Net Joe was a fisherman living in the fish market of King's Landing. His original name was Pyman, but after people repeatedly mispronounced it, and his attempts at correction failed, he simply gave up and adopted the mistaken name, calling himself Joe instead.
The "Net" part of his name came from his exceptional skill in net weaving. He was the best net maker in all of King's Landing, and one of his nets had once caught a giant sea bream weighing over a thousand pounds.
That day was no different from any other. Joe and a few of his men set out in their boat to fish in Blackwater Bay.
For the past two months, it had been the spawning season for the black-spined red snapper. Every year at this time, these fish, which normally lived in the Narrow Sea, would gather in Blackwater Bay before swimming upstream along the Blackwater Rush to spawn in the streams near High Heart.
This was when the black-spined red snapper was at its fattest and most flavorful. The roe of the female fish, in particular, was a delicacy reserved for the nobility, with a small dish costing ten silver stags.
Because of this, catching black-spined red snapper during this season was the most important source of income for Joe.
However, he was far from the only one aware of this opportunity. When Joe arrived at Blackwater Bay, he found that many other fishing boats had already dropped anchor, all hoping for a good catch.
The key to successfully catching black-spined red snapper was finding the right spot to cast the nets. Due to their natural habits, these fish only gathered in warm currents. But with the prolonged summer, Blackwater Bay's waters were uniformly warm, making it much harder to locate those specific pockets where the fish would congregate.
For Joe, though, this was not a problem. His family had a method of easily identifying the warm currents that attracted the snapper. Just as expected, as soon as he entered the waters of Blackwater Bay, he quickly found a prime location to cast his nets.
After steering the boat to the right position, Joe gave the order to drop anchor. He retrieved the nets he had woven and prepared the day before, attached floats to them, and began lowering them into the water one by one. The nets drifted along the warm ocean currents, sinking gradually with the pull of their weighted ends, forming a deadly trap for the fish.
Once the nets were set, there was nothing more to do but wait. They would retrieve them late at night when the catch was plentiful.
In the meantime, one of Joe's older crewmen pulled out a worn chessboard and pieces, setting them up on the deck to teach the others how to play a game called Cyvasse. He claimed to have learned it from a Volantene sailor during his time at sea.
Joe watched for a while but quickly lost interest. To him, moving pieces around a board just to capture other pieces seemed dull and pointless.
Instead, he picked up a fishing rod, intending to pass the time by angling for smaller fish.
Just as he was tying the hook and preparing to bait it, he caught the sound of horns carried on the wind from the shore.
At first, he thought he had misheard. But when he noticed men on a nearby boat standing up and looking toward the walls of King's Landing and the Red Keep, he followed their gaze. That was when he saw it—a black banner had been raised above the Red Keep and along the city walls.
"War? Who is King's Landing at war with?" Joe muttered in confusion. The black banner signified that the city was now in a state of war readiness.
Joe was certain that when he had left King's Landing earlier that day, everything had been normal. How had the city entered a state of war so suddenly?
As he struggled to make sense of it, one of his crew suddenly leapt to his feet, pointing toward the mouth of Blackwater Bay.
"Look over there! Boss, look over there!" the man shouted.
Joe turned in the direction his crewman was pointing. The morning mist had lifted, revealing a sight that made his stomach sink.
Where the fog had once obscured the horizon, an endless fleet of long-masted ships now floated on the sea, their sails unfurling as they approached the city. The vessels sailed in tight, orderly formation, their sheer numbers and discipline exuding an overwhelming sense of power and menace.
"Where are those ships from? The Ironborn?" Joe asked, his voice filled with alarm.
"No, that's impossible!" the old sailor replied. His experience at sea far surpassed Joe's, and after studying the ships for a moment, he said, "I see the banners of Pentos, and a few others I don't recognize. They must be from across the Narrow Sea."
"Are they attacking King's Landing?" another crew member asked nervously.
"I… don't think so," the old sailor hesitated.
