Red crabs and whispers

Blackstone Castle on Claw Isle looked even more imposing than it had from the sea.

The entire castle was built from obsidian quarried from the depths of the Narrow Sea. The joints between its stones were so tight that not even the sea wind could slip through. Four round towers shaped like crab claws rose from the ground, their beacon fires burning year-round and trailing long ribbons of smoke through the winter wind. The castle gates were made from Black Ironwood from the Summer Isles, inlaid with countless rubies forming House Celtigar's red crab sigil, which gleamed like blood in the sunlight.

It was only fitting for House Celtigar, which had been stationed here since before the Doom of the Valyrian Freehold, in the days of the ancient Valyrian empire. Once too insignificant to rank among Old Valyria's maritime houses, they had been pushed out to guard the borders in the "backwater" of Westeros. Yet that exile had allowed them to preserve the ancestral castle and wealth left over from their heyday.

Rhaenyra led the way, holding Aegon's hand. Against the black stone, her long silver-gold hair looked like flowing sunlight, and her purple eyes held the composure and reserve befitting the kingdom's heir. Her other hand rested lightly on the dagger at her waist. Her steps were steady, each sinking into the soft pile of a Myrish carpet without so much as stirring the hem of her dress.

With his hand in hers, Aegon had to scurry on his short little legs to keep pace, but his eyes were busy taking in everything inside the castle.

He finally understood why the original books described House Celtigar's castle as crammed with rare treasures unheard of elsewhere in Westeros.

Along either side of the passage from the harbor to the castle gates stood twelve crabs sculpted from Volantene glass, each taller than a man. Red coral was sealed inside the clear glass, and sunlight passing through cast pools of blood-red light across the ground. Beyond the gates, the hall's floor was covered in colored marble from the Summer Isles, arranged into a scene of the fleets of Houses Targaryen, Velaryon, and Celtigar crossing the Narrow Sea when Aegon the Conqueror landed in Westeros.

Dozens of Myrish crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, each adorned with hundreds of tiny diamonds. When their candles burned, the whole hall seemed steeped in a river of stars. Rather than the hunting scenes and family portraits found in ordinary noble houses, the walls bore silk tapestries from the east depicting ancient legends of the Valyrian Freehold. The Twelve Demon Dragons looked alive upon the cloth, with gold thread worked into their scales.

Even the bases of the columns lining either side were wrapped in thin gold leaf, engraved with ancient Valyrian runes.

"Princess, Prince, this way, please."

Bartimos Celtigar, who was leading them, stopped abruptly and bowed slightly, his face wearing a perfectly measured, ingratiating smile. He was unlike any of the noble scions they had met at Storm's End or Casterly Rock. Those men had either stared only at Rhaenyra or dared steal furtive glances at Aegon. Only this heir to House Celtigar kept shifting his gaze between the siblings. When he courted Rhaenyra's favor, he never forgot to include Aegon; when he flattered Aegon, every sentence carried respect for Rhaenyra. He was like a crab adept at every social turn, keeping a firm grip on both sides.

Aegon laughed inwardly.

Really, he could hardly blame him. Like House Velaryon, House Celtigar was an ancient kindred house that had come from Valyria alongside the Targaryens. Once, dragonlord houses-even House Targaryen, which had ranked in the lower-middle tier among the forty dragonlord houses-had been far beyond their reach. Yet they had followed Aegon the Conqueror along the coasts of the Seven Kingdoms. The old Earl's father, Edwell Celtigar, had even served as King Maegor's Hand of the King and later King Jaehaerys's Master of Coin, becoming one of the most powerful men in Westeros.

But in the half century since then, no Celtigar had gained a seat on the Small Council in King's Landing. Thanks to the Sea Snake Corlys's nine voyages, House Velaryon still controlled trade on the Narrow Sea and the navy of the Seven Kingdoms. House Celtigar, meanwhile, had a castle full of gold, silver, and jewels, yet remained confined to Claw Isle, watching power change hands in King's Landing without even a chance to take part.

