Chapter 3 – Tides of Ash and Salt
The Eyrie – Late Winter, 279 AC
The mountain winds howled like mourning wolves, carrying snow across the high passes and down into the Vale. Within the stone walls of the Eyrie, the chill lingered even beside roaring hearths. Winter had not passed. And neither had grief.
Only weeks had passed since Lady Rowena Arryn's funeral, yet the castle had begun to stir back to life. Lord Jon Arryn resumed his councils. Maester Colemon catalogued ravens and their messages. Training resumed in the courtyard below, where squires and young knights drilled in the icy morning air.
But peace in the Vale was always temporary. And what came next was not peace.
It began with a raven from Storm's End.
Maester Colemon found Lord Jon in the solar, poring over a map of the Vale—a habit he'd returned to in the evenings. He did not knock. He only cleared his throat.
"From the Stormlands," he said.
Jon looked up, noting the broken seal—the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
He took the parchment, unfolded it, and read.
Then he sat down.
"What is it, my lord?" Colemon asked gently.
Jon Arryn did not answer immediately. He looked toward the crackling hearth, eyes hard as ice.
"Steffon Baratheon is dead," he said. "Cassana too. Drowned at sea."
Colemon drew a breath. "The royal mission?"
Jon nodded once. "They were returning from Volantis. Seeking a bride for Rhaegar."
Colemon closed his eyes. "And the gods answered with salt and sorrow."
Jon found the boys in the training yard.
Robert Baratheon had just finished battering a young knight twice his age with a wooden sword. He stood, breathing heavily, chest bare despite the cold, his laughter booming through the courtyard.
Eddard Stark stood off to the side, watching quietly, wrapped in a thick grey cloak.
Jon approached with steady steps.
"Robert. Ned."
The boys turned.
"My lord," Robert said with a grin. "Did you see that last strike? Even Ser Morton couldn't stop me."
Jon did not return the smile.
Robert's brow furrowed. "What is it?"
Jon glanced at Ned, then back at Robert. "We should speak inside."
The solar was silent, save for the crackle of fire and the distant wind against stone.
Robert stood stiffly. Eddard sat beside him, silent as snow.
Jon held the letter in his hand, unopened now. He did not need to read it again.
"A raven came from Storm's End. There was a storm on their return. Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana were lost. Their ship dashed on the rocks near Shipbreaker Bay."
Robert did not speak.
He stared at Jon as if the words were smoke.
"The ship—?" he finally said. His voice cracked. "Gone?"
Jon nodded. "There were no survivors."
Robert took a step back. His eyes, wide a moment ago, narrowed.
"You're certain?"
"Yes. The ship broke apart near the coast. They found pieces of it—some men's bodies."
Robert's fists clenched. His shoulders shook. For a heartbeat, he looked as though he might fall to his knees.
But then he turned, strode across the room, and slammed his fist into the stone wall.
The sound echoed like a war drum.
Eddard was at his side in an instant.
"Robert—"
"They were looking for a bride," Robert growled.
"For that dragon prince. That's why they were at sea. That's why they're dead."
Jon said nothing. There was no denial.
"He rejected Tywin's daughter," Robert snapped. "Cersei Lannister. And sent my father across the world to fetch a silk-wrapped stranger!"
He was breathing hard now, every word a hammer.
Eddard placed a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Truly."
Robert's face twisted—anger and grief knotted into something deeper.
"They didn't even want my father there. They used him. And now I have no one."
He sank into the nearest chair, eyes dark.
Jon finally spoke.
"You are Lord of Storm's End now. And you are still my ward, still under my protection. You are not alone."
Robert looked up. His eyes glistened. "I am."
Jon met his gaze. "Not while I breathe."
Later that night, in the nursery, Jon visited Alaric.
The boy slept for once, his tiny form wrapped in furs beneath a mobile of falcons. Colemon stood nearby.
"You told him?" the maester asked.
Jon nodded. "He took it as I expected."
"He is young. But fire burns behind those eyes."
Jon stared at the cradle.
"And what of you, little falcon?" he whispered.
"What storm will you fly through when your time comes?"
Outside, the snow fell heavier. And across the narrow sea.