Chapter Three
Bealor III
Daemon Targaryen stood across from me, a blaze of color and metal. His armor gleamed with the pride of House Targaryen, dragon motifs etched deep into the plates, each piece as polished as the sword in his hand. He wore it like it was made for him, like a second skin, and his confidence was as heavy as the weight of his armor. I could see why everyone expected him to win. He was Daemon, the warrior prince, and he carried the aura of victory in every step. The crowd adored him, feared him, and the battlefield was where he belonged.
I stood there across from him, not quite as imposing. My armor, worn and battle-scarred, had never seen the care his had. There was no dragon on my breastplate, no gold leafing my sword's hilt. I had what I needed: sturdy, practical, and ready to see a fight through to the end. I might not have looked as impressive, but I'd never needed to. It wasn't the shine of my armor or the length of my sword that mattered. It was what I could do with them.
Daemon flashed me a grin, his voice low and teasing. "You sure you want to do this, cousin? I don't want to ruin your day."
I smirked back at him, adjusting my grip on the sword. "I'm sure. Just try not to break anything too valuable. I'd like to bring you home in one piece."
The crowd chuckled, but it was clear Daemon wasn't here to play. He raised his sword, his stance shifting into something dangerous. "Let's see if your moves are as quick as your mouth."
He struck first, as expected. His blade came at me with the precision of someone who had spent a lifetime in the saddle, commanding armies, and training for this exact moment. I sidestepped, parrying his blow just in time. It was clean, precise. He wasn't holding back, and neither was I.
"You're faster than you look," Daemon grunted, coming at me again. This time, his sword flashed in the sun, a blur of steel aimed for my ribs. I dodged again, feeling the wind of his swing brush against my armor. My own sword rang out as I met his strike, but the sound wasn't as solid as his—my blade was good, but not quite the masterpiece his was.
"Not quite the darksister," I said with a grin, watching as he took a half-step back, eyes narrowing.
Daemon's lips twitched. "You're right. It's not much to look at, is it?" His eyes flicked from my old sword to the dents in my breastplate. "I'll try not to damage that fine collection of scars you've got there."
"I'd appreciate it," I said, and with that, I moved, feinting left and striking at his side. He parried just in time, his sword clanging loudly against mine. We circled each other, exchanging quick, sharp strikes, each one a test. His blows came hard and fast, relentless. And I met each one with cool precision, every movement calculated, an extension of my body. My footwork was light, faster than he expected, though he kept pace with me. The crowd roared as we clashed, but all I could hear was the sharp rhythm of our blades.
Daemon's eyes were fire, his movements fluid, yet I could see the faintest flicker of something—recognition, maybe—when I deflected one of his more savage blows with almost no effort at all.
"Still thinking two moves ahead, cousin?" he asked, breath heavy with the exertion of the fight.
I shrugged. "Something like that. You're predictable, Daemon. Though I'll admit, you're still faster than I remember."
He smirked, but I could see the challenge in his eyes as he changed his approach, more aggressive now, pressing me harder. His strikes came faster, angrier, each one meant to push me back. But I wasn't backing down—not when it mattered most.
I closed the distance between us with a swift step forward, and for a brief second, his posture faltered. That was all I needed. With one quick, almost casual swipe, I knocked his sword out of the way, and before he could recover, my blade tapped the side of his neck. Not deep, but enough to stop him in his tracks.
The arena fell silent, all eyes on us. Daemon froze, his mouth half-open in surprise, and for a moment, there was nothing but the tension hanging between us.
"You're lucky I don't feel like killing you today," I said with a grin, stepping back and giving him space.
Daemon's lips twitched again, but there was a gleam of respect in his eyes now. "I should've known better than to think I could just walk through you."
"You've got that right," I replied, a grin still on my face.
The crowd erupted into cheers as I took a step back, my chest heaving from the effort. I didn't look at Daemon, not yet. I was still processing the fight in my head, mentally running through each step, each move. And then, just as I turned to face the cheering crowd, I caught her gaze—Rhaenyra, her violet eyes locked on mine, a soft smile playing at the corner of her lips.
