Chapter 60

A couple of days after Ashara and the Princess sailed for Sunspear, I said goodbye to Grey and the five older boys who would be going with him to the Citadel.

The morning was cool and overcast at Dawnrest's harbor. Grey stood on the pier in traveling clothes, his pack at his feet. The boys behind him looked nervous and excited in equal measure. These were the brightest of our recruits, chosen for their aptitude with letters and numbers rather than swords. 

Grey carried a heavy purse of gold and several letters bearing both Father's seal and Maester Rowen's chain mark. They would smooth the way at the Citadel, where the archmaesters appreciated nothing so much as well-funded patronage and proper introductions.

He also carried three letters I'd finally found time to write. One for Lord Leyton Hightower, formally and politely explaining that there had been a tremendous misunderstanding regarding myself and his daughter. One for Ser Baelor, more casual, asking him to help smooth things over with his family and the Citadel. And one for Malora Hightower herself, which had taken me longer to write than the other two combined.

I still wasn't sure what I'd actually said in that last letter. I'd worked on it for three nights running, throwing away draft after draft. The final version was short. Polite. Acknowledged the gift of the glass candle obliquely, without ever naming it. Thanked her for whatever role she might have played in events at the Weeping Town—again, all under heavy subtext. And made clear, as gently as I could, that her grand-uncle had drawn conclusions from her correspondence that I didn't believe she'd intended.

Whether any of that would do any good remained to be seen.

An hour later, the ship cast off as I watched, the morning tide pulling it slowly away from the pier. The twins stood beside me, both of them silent until the sails were fully unfurled.

Jack wiped a fake tear from his eye. "They grow up so quick."

"He'll be back," I said. "And we'll be stronger for it."

"Aye," Jack agreed.

We watched the ship for another moment.

"About your voyage, my lord," Jace said.

I'd been expecting the question. Jace was a worrier. A good trait to have for a spy master. 

"Lord Steffon will provide the bulk of the men,” I told him. “I'll take only Codin with me. Codin, Pate, and Arlan."

Jace nodded, while Jack made a wounded sound. "How cruel, my lord. That you'd replace us so easy."

I chuckled. "Such is life. But I can hardly take you with me, can I? You're a father now."

His act dropped in a second. 

"What?" His face turned pale. He turned to me with desperate eyes. "Who, my lord? Was it Jassie? No, Eida? She did look at me strangely last night."

For the first time in months, Jace burst into a full laugh.

"He means the Companions, you fool," Jace managed between chuckles.

I nodded, grinning. "Indeed. You're like the father of almost two hundred boys now."

Jack let out a heaving sigh of relief that turned into laughter when he realized how I'd set him up. I put a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm leaving them in your hands, Jack. Keep recruiting. Keep training them. By the time I return, I expect them to be even better than they are now."

Jack straightened and saluted with mock formality. "Always, Lord Galladon!"

I turned to Jace. The other twin looked at me expectantly, already knowing his role wouldn't be as simple.

"I have more sensitive work for you," I said.

"Anything."

"It's time we started expanding our reach. Tarth is growing fast, and that means more eyes on us. More potential enemies. I want you to start with our neighbors in the Rainwood. Then the other Stormlanders. Then beyond."

Jace was quiet for a moment, considering. He never gave quick answers when slow ones served better.

"Expanding around the Ivyfort is sensible, my lord. But it will not come cheap."

I knew the numbers as well as he did. Jace's reports were always overly thorough, which I appreciated. "Gold's no use if it's just sitting in a vault. This is an investment, the same as any ship or trade venture."

I paused for a second. 

"I also want you working with Davos on this,” I said. “Tap his smuggling contacts across the Narrow Sea. They'll be useful, especially in King's Landing. That place is the key to everything."

Jace nodded and gave a salute that matched his brother's, though without any of the cheek. He'd take it from here. I trusted him to build whatever network was needed, working with the budget I'd give him and the contacts he could find.

I turned back to the ocean.

Grey's ship looked tiny now, just a smudge of white sail against the gray water.

