Chapter 39 (Patreon)

I hummed a mindless tune to myself, my eyes darting back and forth between Lord Aethan Velaryon and Ser Osmund Strong inside the Great Cabin of the Tide-Breaker.

The Hand of the King sat slumped in a high-backed oak chair, slowly sipping from a heavy glass goblet. His broad, armored shoulders were relaxed, his eyes dull with utter boredom as he studied the random silver ornaments and carved sea-serpents decorating the cabin walls. Across the trestle table, Lord Aethan was hunched over a massive sheepskin chart of the Stepstones, his thick, calloused thumbs pressing the rolled edges flat against the dark wood as his brow furrowed in deep concentration.

"My prince," Aethan said, lifting his eyes from the parchment to look between the two of us, "What should our next step be? While we have shattered almost all of Sargoso's ships, the pirate himself remains at large."

I rubbed my chin thoughtfully, stepping closer to the table to peer down at the map before looking back up at the two men. "From what my intelligence tells me, Sargoso Saan has fled the basin and hidden himself deep inside one of the sea caves on the island of Grey Gallows."

That was the exact vision my magical voodoo candle had granted me during my black magic session. The obsidian glass artifact was basically impossible to be wrong, but the practical problem remained: I didn't know which specific cave the bastard was crouching in. While the vision had shown me his sweaty, terrified face and the dark walls around him, the Grey Gallows archipelago was riddled with hundreds of subterranean caves, drowned tunnels, and smuggler inlets. Finding one specific pirate king in that labyrinth was like looking for a single needle in a colossal, tide-soaked haystack.

I let out a soft, heavy sigh, crossing my arms over my dark velvet tunic. In moments like these, I couldn't help but wonder why I was the only male in my royal family without a personal dragon. If I had a dragon, I could simply fly over Grey Gallows and roast every cave opening on the island with dragonfire until the rocks melted into glass. That would have made my life a hell of a lot easier, that was for sure. Patience, Maegor, patience. I reminded myself silently. I just needed old man Aegon to topple over now, so that I could steal his dragon for myself. I hoped dragons did not have some bullshit like sensing evil in someone's heart, because if that was the case, I would be getting burnt to a crisp.

"We have to move out as quickly as possible and catch him before he manages to buy passage on and escape to one of the Free Cities," I continued, pointing my finger at the jagged islands on the chart.

In truth, if Sargoso were to escape across the Narrow Sea to hide in the crowded alleys of Pentos or Myr, the immediate strategic threat to Westerosi shipping would be effectively neutralized. His pirate coalition would fall apart without his leadership, leaving us with the simple task of sweeping up the remaining scattered sea-rats and declaring the Stepstones open for trade once and for all. But leaving Sargoso alive felt like leaving my very first military campaign half-finished, and I had no intention of letting my primary target walk away to fight another day.

"And how do you propose we execute such a search, Prince Maegor?" Ser Osmund grunted, pushing himself away from the wood-paneled bulkhead and setting his empty goblet down with a dull thud. "Are we to send our heavy warships on a wild goose chase through uncharted shoals? Am I expected to march my armored knights into dark, tide-flooded caverns where a dozen desperate cutthroats can butcher them in an ambush?"

"Furthermore, we have two war galleys so severely damaged from the ramming action that our shipwrights cannot make them seaworthy in less than four days," Aethan added, his sharp purple eyes locking onto mine as he rubbed the bridge of his weathered nose. "If we pull the entire fleet away to hunt one man, those crippled hulls become easy prey for any lingering pirate skiffs hovering in the mist."

I stood silent for a moment, weighing the variables in my mind. Leaving two crippled galleys completely undefended in an enemy harbor would be stupid, inviting a swift night raid that would cost us valuable timber and trained crewmen. On the flip side, taking our entire seventy-ship armada on a slow, methodical search would strip away our momentum and allow Sargoso ample time to slip through our fingers.

"We leave ten galleys behind to guard the damaged ships and secure our supply depot," I declared, offering them a firm nod. "The remaining fifty-eight warships sail with us at first light."

I gestured across the chart, sweeping my hand in a broad arc across the waters surrounding the Grey Gallows. "Our fleet will advance in a wide, sweeping crescent formation, combing through the coastal channels. Once we spot any suspicious boat activity or hidden encampments along the cliffs, we drop anchor, deploy our longboats, and clear them out methodically."

Deep down, I knew that if I simply sat down with my obsidian candle tonight, focused my mind, and paid close attention to the specific rock formations and tide levels inside Sargoso's cave, I could pinpoint his exact location on the island. The pirate king wasn't going to stay hidden in the dark forever; he would eventually need fresh water and a boat. But keeping a continuous magical lock on him was exhausting, and I had a whole fleet to command during the day.

Aethan and Osmund exchanged a long, quiet glance across the table, silently evaluating my proposal before both men offered a single, synchronized nod of approval.

"Then it is settled," Lord Aethan said, rolling up the sheepskin chart and securing it with a leather strap. "We weigh anchor for the Grey Gallows at the break of dawn."

"Glad we could agree," I said, giving them both a brief nod before turning on my heel and exiting the Great Cabin.