Now the heir to the Iron Throne stood before him, a noble scion of the True Dragon Bloodline, descended from the same Valyrian roots. If Bartimos failed to seize this opportunity, he would truly be wasting the old Earl's lifetime of scheming.

"Father had the rooms with the finest views in the East Tower prepared especially for you. They face the Narrow Sea, and you can see the outline of Dragonstone from the terrace." Bowing slightly, Bartimos guided them deeper into the hall. His voice was resonant without being grating. "Your attendants have all been settled as well. The Cargyll brothers are staying in the West Tower, while Ser Tyland and Ser Larys have guest rooms in the South Wing. Every room has fresh carpets, with charcoal fires and wine ready."

Rhaenyra nodded slightly, her tone flat and unreadable. "Thank you both for taking such trouble, my lord, ser."

"No trouble! None at all!" The old Earl Armond Celtigar, walking beside them, hurriedly waved his hands. His hair was gray and his back somewhat stooped, but his purple eyes still held an old fox's cunning. "For the Princess and Prince to grace Claw Isle is an honor House Celtigar might not see once in a hundred years. Preparing a few rooms is nothing. Even tearing down this Blackstone Keep to build Your Highnesses a new palace would be only right."

Aegon glanced up at him.

This old Earl fell far short of his father, Edwell. Edwell had survived Maegor's tyranny and then held firmly to his position as Master of Coin under Jaehaerys. He had certainly not accomplished that through such naked flattery. No wonder House Celtigar had gradually fallen from the center of power to an obscure corner on Claw Isle under this man's leadership.

Just then, Syrax and Sunfyre let out a long dragon cry from Dragonstone Yard outside the castle. It pierced the thick black stone walls and made the crystal chandeliers beneath the vault tremble.

Bartimos's smile grew broader. "Rest assured, Princess. We have prepared twenty freshly slaughtered fat cattle at Dragonstone Yard, along with fresh sheep, enough for Syrax and Sunfyre to feast on. Twelve guards are stationed around the yard day and night. No unauthorized person will be allowed to disturb the two dragons."

Rhaenyra's expression softened a little.

She might not care about gold or jewels, but she could not be indifferent to her Syrax or Aegon's Sunfyre. Bartimos had grasped precisely that and arranged everything flawlessly, with even greater care than Tyland.

Aegon sighed inwardly.

No wonder House Celtigar had been among the Blacks' staunchest supporters when the Dance of the Dragons broke out in the original books-even the Velaryons had wavered. Bartimos's knack for reading people, and his willingness to stake everything on a single bet, were beyond those of ordinary nobles.

The evening feast was held in the castle's Great Hall, which was even more spacious than the Small Council chamber in the Red Keep.

The long table stretched a full thirty feet, its top fashioned from a single slab of ebony from Qarth. All the tableware was solid gold. The wine cups were Volantene crystal, their sides as thin as cicada wings; held to the light, they revealed rubies embedded in their bases. At the end of the table stood a Valyrian steel axe, its blade sharp and mirror-bright, its handle wrapped in the hide of some unknown sea beast. It was House Celtigar's ancestral treasure, which had taken the heads of knights of the Vale in Earl Alton Celtigar's hands during the War of Conquest.

Members of House Celtigar sat along both sides. Every one of those entitled to a place here had silver hair and purple eyes, the purest Valyrian features.

Their gazes upon Rhaenyra and Aegon were filled with reverence and warmth, without a trace of the calculation and appraisal found in the eyes of nobles from the Stormlands and Westerlands-

They were kin from the same roots. Though the dragonlords had once stood far above them, the glory of House Targaryen was now bound to their own fortunes.

Seated on Rhaenyra's lap, Aegon looked at the food piled like a little mountain before him. There was Narrow Sea cod roasted crisp outside and tender within, swan meat drizzled with cream and herb sauce, pomegranates and mandarins on golden platters, and freshly baked bread made from newly harvested wheat, spread with Claw Isle's specialty crab-roe butter. Its fragrance filled the hall.

