Well out to sea, Ser Artys’s Falcon glides across idyllic waters, King’s Landing a distant memory. Upon the great deck, a minstrel plies his trade, though gentle conversation and the ship’s own operations battle him for the ascendancy. Sailors and Arryn men alike are aboard but discreet, in deference to their lord and his guests, many of whom grace the forecastle or the raised stern awning.
Ferro Antaryon, the Sealord of Braavos, is a man who has his sea-legs, of that there can be no doubt. His somber garments, all made of the costliest materials, are cut in the fashion of the merchant-captains of Braavos, with a short half-cape thrown around it to protect it from seaspray. The rest of his entourage seem largely equally at ease aboard the great galley ... and no wonder, when Braavos’s watery streets must be travelled by boat. They largely chatter among themselves in the outlandish Valyrian of their Free City, though some among them converse instead of with others of Arryn’s guests.
“The honest scent of the sea,” Ferro says in response to Lord Jonothor, flashing a grin, “it is a good thing. I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Jonothor. It is a fine galley that you have.”
“My thanks, Sealord.” Jonothor casts an eye over the new deck. “This is one of her first voyages; I had instructions for my shipwrights to begin seasoning the timber a year ago, and now the work is complete. They say in our land that the King’s fleet and the galleys of Lord Redwyne have no equal, but the men of the Vale shall yet stake their claim to a share of the prize.”
“Gulltown is not so far away, and though it is but a smaller port, it is past time that we had a Braavosi trading galley dock there. My lady wife is ever after artifacts and antiques from abroad; a small vice I permit her to pursue.”
As a firstborn son, Jonothor Arryn had been groomed to ascend to the lordship of the Eyrie, but few would have matched his temperament to the office. The cause of such grief was the seductive lure of renown as a great knight and warrior, married to a fiery impetuosity. In order to establish a sense of responsibility within him, his father named him Keeper of the Gates of Moon, though the office did little to sate his appetite for martial honours. Many waited with bated breath upon his ascension to the rule of the Vale at twenty-four.
An heir was not forthcoming, and the impatient Jonothor was known for infamous relations with several other women; an infant bastard son with a commoner has been rumoured, though never acknowledged. The melancholy Fiona, formerly of House Belmore, was an ill-suited companion to Jonothor, and it was oft said that the Lady of the Eyrie would gaze overlong at Alyssa’s Tears, mirroring her own. The first Lady Arryn’s death from a great fall was whispered amongst men as a welcome one.
As the stormclouds gathered, Jonothor is said to have cloistered himself within the sept for seven days. Upon his emergence from the sept, he would not speak for another seven. Great leather tomes were opened that had lain idle, before Jonothor relented, to reveal himself a changed man. The following five years were dedicated to setting the Vale to rights once more; ravens sped in great flocks as the far reaches of the Vale were traversed once more, and the Lord Arryn reconciled and regained the confidence of many of his bannermen. In concert with Maester Arett, Jonothor became as proficient with the written word and mind as with a lance and blade, making good much of the time lost in childhood. His recent marriage to the slender, fair-haired Lira Lannister has completed his full rehabilitation, and within the year, she fell pregnant; midway through the second, Eldred Arryn was born.
It has not been enough for Jonothor to merely cease the reckless activities of his past life. Now a pious man, his formerly charismatic and easy manner has become nigh on humorless, having been subverted by the unbending observation of strict moral values. He who was a frequent patron of brothels has become a great enemy; it is this opposition in particular that blights an otherwise reasonable relationship with the smallfolk, whom he respects his duties to, but at arm’s length. He also bears scant regard for mercenaries and sellswords, and does not suffer fools lightly; he regards hunting and other extravagant lordly leisures as frivolous pursuits. To those close to him he retains a warm, protective character, but to others, he has grown a distant figure; formidable and implacable, aloof and just, a man not to be trifled with.
Known as a formidable wartime commander and the Warden of the East, Jonothor spent much of his time in naval command, where he was second to the Master of Ships, Ser Alyn Velaryon. During the Conquest, Arryn mustered his power at sea, calling his banners to the port of Gulltown, before joining his naval power to that of the man who would later become known as Oakenfist.
