13 Chapter 13: Patience - 106 AC

"This… is an absurdity."

The words of Corlys Velaryon echoed throughout the room of the small council of the Red Keep. The lord of Driftmark rose from his seat as Master of Ships, plucking the ball from its slot. The remaining men present, filled with trepidation, dared not meet the gaze of either the king or the Sea Snake. Upon Queen Aemma's demise, Lord Corlys had extended a generous proposal to unite their houses, offering his daughter, Lady Laena Velaryon, to the king. Yet, instead of embracing this noble alliance, the king rebuffed it, choosing to wed Alicent Hightower, daughter of the Hand of the King.

"My house is Valyrian," he declared with unwavering anger. "The greatest power in the realm."

The Kingsguard grew increasingly tense at Corlys's words, their hands inching towards the hilts of their swords.

"And I am your king." retorted Viserys, his countenance marred by a furrowed brow, reflecting the gravity of what Corlys just did.

However, the Sea Snake remained impervious to these veiled threats. His gaze then shifted towards the Hand of the King, who met his piercing stare with an icy visage. The deed was done; his aspiration to enthrone his own blood seemed abruptly thwarted.

With a dismissive snort, he regarded the entire assembly. Placing the symbolic ball of his office as Master of Ships upon the table, he deftly rolled it to the space opposite him, where it now rested before the king.

Without pausing to witness any reaction, the Sea Snake departed from the small council with an enraged countenance, encountering no resistance from the Kingsguard or the remaining council members. It was his scheme to orchestrate the union of Laena with the king, thereby ensuring the flow of his blood onto the iron throne. Moreover, this strategic move would afford him the opportunity to sever the betrothal he had previously arranged between his daughter and the scion of a sealord, for just recently, tidings reached his ears of the sealord's untimely demise and his son's treacherous embezzlement, draining their ancestral coffers to the brink of oblivion. This wretched scion, burdened by the weight of a hunted existence, presently preparing to embark on a perilous voyage from Braavos to Driftmark, seeking asylum from his inexorable debtors and striving to demand the fulfillment of the betrothal.

But, as the sealord's son is practically useless due to his status as a hunted man, of course Corlys didn't want his daughter to marry him, so he was planning to use this occasion to break it. But of course, the king has refused his offer, igniting a tempest of fury deep within the Sea Snake's noble heart.

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The entirety of House Celtigar now gathered in the dining hall, where a resplendent table stretched before them. Gleaming plates of exquisite silver adorned its surface, while delicate cups crafted from dark Volantene glass reflected the flickering candlelight. As was customary, Bartimos Celtigar occupied one end of the table, with Clement seated at the opposite side. In the center, the distinguished figure of Gromond Celtigar commanded attention. However, a new presence graced the table—a young boy who had recently reached the tender age of one. Positioned across from Gromond, the child sat surrounded by attentive servants, who diligently endeavored to coax him into partaking of a steaming porridge composed of wheat soaked in rich, creamy milk. Yet, the stubborn little one vehemently refused, captivating the curious gazes of the entire family.

"I still find it unfathomable that you would bring a child into our midst after an entire year spent at sea," Bartimos sighed, his voice heavy with disbelief. "How is such a thing possible, dear brother? And why did you not bring your wife to Claw Isle?"

"Brother, as I have explained before, she is otherwise indisposed," Gromond replied nonchalantly, deftly shattering a crab's shell and extracting the succulent meat within. "She possesses an indomitable spirit and an insatiable thirst for accomplishment."

"Could you at least grace me with her name?" Bartimos asked. "How can I be certain that this young lad is of noble birth?"

"If you wish to verify his legitimacy, you may dispatch a raven to Oldtown," Gromond offered.

Bartimos let out a weary sigh. "I implore you, do not tell me you wedded a courtesan from one of those infamous pillow houses..."

"Rest assured, brother, she hails from a noble lineage," Gromond assured him.

"I see." Clement suddenly interrupted. "Let me make a wild guess. Lady Johanna Swann?"

Gromond arched an eyebrow, visibly taken aback. "And pray tell, how did you arrive at such a conclusion?"

Clement shrugged, sipping on his wine. "Like I said. A wild guess."

"Johanna Swann? The same maiden who fell victim to those pirates all those years ago?" Bartimos inquired, his curiosity piqued. "So, you might have wed a courtesan from the notorious pillow houses after all..."

"Brother, it is but the wild conjecture of your son," Gromond retorted dismissively, rolling his eyes. "Do not accept it as truth until you have examined the testimony of a credible witness..."

