High Tide, Chapter 34: Storm (Patreon)

The Storm Lord

Twelfth Moon, 94 AC

Things were not going to plan for Boremund Baratheon. The Velaryons should have been humbled in Tyrosh, crushed by his older brother’s sanctions and forced to return to beg his mercy. Instead the opposite had happened. They had defeated all who would defy them in Tyrosh and had begun to rebuild the city, reaping vast profits and wealth. They had forced Otto Hightower to back down in the Stepstones Crisis. His older brother’s sanctions had proven useless. House Velaryon was rising again.

The winds of change were blowing, and now they had turned against House Baratheon. Boremund was uneasy. He had asked his brother, King Jaehaerys, to put to rest his worries years ago, but now they had returned tenfold.

Emboldened by their kin’s victory and success, House Tarth had rallied to the Velaryons. Uncaring of the sanctions, they traded openly with House Velaryon and their wealth and power swelled. Tarth was a large island, and its ruling house had never been poor, but now the Evenstar could call upon a fleet mightier than near any other in the Stormlands, and an army that could rival even Storm’s End.

In the harsh Stormlands, might was right, and if the might of House Baratheon, his might, was in question, then the Stormlords would turn to another. Already, House Estermont and House Whitehead, which had ties of trade and kinship to the Velaryons and Tarths, were drifting back to their side, and the Velaryon fleet was always hungry for timber. How much more of the Stormlands could fall under their sway? Could Mertyns, Wylde, Rogers, Morrigen, or even Connington and Swann come to obey Tyrosh and Evenfall Hall before they did Storm’s End?

Absolutely unacceptable. Boremund would not stand for that. He felt his fury growing hot and restrained it. Ours is the Fury was the words of his house, but they had to ensure that the fury was theirs and they were not the fury’s. He would not be ruled by his anger, it would be a tool that drove him, shackled to his command.

Boremund calmed himself. He had learned from his father’s mistakes as a youth. Rogar Baratheon had been a capable and respected lord, but he had disgraced himself the last year he had served as Hand of the King. His elder brother and sister had never truly forgiven him for it and the death of their mother a few years later when Jocelyn had been born had made matters worse. His eldest sister Rhaena, someone he’d barely even known for she had cared not one whit for him, had even threatened his father.

It was so very easy to become lost in your anger and fury. Both Targaryens and Baratheons fell prey to this. Boremund refused to add his name to that list. He took a deep breath and let it out, enjoying the feeling of swelling his powerful lungs with life-giving air and releasing it. It was calming.

With his anger restrained, Boremund reassessed his plan to recoup his influence in the Stormlands. Not all was lost yet. Griffin’s Roost should remain loyal to him, his wife Cassandra was the sister of Lord Connington, and their son Borros would succeed him one day. The houses of the Kingswood had little reason to desert him, nor did the Marchers, and together they made up the majority of the Stormlands still. Cape Wrath and the Sapphire Isle however, would have to be reined in, and Boremund had an idea on how to do it.

The primary reason Tarth and the houses of Cape Wrath were leaning to the Velaryons was primarily because of the monetary incentives that allying and trading with them could bring them. Historically, neither House Baratheon or their ancestors House Durrandon had been a maritime or trade-focused house. Many predecessors of his had not seen the problem in this, and had been content to mostly delegate the matters of trade and ships to House Tarth, seeing it as a lowly mercantile occupation of counting coppers. Foolishness.

It was because of their short-sighted actions that House Tarth had grown so much in power once the opportunity had arisen. So much so they were on the precipice of challenging Storm’s End for primacy. The Tarths had never forgotten that they were once Kings.

Boremund knew better than his predecessors. For the past twenty years, he had been working hard trying to improve his domains. He had greatly supported his elder brother’s roadbuilding plans in his kingdom, and had spent great funds expanding them on his own to link all corners of his realm together. In recent years, he had also, with the help of his elder brother’s investment, developed the Rainwood and strengthened ties with the lords of Cape Wrath.

His new fleet had been under construction for the past five years. It had been a great expense, and not one he could have afforded alone. His elder brother had generously loaned him a great sum to build the fleet, and many of his vassals had contributed their own ships and monies in exchange for certain concessions.