All things considered, it had been a solid, productive meeting. Stepping out onto the main deck of the Tide-Breaker, the cool salt sea breeze hit my face, and I began my walk down the gangway toward the stone pier. Now I needed to find a way to occupy my time until tomorrow morning. Studying that stupid glass candle was currently leading me down a dead-end road; no matter what hypotheses I tested or how many drops of blood I offered the glass, the end result remained the same. There were no hidden spell-books, no magical cheat codes, and no ultra-powerful sorcery that would allow me to conquer the world overnight. It seemed I would have to build my empire the hard way, using iron, engineering, and my own two feet. Why couldn't the reincarnation gods have blessed me with a blue holographic system interface like those retarded protagonists? A simple stat-screen and a quest-marker would have made my life a hell lot easier.

As I strolled along the crowded wooden quay toward The Fat Bastard, the raised voices of two men arguing near the rail of a parked Velaryon galley caught my attention.

"The true savages of this realm reside north of the Twins!" a voice declared with absolute conviction. "Everyone dwelling below the Neck is a civilized man of culture, but those mud-footed fools up north are barely human!"

"The Twins is far too generous a boundary, Ser," a second voice countered with a loud laugh. "The true decadence of human society begins the very second you cross north of Raventree Hall! Everyone beyond that point is a filthy, tree-worshiping barbarian who shouldn't even be permitted to fly a noble banner in our kingdom!"

I paused in my tracks, turning my head toward the source of the noise. Leaning lazily against the carved wooden railing of a light war-galley was Daemon Velaryon, waving his gauntleted hand in random motions while bantering with a broad-shouldered Crownland knight. Daemon had a wide, arrogant grin plastered across his face, waving his free arm through the air to emphasize his ridiculous geographic theories.

"They run around whispering about how one Northman is worth ten Southern knights!" Daemon scoffed loudly, letting out a loud laugh. "What an absolute load of horse-shit, I say! There is a very reason you never see those northern barbarians competing in tourneys down south, my friend. They know the second they sit on a horse with a lance, they would be utterly humiliated by real knights!"

"Talking about savages and omitting the Dornish?" I chimed in snidely, walking up to the edge of the gangway to join their conversation.

My utter disdain for those desert-dwelling, arab-knock offs, poison-using snakes was entirely justified in my mind. They possessed zero concept of honor, backstabbed every king who ever tried to negotiate with them, and relied on cowardly guerrilla tactics in the sand. Daeron the Young Dragon was the absolute goat, and I would never forgive the Dornish for assassinating him under a white flag of peace.

Both Daemon and the Crownland knight quickly straightened their posture upon seeing me and bowed, one slightly less than the other.

"Maegor," Daemon greeted, stepping forward to dap me up. "What say you, my prince? Settle this grand debate for us. Who are the true savages of this world?"

The knight standing beside Daemon shifted uncomfortably on his boots, but he remained standing quietly by the rail.

"The true savages?" I repeated the question, tilting my head as I mulled the concept over in my modern brain. What was a fantasy world without a little casual regional prejudice among the nobility, am I right, folks?

In all seriousness, it was an interesting question that I had pondered more than once in both my current and past life. When you analyzed the world of Planetos, there were several prime candidates for the title: the Ironborn, the Dothraki, and the Dornish. The Northmen certainly deserved a spot on the list as well; historically, those northern lords performed some truly monstrous, horrific acts during their winter wars. It was honestly mind-boggling how Ned Stark managed to pull off a multi-generational PR campaign that convinced everyone from the North was an honorable, saintly hero. Still, compared to the other options, the Northmen were relatively low on my list.

Then, of course, you had the exotic, niche candidates from across the narrow sea, such as the Brindled Men of Sothoryos or the skin-stealing corsairs of the Basilisk Isles. But I didn't know enough about them enough to make an educated judgment, even after spending countless hours reading through world-lore in my previous life.

"It is the Ironborn, I suppose," I answered dispassionately, leaning my shoulder against a timber crane post and pinching the bridge of my nose. "They follow a completely pathetic, sea-slug religion, their entire society is built on a culture of raping, reaving, and stealing wooden buckets from poor fishermen, and they have constructed absolutely nothing of lasting architectural or cultural value on their barren rocks. They are illiterate parasites who are allergic to basic development."

Daemon burst into a laugh, slapping his knee with his gauntlet, his long silver hair waving in the wind . "By the Seven, Maegor, you sound like a Septon who had his pocket picked in Pyke!"

"I'm just speaking the truth." I replied with a shrug. Was this what my life as a royal Targaryen prince had devolved into? Standing on a dock in the Stepstones, giving lectures on fantasy world racism?

Shaking my head, I bade them a brief farewell and began walking away down the stone pier.

I strode away toward the far side of the harbor where The Fat Bastard rested at anchor, its towering black bow gleaming under the morning sun. It was about time I checked on my master shipwright and ensured the remaining repairs on my glorious iron-clad beast were finished before we set sail to crush the rest of these pirates.

...

I would have liked to upload more but this shitty college schedule is the death of me. Gotta stay in that shit hole for like eight to give hours five days a week. I'll probably upload more chapters on Friday, Saturday and Sunday though and end this campaign in I guess two or three more chapters.