With things changing beyond what I remembered from my old life, I'd need to depend more and more on my own network to fill the gaps in my knowledge. Images of our men in every port, inside every inn, came to my mind.

If I could achieve half of what Varys had built in canon... that would let me sleep easier at night.

xxx

A week later, after much cooing over little Brienne and with Lord Steffon's fleet expected to arrive within days, I got the message I'd been waiting on for more than three months.

I was at the yard with Pate, drilling him through some advanced swordwork routines. Nearing sixteen, he was starting to look less like a tall, bulky, awkward boy and more like an actual knight. I doubt anyone from his old life would recognize him now after nearly three years of daily work. He’d be a proper monster when he was fully grown.

Across the yard, Oberyn was bullying Gerion through what was, charitably, called sparring. It looked more like a slow-motion mauling. Gerion was a decent fighter at his best, but Oberyn was the Red Viper, and the patch over his eye made things even more uneven. Still, Gerion was laughing as Oberyn talked smack and made him reach for hits he could never quite land.

A servant approached me with a folded note. I read it quickly and felt excitement build in my chest.

"You’ll have to excuse me, my lords,” I said to the guests, trying to keep a calm exterior, “but duty calls. I’ll have to step away for the evening.” Turning to Pate, I gave him a more serious nod. “Get ready. You're coming with me."

He nodded without question, the way a puppy would when you offer to take him for a walk.

We rode out from Evenfall Hall in the late afternoon, taking the coastal road down to Dawnrest. From there, we continued through the town and out the other side, following a path that wound up into the hills behind the port.

The workshop sat at the edge of a small clearing, an old building that had once belonged to a wheelwright before the man retired. The coppersmith, Borric, had purchased it with the help of one of my loans and converted it for his work. Smoke rose from a brick chimney. The smell of hot metal hung in the air.

But what I'd come to see wasn't in the main workshop.

Lenny met us at the door, practically vibrating with excitement. The boy had filled out a little since I'd last seen him. Still thin, still small for his age, but no longer quite as scrawny. His big brown eyes were practically glowing.

"M’lord!" He bowed quickly, then immediately straightened. "You came! I wasn't sure if—well, of course you came, I sent for you, but I wasn't sure if—I mean, you're busy and all and there's the voyage coming and—come, come, it's in the back, we've been working on it for days, well, weeks really, but the last batch is finally ready and…"

"Lenny," I said, smiling. "Breathe."

He took a deep breath, nodded furiously. "Yes. Sorry, m’lord. This way."

He led us around the back of the workshop. Behind it stood an outbuilding I hadn't seen on previous visits. New construction, fresh timber, slightly larger than I'd expected.

"We had to build it," Lenny explained, talking rapidly as we walked. "The original setup in the shop wasn't working. Too much smoke. The smith's wife threatened to leave if we kept stinking up the whole place. So we built this. Borric grumbled about it but the new design is much better, much more controlled."

He pushed open the door.

Inside, a pit had been dug into the earthen floor, perhaps five feet deep. Steps descended into it. At the bottom sat the alembic, or rather, an evolution of the alembic I'd first seen months ago.

It was bigger. The copper had been worked into more elegant shapes. The coiling pipe Lenny had insisted on was even more pronounced than I remembered, twisting around itself in tight loops. The coils of the apparatus were set in a kind of closed trough that water flowed through, cooling the coils as vapor passed through them.

Borric the coppersmith stood beside it, looking like he'd been working all day. His hands were stained and his face was streaked with soot. But he gave me a respectful nod.

"M’lord."

"Borric. The work is impressive."

He grunted. Coppersmiths weren't known for their loquaciousness. "Difficult, hammering that pipe. Bending copper that thin without it kinking. Lost three before I got the first one right."

"He's a master at it now," Lenny said proudly. "The fourth one came out perfect. The fifth is even better. We use the fifth for the actual work, the others are spares."

I walked around the alembic, examining it. "And the cooling? You've been using ground water, I take it."

Lenny nodded. "Just like you suggested in the writings. It cools the vapor back into liquid as it passes through. But..." He frowned. "We’ve put it in the pit to keep the water cooler, but I still don't think it's cold enough. Some of the vapor doesn’t turn to drink."

