Bloodstone, Stepstones
Laenor was running toward a slightly open patch of land where Embaryx could land, as his mount had already taken to the sky the moment arrows began to rain down. Both he and Daemon had the good sense not to chain their dragons here—because it only takes a few lucky shots to the eyes to bring down a chained dragon, and neither of them intended to let that happen.
Explosions continued to echo every few minutes, and each one made Laenor smile. Looking back, his uncle was doing an excellent job. Laenor even briefly considered giving him an official title: Bomber of House Velaryon.
He tugged on the bond he shared with Embaryx and sent a silent command, his intention clear. Embaryx, who had been soaring at high altitude, responded immediately and began his descent.
It took only a few minutes for the dragon to land, and Laenor hastily climbed into the saddle.
"Soves, Embaryx. Adere," he commanded.
With a few powerful flaps of his leathery wings, Embaryx soared skyward once again. Laenor guided him toward the area where his uncle was taking cover, intending to provide support from above—because the Triarchy soldiers were clearly determined to eliminate the man who was causing them the most damage.
Laenor and Embaryx soon reached the spot. At once, Laenor shouted, "Dracarys!" and sent flames pouring down on the archers who had begun aiming at him the moment they saw his dragon.
From there, the two fell into a deadly rhythm.
Laenor would fly toward the Triarchy soldiers positioned far from the caves and incinerate them, while the ones closer to the caves ducked into hiding at the sound or sight of Embaryx. Whenever he spotted men holed up in a cave, Laenor would circle it three times, deliberately exposing himself to lure them out or pin them in place—until his uncle hurled another dragonglass bomb.
The tactic worked beautifully—three times.
But by the fourth, the enemy had realized the pattern.
Between Caraxes, Embaryx, and Vaemond's bombing runs, the Triarchy had taken enough casualties to retreat into their caves. Vaemond did manage to strike a few more cave entrances, trying to kill as many as possible, but the damage was no longer as decisive as before. Worse, now that their trump cards were exposed, the Triarchy would surely begin adapting their strategy.
Laenor spotted Caraxes descending nearby and steered Embaryx down as well. The battle had been short—just over an hour—but he hoped the casualties on their side had not been too high.
Corlys Velaryon
The war was over. Over for about two hours. Corlys was busy issuing commands, restoring order to the army. Men were injured, some dead, and many were angry—having been attacked at night once again. Yet those who survived were not just weary; they were surprised, awed, and a little uneasy after witnessing the abilities of Corlys's son.
As he moved among the soldiers, giving orders, Corlys kept an ear out for the whispers—talks of Laenor's powers and the mysterious explosions that had left many men both thrilled and unnerved. Thrilled, because it was their enemies who suffered. Uneasy, because Ser Vaemond Velaryon had caused them, and no one could quite grasp how.
Corlys had already tasked a select group of his most loyal retainers—men whose devotion to him and House Velaryon was beyond question—to spread a carefully crafted story: that the Seven themselves had blessed Laenor with the power to command the sea and root out the treacherous Triarchy. The explosions? Divine punishment, delivered by Vaemond using sacred stones gifted by the gods from near the sept.
It was far-fetched, fantastical even—but Corlys knew the nature of rumors, especially in war camps and among the smallfolk. Tales didn't need heads or tails to spread. In fact, the more absurd they sounded, the more people clung to them. And it made sense to the men, didn't it? Surely, the Seven would favor pious Westerosi over the heathens of the Free Cities, who worshipped queer gods and demanded blood sacrifices. Westerosi men were fools, devout fools—and Corlys was counting on it.
As for the explosions themselves, Corlys had to admit they were terrifying and immensely powerful. He was grateful beyond measure that it was his son wielding them, not their enemies. The thought of facing such "bombs"—as Laenor called them—made his blood run cold. He had already begun to imagine their potential in naval warfare and even on land. Siege warfare would be revolutionized. No longer would armies need to camp outside castle walls for years—a few bombs in a catapult, properly timed, could bring even the mightiest walls crumbling down.
But all of that would only be possible if Laenor could find a way to craft these bombs without blood sacrifices. His son had already mentioned the difficulty, and Corlys had been disappointed, though not surprised. If magic could be done without cost, Valyria would surely have found a way. Even with their slave empire, buying human lives in bulk was neither cheap nor sustainable.
Still, Corlys wasn't too worried. His son always found a way—he created them. Corlys had faith. He just hoped Laenor would find that solution soon, because he was eager to see what new wonder his son would birth next. In the meantime, Corlys was content if his son continued making bombs with the blood of their enemies. Why rely on dragons at all if they could sink ships from afar or rain destruction down with bombs tied to hooks and scorpion bolts?
"My lord, the lords and Prince Daemon have gathered for the war council. They request your presence," said a voice nearby.
Corlys emerged from his thoughts, giving a curt nod. He began walking toward the council tent, already guessing the purpose of this meeting. He knew the lords—seeing Laenor's control over the sea and the scale of the destruction—were frightened. They would demand answers about his son's powers, though Corlys himself knew little. He'd long stopped asking Laenor. His son's answers were always vague: "a dream," or simply, "I made it."
Corlys could only hope they believed the horseshit he had told his men to spread. Or perhaps he could spin a new tale—that dragonglass, when bathed too long in dragonfire, turns volatile. That sounded just plausible enough. No one could verify it anyway.
As he neared the tent and came within earshot, Corlys heard an angry voice—Daemon's, unmistakably. That was never a good sign. An angry Daemon made rash decisions, and it always fell to Corlys to clean up after him, especially with the King not present.
"…it seems you, in your bitterness, forget your place, Ser Swann. I stayed my hand—and Dark Sister—from taking your insolent head only because I was amused to no end by that eternal frown of yours. But now it seems you're begging for death. Very well, if that is your wish, I will do the honor myself—"
Corlys stepped in just as Daemon unsheathed his Valyrian blade.
"Daemon, stop. This will serve no one. What has Ser Donnel done now to anger you so?" Corlys asked, sighing as he turned toward the prince.
"Lord Corlys, Ser Donnel called Lord Laenor a dark sorcerer—accused him of performing blood magic and sacrifices. He even said Lord Laenor should be imprisoned and sent to King's Landing," Daemion, son of Vaemond, answered.
Corlys looked at Ser Donnel, who stood defiant yet uneasy under his gaze. Perhaps Swann wasn't worth keeping alive after all.
"I didn't punish you when you drew steel on me—me, the Lord of House Velaryon. You, a second son of a minor house, dared raise a weapon against me, and I let you walk free. I mistook mercy for prudence, but it seems you mistook kindness for weakness."
He stepped forward.
"Very well, Ser Donnel Swann. You are hereby dismissed. Take your men and sail back home—if your brother will still welcome you, that is. Go wherever you like, but you are no longer welcome on the Stepstones. Remember this: when your daughter was taken, you could do nothing. Without our help, you will never avenge what the Triarchy did to her. You'll get no vengeance. Only shame. But since you took such concern in judging my son, I'll make sure to keep you informed of your daughter's rising reputation in the pillow houses of Lys."
Corlys paused, watching. Swann's jaw clenched. Corlys subtly signaled his nephew to prepare. And, as expected, the fool lashed out.
"I gave you another chance," Corlys said coldly. "But it seems you are no better than a rabid animal now. Prince Daemon was right—you're begging for death. Perhaps in dying, you'll be free of the bitterness that eats you alive."
He motioned to Daeron and Daemion.
"Take him out. Free him from the prison that is his life."
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