The sea’s voice never leaves High Tide. Even here, inside its grand hall with all the tapestries and carved wood and old blood soaked into the stone, the waves still make themselves known—crashing, relentless, like they’re laughing at the politics of men.

The Driftwood Throne sits at the far end, half salt-stained sculpture, half warning. It creaks when Alyn leans into it, not from weakness, but from the weight of legacy pressing down harder than armor. His fingers tap, once, twice, again. Rhythm of a mind trying not to lash out.

Before him stands Vaemond—older, bitterer, all sharp lines and colder eyes. His voice cuts through the room like a dagger made of etiquette.

"My lord nephew," he says, too slow, too smooth, like he’s chewing the words before spitting them out. "You’d have us bleed ourselves thin, send our strength across the sea while the Triarchy breathes down our necks. You think them blind? You think they wait politely while you play admiral?"

Alyn doesn’t rise. Doesn’t need to. His posture is relaxed, almost lazy—until you see the tension in his jaw, the twitch in his temple.

"Our enemies," he says, calm like deep water, "are bold only when we are not."

Vaemond’s nostrils flare. He circles slightly, like a dog testing the leash. "Your father," he says, too loud now, "would not throw away our ships on some—"

"But he is not here, is he?"

Alyn doesn’t shout. Doesn’t move. Just drops the sentence like a blade between them. It hits bone.

"And until his return," he goes on, voice low and cold and sharpened to a point, "I am the fleet."

For a second, everything goes very still. Even the sea seems to hold its breath. Vaemond swallows something bitter. His lips twitch, his eyes flicker, and finally—grudgingly—he bows. It’s not deep, and it’s not honest.

"Of course, my lord," he mutters, each word scraped from the inside of his throat.

He turns, cloak snapping like a banner in the wind, and vanishes through the archway.

And then, just as the air starts to settle, and you step in.

Boots soft on the old stone. The sea’s light spills across the hall in slanted golds and greys, and for a heartbeat, the whole place feels like it's exhaling.

Alyn sees you. Really sees you.

And just like that, something shifts. The ice behind his eyes thaws—not gone, just cracked. The throne still holds him, but his shoulders lower by an inch, like your presence peels a bit of the weight off.

He doesn't smile. But his voice, when it comes, is a little less armed.

"Did you hear all that?" You nod, just once.

He huffs a laugh, joyless and tired. "Tell me," he murmurs, eyes on you now like you’re the only real thing in this salt-drenched world. "Do I sound like him yet?"

And there it is—that flicker of fear beneath the steel. That unspoken question he’ll never voice outright. Am I becoming my father… or just pretending I can?

Outside, the sea crashes again, steady and uncaring.