Hmm. That was a problem worth solving.

"What about ice?" I said.

Lenny blinked. "Ice?"

"Tarth isn't a cold island, but there are peaks in the mountains that hold snow all year round. We could harvest ice from there and build a chamber where the coiling pipe runs through ice instead of just cold water." I traced the path of a pipe with my finger through the air. "Much colder. The vapor would turn faster."

Lenny's eyes went wide. He pulled a small piece of parchment from his pocket and a stub of charcoal, immediately starting to sketch.

"That's—yes! Yes, that would work, we'd lose less vapor and the yield would be higher and the spirit cleaner—" He was muttering to himself, drawing rapidly. "We'd need something around the ice chamber, of course, or it would melt too fast. Maybe wood with straw packed between the layers, that's what they use for storing ice in summer, the maester says."

Borric and I exchanged a look. The coppersmith almost smiled.

While Lenny continued his frantic sketching, Borric described the other problems they'd been working through. Getting the fire right was harder than expected. The 'stew', the fermented mash they were distilling, had burned so many times during early experiments that the whole shop had reeked of charred grain for weeks. The seal between the head and the pot of the alembic had also been a constant issue, with vapor escaping until they'd worked out the right paste of rye flour and water.

"It's fixed now," Borric said firmly, his pride clearly bothered by the notion of imperfect work. "The seal holds. No more leaks."

I nodded reassuringly. In the writings I'd given to Grey, and then to Lenny, I'd explained all the parts of the process I remembered from my old life. But I was hardly an expert. I'd watched some documentaries, read articles, been through more brewery tours than I cared to count, but I'd never actually distilled anything myself. The real work, the trial and error, the discovery of what worked and what didn't, had to be done by craftsmen actually doing it.

That was the only way the process would improve over time. By people like Borric and Lenny taking my crude descriptions and refining them.

Finally, Lenny looked up from his sketching. "Do you want to try it, my lord?"

I'd been waiting for that question.

"I do."

Lenny grinned. He led me down the earthen steps into the pit where the alembic sat. The space was warm from the embers of the fire that had been burning earlier. The smell of fermented grain and something sharper, more pungent, hung in the air.

A small copper pot was attached to the end of the coiling pipe, where the condensed liquid collected. A clear fluid sat in the bottom, perhaps a finger's depth.

"Usually the first drippings are terrible," Lenny was saying, rattling off information as he poured a small amount into a wooden cup. "Bitter and harsh. We have to throw those away. And we run the liquid through the alembic two or three times, sometimes more, to get it stronger and cleaner."

He handed me the cup.

I looked at it. Clear. Almost like water. But it smelled like nothing else I'd ever encountered in Westeros. Sharp too. Sharp enough to make my eyes water just being near it.

I brought it to my mouth and took a small sip.

The burn was immediate. My tongue lit up like I'd licked a hot iron. The liquid traced fire down my throat. I coughed, choked, and barely managed not to spit it out.

I had to put a hand on the wall to steady myself for a moment.

Lenny was watching me with the eager, hopeful expression of a child waiting to be praised.

I lifted my free hand and gave him a weak thumbs up.

Gods, but it tasted absolutely awful. Like drinking battery acid mixed with grain. It was a crude, harsh first attempt at something that would need years of refinement before it became anything truly drinkable.

Still, I couldn't help but smile. 

We'd just made the first distilled spirit in Westeros.

xxx

Lord Steffon's fleet rounded the headland at midmorning.

Standing on the pier besides my lord father, I watched them come through the glare of the sun. Four ships in total. A massive galleas at the head, the largest vessel I'd ever seen in Dawnrest's harbor, bearing the crowned stag of Baratheon on its mainsail. One carrack alongside it, smaller but still impressive. Two war galleys flanked them as escorts. And a good half a dozen merchant cogs followed behind them like suckerfish around sharks, hoping to get a piece of the pie.

