Unease Across The Realm

105 AC - King's Landing - Third Person POV

The small council chamber in the Red Keep was a crucible of power, its high windows casting jagged light across a weathered oak table carved with Westeros's map. King Viserys I Targaryen sat at its head, his silver hair dulled by grief, his Valyrian steel crown a heavy burden. The loss of Aemma and their newborn son—falsely believed dead—haunted him, his eyes hollow as he faced his advisors: Lord Corlys Velaryon, Otto Hightower, Lord Lyman Beesbury, Grand Maester Runciter, Ser Harrold Westerling, and Lord Tyland Lannister. The air crackled with unease, the Stepstones' sudden silence a specter looming over their deliberations.

Lord Corlys Velaryon, Master of Ships, broke the quiet, his sea-green robes taut against his broad frame, his voice a low rumble. "Your Grace, the Stepstones are silent—too silent. No pirate raids, no sign of Craghas Drahar's fleet. My captains sail unmolested, their holds full, yet I feel a chill. This isn't peace. It's… wrong."

Viserys stirred, his tone grasping for optimism. "Wrong? Lord Corlys, is calm not a blessing? Perhaps the pirates cower before our dragons—Syrax, Caraxes, Meleys. Their fire's a warning none ignore."

Corlys's eyes flashed, his voice sharp as a blade. "Cower? Drahar's men laughed at dragonfire! They've bled my ships for years, slipping past Meleys's flames. Why flee now, without a whisper? No, Your Grace, this is no dragon's doing. Something else stalks those islands."

Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, leaned forward, his green doublet immaculate, his voice a calculated purr. "Lord Velaryon, your instincts are keen, but let's not weave ghosts from shadows. The Stepstones are a cesspool—pirates turn on each other like rats. Could Drahar's men have clashed, leaving none to sail?"

Corlys's laugh was harsh, his fist grazing the table. "Clashed? Otto, my spies in Tyrosh report no infighting, no bodies washing ashore. Drahar's fleet was fifty strong, his men a thousand. They don't vanish like morning mist. Something—or someone—wiped them out."

Lord Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin, clutched his ledger, his voice trembling. "Wiped out? Lord Corlys, trade thrives without their raids. Tariffs fill the treasury—merchants sing your grace's name! Why chase a phantom when gold flows?"

Corlys's gaze pinned Beesbury, his voice a growl. "Gold? Lyman, you count coins while my sailors count empty horizons! This silence isn't a boon—it's a trap. What force could silence Drahar? We're blind, and blindness kills."

Ser Ryman Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, shifted, his white cloak rustling, his voice gruff. "Could the Triarchy have struck? Myr, Tyrosh, Lys—they fund Drahar. Perhaps they betrayed him, consolidating power."

Corlys shook his head, his tone clipped. "Betray him? Harrold, the Triarchy's coffers swell with Drahar's plunder. Our losses are their gain. My Myr contacts say they're as baffled as we are—no orders, no signals. They're groping in the dark."

Grand Maester Runciter, his chain clinking, spoke, his voice cautious. "A natural calamity, perhaps? A plague ravaging their ranks? Or a maelstrom sinking their fleet? The Stepstones are cursed—rocks shred hulls, fevers claim men."

Corlys's voice dripped scorn. "Plague? Maelstrom? Runciter, you peddle tales for novices! Drahar's men are hardened, their ships built for storms. This isn't nature's work—it's deliberate, precise. Someone erased them."

Lord Lyonel Strong, Master of Laws, tilted his head. "Erased? By whom, Lord Corlys? Dorne's navy is a jest, the Ironborn too distant. The Free Cities bicker like children. Who else prowls those waters?"

Corlys's eyes darkened, his voice low, almost a whisper. "That's what keeps me awake, Lord Strong. Sailors whisper of… unnatural things."

Otto's smile was thin, his tone dripping condescension. "The Stepstones' calm is likely fleeting. We watch, we wait—no need to stir a hornet's nest."

Corlys slammed his fist, the table shuddering. "Watch? Otto, you'd have us cower while our trade's lifeline dangles! If not pirates, then what? A new lord? A sorcerer? We must know, or we're lambs to slaughter!"

Viserys raised a hand, his voice weary but firm. "Enough, both of you. Lord Corlys, your fears carry weight. The realm grieves, and war would fracture us."

Corlys's jaw clenched, his voice taut. "Your Grace, forgive my bluntness, but ignoring this risks all. If the Stepstones fall to another, we lose the Narrow Sea's heart. My ships carry your wealth—silks, spices, steel. Shall we gamble them on hope?"

Otto's voice cut in, smooth as venom. "Your Grace, Lord Velaryon's zeal blinds him. War drains the treasury—Lord Beesbury can attest. A few scouts, discreetly sent, will suffice. No need for fleets or dragons."