But even as he spoke, the fleet continued its steady approach, sailing straight into the waters of Blackwater Bay. Then, instead of pressing forward toward the city, the ships came to a stop. Their sails were lowered, and anchors were dropped.
By this time, the fishing boats that hadn't moved in time found themselves trapped amidst the foreign fleet, like mice caught in a maze. Joe, who had only just retrieved his nets, was now surrounded. He and his crew had no choice but to remain still, unwilling to make any sudden moves that might draw unwanted attention.
As they watched, they could now clearly see the people aboard the ships. The decks were crowded with soldiers clad in exotic armor, but among them were also many who appeared to be prisoners—shackled men, women, and even children. Some were old and gray-haired, while others were heartbreakingly young, including infants barely able to walk.
From the flagship, a small boat was lowered into the water. It rowed toward a private dock at the base of the Red Keep's cliffs—one reserved exclusively for the nobility and high-ranking officials of the court.
The passengers aboard the boat were richly dressed foreign dignitaries, their garments gleaming even from a distance.
Meanwhile, in the courtyard of the Red Keep, Robert Baratheon stood at the edge of the observation deck overlooking Blackwater Bay, his face dark with anger.
Though the years had made him heavier and dulled the edge of his once-great warrior's frame, the authority of the Iron Throne had not waned. His presence alone was enough to make those around him uneasy.
"This is what you call 'a few ships'? 'No danger'?" Robert turned, his furious gaze landing on Stannis Baratheon, who stood expressionless beside him. He thrust a hand toward the mass of ships filling the bay. "Why don't you count for me? How many do you see? A hundred? Two hundred? And how many men are on board?"
Stannis did not answer. He remained rigid as iron, his face as cold as ever. But those who knew him well could tell he was just as furious.
Stannis was not the type to silently endure Robert's rebukes. Instead, he snapped back, his tone sharp with irritation. "And this is my fault? Weren't you the one blinded by the promise of gold during the council meeting? The moment you heard those men from across the Narrow Sea were willing to pay for safe passage, you agreed without a second thought. And now you blame me?"
Robert's face twitched with irritation at being called out so directly. He shot his younger brother a look of pure loathing.
From the side, Renly spoke up, "You can't blame Stannis for this. This whole mess was caused by Lynd Tarran. If not for his request, why would the people across the Narrow Sea send so many ships to escort prisoners? And they didn't go through Miracle Harbor—they sailed straight to King's Landing. That must have been his doing. He's clearly trying to flaunt his power in front of the Iron Throne."
"Shut your mouth!" Robert snapped the moment Renly finished speaking. Without hesitation, he rebuked his youngest brother. "If Lynd Tarran were the kind of petty schemer you make him out to be, he wouldn't be a living legend. If he wanted to show dissatisfaction or flex his strength, he'd do it directly to your face, not through something as roundabout and meaningless as this. You and the Bear Hunter have your own problems—solve them yourselves. If you can't even control your own bannermen, you have no right to criticize anyone else."
Renly lowered his head, falling silent. Though his expression remained neutral, beneath his downcast gaze, his face twisted with barely concealed resentment.
Behind the three Baratheon brothers, the other members of the Small Council—Master of Coin Petyr Baelish, Master of Whisperers Varys, Grand Maester Pycelle, and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Barristan Selmy—watched in silence. None were foolish enough to interject in a quarrel between the royal brothers.
Only Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, finally spoke to put an end to their bickering. "This is not the time to argue over blame. We must focus on resolving the immediate situation. First, we need to determine whether they are using Lynd Tarran as a pretext to take hostile action against us, or if they are truly just passing through with prisoners."
At that moment, Varys, his keen eyes fixed on the sea, commented, "None of these are warships from the Free Cities. They are all cargo vessels, flying various banners. Some belong to the Pentos Merchant Guild, others are slave ships from Meereen."
Renly frowned. "Are you saying that since they aren't warships, they pose no threat?"