Father had prepared a proper welcome. The pier had been cleaned and dressed, banners of both Houses hanging from poles along its length. Our household guard stood in two lines, polished and at attention. Most of the town had come out as well, the dockworkers and merchants and curious smallfolk gathering behind ropes the guard had set up to maintain a clear path.

But I only had half a mind on what was happening in front of me.

The distillation project consumed my thoughts. Now that we'd actually produced something, however vile that first taste had been, I wished I had more time before sailing. The trial was over. The proof of concept worked. What came next was the harder part: setting up a proper production process and scaling everything up.

Bigger workshop. Bigger alembic. Bigger ice chamber, when we got around to building it in the mountains. Bigger everything.

I'd already commissioned Borric to start work on a larger model, but that brought its own problems. The man would have to hire assistants. Find apprentices. Train them up. None of it could be rushed if we wanted the quality to remain consistent. I didn't mind spending the coin, but coin couldn't make time move faster.

For a brief, panicked night, I'd considered moving the entire operation up into the mountains immediately. Both to make use of the ice and, more pressingly, for security. I'd lain awake worrying about competitors sniffing around our trade secrets. Spies stealing the process. Other lords seeing what we were doing and copying it before we could establish ourselves.

Then I'd realized how stupid I was being.

There was nothing for spies to see yet. Not really. We had a crude prototype that produced something barely drinkable. There would be no actual whiskey to sell for at least a year, probably two before the aging process produced anything worth the name. Only then would competitors start paying attention. Only then would we need real security.

For now, perfecting the process at our current scale was what mattered most.

I'd sat down with Lenny and Borric twice to discuss next steps, including the question of storage and aging. Charred oak barrels, I'd told him, trying to remember what I'd read in articles about whiskey production. The char would filter and flavor the spirit. The wood would impart color and complexity over years of aging. He'd taken notes with frantic enthusiasm and immediately began sketching different barrel designs.

And to calm my fraying nerves, I'd arranged with Jack and Jace to provide any security and labor support. The smith's hiring of assistants would be vetted by Jace's network, and Companions would be assigned to guard the workshop at all times, where they could also serve as helpers for any manual work that needed doing. 

Everything was as set as I could make it before leaving, even if it still felt rushed.

Father nudged my shoulder.

Blinking, I realized the galleas had already moored. The gangplank was being lowered and a retinue already stood ready at the rail, waiting to disembark.

"Pay attention," Father murmured.

I straightened.

Lord Steffon Baratheon came down the gangplank first.

He looked tired. That was my first impression. The man was as broad and imposing as I ever—a true Baratheon, dark hair just starting to gray, the bones of his face strong beneath weathered skin. But there was a weight in how he carried himself. A grimness around his eyes that hadn't been there when I'd last seen him in King's Landing.

The voyage to Essos clearly worried him more than he'd let on.

And he did not come alone.

Someone stood out beyond his usual cotterie of knights and stewards. Someone in a white cloak, who stepped down the gangplank behind him.

It took me a moment to recognize Ser Oswell Whent. The Kingsguard knight wore his armor and white cloak as casually as another man might wear a riding cloak, but there was no mistaking what he was. The crowd along the pier murmured at the sight of him.

My thoughts raced.

Unlike Ser Arthur Dayne, whose loyalties I knew were firmly with Prince Rhaegar, Oswell Whent was something of a mystery to me. I knew that in another version of events, his family would host the great tourney at Harrenhal—almost certainly at the prince's behest, given how the lords of Westeros would interpret it afterward as the prince's failed attempt to gather his supporters.

But had Whent always been Rhaegar's man? Or had he come to that camp slowly, after years of disillusionment watching Aerys descend further into madness?

It mattered, because his presence here mattered. The king didn't send Kingsguard to escort lords on diplomatic missions casually. Either Aerys himself had insisted on the protection, suspicious of his own friend, perhaps, or someone else had arranged it. Perhaps even the prince.

Father bowed. I bowed.

The usual formalities followed. Lord Steffon greeted us with proper warmth, his voice carrying for the crowd's benefit. He spoke about how he'd looked forward to seeing the famous Tarth sapphire waters once again, and the welcome news of House Tarth's newest daughter. He embraced Father like an old friend, then turned to me with a smile that reached his eyes more genuinely than the speech had.

