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A Golden Path: Design 3.9 (ch. 32)
🕑 Added 2026-01-05 16:07:22 +0000 UTC“Meh, I'll just piss blood for a week or two. Nothing to fret over,” Robert waved off Ned's concern as they stood under a tent canopy on an island that they now controlled. The dismissal earned a sigh and a concerned look as Ned pinned his friend with a pointed gaze.
“I'm no healer, but I was under the impression that pissing blood is exactly the kind of thing that you should fret over,” Ned replied, earning a disinterested shrug that Robert pretended didn't bother him. A show for his lords, Ned understood. He needed to look strong for them, but Ned saw how fragile his friend was in the night raid of the mercenary camp. His armor told the story of a thousand battles, and Robert hid his pain and exhaustion with a practiced smile.
“I'll be fine, Ned. Quit worrying! What I need to be right as rain is revenge on those slavers,” Robert returned, earning a cheer from the lords at his side of the table. Their eyes shone with approval, and the change in them was evident. Robert had always been popular everywhere he went, and while they were fostered with Lord Arryn, Robert's relationship with those who would be his vassals hadn't suffered much from distance.
Yet, Ned could practically see how highly they held him in their esteem. They were haggard, hungry, and looked like they hadn't slept in months. Even still, they looked ready to conquer the world if he gave the word.
Ned was still tempted to insist that Robert lie down and catch up on the sorely needed rest, but he swallowed his concern. For now. Instead, he turned to the issue at hand. “In that case, we aren't short of targets,” he began, unfurling a map of the stepstones and laying out the tokens of controlled territory. Visually speaking, the results were depressing.
Robert sucked his teeth at the sight, “That's it, huh?”
The Stepstones were islands of various sizes. The Bloodstone was amongst the largest, but there were about two dozen islands in total, and all of them were strategically important to maintaining a grip on the Narrow Sea. Even the loss of one lesser island would be enough to destabilize the grip on the Stepstones, and that was exactly why no one managed to lay claim to them except for individual bands of pirates and slavers.
After a year of effort, the Seven Kingdoms had managed to secure the Bloodstone, and only with the arrival of the Northern host. There were three other islands that they had forces on, but they were contested by mercenary forces and effectively cut off by the armada of sellsails and pirates. Hopefully, they were faring about as well as Robert and his forces had been, or in the more likely case, they were faring a great deal worse.
Just looking at the map, it was clear that this whole excursion had been a disaster. But it was one that the Seven Kingdoms were committing to, and his father sent him to turn this disaster into a success.
“The North has brought five thousand men to the fray, most of them under my command, but a thousand have supported the forces on this island, while Lord Atreides has taken five hundred of his men to support the Prince.” As he spoke, he pushed forward tokens that represented the North forward. “However, reinforcements do nothing to change the underlying issue.”
Robert offered a nod, “The bloody fleet.”
“Aye, the bloody fleet," Ned echoed. “The royal fleet is frozen with indecision, and the Reach and Westerlands are holding out on committing.”
That was an exaggeration, almost to the point of being an outright lie. But it felt like a necessary one because while they had managed to take control over the island, the situation was still dire. Supplies weren't great; they were still cut off from the Seven Kingdoms as the ships that brought them here in the dead of night had to make a hasty retreat back to Dorne, else they would be seized and lost.
The Westerlands were doing everything short of outright refusing any order to muster their ships. Their fleet needed their hulls cleaned all at the same time, or the Ironborn and pirate ships were seen in the area, or bad weather kept them in the harbor, and so on. The Lannisters, at this point in time, were perfectly content to watch the crown flounder in the Stepstones and wouldn't lift a finger to help.
That, in turn, made the Reach hesitant to commit its fleet to any engagement. With the Westerlands fleet, the Reach, and the Royal Fleet, they had the advantage in numbers against the mercenary armada. Without the Westerlands, the numbers tilted in the mercenaries' favor ever so slightly, but it was enough to paralyze the Reacher Lords. Which left the Ironborn as potential allies, but they remained on their islands until they saw the winds blowing the right way, and the venture wasn't doomed to failure.
