"He married her for a claim. A crown is worth a thousand times what any woman is."
―Petyr Baelish, A Feast for Crows
…
They had told Kellen to expect the auditor by midday, yet the hour crept past noon before the ship appeared—an unassuming carrack bearing neither the understated insignia of the Merchant Guild nor the three-headed dragon of the Crown. A hush fell over the wharf as the vessel drew in, sails trimmed, hull scraping the barnacled pylons of Lordsport's battered docks.
Kellen stood in the biting wind, cloak pressed to his frame, fighting the lingering sting of salt in his lungs. Around him, a small honor guard—fifteen men in half armour—waited silently. The usual rank reek of fish and seaweed mixed with fresh sawdust from the newly built slipways behind them. A small group of Ironborn onlookers loitered behind a rope barrier, gazes watchful, expressions sullen. None dared approach. Even the gulls seemed to sense the tension, Kellen hearing only a few desultory cries overhead.
The ship's gangplank lowered with a groan. A pair of escorts in black-and-crimson livery strode off first, then Emory Celtigar descended. He wore a severe black cloak lined with faint gold piping, pinned at the collar with a small dragonglass brooch. His posture was impeccable, his face set in stoic calm. If he noticed the stiff breeze or the resentful stares from the salt-blooded smallfolk, he gave no sign.
Kellen advanced, gave a crisp half-bow. "Welcome to Lordsport, Master Auditor. I am Marshal Rivers, at your service."
Celtigar paused, gloved hands resting easily on the pommel of his short baton. His eyes flicked over Kellen, then the Red Cloaks behind him, then the harbor. "Marshal Rivers," he said at last, voice a measured baritone. "Thank you for receiving me."
"Of course, sir." Kellen allowed himself a nod. "If it pleases you," He said, falling into step alongside the auditor as they went up the winding path towards Pyke, "we can discuss more in my chambers."
"By all means," Celtigar said, allowing Kellen to lead him inside.
...
There was a brief pause. The auditor glanced around the room—freshly converted from an old storage room. The rotting beams replaced, a table polished to reflect the minimal torchlight. He gave a faint nod, acknowledgement without warmth. "I see you've been busy here." he said.
"Indeed, sir," Kellen nodded. "Restoring this castle is one of the duties I was charged with by the Good Prince. If it pleases you, we may dispense with the formalities and get started."
"By all means," Celtigar said, stepping forward. Kellen sat in his chair, posture politely erect. The auditor took the seat opposite and placed a slender leather-bound ledger onto the table. "Let us start with a formal statement of compliance," the man said. "I trust you have your tallies and inventories at hand?"
Kellen nodded. "Of course." He gestured to one of his subordinates to bring forth the documents that had been arranged. "Our daily logs, rosters, and estimates. We can go through the ledgers in detail. Afterwards, I'll guide you for an on-site inspection."
Celtigar nodded.
Kellen took the cue to begin. "Let us start with the barracks expansions on Orkmont," he said. "We've completed the first building—capacity of five hundred men. The second and third are halfway done. Construction progress on the fourth is one-fifth the way to completion, by last night's measure."
Kellen passed a parchment listing supply usage: stone, mortar, nails. The auditor studied it with heavy-lidded eyes. "You used more stone than the original estimate."
"Yes, we encountered structural issues," Kellen replied, clearing his throat. "The southwestern corner of the first building needed reinforcement after the hillside showed signs of slippage in the heavy rains. An additional two hundred stone blocks had to be cut, and we needed to purchase more mortar. This caused a—eight-day delay. We overcame it by doubling shifts for the thralls."
Celtigar dipped his quill, neatly marking the margin. "Understood. I would urge you to speed up construction if possible, but I am sure you are already cognizant of this need. The crown requires the capacity to billet more men on these islands. The Prince's expansions cannot proceed if our men-at-arms are sleeping in damp tents." His voice never rose above that measured calm. Then, "I see the cost of nails soared by fifteen percent. Issues with the local blacksmiths then? Your last report mentioned some… recalcitrant locals."
Kellen shook his head. "No, sir. A family died from dysentery two weeks ago and they—a father and three sons—had been responsible for producing a significant amount of the nails we used for construction. Their deaths have forced us to rely on shipments from Lannisport, which drives up cost. Measures, however, have been taken to ensure this incident does not repeat."
Celtigar wrote a single line in his ledger, lips pursed. "Hmm. I will write to King's Landing for more labour and supplies," he said. "Just be careful with these ones; many of the thrall that would be sent are Essosi prisoners of war and they have been known to have a habit of causing trouble. The prince will expect you to maintain this schedule, so avoid situations that would permit sabotage. These expansions must be completed within the next half year."
"Essosi, sir?" Kellen asked, confused, as he slid a second sheaf forward.
