Aldebrand nodded once and rose, extending his hand, "I accept your proposal, Captain." 

He paused, adding, "It is our custom that whosoever commands a naval vessel be regarded as 'Captain' irrespective of their actual military rank.  I do not mean offense."

Then he sat again and opened a drawer, producing an additional parchment, ink, and quill.   

"I shall write orders for the crew to follow in my absence.  I will bring my personal attendants, arms, amor, essential gear, and three heavy horse, if that is permissible." 

He mentally composed his letter before writing it.  This was going to be a three-pigeon job, at least.

"First Officer Godfred, I have parlayed with Lieutenant Wynn Rhew Gaeaf, who is some manner of minor noble in service to the Jade Empress' royal guard.  She claims to have no knowledge of our visit, despite our signed papers indicating the contrary.  I have suggested that there is some plot to create an unfortunate incident between our respective nations.  She has proposed that we investigate this together, while the men aboard ship receive local entertainment and refreshment.  I have accepted this offer, and find Lieutenant Wynn to be eminently agreeable and wise.

Unfortunately, I have rarely known someone to be so agreeable without also carrying a knife for my back.  In the interests of diplomacy, I will accept her offer in good faith.  I will attempt to investigate this heinous political machination.  I will attempt to bring the schemers behind this to justice, or at least bring them to light.  Meanwhile, there is a good chance that I will be imprisoned and the entertainment she sends aboard the Sea Shark will be agents of misfortune, possibly secret law officers or assassins.   They may have hidden weapons, or carry drugged wine, or employ other tools of deceit.

In the interests of diplomacy, you will accept them aboard and accept their offers of entertainment, but will not trust them one iota.  Men who make use of their services shall do so in small shifts, so that any illness, disability, or violence will affect the fewest number.  At the first confirmed sign of hostility or treachery, you are to cut free all moorings and take the Sea Shark back across the waters to the Salt Fort.  Do not fire upon any Gaelic vessel, nor any dragon, and do not raise steel or quarrel except to oppose a boarding action.  I estimate that our ship is faster than theirs, and if they do not employ dragons, you should escape them if you get a head start.  If they do use dragons, it will mean war.  Copy and send this message to my father via pigeons as soon as I disembark.  Remind each man to be Worth his Salt.   -Sir Aldebrand of Salain"

Finishing the letter, he took a handful of fine sand from something that looked like a snuff box and sprinkled it on the page before blowing it off.  Then he went to the door of his spacious cabin and opened it.   The First Mate was standing nearby, along with two of the marines.  

"I am accepting the hospitality of the Lady Captain-Lieutenant Wynn.  She is arranging refreshment for the men when we get to port.  These are my orders while I am away.  Let's make to Duskhallow, under friendly escort."

As if to underline the remark, the shadow of a dragon passed across the ship.  Far above, one of the Gaelic dragon-riders made a routine patrol, doubtless curious about the two vessels tethered below.  But these happenings were beneath the care of dragon-riders.

At least for now.

Javia

Aldebrand's eyes widened somewhat as he received an unexpectedly warm welcome from what appeared to be the First Mate of the Gaelic vessel.  Clasping the man's forearm was a welcome familiarity, and made him think that things might be all right after all.

Then the man's words mixed together a brew of bristly ire, regret, sadness, and pride that bubbled up within Aldebrand's belly.  It was a heady elixir, and the younger Knight took a moment to process the emotions.   He also took a moment to process the words themselves, which were initially confusing.  The Burning of the Salt Fleet had been 80 years ago.  

"Ah," he responded at last, "you refer to my grandfather, Benovan.  Your people are longer-lived than mine.  I am glad to hear he acquitted himself honorably in combat."

"How does the old rascal?!!"

Aldebrand did not pause further before answering, "He committed ritual suicide to atone for the shame of losing our fleet.  Our House was forever changed by the loss.  We are predominately land-fighters, now.  Another House holds the honor of building the Dutchy's ships.  We field our few warships to honor history, and to attend to diplomatic functions and other special occasions."

He realized as he concluded the statement that he'd said too much.  It was nothing that the Gaelic peoples were unlikely to discover if they cared to.  These were not state secrets.  But it felt ill, somehow, to be sharing thia information so openly with a prior (and perhaps future) enemy.  The man had disarmed him with his friendliness.

Then something utterly unexpected and entirely alarming occurred.

Lady Captain-Lieutenant Wynn propelled herself off the end of the ship, as though to make for a dive in her full regalia.

A suicidal move, with such a weight of armor.   And yet she promptly ascended again on the back of an enormous dragon.

"Wha- Whe-?!"  Aldebrand was at a loss to form a coherent question for a moment, "Was that Dragon here the whole time?"