The Stormlands were lacking a strong fleet on account of the constant storms that gave them their name. The Eyrie had a strong fleet, but it was stuck guarding its own ports from pirate incursions. The North, meanwhile, was building its fleet from nothing after not having one for a thousand years, and it would take years to complete.
“So our hands cannot remain idle,” Ned continued. “We secured five ships from the pirates that blockaded you, but the rest of the fleet scattered, and it won't be long before word spreads that the Bloodstone is in our undisputed control. Hopefully, as will the other contested islands.”
“Ha. I can't imagine Paul not getting the better of the slavers,” Robert remarked, and Ned felt the same. For far greater reasons than Robert could imagine.
Paul had kept his word and taught him what he knew about ‘asymmetric warfare.’ Both in how to partake and how to defend themselves from it. He couldn't imagine what it was like beyond the Wall to make such tactics necessary, but the mercenaries and pirates would find themselves as apprentices attempting to best a master of the craft. Ned made plans for the possibility of failure, but they were a courtesy at best.
No, it was all but certain that Prince Rhaegar would seize the island with Paul's help.
“What we need is to provoke the armada,” Ned continued. “If we give the fleets a chance to unite, the pirates can't strangle our supply lines and deposit their mercenary armies uncontested. All the better if we manage to split the armada, and the royal fleet can secure a victory.” That would change the situation in the Stepstones entirely.
It would mean that they had naval dominance, allowing them to isolate forces on islands as they had been isolated. It would open the path to steady progress, securing and moving from island to island until all of them were in their control. Something that would be quite obvious to the Free Cities, and they wouldn't allow such a thing.
With naval dominance, Ned was convinced that the mercenaries would go on the defensive. They would secure fortresses, as they did on the Bloodstone, dig in, and hold to make taking each island a long drawn-out endeavor. And given the nature of the Stepstones, their path of advancement was obvious, allowing them to consolidate their strength where it would be most effective.
“Easier said than done,” a Stormlord remarked, glowering down at the map as if it caused personal offense.
“It is,” Ned admitted easily. “But it is the nature of mercenaries that work to our advantage. They are men who fight for gold, and while the Three Daughters are united against us, they have also warred against each other since the fall of Valayria. They are no more united than the Wildling tribes beyond the Wall, and all the companies of mercenaries are paid for by the individual city.”
Robert leaned forward, and there was an eager glint in his eye, “It sounds to me like you have something in mind to divide the bastards.”
It wasn't a surprise that Robert saw through him, and Ned offered a slight grin.
“A feint,” Ned answered, grabbing a few of the tokens and pushing them forward. “As far as the Daughters are concerned, this war is between us and pirates. They are entirely uninvolved. But… in an act of desperation, should that seem to change…”
He pushed the tokens towards Lys, and Robert's gaze sharpened, considering the strategy for a few seconds before he began to nod. “Aye, that'd split them up. It'd land us in a real mess diplomatically, though.”
Ned was a little caught off guard by the remark. It was an obvious concern, but Robert had never once spared a single thought of concern about diplomacy before. Ned expected another to make that observation, and now he began to wonder how his friend had changed over the last year. His father had warned him that all men change after war, and few for the better. Still, all the same, Ned nodded in agreement.
“Not unless we have the permission of the Royal Family.”
There were a few traded glances while Robert's gaze was fixed on the map. What he suggested wasn't treason or anything of that severity, but it would be willingly and knowingly drag the Seven Kingdoms into a conflict with a foreign power, escalating a conflict without the explicit permission of the Crown. While the conflict itself was a thin fiction, it was a fiction that both sides upheld to avoid the escalation that he spoke of.
Yet, he could see it in their eyes -- they wanted that escalation. It was less because of strategy and purely motivated by feelings of spite, resentment, and anger. Just as Paul predicted. They wanted to strike back at the slavers in their grand cities, watching from afar as they sipped fine wines and opened their purses to the mercenaries that hunted them in the dark. They were bitter, feeling abandoned by the king, as his lack of support for a conflict he initiated had gotten many of them killed.
