Chapter 9: The Attention of Lords
The maester wrapped my ribs tight enough to make breathing uncomfortable.
"Bruised, not broken. You're lucky." He tied off the bandage, moved to my arms. "These cuts will scar."
"Don't care."
He grunted, dabbed some foul-smelling salve on the worst of them. My joints ached with every movement. The weight shifts during the final round had pushed my body past its limits. I'd be feeling this for days.
But I had twenty gold dragons sitting heavy in the purse at my belt. Worth it.
A servant appeared at the medical tent's entrance. Young, nervous, wearing Velaryon colors. "White the Bastard?"
"That's me."
"Lord Corlys Velaryon requests your presence. Immediately."
The maester raised an eyebrow. "The Sea Snake himself. You've made an impression."
I stood, wincing as my ribs protested. "Where?"
"Follow me, ser."
I wasn't a ser, but I didn't correct him.
The Red Keep's lower halls were a maze of stone and shadow. The servant led me through passages meant for workers and soldiers, away from the noble's quarters. Smart. Couldn't have a blood-spattered bastard walking past the king's chambers.
We stopped at a small receiving room. Plain walls, a single table, two chairs. Corlys Velaryon sat in one, studying a map spread across the table.
The Sea Snake. Lord of the Tides. Wealthier than some kingdoms, and he looked it. His clothes were simple but made of fabric that probably cost more than my tournament winnings. Silver-gold hair tied back. Dark skin weathered by decades at sea. Eyes that missed nothing.
He looked up as I entered. "White the Bastard. Theatrical name."
"Wasn't my choice."
"No?" He gestured to the other chair. "Sit."
I did. Slowly. My ribs didn't appreciate it.
Corlys folded the map, pushed it aside. "I watched your performance today. Quite remarkable. Unnatural speed, impossible strength, skin that turns aside blades." He leaned back. "What are you?"
"A man who trains hard."
"Training doesn't explain what I saw. You moved like..." He paused, searching for words. "Like something from the old stories. Before the Doom."
I said nothing. Let him fill the silence.
"I've sailed the world, White. Seen things most men would call impossible. Yi Ti. Asshai. The Shadowlands. There are arts in those places that defy understanding." He studied me. "Did you learn your tricks there?"
"No."
"Then where?"
"Does it matter? You're here to make an offer, not interrogate me."
A smile touched his lips. "Bold. I like that." He pulled a second chair closer, propped his feet up. "I need men who can fight. The Stepstones are infested with pirates—the Triarchy pretends to patrol, but they're just organized raiders. My fleet needs marines who can board enemy ships and clear decks."
"And you think I can do that."
"I know you can. The question is: will you?"
I considered. A position with House Velaryon meant legitimacy. Access to resources. A way into the Red Keep's circles without being just another bastard in Flea Bottom.
But it also meant obligation. Corlys wasn't offering charity. He expected return on investment.
"What's the pay?" I asked.
"Standard marine wages. Five gold dragons per voyage, plus a share of any prizes taken from pirates."
"I want three things beyond the wages."
His eyebrows rose. "You're negotiating. Interesting. Speak."
"Access to your libraries. Dragon lore, history, whatever you have. Time for personal training—I don't stop improving just because I'm on your ships. And permission to refuse voyages if I have... other commitments."
Corlys was quiet for a long moment. Then he laughed. "You want to use my position to better yourself. Not just serve, but advance."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Because I need to get close to Helaena. Because I need to prepare for a war you don't know is coming. Because every day I waste is a day closer to the Dance.
"Ambition," I said instead.
He studied me. Merchant's eyes, calculating value. "Trial period. One voyage. If you prove useful, we'll negotiate permanent terms including your requests. If you disappoint me, you walk away with the standard pay and nothing more."
I extended my hand. "Deal."
He shook it. His grip was strong, callused from rope and sail. "The Sea Serpent leaves in three days. Be at the harbor at dawn."
"I will."
He stood. Our meeting was over. I made it to the door before he spoke again.
"White. Whatever you're planning—whatever game you're playing—don't cross me. I've drowned smarter men than you."
I looked back. "I'm not planning anything except survival, Lord Corlys."
Not entirely true. But close enough.
