TBOV: Chapter Seventeen: The Velaryons

Chapter Seventeen: The Velaryons

“The sea was their element, not the sky.”

―writings of Gyldayn

…

Alyn wiped the back of his hand across his brow, squinting against the midday glare bouncing off the pale timbers of the deck. The heat in the Stepstones always seemed different from that of Driftmark—an insistent, sticky warmth that clung to the skin like damp wool. He moved among the laborers with a purposeful stride, pausing now and again to inspect the new rigging or the hammered nails in the dromond’s hull. This was an essential task as each repair might mean the difference between life and death in rough waters.

These months since the Battle of the Steps had afforded him far more peace than he’d thought he’d ever see again. No storms of battle, no desperate chases across the sea—just the slow, methodical business of rebuilding. He could still feel a certain numbness in the scar that ran across his chest, a faint tingle in the burn scars along his left arm when the wind shifted, but it had grown manageable. Another part of him entirely, a reminder that, again, he had lived through the worst of squabbling lords.

He stepped around a coil of rope, calling to a deckhand. “Careful there—tighten that knot, or you’ll be fetching that yardarm from the bottom of the sea.” His tone was gruff but well-meaning; in truth, he felt an almost paternal satisfaction watching these repairs. He was proud of this battered dromond. They’d been together for a long while now; he could almost call the old ship home.

He turned at the sound of footsteps crossing the plank from the dock. Addam. His younger brother was easy to spot—lean, sharp of face, hair tied back hastily, sea-green cloak swirling around his shoulders. Alyn caught his gaze, offered a half-smile, and resumed gesturing to the crew. It had become routine for Addam to visit. Ever since the Crown’s forces had reinforced its hold on these steps, Addam made weekly patrols on dragon back as was apparently his duty. Then, he would drop in on Alyn, all bluff and bluster to bother him for the rest of the day.

Alyn was about to greet him when he saw the brightness in Addam’s eyes, something warmer than a friendly call. The younger Velaryon nodded curtly to the group of workers before beckoning Alyn aside. They retreated beyond the arch of the gangplank, weaving between stacked barrels and crates until they were beyond earshot. Alyn’s curiosity rose. “What is it?” he asked quietly.

Addam took a moment to draw a folded parchment from within his cloak. “Summons,” he said softly, tilting the parchment for Alyn to see the neat scrawl. “Straight from King’s Landing, with the King’s seal and a letter from the Lord-Hand himself.”

The title pulled an uneasy tremor through Alyn. Otto Hightower was known to be a clever man, and thrice as dangerous. Alyn frowned. “And why would the Hand write to you directly?”

Addam exhaled, the corners of his mouth tugging into a half-smile. “Because it isn’t just a summons for me. It’s for us. We’re both to come to King’s Landing immediately. The letter—” he lifted it in one hand “—goes on about... well, everything. Our legitimization. We are to be ‘Velaryons’ in both name and law.”

Alyn’s breath caught, and he felt his pulse thunder in his ears. There had been murmurs that the Crown might take such a step. Bending the rules of birth to better secure the loyalty of a dragonrider. Addam he could understand, the lad was a dragonrider after all. But Alyn wasn’t. He could hardly believe it. “Legitimization? For both of us?”

His brother nodded slowly. “For both of us,” he confirmed. “Aegon’s seal is on it, and it names me as the heir to Driftmark under Lord Corlys’s own word. I’m to marry Princess Rhaena. And you, brother,” he added, a note of pride lifting his voice, “are to be the captain of a new war dromond in the Royal Fleet—indeed, an entire scout flotilla of some ten ships will answer to you as its admiral.”

For a moment, Alyn said nothing. He felt as though the air around him had stilled. His father—his distant father, Corlys Velaryon—had chosen Addam, the younger son, as heir. Betrothed a princess to him. Alyn’s chest tightened with an unbidden rush of envy. Was it truly the dragon alone that swayed Corlys’s mind? That, above all, commanded respect and power? He had risked his life just as readily; he had the burns and scars to prove it. Yet the decision was made, and it seemed he was overshadowed once again by the brilliance of a younger brother who won the affection of a monstrous beast.

But as quickly as it came, Alyn banished the bitter thought. He hated feeling small or jealous; that was never who he wanted to be. With effort, he forced the tension from his shoulders. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, letting out a laugh that sounded more genuine than he expected. “That’s… that’s wondrous news.” He clapped a hand on Addam’s shoulder, then pulled him into a fierce hug. “Gods be good. Heir to Driftmark, wed to a Targaryen princess? We’ll have a fine time rubbing that in the faces of every snub who ever turned us aside.”

Addam embraced him in return, laughter muffled against Alyn’s jacket. When they pulled apart, both wore foolish smiles. It felt more like the day’s heat had rushed into his chest than the weight of anxious thoughts. Alyn let out a breath, remembering his more pressing duties. “We have to sail swiftly then, to reach King’s Landing—there’s only so many days the King and the Hand will wait. Which of the ships are we taking?”

“None,” Addam said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Alyn’s eyes narrowed at once. “I suppose you’re suggesting we do something rash.”

“Not rash,” Addam corrected him, stepping a little closer, lowering his voice. “Quick. The summons says we’re expected within the day. By ship, it’d take longer. But if we fly—”

Alyn threw up his hands in protest. “Seasmoke spooks me, you know that. I’ve told you time and again, I wasn’t meant to leave the sea or earth behind—especially not strapped to the spine of a scaly beast. I’ll lose my wits halfway there.”

“And the king will lose his wits if we arrive late,” Addam countered, lips twitching with amusement. “Brother, think of it as a test of the Crown’s mercy on your good sense. You’d prefer days at sea to an afternoon’s journey by air?”

Alyn groaned and looked skyward, heart pounding in a mixture of dread and reluctant acceptance. He had faced swords and flames, men dying around him, ships set ablaze—yet the thought of flying made his stomach flutter. But Addam was right. “Fine,” he muttered with as much dignity as he could muster. “But if I’m sick all over your dragon’s saddle, you’ll be the one to apologize to the poor beast.”

Addam’s laughter was bright as the Stepstones' sun. He clapped Alyn on the back as they headed toward the gangplank. The sea still sparkled around them, and the war dromond’s timbers still creaked, but Alyn knew that his world was about to change in ways he had never quite imagined. A ship could be mended over time; a man, too, could be reforged. Perhaps it was fate that he would test his courage on dragonback next.

He only prayed to the gods—old and new—that he wouldn’t fall off before they got to Dragonstone.