Looking at the attentive Celtigars, Aegon could not help marveling again. Before its decline, House Celtigar was naturally beyond comparison with the other noble houses of Westeros whose heads likewise held the title of Earl.

Yet both they and House Velaryon were Valyrian vassal houses of the Targaryens. The Velaryons' present withdrawal from King's Landing, the center of power in the Seven Kingdoms, had begun only when the claims of the Uncrowned Queen and her two children with the Sea Snake had been disregarded. Their first voluntary departure had come late in the reign of the extraordinarily long-lived Good King Jaehaerys.

The second had come only a few years ago, when the Sea Snake had sought reconciliation by proposing that the widowed Viserys marry Laena. Rebuffed, he had left King's Landing once more.

As for House Celtigar, the old Earl was his father's youngest son, and for over half a century, no member of the house since his father had been able to join the Small Council in King's Landing.

And Bartimos's behavior, so unlike that of the other nobles they had met along the way, all but wrote his intentions across his face. He was desperately courting both Rhaenyra and Aegon. Viewed that way, it really was forgivable...

After all, in House Celtigar's future, he alone would go on to serve as Rhaenyra's Master of Coin. The three Valyrian houses rose and fell together. When the Targaryens lost their dragons in the Dance of the Dragons, the Celtigars and Velaryons likewise lost their former glory.

But after Bartimos, no Celtigar ever sat on the Small Council again. House Velaryon, even after suffering devastating losses in the Battle of the Gullet, still enjoyed a revival under Alyn Velaryon, the Oakfist.

Even near the end of the Targaryen Dynasty, his descendant Lucerys Velaryon was able to serve as Master of Ships to the Mad King, Aerys II.

At that thought, Aegon could not help looking at Bartimos with pity.

Bartimos sat just below them, his eyes never leaving the siblings' plates throughout the meal. The moment Rhaenyra's wine cup was even slightly depleted, he had a cupbearer refill it. As soon as Aegon's juice cup ran dry, he snapped his fingers toward the cupbearer, his tone sharp and brooking no argument.

"Alyn! Can't you see the Prince has finished his juice? Hurry and fill it!"

That startled Aegon, who had just been thinking of the revival brought about by Alyn the Oakfist. Curious, he followed the direction of Bartimos's reprimand with his gaze.

A boy hurried over carrying a silver pitcher of juice. He looked no more than twelve or thirteen, dressed in black formal clothes embroidered with a little red crab sigil. The fabric was fine wool, but repeated washing had faded it somewhat.

Unlike the silver-haired, purple-eyed Celtigars filling the hall, he had thick black hair. Only his eyes bore the violet color shared by the Targaryens and Celtigars, bright as the Narrow Sea at noon.

He came before Aegon and bowed slightly. His movements were proper, though there was a barely perceptible stiffness to them. Holding the pitcher in both hands, he carefully filled Aegon's crystal cup with pomegranate juice, never raising his head or making the slightest sound.

But Aegon still noticed how the fingers gripping the pitcher's handle tightened until the knuckles paled.

"Your name is Alyn?"

Aegon spoke first. Though his voice was childish, it reached Bartimos's ears clearly through the noisy feast hall.

Bartimos immediately smiled and bowed slightly to Aegon, his tone casually dismissive, as though discussing something of no importance. "Forgive us, Your Highness. This boy is a younger member of our family. Strictly speaking, he is my great-nephew."

"Great-nephew?" Aegon blinked, looking at the black-haired boy, who still had his head lowered, then at Bartimos's face, which could belong to a man in his early forties at most. He worked through the generations in his head. "Ser, you look only thirty-something. How can you have such a grown great-nephew?"

At those words, the noise in the feast hall instantly subsided a little.

At the head of the table, old Earl Armond's hand paused around his wine cup, and a barely visible flicker of embarrassment crossed his purple eyes. The Celtigars also put down their knives and forks, their gazes shifting between Alyn and Bartimos with varying expressions.

Bartimos's smile stiffened for a moment, then returned to normal. He even added a touch of self-deprecating good humor, as though the matter did not trouble him at all.