Varys shook his head and continued, "I made a rough estimate just now—there are about 150 ships out there. Their cargo capacities vary, but if we take an average calculation, each ship—excluding necessary crew and supplies—can carry between 25 and 50 people. That means, in total, these ships are transporting between 3,000 and 7,500 individuals.
"According to my sources, Qohor has ordered the entire House Soyed, including family members, extended relatives, servants, employees—anyone remotely connected to them—to be deported. Their numbers are at least 5,000. Add to that the soldiers escorting them, and the count would match the number of ships."
Renly, growing impatient, waved a hand dismissively. "And what exactly is your point, Varys? Is any of this useful?"
Varys merely smiled and inclined his head. "I am only providing information and analysis. The final decision, of course, rests with Your Grace and the lords of the council."
"It looks like they've sent an envoy," Petyr Baelish interjected, pointing toward the sea.
The group turned to where he was indicating, just in time to see a small boat carrying four or five individuals rowing toward the private dock at the base of the Red Keep.
Seeing this, the argument came to an abrupt halt. Led by Robert, the group turned and headed back into the council chamber, taking their seats to await the arrival of the envoys.
It wasn't long before a servant arrived to announce their approach. Robert gave the order to bring them in.
"Greetings to you, Your Grace, the King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and mighty ruler of the Iron Throne, Robert Baratheon."
The envoys entered and bowed respectfully before Robert and the others.
"State your names," Robert demanded in a deep voice. "You, strangers from across the Narrow Sea."
The old man in the center stepped forward. "I am Boon Sommida of House Sommida, the supervisor of this escort operation."
The warrior beside him saluted and said, "I am the commander of the Qohor Long-Legs Company, responsible for escorting the prisoners."
A middle-aged man, dressed in the robes of a priest, nodded to Robert and said, "I am Mafas, the chief priest of the Church of the God of Calamity."
Another man, bald with a thick red beard and mysterious symbols tattooed on his scalp, spoke in a strange accent. Dressed in red robes, he introduced himself, "I am Maloxin, the new president of the Qohor Mage's Association and High Priest of the Church of the God of Magic."
Robert frowned, pointing at the priest and the red-robed mage. "The God of Calamity? The God of Magic? And why have I never heard of them?"
Before either man could respond, Varys stepped forward and whispered a brief explanation of their origins into Robert's ear.
After hearing this, Robert paused for a moment before chuckling. "This Bear Hunter truly is an amusing man. First, he gave us a Storm God. Now he's created a God of Calamity and a God of Magic. Give it a few more years, and will he conjure up a God of the Sea? A God of the Sun? Perhaps an entire pantheon?" He smirked, his tone dripping with irony. "He shouldn't be a lord—he should be a god."
His words carried an unmistakable mockery, a fact that did not go unnoticed by those around him. The two priests, Mafas and Maloxin, both frowned but remained silent, their expressions composed as they gazed at Robert.
Seeing that they offered no reaction, Robert lost interest. He waved a hand toward Littlefinger, signaling him to take over.
Littlefinger stepped forward smoothly. "Your ships and people exceed the expected numbers," he said. "I cannot simply take you at your word. I will need to send men aboard to inspect the ships. Only once we confirm there is no threat will you be allowed to pass through our docks. And, of course, there will be an additional inspection fee."
Boon Sommida frowned, clearly displeased. "The inspection is not a problem, but as for the fee, we already—"
Before he could finish, Stannis cut him off with an irritated scowl. "You weren't honest with me from the start," he snapped. "You didn't mention anything about this many ships. You only said you were escorting some prisoners—"
"Enough!" Robert interrupted, his patience worn thin. "If you don't agree, then leave. Sail to another port. But if you want to dock here, you will follow my terms."
The four envoys exchanged glances, their expressions unwilling but resigned. Finally, they nodded in reluctant agreement.
"You can discuss the details with my Hand of the King and the rest of the Small Council," Robert said, already rising from his seat. "I have other matters to attend to."
With that, he strode toward the exit, disappearing through the doorway without another word.