"Lord Alyn was an insolent boy and did not love his king."
―Mushroom
...
The salt wind felt sharper than he remembered.
Alyn Velaryon drew in a deep breath as he stepped off the gangplank, his boots meeting the creaking timber of the newly built quay. The brine in the air stung his nostrils, mingling with the smell of tar and old fish. Gull cries cut across the clamor of men heaving cargo from the hold, and a pair of Velaryon marines barked orders at the foot of the pier. The heat pressed down like a heavy cloak, and sweat already beaded on his temples.
He paused to look around and let the bustle of the landing wash over him. How many times had he sailed these waters? He had once known every crooked dock, every hidden cove along these islands. But he felt a stranger now—the Stepstones had changed again in the short moons since he departed.
On the crags that edged the harbor, fresh palisades jutted skyward: a wall of sharpened stakes braced by heavy timbers. Scorpions were set at intervals like watchful eyes, and behind them, men wearing patched surcoats patrolled with bows half-drawn. Farther inland, he glimpsed a modest fortress rising on a hill of pale stone, dominated by a half-finished tower. Whichever engineer oversaw the construction had wasted no time. The king plainly meant to hold this place, no matter the cost.
Welcome back to the war, Alyn thought, suppressing a wry smile. Patrolling the waters south of the Steps made the conflict seem so distant, but being here again brought everything into sharp focus. For all the glory the songs might sing, the reality of this blockade was a slog of sweat and blood.
At the base of the dock, a few passing sailors hailed him with a half-salute. He recognized a face or two—lads from Driftmark or the mainland who'd somehow found themselves roped into the Stepstones campaign. Their unspoken question was plain: You back for more, Hull?
He had no ready answer. Instead, he returned the salute in a perfunctory way, adjusting the small trunk slung on his shoulder. At his hip, the sea-serpent–hilted sword bounced lightly as he strode forward.
"First Mate!" someone shouted—a deckhand from the war dromond that had borne him these past few months. Alyn offered a curt nod. He had been named First Mate only recently, after bold (or foolhardy) actions in a prior skirmish. The promotion still felt like a borrowed coat. It fit well enough, but he worried it might tear in the next scuffle.
"Alyn!"
The familiar voice pulled him from his introspection. He turned to see Addam, his younger brother, standing near a battered crate of supplies, his sliver hair tousled by the stiff breeze. Alyn felt a surge of warmth at the sight. Gods, how he's grown in so little time. There was a new poise in Addam's stance, his carriage more assured. He even looked leaner, as though the burden of adulthood had carved away any remaining softness.
They clasped arms. Alyn's grin tugged at his cheeks, unbidden. "You're a sight for sore eyes," he said.
Addam's smile was more reserved, but genuine. "Likewise, brother," he said, voice colored by a faint dryness. "I half-expected to find you maimed or drowned by now. Heard you got your share of battle, though."
"I might prefer this lull if I am being honest," Alyn quipped, letting out a breathy laugh. He lowered his voice, scanning the hodgepodge encampment. "You've been busy."
"Aye," Addam said. "Come—walk with me, we have much to talk about."
They set off along a freshly laid boardwalk that ran parallel to the fortifications. The boards creaked underfoot. Alyn took in the masses of supply wagons being unloaded—barrels of salted pork, casks of fresh water, great coils of rope for siege engines. Everywhere he looked, men carried arms or hammered planks. He recognized House Velaryon's trident seahorse on many a banner, but the Hightower's beacon also appeared, along with Lannister's golden lion. The allied presence felt fragile—too many proud lords pressed close, each with private ambitions. But for now, it seemed to hold.
"They've poured a small fortune into fortifications," Addam said, noticing his gaze. "The prince intends to hold these islands forever, it seems."
At the mention of Aemond, Alyn's expression grew guarded. He had never quite grown comfortable with the Butcher Prince's name, nor with the power the man wielded. Yet here was his brother, proudly wearing the role of dragonrider in Aemond's ranks. The rumours had long reached him, though he could scarcely believe them. "You truly ride with him?" he asked quietly. "Serving him well, I hope?"
Addam nodded, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. "We do what we must in times of war. Seasmoke is… bound to me, and the prince offered me a place in his ranks. Better that than—" He shook his head, letting the words trail away. "Come, my dragon is up ahead."
Alyn tensed as they rounded a bend and found themselves by a cleared courtyard near the shoreline. There, a winged wyrm dozed in the midday sun, slender-limbed and elegant, pale scales tinted silver in the dusty glare. The dragon lifted its head lazily at their approach, revealing eyes like molten steel. Even at rest, the beast was terrifying. Alyn's heart hammered in his chest—he had seen dragons flying in the distance before, but to stand mere paces from one was another thing entirely.
Addam walked forth and set a hand on the creature's flank, whispering a soft word. Seasmoke blinked slowly and lowered its head again. Alyn swallowed, a pang of envy flaring in his chest. Then, a grin found his lips. We've come far, both of us.
"We should go for a ride together sometime," Addam teased in passing. Alyn's head shook like a rattle in response, eliciting a laugh from his brother.
Soon, after gawking at the resting beast for some time, they fell into step again, heading inland through a hastily erected gate. Beyond it lay a series of fortified earthworks. Men hammered stakes into the ground or hauled logs for ramparts. The clang of tools formed a relentless rhythm. Now and then, a sentry on the parapet shouted, or a foreman barked orders to new arrivals.
Time passed in quiet conversation. Alyn recounted his brush with death at the Steps; Addam spoke of his bonding with Seasmoke. They laughed over childhood pranks, fell silent over the names of lost friends. The air between them felt weighty with things unsaid—fear, hope, loyalty, and doubt all swirling in an uneasy brew.
The sun had begun its slow descent when Alyn, leaning over the rampart, caught a peculiar stirring on the horizon. Sails, faint but gathering. At first, he thought it might be another friendly fleet returning from its patrol of the region—but no. His breath caught.
"Addam," he said softly, pointing. "Look there."
Shadowy silhouettes dotted the ocean's edge, just a haze at first. But as the moments wore on, the shapes refined. Ranks of masts, tight in formation. More slid into view, carefully arrayed, each wave of ships merging to form a broad front. Alyn's pulse kicked, the memory of prior battles stinging his mind.
Addam's expression darkened. "They're mustering…" Alyn's voice trailed away.
His brother didn't answer at once, gaze fixed on the distant sails. The wind seemed to pick up, tugging at their clothes, as though the sea itself recognized the approach of trouble.
For a moment, they just stood there, the final glimmer of sun casting long shadows across the rough-hewn fortifications. Around them, gulls cried, oblivious to the sense of doom that crept up from the horizon.
"We must ready the men," Addam said in the end. "I'll take to the skies on Seasmoke to gauge the size of the enemy fleet."
Alyn nodded, eyes darkening. "Stay safe, brother," he said as Addam turned to leave.
The younger man paused for a moment before replying. "You too."