fragile, but she held her daughter as if she were made of fine glass, and truly, in her eyes, much like little Daeron she shone like the finest crystal.

"Uh huh, mama," he nodded, looking up at her with his big eyes, the Valyrian purple within reminding her of his true father more than Aegon's. None but her could see the subtle shade was different, not even Aegon, and while he was a far more attentive sort than their brother, Aemon had admitted that even he struggled to see the difference. The realization of Aemon being once more able to visit her chambers brought a low fire to her belly. For all her frailty, she was still a woman, and while some of the higher septons may preach against it, there were needs she had that only a certain Kingsguard could fulfill. The excitement in her soul was nothing sinful, and long had she desired Aemon to join her in bed after Vaella's birth, but between her long recovery and Aegon's distance before that day, the risk of discovery had been far too great. Now? Now she would see to her love, the only one who could make her laugh, and though it was a great danger, perhaps Daeron would once more have a new sibling in a year's time.

"Have you been good for Maggy?"

"Yeah huh, mama," Daeron said again, taking a step back as he tried to stifle a yawn. "Play?"

"Not now, my little dragon, it is time for your first nap of the day," Naerys said, gently kissing Vaella's forehead, who as soon as she was in her mother's arms, had started to nod off. "Vaella too, it would seem. We will play before supper, I promise."

"Princess promise?" he asked, holding out his smallest finger.

She gently hooked it with her own, just as Baelor had shown her upon Daeron's coronation, when he promised to send Daeron a good nameday present. Only then it was 'prince promise', but still, it was adorable to see her son taking such oaths so seriously.

"Princess promise." She silently turned to Old Maggy, her normally stony complexion broken by a grandmotherly softness. Gods help anyone who tried to harm her babes, lest Old Maggy gut them like a fish and toss them from the ramparts like a bushel of moldy cabbage. Without a word, the matronly woman gently grasped Daeron's free hand and led him away, the earlier maid gently taking Vaella from Naerys' arms before swiftly following.

Naerys watched them depart before resuming her walk, meandering past whichever plants yet stayed green in this mild winter and the guards posted every so often along her path. Nodding and smiling at their acknowledgements, she found her destination, a small gathering of ladies in one of the more enclosed pavilions of the Red Keep overlooking the Narrow Sea. Here, she had found a place where her talents, as limited as some might say, could be put to good use.

"Good afternoon, princess," spoke one of the premier ladies of the Crownlands. Many had gathered before or during the war, to make alliances, ensure cooperation, listen to ideas, or simply gossip about the goings-on of the Red Keep. While not as flashy or 'important' as most lordly gatherings, Naerys had come to learn a great deal of such private functions and the role they could play, as without Baelor's presence or Aemon's touch for nearly two years, she had needed some way to pass the time. After all, while her husband thankfully ruled nothing, not even his vices, she could still bring to her father's attention information he could find useful. Not all needed to be learned through the Master of Whisperers, after all.

"Good afternoon to you as well," Naerys replied as she took her seat. Refreshments had already been served, but none of these women were gauche enough to have started without her. A good thing too, for their business was important to Naerys, and while she had slowly needled out any that might have slept with her husband, or perhaps sought to, it paid to be polite but cautious in the Red Keep.

While her appetite had never been considerable, even while with child, even Naerys could not help but enjoy the chilled drinks and fruit the servants had brought, courtesy of the very first shipment of Northern ice from Lord Manderly. A quick arrival too, according to the captain, but when asked how, he had been rather quiet on the matter. Polite, yes, but none sailed south that quickly unless they had either important news or the winds were extremely favorable. Perhaps Baelor would know how this was done? He had much more experience with the Northern houses than she.