It was only then that I allowed myself to feel the full weight of what I had done. Daemon Targaryen, the fiercest warrior in the tournament, had been outmatched. And I was the one who had done it.
The aftermath of the tournament was a storm of sound and color—horns blaring, lords shouting, ladies whispering behind their fans. The air was thick with the tang of sweat and trampled grass, and the field was a blur of movement, in a rare burst of emotion I celebrated my win as would be expected of any young swordsman. Before I knew I was presented my prize the wreath of love and Beauty.
The crown felt strange to me, too delicate by far. The pale pink and white blooms, woven together in neat little twists of green, looked like something better suited for a gentle hand to hold, not mine. My palms, roughened by hours of swordwork, felt clumsy against it, as though I might crush the thing by accident.
But this was what was expected. Win the tournament, name the Queen of Love and Beauty.
I raised my head, scanning the stands. My armor still clung to me, damp with sweat, but I kept my gaze steady as the field began to quiet. It didn't take long to find her.
Rhaenyra.
She cheered beside her father, utterly thrilled to see her friend accomplish such a deed.. Her smile was wide and open, the kind of smile you rarely saw at the city of betrayal and intrigue, kingslanding, a genuine smile.
Her gown—a bold crimson that seemed to blaze in the sunlight—made her look striking, though I doubted she thought much about that. The braids in her pale silver hair were the work of maids who must have spent hours on them. All of it—the dress, the hair, the delicate touches—felt worlds apart from my own scuffed armor and worn boots.
I didn't know why, but it felt right to name her my Queen of Love and Beauty. Perhaps because she had always treated me as more than just "Bealor Velaryon, the cold dismissive stuck up" even when others whispered about how odd I was. Or perhaps I wanted to give it to her because no one else in this field seemed more deserving of the title.
My steps were steady as I walked toward her, though I could feel the weight of a hundred pairs of eyes pressing down on me. The crowd's murmurs grew louder, but I pushed the noise aside. I wasn't doing this for them.
When I reached her, I dipped my head slightly, the motion feeling heavier than I'd expected. "For you, Princess," I said, holding the crown aloft. My voice was calm, even, though it felt strange to speak so formally to her. "My Queen of Love and Beauty."
She just looked at me, her violet eyes pericing in their gaze. Then her face softened, and she reached out to take the crown. Her fingers brushed against mine, light as a breeze.
Her smile widened, though it was smaller than the one before—quieter, almost shy. "Thank you, Bealor," she said, her voice softer than I was used to.
I nodded. That was enough. My task was done.
The crowd's roar surged behind me, a wave of sound that seemed to shake the very ground beneath my boots. For a brief moment, I felt as if I were caught in its swell, swept up in the fervor of it all. But just as quickly, the rush of excitement passed, leaving me standing at the center of it, aware once more of the weight that had settled on my shoulders.
The cheers grew louder, their energy wrapping around me, and I could feel the hundreds of eyes on me, all expectant and filled with admiration. It wasn't the weight of pressure, not this time. It was the feeling of having done what was asked of me, having fulfilled my duty, and with it came a satisfaction that pushed the weight into something lighter.
With the task done, I stepped back, slowly, letting the noise and joy of the crowd wash over me, a quiet sort of pride swelling within me. It was their moment now, the people's celebration, and I was content to let it be. There would be time for reflection later, but for now, I felt the weight of victory, the warmth of the crowd's approval, and the knowledge that I had earned both.
The joy of the tournament, fleeting as it was, shattered in an instant. It wasn't long before the whispers began to circulate, quiet at first, like the rustle of leaves before a storm. Queen Aemma had gone into labor. I'd been in the dragonpit at the time, lost in the routine of caring for Kaelyx, the familiar weight of his massive form at my side. His dark cobalt scales gleamed in the flickering torchlight, each one catching the flame like a shard of night itself. He was a presence, an anchor in a world that often felt like it might slip away from me, the tumult of court life ever present at my back.