Yet, that didn't mean that they were so angry that they forgot about the consequences. Even if the attack was only a feint, it would be an apparent attack on one of the Daughters. A feint that would allow them to press the attack, secure their supply lines and footholds. Even if it wasn't a direct attack, Lys would absolutely treat it as one, and escalate in turn. They would act outraged, as if the escalation was entirely unprovoked, painting the Seven Kingdoms as the aggressors and demanding concessions.
Concessions that Ned didn't believe King Areys would even pretend to entertain before escalating in turn. That was the one thing that the gambit was counting on, and all were in agreement that King Areys would do as they expected. Even if he was wroth at being dragged into a bigger conflict.
Yet, that rage would be lessened when the gambit was spearheaded by Prince Rhaegar. Hopefully. And if not…
They had another means to control the narrative.
“Ned,” Robert began, looking up to meet his gaze. “Will it work?”
He nearly hesitated. Almost not sure what his answer should be. He swallowed that hesitation down and with confidence that he didn't quite feel, he nodded. “It'll work.”
“Then that's all I needed to hear. Let's take the fight to these bastards and see how much they like fighting their own battles.”
…
Davos nearly cursed when he saw what they were sailing to in nothing more than a small dinghy, his grip tightening on the padded oars, and the only reason why he didn’t curse a storm was that he knew that they would carry over the water. The island that loomed in the distance was entirely surrounded by ships, and not just a few.
They circled their prize like a pack of wolves, knowing its value, and everyone wanted their cut. Nearly fifty ships alone sat anchored in clusters around the island, while the island itself was almost bright with campfires from the army. In the distance, he could make out three main camps, but there were a dozen lesser camps scattered in the space between, and not to mention the patrols in the darkness, just to make sure their quarry didn’t escape.
After all, few hostages paid better than a royal one.
He turned his gaze towards the man who shared the dinghy with him, though calling him a man felt like an exaggeration. He was young, his dark hair hidden underneath a hood while a cloak covered a strange type of armor that Davos didn’t know what to make of. His eyes, though, seemed to glow in the darkness, and despite the danger, there wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in his gaze.
Davos figured there wouldn’t be, but he had hoped. The folly of youth made the young feel like they were invincible, and that was all the more dangerous when they had the skill to back that feeling up. Paul Atreides, the Northern Fangs, was one such man, if half of what Davos heard about him was true. It was enough to convince to stay the course and for Davos to uphold his end of the bargain.
It was a life-changing offer. Enough gold that his sons wouldn’t lack for options, and he and his wife could get out of King’s Landing. Maybe settle up North, as apparently, they had plenty of land that needed settling. All it would take was one job for him to ply his trade -- smuggling.
It was easy enough to slip in and out of King’s Landing. He knew all the spots to go unseen, and even if he did, he knew which goldcloaks to bribe, and failing that, he knew how to spin a damn good story. He had enough friends and connections to work his trade, but a famous smuggler was a useless smuggler, and his heart had just about jumped out of his chest when he had somehow come to the attention of the nobility. Or, rather, one noble in particular.
‘The gold,’ Davos had to remind himself, swallowing the lump in his throat and dipping the oars in the dark waters. ‘One last job and my boys won’t need to risk their necks as I do.’
Even as he found his resolve, the task ahead was a daunting one. It was one thing to slip in and out of King’s Landing. It was another thing to slip by a blockade and so many patrols it was like someone had kicked a beehive. They gently and silently drifted to the blockade, Davos spotting a path between two ships. At the very least, the moon wasn’t out, which made their task a touch easier.
Yet, Davos found himself looking up nervously, his heart trying to jump out his throat as he expected an alarm to be sounded and the whole blockade to learn of their presence. His eyes caught one man, a nightwatch, who gazed out at the island as he half slumped on the railing of the ship. His grip tightened on the oars, expecting the man to turn his head to them at any moment.