Bartimos furrowed his brow deeply, a bit suspicious of his brother but ultimately dismissed it.

"Let us divert our attention," Gromond declared, gracefully swiveling towards his nephew. "This year shall mark your passage into adulthood, boy, time is ticking for you."

"What?" Clement quizzically arched his eyebrow, curiosity dancing in his eyes.

"Marriage." Gromond continued.

"I have until one and twenty to find a wife on my own." Clement argued casually. "And I promise, father and uncle, I will not hide the name of my wife."

Gromond emitted a scoff, while Bartimos let out a deep chuckle that reverberated through the air. "I understand that in your youth, you may be captivated by the irresistible charm of a single lady, remaining infatuated for years on end. I cannot fault you for that, for I, too, have fallen prey to such allure."

Clement's brow furrowed, his curiosity piqued. "What do you mean by your words, father?"

"You seem to be still hoping to marry Lady Laena Velaryon, were you not?" Bartimos asked, even Gromond is curious.

"What nonsense are you talking about?" Clement scoffed. ""My desire to unite with her in marriage stems solely from our house's own good; I barely know her. Surely you recall the conversation we shared in Maidenpool, dear father."

"I have never heard about this, what did you two talk about?" Gromond said, turning to Baritmos.

"Your infatuation with the blood of dragons shall prove a double-edged sword, my son," Bartimos lamented, a weary sigh escaping his lips. "Even if you were to secure Lady Laena's hand, the prospect of your children being given dragon eggs is but a faint glimmer. The king holds little fondness for stoking the envy or ire of other lords. If our house were to own a dragon, that is already two dragonrider houses too much for the realm."

"Oh I see what's going on…" Gromond chuckled. "You're an ambitious lad, you know that?"

"Look, father. We have built this land on our own sweat and blood. Something is finally going on this isle. The richer you are, the more enemies you will have, one way or another. And what better deterrent against those who covet our downfall than dragons themselves?"

"I must admit, nephew, you bear little resemblance to either of us," Gromond remarked, shaking his head with a mixture of amusement and affection. "Your father, shackled by an enduring adoration for your mother, resists the notion of entering into a new marriage. Meanwhile, I, well... you shall soon see. Yet you, my dear nephew, prattle on about marriages akin to those pompous mainland lords."

"I can fall in love with someone after I marry her, uncle." Clement shrugged.

"By no means do I condemn your stubbornness, my son. I merely caution you that the path you tread is not as facile as it appears," Bartimos interjected, his voice filled with concern. "Should you remain steadfast in your pursuit, then proceed forthwith. However, heed the counsel of your uncle and recognize that time is ticking."

Clement let out a weary sigh, his gaze drifting into the distance. "Indeed, your words do ring true, perchance my aspirations do soar too high in that regard. Yet, does endeavoring towards greatness warrant condemnation, my dear father?" he inquired.

"Do what you want." Bartimos put down his eating utensils and stood up. "I need to prepare the gifts for the king's marriage, I will depart for king's landing on the morrow. Again, son, like last time, you shall be my regent."

Clement nodded. "As you wish."

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Two sunsets had passed since his father's departure from Isle to the city of King's Landing, where the regal union of the king and his new bride was to be celebrated. In the tranquility of his chamber, Clement sat serenely at his desk, engrossed in a plethora of written accounts that unveiled the progress of ongoing construction projects and the bustling occurrences within the harbor. Although a mundane endeavor, the port remained a steadfast entity, as the reports confirmed the routine visits of ships to the warehouse, where they collected a modest cargo before departing. There are also tales of smugglers attempting to elude the vigilant patrol vessels stationed between Crackclaw Point and Claw Isle, as well as merchants endeavoring to sway the steadfast guards, who were swiftly followed by their prompt capture.

Abruptly, a resounding knock disturbed Clement's harmonious solitude, capturing his attention and prompting him to direct his gaze towards the origin of the sound. Granting permission, he bid the one who sought entry to proceed.

As the door swung open, an attendant garbed in a slightly less adorned version of Clement's tournament armor came into view. Bowing respectfully, the guard voiced his thoughts.

"My lord, we have successfully apprehended the ship that might be of your interest, as per your orders." he declared. "A patrol vessel stationed in the strait chanced upon a bannerless vessel. Though we attempted a peaceful approach, they staunchly resisted, compelling us to employ force, which they promptly succumbed to."