He exhaled softly, a deep rumble that echoed through the pit, and for a brief moment, it felt like nothing could touch us, like we were beyond the reach of the kingdom's petty squabbles and intrigues. But that peace, like all others, was short-lived.
A voice broke through the stillness, a shadow in the corner of the pit, whispering the news that would change everything.
"Queen Aemma is in labor," they said, the words heavy with the weight of their meaning. The promise of a new life—an heir—hung in the air, but so did the silent dread that came with it. Labor, in the best of times, was a dangerous affair. A mother's life could be a fragile thing, easily lost in the effort to bring forth new life. And with the history of our family, nothing was ever as simple as it seemed.
I felt a knot tighten in my stomach, my mind spinning as I gazed up at Kaelyx, his amber eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight. He gave a low, rumbling growl, sensing my unease, as though he too could feel the shift in the air. I stayed with him for a while, tending to his needs, but my thoughts kept drifting back to the queen and what lay ahead. There was a heaviness settling over the keep, a cloud of uncertainty that would soon become something far darker.
The hours that followed blurred into a haze, each moment folding into the next as the weight of the day grew heavier. I remained in the dragonpit, though my mind wandered, troubled by a growing unease. The cries of a newborn echoed faintly through the halls of the Keep, soft and distant, like the first stirring of hope. But that fragile light was quickly consumed by something darker, a shadow that crept through the corridors and stole away any joy the day had once held.
I remember the stillness that came before the news reached me, the way the air seemed to thicken, as if the entire Keep was holding its breath. Then, like the crack of thunder in a storm, the word came: Queen Aemma had died.
It spread like wildfire, each whisper carrying the weight of the tragedy with it, swallowing up everything in its path. The suddenness of it hit me harder than I expected, the loss of a life that had only just begun to hold promise. The triumphs of the tournament—of my victory, of the pride that had swelled in my chest—seemed to vanish, snuffed out like a candle flame in a windstorm. The day, once full of light and celebration, now lay smothered in grief, the vibrant colors of the tournament grounds now a dull memory.
The news of Queen Aemma's death reached me like a blade to the chest, sharp and sudden, but I barely had time to process it before another, more urgent thought gripped me. Where was Rhaenyra? The question struck me with a force I couldn't explain, a compulsion that overrode grief and decorum alike. I stormed through the halls of the Red Keep, my voice cold and sharp as I demanded answers from guards and servants. My tone startled even me, more forceful than I'd intended, but I couldn't stop. Each shake of the head, each murmured "I don't know, my lord," only stoked the unease growing in my chest. I didn't know why I needed to find her, why it mattered so much, but it did. It burned in my mind, a single, unshakable purpose: I had to see her. I had to know she wasn't alone in this moment.
I moved swiftly, my footsteps echoing against the cold stone floors as I passed one chamber after another. She wasn't in her solar, nor in the great hall. I asked after her, my tone sharper than intended, but the maids and guards merely shook their heads. My frustration grew with each empty room, and Kaelyx's distant roars from the dragonpit seemed to mirror the unease gnawing at my chest.
It was the godswood where I finally found her. Beneath the ancient heart tree, she sat slumped against its pale trunk, her head bowed and her hands clutching at her knees. The soft crimson leaves of the weirwood framed her like a bleeding shroud, their stillness at odds with the trembling of her shoulders. Her face, always so composed, was pale and streaked with tears.
I stopped a few paces away, unsure of how to approach. This was Rhaenyra as I had never seen her before—not the proud princess of courtly splendor, nor the sharp-tongued companion who had stood by me in moments of trial. She was stripped bare of her defenses, utterly vulnerable, and for a moment, I hesitated.
The godswood was a sacred, quiet place, but the silence felt heavy here, thick with the grief that hung around her like a shadow. Her pain was almost tangible, a force that pulled at me, urging me forward despite my uncertainty. I took a breath and stepped closer, my movements careful, my voice softer than usual when I finally spoke.
"Rhaenyra," I said softly as I approached, my voice low and steady, though my chest felt tight with uncertainty.
She lifted her head slowly, and when our eyes met, the sight of her broke something in me. Her violet eyes, usually bright with fire, were rimmed red, the rawness of her grief laid bare. "She's gone," she whispered, her voice cracked and barely audible. "My mother is gone."