Instead, he saw something else entirely. A shadow seemed to appear from thin air, illuminated by a torch, before falling upon the man. His throat was slit in a practiced motion, a noose tossed over his head, before he was tossed overboard. The body was lowered into the sea to avoid a splash, and the rope was cut to avoid someone noticing the corpse. All of it is happening in the span of a few breaths.
Davos almost called it magic, but the shadow was less a shadow and more a man wearing the same armor and hood as Lord Atreides. He offered a hand sign in their direction, and whatever it meant, Davos could only guess, but when Lord Atreides didn’t correct the course or offer further instruction, he just dipped his oars back into the sea and watched as the man above vanished from sight.
Though, admittedly, he felt a bit safer doing this bit of madness knowing that others were helping them along.
They continued ontowards the island, and it was only then that Lord Atreides offered silent instruction, gesturing for him to circle right. Davos wordlessly obeyed, now worried that they would be spotted by a lookout posted on the island, but as the minutes turned to hours, no alarm came. Davos felt more exhausted than he had ever felt before by the time Lord Atreides instructed him to disembark in an alcove.
Soundlessly, the young lord stood up and stepped off the dinghy as Davos pulled it to shore. “Remain here until the hourglass empties,” the lord said, thoughtlessly handing him an hourglass from underneath his cloak. “Should I not return before it empties, you are free to leave. Follow the path that we took here and you should escape without issue.”
Davos took the hourglass, and he realized he had never held a finer thing. “And… should I be captured anyway?”
“Payment to your family has already been arranged,” the lord answered, turning away from him and walking away. Davos let out a feeble breath, knowing that whatever happened now, his family would be cared for. The young lord had given his word, and Paul Atreides struck Davos as a shrewd man. One smart enough to keep his word, even when he had something to gain by lying.
Davos watched him vanish into the shadows, leaving him alone with the boat, and it would be an outright lie to say that he didn’t think about hopping in it and rowing all the way back to King’s Landing. All the more so when he realized that he was alone on an island crawling with pirates. Yet, he planted his feet and prayed to the Seven that he wasn’t found.
For better or worse, he gave his word, and he intended to keep it.
He watched each and every single grain of sand fall, something that passed with agonizing slowness, especially when the bottom half of the hourglass began to stack high. The grains at the top were starting to dwindle rapidly, and just when his time on the island began to come to a close, he heard it. A sound of rustling and footsteps.
He crouched low amongst the stones, a hand grasping for a dagger at his belt that he had never once used, whispering a prayer under his breath as he stared unblinking at the entrance of the alcove. There was a special kind of dread knowing that you were buggered, and it welled up in his chest when he heard the footsteps come closer. Every muscle went taut, and not even Davos knew if he intended to flee or to fight.
And there was no describing the overwhelming relief that came with seeing a familiar face in the darkness.
“Where is your man?” A gruff and haggard voice came from behind Lord Atreides. Davos waited a beat to step out of his hiding place.
“Hiding in the deepest hole I could find, m-milord,” Davos began, tripping on his words when he saw who was behind Lord Atreides. He didn’t know exactly who it was, but underneath the dirt and grim, it was a white cloak. A kingsguard. Every thought came to a screeching halt and Davos had to pick up his jaw.
“We have no time to waste,” another voice interjected, making the three men step forward and it was only then that Davos took notice of the fourth man. A man who was laid out on a stretcher, his silver white hair soaked with sweat and plastered to his face. A man he knew by sight as he would come down to the worst parts of King’s Landing, giving out loaves of bread and sad songs on his harp.
Prince Rheagar lay on the stretcher carried by his kingsguard, seemingly dead to the world.
A hand on the shoulder startled Davos out of his stupor, his gaze meeting Lord Atreides’. “We need to leave,” he informed him, earning a quick nod from Davos, needing nothing more than that. The prince and nobles were loaded into his small ship, and just as he grabbed the oars, he muttered under his breath.
“Seven Hells. I’m rescuing a prince.”
His kids wouldn’t ever believe this.
Comments
Vincent Mason
Talk about a helluva thing to put on your resume, Davos.