Otto Hightower's chambers, Tower of the Hand
Otto Hightower set down the report, fingers drumming on dark wood.
"And you're certain this is the same man?" He didn't look at his informant—a nondescript creature who made his living trading secrets.
"Yes, my lord. Ulf, called the White, sometimes called the Drunkard. Known in Flea Bottom for brawling and drinking. But—" The informant shifted uncomfortably. "He hasn't touched a drop in weeks. Changed completely. Now he's winning tournaments and catching the Sea Snake's attention."
"Fighting style?"
"Unknown, my lord. None of the knights recognized his techniques. Foreign, perhaps. Or..." The informant hesitated.
"Speak freely."
"Or he's something else. The smallfolk are calling it sorcery."
Otto's lips thinned. Sorcery. Unlikely. But there were stories—old stories from before the Doom—of techniques that pushed the human body beyond its limits. Valyrian secrets lost to time.
And this Ulf had the white hair. Targaryen blood, almost certainly. Another bastard claiming royal lineage without proof or legitimacy.
Normally, Otto would dismiss such a man as inconsequential. The realm was littered with Targaryen bastards. Most amounted to nothing.
But this one had just demonstrated inhuman abilities in front of thousands. This one had negotiated with Corlys Velaryon as an equal.
Tool or threat. That was the question.
A tool could be useful. Targaryen bastards could be positioned, married off, used to shore up alliances or eliminate enemies. A skilled fighter with unexplained abilities was even more valuable.
But a threat—a man with power and ambition, outside the normal structures of control—had to be contained or eliminated.
"Continue surveillance," Otto said. "I want to know everywhere he goes, everyone he speaks to. And investigate his lineage. Find his mother, if she still lives. Confirm the Targaryen blood."
"Yes, my lord."
"One more thing. Find out what he wants. Money? Power? A name? Every man wants something. Discover his weakness."
The informant bowed and left.
Otto turned to the window, looking out over King's Landing. Below, the city sprawled in organized chaos. So many pieces on the board, all moving in patterns only a few could see.
This Ulf—this White Bastard—was a new piece. Unexpected. Potentially valuable.
Or potentially a problem that needed solving.
Time would tell which.
Ulf's new room, Street of Steel
I counted the gold dragons again. Twenty. A fortune that would've seemed impossible three weeks ago.
Gone now. Well, mostly.
Ten dragons for equipment. I'd already commissioned a proper smith to make weighted training gear—bracers, ankle weights, a vest. All hidden beneath normal clothing. The fire-resistant clothing would come later, once I'd built more tolerance.
Five dragons for this room. Small, but it had a door that locked from the inside, a window with shutters, and—most importantly—it wasn't a rat-infested hovel in Flea Bottom. The landlord had been suspicious until I'd paid three months in advance. Now he was my best friend.
Three dragons for information. I needed maps of the Red Keep, schedules, guard rotations. The kind of intelligence that would let me move through that fortress without raising alarms. I knew a man who knew a man who traded in such things. Expensive, but necessary.
Two dragons kept back. Emergency fund. Because plans fell apart, and having coin meant having options.
I stacked the remaining coins on the small table, then lay back on the bed.
Actual bed. With a mattress. Not straw, not stone. Luxury.
My ribs throbbed. My arms ached. The cuts stung under their bandages.
But I'd done it. Step one complete. I had visibility now. People knew the name "White the Bastard." Corlys Velaryon had offered me a position. Otto Hightower was probably investigating me.
Step two: access to the Red Keep. Corlys's offer provided that. Once I proved myself on the Sea Serpent, I'd have library access. And libraries meant information. Maps. Routines. The kind of knowledge that let you plan.
Step three: approach Helaena. The hardest step. The one I didn't have a clear path to yet.
But I'd seen her today. And she'd seen me.
That tilted head. Those curious eyes. Like she was trying to solve a puzzle.
Soon. I'll find a way to speak to you. To warn you. To protect you.
The Dance was still years away. I had time.
But time moved faster than you expected. And I couldn't afford to waste any of it.
I closed my eyes, let exhaustion pull me under.
Tomorrow: prepare for the voyage. Three days until the Sea Serpent sailed.
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