A stunning and terrible revelation.  Not only could they never have offered useful resistance... but the beast had gone entirely undetected.  With eyes so focused on the skies, it had never occurred to Aldebrand that the fire-breathing beasts might lurk below.  An unseen, underwater threat.

It was a humiliating and humbling thing to realize that you drew breath only at someone's sufferance.  That they could snuff you out in an instant if they so chose, and suffer nary a wound for it.  His situation, and those of his men, was much more precarious than he had understood.

And if war game with Clan Gael?  

It would be ruinous.  It might end the Kingdom.  It would certainly be the end of the Dutchy.  House Salain, for all of its mighty Felldrakes, could only prick at this indomitable force.

Perhaps the burning of the Salt Fleet had been inevitable. 

But as horrifying as this was, it was also a gift.   Aldebrand had been shown what the enemy was.

Now, if he and his House were clever, they could prepare for the reality of it.

A reality they had avoided acknowledging.  

A reality they could avoid no longer.

Javia

The passage into the harbor at Duskhallow was like transitioning into a fabled realm.  But the fable was real.  And for a member of House Salain, it was less a fable than a tale of horror. 

A grand arch over the harbor, below which all ships must pass, was made of fused 'dragonstone.'  This, rather than being a particular variety of stone, was a method of construction virtually unique to these Gaelic peoples.  They used dragonfire to partially melt stones and cause one to fuse with the next, such that the entire expanse of stone became a continuous monolith of great strength.  Catapulted rocks could not hope to break apart walls or structures made with such methods.  

And the Gaelic people did not save such methods for their grand fortifications.  They even used it on their roads, or so Aldebrand had heard.

Soon enough, his eyes would rest upon the reality of it, proving that the horror stories were true.

What kept these people from conquering the whole world?  

At least his host was chipper.  

"I prefer humans!  Aye, only Humans can build ships like this one, and your beauty."

Aldebrand wasn't at all sure that was true, but he appreciated the sentiment.  

"...But that Crogan lot! Their ships are nothing like your Grandfather's..."

The Knight of House Salain couldn't help but smile a bit at that.   He agreed with the old man.  House Salain had treated the construction of each ship like the construction of a cathedral.  Even now, they maintained their two remaining galleys with the adoring care of a grandfather polishing a family heirloom.  They were more than ships.  They were the embodiment of House Honor and the last spark of a past glory.

Crogan churned out ships without the same level of care or art.  They worked.  They sailed.  They could fight.

But they would never be as beautiful.

"I wish we could have had a proper set-to during the War without the blasted Drakeri interfering; ship against ship, man against man, wood against wood, steel against steel, eh, Lad!"

Aldebrand frowned slightly, "It would have been a better match."

Meaning, House Salain would at least have had a chance.  The indiscriminate destruction of the House Fleet in response to some criminals raiding eggs had to rank with the greatest tragedies of history.

The ship finally came fully into port, and there were eye-catching figures assembled, waiting for them.

"Look, they're the dragon riders of Rhew Gaeaf's Wing, lad! All women. Some folk call 'em 'The Valkyries'. I call 'em the bloody Harpies!! Well, let's just hope she's sent them down here as an Honour Guard for you, not to chop you to bits, eh?! A-ha ha ha!!"

Aldebrand glanced sideways at the old man.  No... he didn't actually believe they'd been sent to chop him up.  But he did believe they were probably his prison escort, and not any manner of honor guard.

"Well, at least they are beautiful.  The creator made your country's women with reverence."

Then he lifted his chin to Gruppa, "Your Lady agreed I would have my gear, arms, armor, three heavy horse, and two attendants.   By your leave, I'll signal my ship to offload them now."

Aldebrand opened his mouth to explain to Gruppa that he needed these things- not in case he was going to be seized and killed- but rather in case he wasn't.  If he was going to help find the fiends behind this deception (assuming Wynn was not in on it) then he'd need loyal and skilled assistants along with his arms, armor, and transportation.

But... he ultimately closed his mouth again without making explanation.  This did not feel like the moment to push and ruin a friendly atmosphere.  The old man went on to describe his jolly dissatisfaction with his wife and mother-in-law, in a way that seemed almost culturally universal among men in every country.  

Finally, as they parted company, he clasped Gruppa's hand in farewell.

"Thank you for your honesty and good humor.  If we meet again on good terms, I would enjoy that ale with you.   If we meet on the field of battle, I shall slay you quickly.  Someone of your experience should not be given even half a chance to make good use of it.  You are too dangerous."

It was as good a compliment as he could offer any man.