"Galladon. You look well. Better than the last time I saw you at court."

"My lord. I'm grateful for your visit."

Ser Oswell was introduced, exchanged appropriate words with us, and then the official greetings were done. Without much delay, we mounted horses and rode back through the streets of Dawnrest toward Evenfall Hall.

The crowds lined the roads. Cheers and waves followed us. I caught glimpses of faces I recognized—merchants who'd come for my loans, craftsmen we'd attracted to the town, fishermen and dockworkers. Tarth's prosperity was on display, and Lord Steffon couldn't have missed it. He looked around with interest, noting the new construction, the volume of trade, the obvious wealth flowing through what had been a sleepy port not long ago.

It was only after we left Dawnrest behind and started up the coastal road that the crowds thinned enough for private conversation.

I urged my horse forward until I rode alongside Lord Steffon.

"My lord. There's something I should mention before we reach the castle."

He glanced at me. "Oh?"

"Prince Oberyn Martell is currently a guest at Evenfall Hall. He's been here for some weeks now, alongside his sister and her companions. The princess and her lady-in-waiting left for Sunspear already , but the prince has chosen to remain."

I paused, choosing my next words carefully.

"He has expressed an interest in joining our voyage. I told him I would defer to your judgment on the matter, but it seemed wise to let you know before the formal request is made."

Lord Steffon's face barely shifted at the news. He kept his eyes on the road ahead.

But after a long moment, he let out a slow breath. The kind that came from somewhere deep in the chest.

"Just another complication in a string of many, Galladon."

I waited, hoping he'd elaborate. He didn't. And I had the good sense not to prod an irritated Baratheon. 

We rode the rest of the way to Evenfall Hall in relative silence, conversation polite but shallow. Lord Steffon admired the views. Father pointed out improvements to the road since the lord's last visit. Ser Oswell rode silently behind, watchful in the way of a man who'd spent years watching for threats.

I spent the journey turning Steffon's words over in my mind.

Just another complication in a string of many.

He knew. He had to know. By now, several months into his stay in the capital, and with his own ears at court, he should know how divisive the whole foreign-bride scheme was. The Reach lords who'd hoped to put their own daughters forward must be furious. The Stormlanders and Westerlanders watching this potential Targaryen-Free Cities alliance with suspicion. The Dornish certainly maneuvering against any match that wasn't their own princess.

He knew there would be consequences whether the mission succeeded or failed. Particularly for Prince Rhaegar and the future stability of his rule.

What I didn't know was where Lord Steffon himself stood in all of it.

In the version of events I knew, Steffon Baratheon had perished on this very voyage as they sailed back from Volantis, unsuccessful in their mission. He'd died too early for anyone to know which faction he might have supported as the rebellion approached.

Was he still loyal to his old friend the king? 

Had Prince Rhaegar managed to bring him to his side? It might explain why Whent was here, with the prince placing his own man alongside the delegation to keep watch, or perhaps to help in ways I couldn't yet guess.

Or, perhaps more wildly, was Lord Steffon already in contact with Jon Arryn and Rickard Stark? Already part of whatever conspiracy might or might not be forming?

I knew about the theories that suggested the great houses had been planning to overthrow Aerys long before Lyanna Stark disappeared or her father burned in the throne room. That Harrenhal had been Rhaegar's attempt to either assuage these conspirators or formalize his own position as a unifying alternative to his father.

So many theories. So many threads.

Thinking about it all left me with more questions than answers.

I watched Lord Steffon ride ahead, broad shoulders set in a posture of weary determination, and realized I genuinely didn't know which side he might be on.

That was a problem.

xxx

The feast that night was more tense than celebratory.

Mother had recovered enough from Brienne's birth to attend, though she stayed only for the formal portion and retired early to be with the baby. Father played the gracious host. Lord Steffon played the appreciative guest. Lady Addison's pregnancy and Brienne's safe arrival received proper acknowledgment. Toasts were made.