Jonothor’s notable deeds included the defeat of Lord Jordayne, whom he captured, in the first major naval engagement of the Conquest; the successful but costly storming of Ghost Hill; and the assault and subsequent capture of Planky Town, where Arryn war galleys held the mastery. While Oakenfist raided up the Greenblood, Jonothor led a force that stole in to sack and raze Lemonwood’s harbour, where he clashed with Ser Dinias Dalt, the Knight of Lemonwood. Arryn war galleys and the Valemen were also victorious in the Second Battle of Planky Town, where Jonothor held the command.
His flagship, of some renown, is named Ser Artys’s Falcon.
The shift in topic is, perhaps, not unexpected. Ferro’s gaze drifts from the far, oceanic horizon to the man beside him on the forecastle. The hazel eyes are ... considering, before he responds, “Of course. Gulltown was once a favored port of our purple fleet, in the long circuit of the narrow sea.” A deep breath, sucking in the warm salty air, with the wind from the south scented just faintly of the forests of the kingswood. He lets it out with a smile, but that smile fades as he continues. “But then there was a little war with our brothers, and the ending of it ... My predecessor agreed to leave Gulltown for the Tyroshi and Myrish, and we Braavosi would tend to trade elsewhere. The place called Saltpans, I am told, has been bountiful thanks to the Lysene kinsman of that little port’s lord.”
The Arryn lord sniffs, though he knows enough of decorum to mask the greater part of his scorn. “Saltpans is scarce more than a castle with a crude port and village attached; you would find greater fare at Gulltown. Though I may understand your hesitation if it risks you the wrath of the Myrish or Tyroshi trading cartels,” he adds, deftly.
“But surely the Braavosi are interested in finer fare. You would not sail across the Narrow Sea for Saltpans alone! Have your ships visited the Arbor, or had any other - interests - elsewhere?”
“We have interests in many places, is is true,” the Sealord remarks, “and Saltpans is but one port among many. We sail all the seas that may be sailed, my lord.” He seems proud of that, and he’s surely not a man lacking in confidence. And yet . . . “The Tyroshi and Myrish are a nuisance. It was in my predecessor’s day, and since then, let us say I have had more success, yes?” Another flashing grin, and he goes on to wonder, “Perhaps if your young king proves amenable to certain matters we have discussed, I could disregard the other Free Cities, and send our galleys to Gulltown as of old… But we must see what time and tides brings, we sailing men, yes? Just so.”
Jonothor nods slowly, digesting Ferro’s words. “I am willing to aid Braavosi sails bearing into Gulltown; seafarers have comradeship one for another, and I am perhaps the most sea-minded of my line for several generations.”
“Perhaps I could assist you in your matters with His Grace, if you were so inclined to tell of them. Ser Alyn Velaryon, the King’s cousin, is another son of the seas with whom you might engender favour.”
“Oh, I have heard of this Oakenfist of the king’s. A great admiral, all agree,” says Ferro, with a bland smile. “You must tell me of these battles you fought in, on this voyage. The smashing of the Planky Town was all the talk for a time. Alas, your king’s war did disrupt trade, and our traders have only lately been able to make use of that port again…”
He turns, leaning casually on the forecastle railing, his gaze wandering down to his entourage and the minstrels, and then on—as a true sailor’s must—to the men laboring about the deck. He seems to be considering something. Finally, he says, “The Stepstones, that nest of pirates and robbers, are beginning to become a nuisance again in the narrow sea. You know this, yes? When the Dornish were at peace, their princes made some effort to keep them at bay, and all prospered. But now, Dorne is not at peace, and your fleet has many other tasks. It is a . . . quandry, is this the word?”
“That’s one word for it,” Jonothor says, curtly. “Certainly, not a pleasant place. The Dornish fleet is rather diminished for the nonce,” this, he says with no hint of regret and a touch of pride, “but perhaps Lord Redwyne may be persuaded to take up the matter. It certainly does no good for his Arbor vintage to have the southern passages cramped by pirates.”