Though it was not yet large enough to match the sixty-strong and growing warfleet of House Tarth, the first fifty ships of Boremund’s Storm Fleet had already been completed, and he was very proud to see his family’s crowned stag flying proudly from their banners.

With House Tarth uncooperative, he had recruited the first sailors of his fleet from fishermen, and had worked to expand the fisher fleets as well. It was Boremund’s hope that more ships would increase internal and external trade in his kingdom, and allow them more wealth and prosperity, as well as finally giving them a proper fleet to call their own. One strong enough to defend their waters and project their power beyond their shores.

It had been years of preparation and work even before the fleet had begun construction. Boremund had developed the roads in the Rainwood and worked with his vassals to build sawmills and lumber plantations. He had helped expand the harbors and ports of House Estermont and Whitehead, as well as expanded the extraction of resources such as furs and amber and other minerals from the region. It was part of why he was so wroth to see them leaning to the Velaryons after all the work he had done to develop the region.

He had been a good and leal overlord to those ingrates. It was time to remind them of the iron fist he still bore. With the Velaryons having won such a great victory in the Stepstones Crisis, many houses in the Stormlands were rushing back to their side like a whore spreading her legs for the next buyer. It was disgraceful.

From the parapets of the colossal drum tower of Storm’s End, Boremund looked down on his fleet in pride. The preparations had been made. He had conceived of a plan. He had gathered his fleet in the docks of Storm’s End, and he would be setting sail with it on the morrow. He and his family would be traveling on a tour of the Stormlands, they would sail first to Tarth and stay there for a few weeks, and then down to Cape Wrath, touring the region and sailing along the coast before they sailed over the strait to the nearby Veiled Isle to inspect their island in the Stepstones, before returning to Storm’s End.

All in all, it would be close to a year of sailing, feasting, hunting, and overseeing. Boremund would remind his vassals of his open-handed generosity, remind them of their shared efforts to improve the Stormlands together, and with the other hand he would remind them of his power. This was essential. He could not rely on the Iron Throne here. No lord could truly rule if they required their dragonriding older siblings to bully their vassals into submission for them.

He was quite pleased with how Veil was developing. Its castle and port were on schedule in their construction, and when his fleet was complete, Veil would be an extension of the Stormlands that would secure their border and allow them to reap the trade and tolls of the Stepstones. Otto Hightower’s complaints about his insubordination to his authority mattered little. He was the King’s brother and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, being commanded by an upstart knight from Oldtown was beneath him.

Looking at his fleet one last time, Boremund turned around to retire to his chambers. It would be a long day of sailing on the morrow. He needed to get some rest.

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When the morn came, Boremund and his family, and their sailors had boarded their ships and the fleet had set sail. As their ships moved through the waters, Boremund breathed in the sea breeze and sighed contentedly.

His lord father had never taken well to the sea, often cursing at it and the storms it threw at their lands. From his youth however, Boremund had always enjoyed the sea. He had loved to play in the waters near Storm’s End as a boy, and he’d enjoyed learning how to sail as a lad. Building a fleet had filled him with pride. Perhaps it was something he shared with his mother.

At times, Boremund wondered what Alyssa Velaryon would think of him. He never knew the woman; she’d died when he wasn’t even two years old. His father would never speak of her. His elder siblings would tell him some stories of her, but the only thing Boremund had left of her to call his own was a scant precious few half-remembered memories. Meaningless and yet he’d dwelt on them for many years. Those broken memories were more than his younger sister Jocelyn had.

Would Alyssa Velaryon approve of the fact that he cared little for his Velaryon heritage? Would she reprimand him for his resentment of his mother’s house and their success? Decry him for his jealousy that they had received dragons, that they had so much wealth, that they had been reckoned the second house of the realm by many despite his being worthier? Boremund didn’t know. It didn’t matter he suppose. Alyssa Velaryon was dead, and what she cared for meant nothing anymore.

It slipped the minds of many that he was indeed Alyssa Velaryon’s son. He looked nothing like Alyssa Velaryon, and she died so long ago. At times men would have to pause and remember that he was indeed the King’s brother. It had always made him laugh bitterly.