But there was something forced about it all. Lord Steffon's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. Ser Oswell ate sparingly and watched everything. Gerion and Oberyn made polite conversation but kept their usual humor restrained.

Even my announcement that I'd be joining the voyage, a formal moment Father had wanted me to handle with the appropriate ceremony, felt less like a launching point and more like an obligation being noted.

I kept my thoughts to myself through the meal. There was nothing useful I could say in front of so many ears.

But next morning, I sought Father out in his solar and laid out everything I'd been turning over since the welcome on the pier. The unease in Lord Steffon. The unusual presence of a Kingsguard. My suspicions that the realm was drifting toward factions, with the king and the prince on opposite sides and the great lords forced to choose. 

He’d already known about my supposed vision of a coming civil war in the glass candle, but this time I shared everything I knew of the rumors swirling around King's Landing: the burnings, Melisandre's growing influence, the whispers Gerion had picked up at court, as well as the theories that had been forming in my head about possible secret arrangements between houses like Arryn and Stark.

I didn't pretend to know which camp Lord Steffon sat in. I told Father as much. But I argued that we needed to be prepared for any of the possibilities, because the trip ahead carried real risk, and if something went wrong on the voyage, I didn't want House Tarth caught flat-footed.

Father listened without interrupting, the way he always did when I had something serious to say. When I finished, he admitted he'd heard his own whispers. Less detailed than my theories, but enough to know the court was uneasy. He agreed we should be careful, and that committing to any side in haste would be foolhardy. But we could watch. We could prepare. And we could be ready years before any other house.

It was the best I could ask for.

xxx

Two days later, Lady Cassana Baratheon arrived from Storm's End.

She came in a smaller ship, accompanied by a modest household and eager to see Lord Steffon. The two of them had been apart for many moons, with him in King's Landing and her keeping things running at Storm's End after giving birth to Renly. Their reunion in the courtyard of Evenfall Hall was both formal in its presentation and obviously warm in its reality. They embraced briefly, smiled at each other, and disappeared into Steffon's guest chambers to catch up properly.

I tried not to think about how, in another version of events, they would die together on this very voyage. The waters of Shipbreaker Bay claiming them both as their ship was driven onto the rocks within sight of Storm's End. Stannis and Robert and young Renly would watch the ship break apart from the castle walls, and none would ever truly recover from the loss.

Maybe this time would be different. Maybe my presence on the voyage would somehow alter that fate. Or maybe it wouldn't. Maybe some things were too large to change.

Two days after that, we gathered in Dawnrest for our departure.

Half the town came out to see us off. Mother held me too long when she embraced me, made me promise to come back, told me to be careful and to write if possible. Father gave me a long handshake that turned into an embrace at the last moment. Arianne pressed a small wrapped ribbon into my hand, with strict instructions not to lose it. The stitching looked like it was made with all the skills of a leper, but I promised to keep it close. Alysanne hugged me hard enough that I felt it in my ribs afterward.

Oberyn and Gerion were already aboard, having handled their own farewells with their usual lack of fanfare. Pate, Codin, and Arlan waited near the gangplank, each nervous in his own way. Arlan had never sailed longer than a few hours. Pate had grown up in Lannisport but had rarely been at sea. Codin was the most experienced of them, which wasn't saying much.

Soon enough the lines were cast off, the sails dropped, and the ship pulled slowly away from the pier while the crowd cheered and musicians played.

Standing on the rail of the galleas, I watched Tarth recede behind us for a good hour. The pale cliffs. The white towers of Evenfall Hall growing smaller against the sky. Dawnrest's harbor, crowded and bustling and so different from what it had been when I'd first started rebuilding it.

I would be back. The Free Cities were a few months' journey each way, not the end of the world. But it would be the longest I'd ever been away from home, and the timing of it felt heavier than I wanted to admit.

Gerion came to stand beside me at the rail eventually. He didn't say anything for a while. Then he clapped me on the shoulder and said something stupid about Volantis whores that made me laugh despite myself.

We turned away from the rail together and went below to figure out the cabin arrangements.