“Either that, or Ser Alyn might be persuaded to take on the fight. A war galley or two I might lend to the effort, if I knew he held the command. Doubtless the Master of Ships would sweep all before him, and perhaps even capture a few worthy vessels that might be better put to the King’s service. Of this matter I will speak with him, surely. Are there any others?”
“Alas, his grace is adamant that his bold cousin is too busy with other matters,” Sealord Ferro says, a frown flitting on his lips. He sighs, and turns back to regard the sea ahead of the galley, and then to look up at some crying sea gulls hovering about the ship, calling to one another. “Yet you are here, and only late returned from the Vale. Mayhaps you would be such a man as the king would trust with such a charge, yes? But I leave that your judgment, Lord Jonothor.” Here and there the Braavosi accent is sharper, stretching certain vowels, softening certain constants—Lord Arryn’s name in particular is strangely changed by the bastard Valyrian of the Free Cities.
The Sealord’s hands grip the finely worked railing, and slide it over familiarly, before he goes on, “But then of course, the Lysene pirates will find aid from Lys, no? For their takings are sold in Lys, are they not? Perhaps then, a little war would happen in the narrow sea… and your king, he must choose, yes? To stand down, maybe. Or to fight, and find allies among the Free Cities. Allies like Braavos, perhaps. Why not? Unlike many of our brethren, we would have an end to slavery, as you enjoy here in your Seven Kingdoms. Your Andal gods bring us closer together, in this.”
There is silence for a long moment, before the Vale lord speaks once more. “You speak of Lys, Myr and Tyrosh as the nuisances, though they may put a great many sails upon the seas if one prods them too much. Are there other cities that would sail with Braavos?”
“The Stepstones are far from my lands and rule,” Jonothor explains. “For me to take upon such a campaign, I would need assurances that there are good rewards at the end, otherwise I am simply doing Lord Redwyne and others some charity at my own cost of ships, sailors and my own treasury that could have been better put to use in my own lands.”
Another pause. “But now then - if the King were to support the venture out of his treasury and some of his fleet, and allow myself the capture of the spoils; and if Braavos were to keep in check the other Free Cities that I am upsetting, while opening a route to Gulltown for the exotic treasures my lady wife desire - then, I could see something happening. What think you, Sealord?”
“Some might find advantage in sailing with our fleet against those who think to take more control of the narrow sea than they should,” says the Lion of Braavos, thoughtful in manner and tone. “Lorath hardly need be spoken of, such is their fleet. But Pentos, certainly. Mayhaps even the old elephants of Volantis might be moved, for a time until they remember their disdain for Braavos.”
Arryn’s proposals are clearly considered in the silence that follows, and in the end the Sealord nods. “I think ... Just so, my lord. Just so. It sounds the beginning of an alliance, yes? Dorne is not at rest, but mayhaps soon it will be . . . and your Young Dragon will not wish himself idle, when he has so many splendid knights and splendid ships. The narrow sea might be greatly changed in just a few years. The Stepstones? A little thing, but rich enough, for the man that can seize them. Beyond that ... who knows? Mayhaps there shall be a Lord of Lys or Tyrosh some day, bending his knee to your king . . . or to the Sealord, his friend?”
“This does hold some promise,” Arryn concedes, still deep in thought. “It is something that we will have to discuss when we are on land. But certainly, when such conditions are met, I can see the benefit for all. How much longer do you stay with us?”
“I have brought gifts for your king’s heir and sister, for their wedding, so I shall see these delivered,” the Sealord replies. “And perhaps there shall be happy news to discuss then, and I will remain awhile longer. Perhaps a month more, if all goes as one hopes? Enough time to discuss matters among men such as ourselves, and to set a course to the benefit of Braavos and Westeros both.”
“Ah, then that is plenty of time for details,” Jonothor says, casting a glance toward the deck and sails. He raises his voice, back again to levels of common consumption. “Come minstrel, give us a proper tune!” He bows to one of the ladies aboard the cruise as he moves back to the main deck. “Play us one fit for a court, not something in some roundabout tavern!” And with such words, the intimate conversation is dispersed and lords and ladies move about freely once more.