Sometimes it was easier to forget that Velaryon blood ran in his veins. It stopped him from having to think too much. Kin or not, the Velaryons had overstepped their place, crossed every line. They were greedy beyond their station, and much like her older sister Saera, his niece Viserra was a spoilt reckless girl playing with things that she did not understand.

He was the King’s brother, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, the head of a house descended from the Conqueror’s own brother, loyal and true. Why was his house reckoned lesser to the Velaryons? Why did they deserve dragons and wealth when they had proven worthy of neither? Had they been anyone else but his brother’s daughter and her family, Boremund knew Jaehaerys would have wiped them from the earth years ago.

Boremund sighed. His family was troubled right now. He and his brother were at odds with their mother’s family, a family they had strengthened ties with when Viserra had married into them. Alysanne was still at odds with Jaehaerys. She had attended the wedding of their grandchildren and proceeded to leave immediately after.

The division between the King and Queen was still not healed after almost five years. With the Velaryons recovering, people around the realm were beginning to whisper that Jaehaerys was ineffective, weak. He could not keep his own house in order and thought to lecture them for trading and cause them hardship with his sanctions. While his reputation as the Conciliator and his deeds until now would ensure his brother was never truly disliked, discontent in the realm was rising against his policies.

Faith Boremund still had in Jaehaerys, out of mutual interest if nothing. The Velaryons had to be contained and humbled or they would destabilize the Stormlands and the Realm. He knew Jocelyn agreed with him, though his goodbrother and nephew Aemon had begun to disagree greatly with how his father was handling the Velaryon problem, though it remained in private. Aemon knew better than to let the vultures see that the Royal House was even more divided than it appeared.

It was why his tour had to succeed. They needed it to strengthen their legitimacy and prestige. House Targaryen and House Baratheon were losing faith, and while the Targaryens at least had dragons to hold power, Boremund had no such fortune and he was smart enough to know there was no chance of getting dragons for House Baratheon in the foreseeable future. Perhaps in a generation or two, but right now it was completely untenable.

As he continued breathing in the sea air, Boremund heard his son groaning as he stalked to his side and vomited over deck into the water.

“Haven’t gotten your sea legs yet eh?” Boremund asked his son.

His son looked too miserable to answer, so he ruffled his hair and set him down on a chair to rest a while. Borros was… difficult at times. Stubborn to a fault, mischievous, demanding, arrogant. Sometimes Boremund felt he’d let Cassandra spoil him too much.

Borros had always had difficulties reading, much like his niece Daella had. He’d struggled to learn his sums and numbers, but after learning of how Daella had accomplished it, Boremund had personally sat down with him and forced him to learn it for hours on end. He’d hated him for a while, but he would thank him some day.

His son was a little rough around the edges, he was boisterous, belligerent, and temperamental, but he had a good heart, and he was willing to do better once you’d broken down his stubborn shell. He was only ten years old. There was time still for him to learn.

Boremund was only so hard on him because he had no other choice. Borros was the future of House Baratheon. Cassandra had had difficulties conceiving another child, and Boremund was no whoremonger or dishonorable cur as to father bastards. Unless the gods saw fit to bless him and Cassandra with another child, Borros was the sole heir of their house. He had to be capable enough, or their house would end.

He loved his sister Jocelyn, and he adored her daughter Rhaenys. Rhaenys would be a woman he would be proud to call his Queen one day, fiery, brave, and strong and capable. Yet, no matter how much loved Jocelyn and Rhaenys, Borros did not want them to inherit Storm’s End. Rhaenys was to be Queen, and had married her cousin Viserys. Her son Aegon was a Targaryen. Even if she had a second son to give Storm’s End to, that son would always choose to be a Targaryen and not a Baratheon if it meant he could have a dragon.

The line and name of Orys Baratheon would come to an end if Borros died. With the gods’ grace, despite all his difficulties, Boremund had never had to fear that. Borros was a robust and brawny boy, stronger and taller than all his peers. He’d never even gotten sick. He was ten right now, but the time was already ripe that Boremund would have to start considering betrothals for him.

There were a number of options. The most logical choice would be a good Stormlander girl. Caron or Swann, or maybe Estermont even. Some corner of his mind considered Tarth as a good option to lure them back into the fold. A lady of the Stormlands would go a long way to shoring up his house’s authority and give his son a reliable ally when he ascended as Lord.