Once he joined the Valkyries, he found the conversation less entertaining due to their limited scope of command of the Bryddian tongue.  "It is unfortunate our nations are so at odds," he offered at one point during the ride, "for if our men could freely fornicate with your kind, a bevy of handsome and formidable children would surely result.  Good product for both of our armies, I should think."

But, perhaps by the virtue of a kind God, they did not seem to understand his statement.

Finally, he reached a keep, and suspected he was about to be introduced to its dungeon.   But... no.   He found himself in what he presumed to be Wynn's home, and confronted with the lady herself.  She was doubly beautiful outside of her armor, and he was momentarily taken aback by the vision of her in the light of the window.

He became aware of an uncomfortable swelling in his breeches, and glanced down to find it offensively visible even to a casual observer.  He snapped his head up again.

"Thank you, Lady Lieutenant Wynn." He tried to turn his body to the side in an attempt to conceal the bulge.  "Please forgive any unsightly... enthusiasm.  The vision of you in this light, and in that attire, has captured my baser nature.  I mean no offense." 

He cleared his throat, trying to shift the course of his thoughts, "I beg to ask about my arms, armor, horse, and attendants.  If we are to embark on a joint quest against scheming villains, I will surely require these things for the hunt we will share."

Aldebrand's mouth dropped open slightly as she spoke to him so plainly of intimate matters.  Such talk had once earned him disfavor in the royal court, as he'd spoken of courtship and noble alliances in a matter-of-fact fashion to the King's daughter.  So much of Bryddian society seemed to be based on the dance of suggestion and deceit.  But here was a Gaelic Lady, of some admittedly poorly understood noble position, speaking to him as plainly as ink on parchment.  

She had mentioned being part of the royal guard of the highest authority in this land.  It was the sort of position one could not attain unless one's House was well-regarded, and in good standing.  Moreover, no impoverished House could attain such a position, as a poor family would never be well-regarded in court.  So... whatever her noble position... it must be at least on par with his own.  

And there was more to consider.  His father had ordered him to seek a Lady to court.  Surely, his father had intended a Bryddic Lady.  Yet an alliance with a formerly hostile power could be much more beneficial.  What better way to quell the danger of dragons- some of which could swim!  And such a noble Gaelic Lady could not be proposing this act now unless she had the support of her Empress.  

Aldebrand had thought to be imprisoned... but the only chains afoot seemed to be the bindings of marriage.  She doubtless wanted to secure his seed now so that he could not back out later.  Not without creating a horrible diplomatic incident.

The bed waiting in the next room was no less than a marriage bed, and a contract of alliance and goodwill.   Somehow, in a single stroke, he had accomplished a diplomatic feat even his father could not have imagined.

Well... perhaps more than a single stroke.  At least, he hoped so.

Some years ago he'd been brought to a brothel with the intention that he know what it was to be with a woman.  But his prior service at sea had made him quite wary of the diseases which loose women and men seemed to trade like playing cards across a table.  So rather than spend himself in the whore, he had questioned her.  A conversation of over an hour, with visual demonstrations, and close inspections of every bit of flesh the woman had suggested were essential to pleasure.  

Oh, he had throttled himself properly after that encounter.  He'd never seen a woman so closely, and openly.  It was a panoply of grist for a young man's vigorous milling.  But he'd not merely used the experience to feed the beast within.  No.  He'd committed every bit of the lesson to memory.  And writ it in his journal for later review, besides. 

In his childhood, he'd heard the Ladies of a sewing circle tittering about the poor performance of their husbands, relying on euphemisms to mask their meaning.  But he was no fool.  He knew what they'd said.  He knew that women were commonly disappointed in their men.  He'd vowed to give no cause for regret to his future wife, leaving no fissure in the foundation of whatever alliance their marriage formed.

He'd hardly dared to imagine what sort of alliance it would be.

"I accept your proposal," he said at last, and moved into the indicated bedroom.  There, he unbuttoned his shirt and loosened his breeches as he curled and uncurled his tongue inside of his mouth, thinking to limber it for the extensive licking his prostitute instructor had suggested was necessary for the best possible marital experience.   The licking had to be done first, before the thrusting.  Before the breach.  Before the blood. 

Once he stood before her, nude and at full attention, he slipped one of his rings from a finger. 

"I do not know your traditions here, but in my country, the man gives his intended a ring.   This one belonged to a pirate I slew.  It was my first kill.  I'd like you to have it."

He stepped to her, and found himself almost trembling at the anticipation of her touch.

Reaching out to take her hand, he meant to slip the ring onto her finger before sitting her upon the bed, kneeling before her, parting her knees, and seeking that tiny precious nub with his probing tongue.  He hoped he could find the spot.  Everything he did now would reflect on his House and his own personal prowess. 

And as his mother had once schooled him, 'There is only one chance to make a good first impression.'