Beesbury nodded, his voice shrill. "Precisely! Ten galleys, no more. We'll sniff out the truth without emptying the vaults!"

Ser Harrold's tone was measured. "A scouting mission makes sense, Your Grace. Lord Velaryon's skill at sea ensures answers. If there's a threat, we'll know."

Runciter's voice wavered, his eyes uneasy. "And if they find… something unnatural? We must prepare for the unthinkable."

Corlys's voice was a snarl. "I say we sail, we search, we strike if needed."

Viserys sighed, his shoulders sagging. "Lord Corlys, your passion serves us, but Otto's caution holds. No war, not now. As Master of Ships, you'll lead a scouting fleet to the Stepstones. Ten galleys, no more. Investigate, report, avoid conflict unless forced."

Corlys bowed, his voice clipped. "As you command, Your Grace. I sail in three days."

Otto's eyes gleamed, his tone placating. "A prudent choice, Your Grace. Lord Velaryon's prowess will pierce this veil."

The council turned to mundane matters—grain yields, a Stormlands feud, the Faith's alms—but Corlys's gaze lingered on the map's Stepstones, their silence a riddle that gnawed at him.

Lys: The Triarchy's Growing Dread

In Lys, the Triarchy's palace shimmered with opulence, its marble halls draped in silks, its air heavy with jasmine and fear. Magisters Moro Vhassyl of Lys, Donaro Trellos of Myr, and Varysno Qhaedar of Tyrosh sat at a gilded table, their advisors—a mix of merchants, sellswords, and spies—hushed. A week without word from Craghas Drahar, their pirate proxy in the Stepstones, had unraveled their confidence, his absence a wound in their schemes.

Moro Vhassyl, his silver hair slicked, his violet robes flowing, spoke first, his voice a velvet blade. "Brothers, our grip on the Stepstones slips. Craghas Drahar—our Crabfeeder—sends no ravens, no ships. Seven days of silence. His raids bled Velaryon dry, filling our vaults. What stills his hand?"

Donaro Trellos, his scarred face flushed, gripped his goblet, his voice a rasp. "Stills? He's likely gorging on plunder, ignoring us! Drahar's a pirate, Moro, not your perfumed clerk. He'll slink back when his gold runs low."

Varysno Qhaedar, his blue-dyed beard glinting, laughed, his voice icy. "Gorging? Donaro, you're blind. Drahar's no fool—his raids were surgical, our profits precise. A week without word? He's dead, or worse."

Moro's fingers stilled, his voice sharp. "Dead? Who dares strike the Crabfeeder? His fleet's fifty strong, his men bloodthirsty. Velaryon's too spineless, Dorne's ships mere rafts. Who else?"

Donaro's voice growled, his eyes narrowing. "Targaryens? Their dragons could burn Drahar's sails, but Viserys is a milksop. He'd rather bed his grief than fight."

Varysno leaned forward, his voice a hiss. "Not dragons, but… something darker. My Tyroshi spies whisper of horrors in the Stepstones. Islands green where stone once stood. Beasts in the skies, not winged like dragons. Tales, perhaps, but too many to scoff."

Moro's laugh was brittle, his tone scornful. "Horrors? Beasts? Varysno, you've drunk too much sailor's rotgut. The Stepstones are barren rocks, not gardens. Drahar's met a rival—another corsair, maybe."

Donaro's voice boomed, his frustration raw. "Rival? Who matches Drahar's iron? We armed him, gilded him! If he's gone, our trade's naked—Velaryon's ships glide free, mocking us!"

Varysno's eyes glinted, his voice low. "Free? For now. But if Drahar's fallen, we lose the Narrow Sea's chokehold. We must know why, or our wealth bleeds."

Moro's voice hardened, his gaze piercing. "My Lyseni captains echo you—empty seas, no raids. If Drahar's dead, who profits? Not Velaryon—he'd trumpet his victory. Not Dorne—they're toothless. A new shadow, then?"

Donaro's scoff was bitter. "A shadow? The Stepstones eat dreamers. Drahar ruled by blood, not dreams."

Moro's voice relented, his tone grudging. "Scouts, then. A dozen ships—four each from Lys, Myr, Tyrosh. Find Drahar's fate, or his foes."

Varysno's voice was resolute. "And if we face a new lord? We talk, or we burn them. The Triarchy kneels to none."

Moro raised his goblet, his voice a command. "To scouts, and answers. Sail at dawn. The Stepstones are ours, or no one's."

The council shifted to slave auctions and Qartheen debts, but the Stepstones' silence hung like a noose, tightening their resolve.