Still he need not be hasty. The western alliance had recently put aside their divisions in light of the Velaryon resurgence and Hightower, Redwyne, and Lannister all had eligible girls for Borros to marry, though perhaps they were a tad young. As a future Lord Paramount, Boremund would accept nothing less than the children of the lords or future lords and unfortunately all of those in the aforementioned houses were much younger than Borros was. Little more than babes.

The closest girl to Borros in age from those families was actually Otto Hightower’s daughter Alicent, and her father had been brazen enough to offer her hand to him. If he thought that would make him recognize his authority over Veil, he was sorely mistaken. It might be worth considering as a way to accrue greater influence in the Stepstones however. Boremund stroked his chin. Something to think about at least.

His thoughts were broken as he heard the ship groaning. The wind picked up and Boremund felt it buffet into him. Thunder rumbled in the clouds above as they darkened. Nobody grew up in the Stormlands without knowing the signs.

“Captain, how much further to Tarth?” He demanded of the commander of his ship.

“Shouldn’t be much longer my lord. A few hours at most.”

“I believe it would be safer to continue on to Tarth than attempt to turn back to Storm’s End. Do you concur?”

“That I do my lord. Tarth is much closer, and with how far out into the bay we are, it would be better to not risk it.”

“Very well then. You know what must be done.”

The captain nodded. As she shouted to the sailors to ready for the storm, Boremund instructed his son to wait with his mother below decks in their quarters.

It had been a pleasant and sunny day when they had set sail that morning, but this was Shipbreaker’s Bay. A storm could arise at any moment, and any true Stormlander knew how to brace it. Elenei’s parents had never forgiven the people of this land, so the legends said, and they must always be ready to endure their wrath.

Within minutes, the storm had begun in earnest. Lightning flashed in the skies above and the winds buffeted through the ships, battering against the planks and the unfortunate souls that had to stay above deck to keep the ships on course. Boremund held onto the railing as the captain of the ship desperately tried to keep control of the helm.

As the waves and wind battered into the fleet, Boremund and thousands of others found themselves tossed around by force of the impact. Eventually something gave way.

“The ships! The ships are sinking!” Boremund heard one of the sailors cry in horror and turned to his side.

With how heavy the rain was and how strongly the wind was blowing, Boremund had to squint to see anything. In the distance he could see the other ships of the fleet begin to flounder around theirs. Some were being tipped dangerously to one side by the heavy waves and capsizing, while others were even breaking apart into pieces from the sheer force of the waves and wind.

Fear began to grow in Boremund then. His wife and son was on this ship and all those around them were beginning to sink or were close to it. He made to shout an order to the helmsman when he fell to the deck hard, losing his footing from a sudden impact slamming into the ship. Some water splashed overboard, adding to the ship’s weight.

Rising to his feet, Boremund shouted orders furiously at the sailors. “Get that water off the deck!” According to legend his ancestors withstood the storms of the very gods. Boremund was not about to let a mere storm end him or his line today.

The wind ripped the furled sails right off the mast, riggings, spars, and all. The very mast began to creak and crack. It groaned before it snapped, landing on the right side of the ship with a furious thud that sent Boremund and all the sailors to their feet. The mast tore into the side of the ship as it landed, breaking away at the decks.

Without a mast, they were at the sea’s mercy now, and it had none to give. Water rushed in furiously to the holes in the decks left by the broken mast, even as the added weight of the mast and the water began having the ship tip over to the right. The waves tossed the ship around like it was made of paper until finally a massive wave came from the left. It soared high above the deck of the sinking ship, and Boremund beheld it in horror before it crashed down upon them. The ship capsized.

It was dark, the water was everywhere. His lungs begged for air, and against his will his body sucked desperately but only death came. As he drowned, Boremund’s last thoughts were of his wife and son. He wished he’d been better.

So ended the line of House Baratheon.

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Author’s Note: I felt very inspired so here have a chapter within a day! A short one compared to the last one but it sinks in just as much I’m sure :). I’ve been planning this chapter for so long, the seeds were sowed a whole ten chapters ago in Ch24. Man, you’d think that living in a place called Shipbreaker’s Bay would teach you that traveling by ship is a bad idea but nah ego and stupidity strikes again.