"The ones detained during the battle of Rook's Rest, yes," Celtigar said. "Too many were being sent to the Wall, hence, the Small Council decided the realm would be better served if they were dispersed more evenly across the realm." The room fell silent for several moments as the man skimmed through the document Kellen passed to him. "What am I looking at?" he asked in the end.
"The dry docks in Lordsport, sir," Kellen replied. "The two slipways are now fully operational. The first batch of longships are also nearly complete. We're fitting the final riggings now. A second set of hulls are half-framed. You'll see here," he pointed to a set of columns, "the daily man-hours allocated, plus supply usage for timbers, pitch, and iron rivets."
Celtigar nodded and ran a critical eye down the columns. "The pitch usage is lower than the allotment. Are you short?"
Kellen nodded in turn. "Some. The local pine pitch is subpar. We rely on shipments from the North, but belays at sea hamper us and the Iron Isles can't produce enough on their own."
The auditor's quill flicked again. "We might route some from Rosby, if shipping lanes permit. However, that will take some time. Though, at least, the cost should be manageable. The Guild's latest disbursement covers you for how many more fortnights again?"
Kellen steeped his fingers. "Four, sir, if all goes smoothly. After that, we'll need either a fresh infusion of gold or slave labor—preferably both."
Celtigar kept his voice neutral. "I have noted the request. Yes, before I forget, show me the reports on the foundries."
Kellen passed another ledger.
Celtigar read it and frowned moment's later. "What happened? You still haven't completed the repairs of southwestern mine shaft?"
"More sabotage, sir, but we're addressing the matter aggressively. To compensate, our lead mason suggested we open a new shaft west of the Ten Towers on Harlaw; this one deeper than the first. I expect to recover that shortfall soon."
Celtigar's mouth pressed into a thin line. Annoyance. "You have compiled an incident report, correct?"
Kellan nodded and passed another ledger. "Two sabotage attempts, both minor," he said. "One infiltration attempt from the coast by returning raiders. No large-scale revolts." The Marshal realized then how that must sound, an attempt at positivity. "Morale among the enlisted is stable however—most appreciate the hazard pay. As for the rest of the population… they keep their heads down and try to stay out of our way."
Celtigar's mouth pressed into a thin line, perhaps annoyance or acceptance. Then without saying a word, he closed the ledger with a soft thump. The auditor rose, smoothing his dark cloak. "Shall we proceed with the inspections now, Marshal?" he finally said. "I'd prefer to see these new structures with my own eyes. The prince is never content with ledgers alone."
Kellen rose as well and gave a polite half-bow. "Of course. This way."
✥✥✥
The pale morning light seeped through the veiled windows of the Eyrie's upper solar, casting shifting patterns across the embroidered tapestries. Jeyne stood by the tall mirror of polished bronze, one hand bracing Jessamyn's waist as she guided a lace through the slender loops of her gown.
In the mirror, she caught the flicker of Jessamyn's eyes—wide and restless, their russet flecks catching the hearth's glow. Hers was a face carved for fretting. She did it well—lips forever twitching into a half-frown, brow knotting up with little worry lines at the corners of her eyes. "You'll be splendid," Jeyne laughed lightly, sliding the final lace loop snug. Her own voice was hushed, as she dusted Jessamyn's shoulder with the back of her hand.
"You're certain I must be there?" Jessamyn murmured, as though the stone walls might overhear. "I—I'd rather not stand before him if I can help it. He frightens me."
Jeyne pursed her lips. "He frightens everyone, sweetling," she said gently, smoothening a curl behind Jessamyn's ear. "But, we can ill afford to offend him. I want him to see you, speak with you, so he has no cause to believe we might conspire behind his back. That would be most dangerous. If he's content, we remain safe. More than safe—we thrive."
Jessamyn's cheeks colored as she exhaled slowly. "I… yes. I suppose you're right." Her gaze flicked away, uneasy. "Still, I do not care for the sight of him."
Jeyne's mouth pressed thinly. She understood the sentiment, but this was simply the shape of their reality. "It matters not," Jeyne replied, crossing to the wardrobe. "All you need do is show polite courtesy, give him no cause to think ill. He tolerates us. Let's keep it that way."
She withdrew a slender silver chain from the wardrobe's top drawer, returning to Jessamyn's side. "Here," she said, fastening the chain around Jessamyn's throat. The silver contrasted nicely with her friend's pale skin. "You look lovely. That will do"
She offered a small, reassuring smile, then turned toward the door.
"Come, Jess. We mustn't keep him waiting."
...
They found Captain Myles Stone in the antechamber, straight-backed and grim despite the grey that touched his hair at the temples. Four guards flanked him, each in the falcon-marked livery of House Arryn, their polished boots echoing dully on the stone floor. A hush hung in the corridor—a hush so brittle it felt a single harsh word might shatter it.
Myles cleared his throat, his voice rasping with an age-earned authority. "My lady," he said, dipping his head toward Jeyne Arryn. "The prince has landed beyond the northern parapet, near the dragon stables. He—"
"I know," Jeyne said, adjusting the silver clasp at her own throat. Her gown was a somber blue, the color of a winter's sky, fine enough for a Targaryen husband but without gaudy flourish. "We'll receive him straight away. Please lead on, Captain."