"It is an old family story, really. I fear Your Highness will find it laughable." He cleared his throat. His voice was not loud, but everyone in the feast hall could hear him clearly. "My uncle-my father's eldest brother-should have been the family heir, but he died of the Shivers in the fifty-ninth year of the Conquest Era, before my grandfather.

"And his sole heir, my eldest cousin, also died that year, before both my uncle and grandfather. When my cousin passed away, he left only an unborn son, who was my eldest cousin's son."

He paused, glancing at Alyn beside him, whose head remained bowed. His tone grew still more casual. "Sadly, that boy was ill-fated as well. He died before thirty, likewise leaving only an unborn son-this child. By the family reckoning, he ought to call me Great-Uncle. So yes, he is my great-nephew."

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, her arms tightening slightly around Aegon. She understood the implications, but said nothing. She merely lowered her head and speared a tender piece of roasted fish for Aegon, as though she had no interest in this family secret.

Aegon, however, was intrigued. Tilting his head, he asked, "Then his father, your cousin's son, should have been next in line to inherit Claw Isle, since he was the posthumous son of the old Earl's elder brother. How...?"

He did not finish, but his meaning was perfectly clear.

If this was the eldest son's line, its claim should have come before Armond's. Why, then, was Armond the Earl of Claw Isle, with Bartimos as his heir, while a descendant of the eldest son could only serve here as a cupbearer, ordered about by Bartimos?

Bartimos's smile faded a little. Then he sighed and assumed a regretful expression. "Your Highness may not know that the mother of my cousin's son was merely a maid in my cousin's service. Out of affection for his own blood, my grandfather kindly took the child into his household, declared him my cousin's legitimate son, and granted him the Celtigar name. That was already generosity beyond reproach."

As he spoke, his gaze rested on Alyn, carrying the implication: "There was no time to establish his rightful status, yet our family still kept him, fed and clothed him, and let him live in the castle. We have already done that much out of regard for our shared blood."

The words sounded lofty and proper, but Aegon saw straight through them.

Generosity, shared blood-it was nothing more than a struggle over inheritance.

As the youngest son, old Armond had had no right to inherit the earldom of Claw Isle. Yet his elder brother had died before their father, leaving only a posthumous bastard born to a maid. Using that as his pretext, Armond had trampled the eldest son's line underfoot, taken the earldom with a seemingly rightful claim, and earned a reputation for "noble kindness" into the bargain.

He had enjoyed his happiness and noble reputation, but left the trouble to his son Bartimos. As long as the senior line survived, Bartimos's claim could never be entirely secure. He had likely spent years guarding against his cousin's son. Only now, with that man dead and just Alyn remaining-the second successive posthumous son, born to a lowly mother-could he finally set his mind at ease.

Unfortunately, that posthumous son had died. Fortunately, he too had left a posthumous son. Yet sadly, the mother was only the daughter of a shipwright on Claw Isle.

Still, that was merely how Bartimos told it. In his heart, his ideas of fortunate and unfortunate were probably reversed.

After all, his eldest cousin's line had now lost any ability to contest his inheritance. Two generations of posthumous bastards were little better than household servants.

So although Alyn Celtigar held the seemingly distinguished position of cupbearer-and cupbearers were not to be underestimated, since Rhaenyra herself had served the Small Council in that role-Bartimos still ordered him about.

That was why he could bring the matter up so casually before Rhaenyra and Aegon. His apparent openness was really a declaration that the eldest son's line had fallen beyond recovery, and that Claw Isle's only future lord was Bartimos Celtigar.

An indescribable feeling stirred in Aegon's heart.

By that reckoning, this Alyn really was Bartimos's great-nephew. Two generations of the Celtigar family had somehow ended up three generations apart in kinship.

So it was another struggle between an heir and a bastard.

He knew this kind of drama all too well.

The history of Westeros was full of such stories. And this was already the second one Aegon and Rhaenyra had encountered on their journey since leaving King's Landing.

As for why it was the second, that story would have to be told in due course.