Chapter 74: Black Sails Home
The returning fleet looked larger than when it had left.
Captured longships sailed among Mallister galleys and Westerlands transports. Some bore new crews. Others were tied and dragged like stubborn beasts. The silver eagle of House Mallister flew beside Arthur’s banners, and more than one black sail had been patched in haste. From a distance, the fleet looked like a defeated enemy being brought home. From close enough, it looked like profit that smelled of fish, smoke, and injured pride.
Lannisport saw them before noon.
The harbor filled with voices. Dockworkers stopped carrying loads. Merchants came out to stare. Soldiers lined the quays. Men counted masts aloud, because people felt wiser when numbers were involved. By the time the first ships entered the harbor, rumors had already improved the victory beyond recognition. Victarion had supposedly knelt. Euron had fled. The Iron Islands had surrendered. Smith had killed a kraken with a dagger. One idiot claimed Lord Jason had converted the Ironborn to honest trade with a speech.
The truth was less impressive and more useful.
Arthur preferred it.
He stood on the pier as the flagship came in, cloak snapping in the sea wind. Smith came ashore first, followed by Lord Jason, Ser Patrek, and Flio. Smith’s face was tired and weather-burned. Lord Jason looked satisfied in the controlled way of older lords who disliked giving joy too much space. Flio looked as if he had not slept but had counted every coin in his dreams.
Arthur clasped Lord Jason’s forearm first.
“My lord,” he said. “You return with more ships than you took.”
Jason’s mouth tightened toward something close to a smile. “A rare habit. I recommend it.”
“Cost?”
“Enough to remember. Not enough to regret.”
Smith handed over the first written report. Flio followed with lists: ships taken, ships returned, ships kept under agreement, sailors recruited, craftsmen identified, prisoners exchanged, dead, wounded, supplies consumed, stores gained, and projected trade routes. The lists were long. Arthur liked long lists when they brought good numbers. He disliked them when they demanded payment, which meant he disliked most lists eventually.
They walked together toward the harbor office, where maps had been laid out. Behind them, captured Ironborn sailors were guided under guard to temporary quarters. Those who had agreed to work would be watched, fed, paid, and separated from men likely to mistake sabotage for patriotism. Shipwrights were sent to inspected workshops. Navigators were questioned by Grey Shadow and Mallister captains. Trade envoys were given guarded lodging and enough courtesy to feel respected without being foolish enough to feel free.
Arthur studied the report in silence.
Fifteen longships captured in the first assault. Five merchant ships. Several more damaged vessels exchanged or returned under treaty. Hundreds of Ironborn sailors and craftsmen made available through recruitment or temporary service. One-year ceasefire. Trade through Lannisport, Seagard, and the returned port of Kingsport. Victarion refusing support to Euron’s northern war. Korlen and Harras open to future talks.
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Not victory in the singer’s sense. No crown. No conquered island. No lord dragged in chains. Just leverage, ships, and a new line on the map.
Better.
“You did well,” Arthur said at last.
Smith lowered his head. “The men paid for it.”
“They usually do. That is why commanders must make sure the payment buys something.”
Lord Jason nodded, approving the answer though not smiling. Patrek watched Arthur with open curiosity, perhaps measuring whether this new western lord was pleased enough to become careless. He would be disappointed. Carelessness was for men with safer lives.
Flio cleared his throat. “There is also the matter of integrating the sailors. Some are willing. Some are pretending. Some are very bad at pretending.”
“Separate them into groups,” Arthur said. “Volunteers first. Men with families second. Captains and navigators under direct watch. Any man tied to Euron goes nowhere near a ship without three guards and a reason.”
“And the shipwrights?”
“Treat them well. Pay them. Feed them. Let them see that building ships for us gives them more than dying for a crow’s dream. Men change loyalties faster when their stomachs are consulted.”
Flio wrote quickly.
Arthur looked toward the harbor, where the captured hulls sat in the water like dark promises.
The system panel opened at the edge of his sight.
The expensive options remained there, patient and offensive.
【Advanced Shipyard】
【Naval Academy】
Still locked behind cost, time, and requirements.
Arthur closed it.
One step at a time. A navy could not be born from wishing. It needed docks, timber, iron, sailcloth, rope, trained crews, officers, maps, repairs, discipline, and money. Mostly money. Civilization was just an elaborate method of turning coin into more specific problems.
Later that evening, after the first reports had gone to Casterly Rock and the harbor had settled into controlled disorder, Arthur stood again near the water.
The Sea Hunt had brought more than material gain. It had proved the Westerlands could strike at sea, cooperate with a naval house, and force Ironborn to negotiate. Confidence mattered. Men who believed the sea belonged to others never built fleets. Men who learned the sea could be taken began asking how much wood they needed.
That question suited Arthur far better.
Yet the fleet’s return did not bring quiet.
Ravens arrived before the captured ships were even fully counted.
One came from the capital.
Another from the North.
A third from Grey Shadow, written in the tight script used for urgent intelligence.
Arthur read them in order, because misery deserved structure.
King’s Landing was unstable. House Tyrell dominated the court through food, troops, and Margaery’s coming marriage to Joffrey. Cersei Lannister, after Tywin’s death, had withdrawn from open tantrums and begun moving in secret. That was concerning. A loud Cersei was dangerous. A quiet Cersei suggested someone had taught a wildfire jar to wait.
In the North, the Ironborn threat had been contained in part by the treaty, but Bolton movements around the Dreadfort were growing sharper. Riders moving. Letters intercepted. Men changing patrol habits. Nothing decisive. Enough to make Arthur’s jaw tighten.
Then came the most urgent note.
Dragonstone was preparing ships.
Arthur read the line twice.
Stannis.
He looked east, though the sea and land between Lannisport and Blackwater Bay made the gesture meaningless. Men did that often. Faced with bad news, they stared in the right direction and pretended sight helped.
The board was growing.
The Iron Islands had cracked. The Reach maneuvered. Cersei sharpened herself in grief. Dorne stirred. Stannis watched the capital. The North rotted under hidden knives.
Arthur had returned from hunting sharks and found the lions, roses, snakes, stags, and wolves all reaching for the same bleeding carcass.
Naturally, the carcass was the realm.