He bowed, turned, and they followed his measured steps through a hallway of pale stone. The hallway beyond was all pale stone and solemn tapestries of eagles in flight—worn testaments to House Arryn's lofty pride. Yet Jeyne took no comfort in them today. Her thoughts drifted to the arrival that waited outside, to the unearthly roars that faintly echoed in the distance.
Minutes later, they emerged onto a broad stone walkway. From here, the mountainside fell away in a dizzying sweep of chiseled rock and shifting clouds. But Jeyne's attention fixed on the shadowed caverns that sat in the stony slope: massive natural hollows in the mountainside converted for use as stables.
Partially hidden by the shadows and smog borne of their labour were two great beasts of monstrous proportions. Vhagar and Vermithor. The dragons twisted their massive bodies in half-lit hollows, exhaling flames that turned raw stone into molten slag. Even from a distance, Jeyne felt the scorching breath wash over her, a deathly furnace that made the Vale's usual chill seem pitiful. Beside her, Jessamyn flinched, color draining from her face. Jeyne understood that fear. Few beings were so unnerving as the sort that remade the land to suit themselves.
That was what had been delivered to her doorstep. She lifted her chin, trying to summon the poise her station required. After all, she had requested to have these dragons roost here. She closed her eyes for an instant, recollecting the terms she'd struck with Aemond: even now, she thanked the Seven she had been wise enough to seize the offer when it was made. Better them on her side than upon the horizon with the enemy.
Her thoughts snapped back to the present when she spotted two figures approaching—a tall man in black leathers, silver hair gleaming in the sun, and a white-haired woman at his side. Aemond. The woman must be Rowenna, his rumored mistress, and the rider of the bronze fury. Jeyne exhaled and squared her shoulders.
She descended the few steps that led to a stone landing, Jessamyn clinging just behind. Myles Stone and the four guards followed at a respectful pace. This close to the dragon's lair, Jeyne could smell scorched minerals mingling with the crisp mountain breeze.
Aemond and his companion soon reached them. He looked every inch the princely warlord: stance relaxed, single violet eye appraising Jeyne with mild interest. Rowenna halted a pace behind, poised like a sentinel, her expression neutral but for a flicker of curiosity in her pale eyes.
Jeyne curtseyed, mindful of the tilt of her head. "Lord husband," she said, voice kept steady. "We welcome you back to the Eyrie. The flight must have been… bracing?"
Aemond inclined his head, lips curling in a slight smile. "Bracing indeed, my lady. Your mountain winds do not disappoint." His tone was courteous, but laced with an undercurrent of authority. "I trust all is in order for our stay?"
Jeyne nodded. "Of course—" She forced a gentle smile. "The Vale remains at your disposal."
Nodding, Aemond half turned, extending a hand toward Rowenna. "Allow me to introduce Rowenna. She attends me on certain matters for the Crown." A crisp explanation, ignoring any mention of the rumored closeness of their bond.
Jeyne returned Rowenna's polite smile. "Welcome indeed," she offered, her tone mild but measured. She saw no point in pressing for more detail. Just as hers, the prince's business was his own. In the background, the hiss and roar of dragonfire churned, echoing across the stone.
The silver-haired woman dipped her chin in acknowledgment. "My thanks, Lady Arryn."
Jeyne allowed the moment to settle, then touched Jessamyn's elbow, guiding her forward. "This is Jessamyn Redfort," Jeyne said. "She attends me in some courtly duties. I'd have her known to you, husband, as she'll be assisting me for some time."
Aemond's gaze flicked over Jessamyn with disinterest. "A pleasure, Lady Redfort," he said smoothly. Jessamyn's murmur of greeting was nearly lost in the gust.
No further remarks; clearly, Jessamyn's presence did not intrigue him. Jeyne let relief seep through her bones. "If you'd care to rest, my lord, I can escort you to our chambers," she ventured. "I imagine the flight was tiring."
Aemond inclined his head but turned aside to Captain Myles Stone, ignoring Jeyne's final words. "Captain," he said, "dispatch summons to the garrison at once, and see that the Merchant Guild factor in the foothills is also notified. I shall expect representatives from both to attend me before sundown."
Myles hesitated for a moment, glancing at Jeyne for direction. When she nodded he bowed, steel in every movement. "As you command, my Lord."
Jeyne turned her gaze back to Aemond. She felt a subtle sting at his attempt to sideline her, but forced it down with a gracious tilt of her head. "Let me show you to our quarters then, Husband," she offered. "It's a short walk, if the new corridors do not chill you."
Aemond merely smiled in response. "Yes," he said, seemingly amused. "Lead on, my lady."
Jeyne nodded and turned to leave, ignoring the flush of annoyance creeping along her neck.