"Excellent," Clement affirmed with a nod, rising from his seat and advancing toward the door, thereby exiting his chamber. "And what goods do they possess?"

"Bags brimming with Braavosi coins, my lord," the guard replied, trailing Clement along the corridor. "Most of the crew are smugglers, but one individual appears to possess a higher station."

Clement arched an eyebrow. "How did you come to that conclusion?"

"By virtue of his fervent pleas to be released, emphasizing that he is the son of a sealord, my lord."

A sly smile curved Clement's lips. "Perfect. Thank you for your diligent service, ser."

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Within the Hall of Nine, bathed in the flickering glow emanating from the roaring hearth, Lord Corlys reclined regally, as if drawing solace from the gentle warmth bestowed by the crackling flames. In close proximity, Prince Daemon, his noble countenance etched with an air of contemplation, clasped a goblet of rich wine, his gaze transfixed upon the dancing tongues of fire before him. Whilst the king immersed himself in a grand revelry of feasting, revelry, and jousting within the hallowed halls of King's Landing, his sibling, Daemon, was summoned to Driftmark by the Lord Corlys. Their discourse traversed not the realm of pleasantries, nor did it wade through the mires of reminiscence; no, it delved deep into the very heart of conflict and turmoil—war.

"When I ascended to the Driftwood Throne, I always knew what I always wanted, to see my house to not be underestimated in the eyes of the seven kingdoms." Lord Corlys spoke calmly. "And unlike every other lord of the realm, I can say that I have built my house using my own bare hands."

Daemon's lips curved into an amused smile, his gaze fixated upon Corlys. "Is this the purpose behind your invitation to Driftmark, Lord Corlys? A ploy to regale me with tales of your life's triumphs and achievements?" he uttered with an air of sardonic wit, the words dripping from his tongue like honeyed poison. "Or does some hidden motive lie veiled within these grandiose proclamations?"

Leaning languidly against his ornate chair, Corlys cast an appraising glance upon the prince, his eyes brimming with enigmatic intent. "Have you acquainted yourself with the situation unfolding in the Stepstones?"

The prince hummed as he sipped on his wine. "Some Myrish prince is playing pirate, feeding Westerosi sailors to the crabs."

With a solemn nod, Corlys affirmed the prince's understanding. "Indeed, I have relentlessly petitioned the king, supplicating him time and again to dispatch our navy to the territory." he confided. "But he's denied me. Every single time."

Daemon's laughter resonated like a brook meandering through a moonlit forest. "Unsurprising."

"The king's failures to respond has allowed them to accumulate strength." Lord Corlys continued. "If those shipping lanes fall, my house will be crippled. I will not let Driftmark beggard while our king idols himself with feasts, balls, and tourneys—"

"I will speak for my brother as I wish." Daemon sternly said. "You will not."

Upon hearing those words, a solemn silence befell the air, engulfing the chamber in an air of intrigue. Daemon slowly rose from his ornate seat, his gaze fixed upon the dancing flames that flickered before him. Drawing closer to the blazing hearth, he posed a question laden with intrigue, tinged with a hint of skepticism. "What is it that you expect of me, Lord Corlys? Do you propose that I become a sellsword to your cause?"

Corlys looked Daemon in the eye, and spoke. "The Stepstones are a chance for you to prove your worth to any who might yet doubt it. In doing so, you have given a great service to the realm, whether the king likes it or not."

With a furrowed brow, Daemon, ever the strategist, inquired about the crucial matter of military might. "But what of the armies? Driftmark boasts a formidable fleet, yes, yet what of the ground forces needed to garrison the land? " Daemon asked. "Don't tell me you are to only rely on me and my dragon in your war."

"Sellswords, Daemon, can be procured at a price. Moreover, we may seek alliances within the realms of Blackwater Bay, if that is more to your liking."

Lord Corlys rose gracefully from his opulent seat and approached the prince's side. A palpable sense of gravitas filled the room as he stood, his voice resonating with the weight of his convictions. "In times such as these, our worth is not bestowed upon us as a birthright. No, it must be forged through the fires of our actions and endeavors."

At long last, Daemon's piercing gaze fell upon Lord Corlys, his eyes speaking volumes, poised to reveal the response to the inquisitive Sea Snake. Thus, like a harmonious melody resonating through the vast expanse of the ocean, the distant sound of drums of war reverberate, gradually drawing nearer to the southern realms, accompanied by a dragon, symbolizing its formidable retribution.