The words hung heavy in the air, final and unyielding. For a moment, I stood there, frozen, uncertain what to say. Words had never been my gift, and here, in the face of a loss so profound, they felt like hollow things. What could I offer her that wouldn't seem small or insincere?
So I did what felt natural, what I hoped she needed. I lowered myself to one knee beside her, my movements slow, deliberate. The grass beneath me was damp and cool, the earth solid and grounding. I didn't reach for her, didn't presume to touch her, but I made my presence known—a steady figure in her storm of pain.
"I know," I said quietly, my voice steady even as my thoughts churned. "It's a wound that won't close easily. But you're not alone. You have your father, your friend Alicent … and you have me."
Her gaze locked onto mine, wide and searching, as though she were looking for something solid in a world that had crumbled beneath her. Her lips parted, and when she spoke, her voice was small and uncertain, so unlike the confident girl I knew. "Do you mean that?"
"I do," I said firmly, meeting her eyes without hesitation. "You're strong, Rhaenyra. Stronger than you know. But even the strong need someone to lean on. When you can't be strong, I'll stand for you."
The words hung between us, heavy with meaning, and for a long moment, she simply stared at me, her expression unreadable. Then, like a dam breaking, the fire in her gaze dimmed, replaced by something raw and unguarded. Slowly, she leaned forward, her movements hesitant at first, as though afraid I might pull away. But I stayed rooted, unshaken, and when her head came to rest against my shoulder, as I wrapped my arms around her tightly, I felt the weight of her grief settle between us like a tangible things
The tears came then, silent at first, her shoulders trembling as the pain she had tried so hard to contain finally broke free. I didn't speak. Words felt unnecessary, almost intrusive, in the face of such profound sorrow. Instead, I stayed as I was, a steady presence, my arm hovering just slightly beside her, unsure if I should offer the comfort of touch or simply let her have this moment unbroken. I wrapped my jacket around her now in a attempt to somehow shield Rheanerya away.
Time seemed to stretch, the godswood quiet except for the faint rustling of leaves and her soft, uneven breaths. Her grief flowed unspoken, raw and unrelenting, and though I didn't fully understand why, I felt it too—a dull ache in my chest, a need to shield her from the weight of her loss even if it was impossible.
For the first time, the walls she carried so carefully crumbled entirely, and I was there to bear witness. Not as a knight or a lordling or even as her cousin, but simply as someone who cares about her beyond reason.
The years after Queen Aemma's death seemed to blur together, one wave of change crashing into another, leaving me little time to breathe or think. King Viserys remarried, taking Alicent Hightower as his queen, and with her came whispers—whispers of ambition and schemes that began to churn through the court. As for me, my own path seemed set before me, but I couldn't escape the feeling that the tides were rising faster than I could swim.
But there was Rhaenyra.
In the aftermath of her mother's death, I had made it my mission to visit her more often, acting as a official squire for my father ,the master of ships. I knew what grief could do to a person, how it could pull you under without warning. And I saw it in Rhaenyra, though she tried to mask it. Her strength, as always, was evident, but there were times when she seemed more like a ship caught in a storm, trying to hold steady against the waves. I couldn't stand the thought of her being alone in those moments, and so I would go to her—sometimes with no reason other than to sit in silence, or to offer what little comfort I could.
We spent hours together, talking about everything and nothing at all. The weight of her position, the endless pressures of court life, her mother's death—it all came pouring out when no one was watching. I listened, and in turn, shared what I could. It wasn't much. I didn't have the words to fix everything, but perhaps that was what she needed. I told myself that it was the bond of friendship, nothing more, nothing less. We were two souls tied together by our shared grief, our shared duty, and the tangled mess of our family histories.
There were moments, however, when something felt... different. It was subtle, unspoken—like a breath held just a little too long, or a glance that lingered longer than it should. But I never paid it much mind. But in the quiet moments when we were alone—when the rest of the court faded away—I could feel something shifting between us. I told myself it was the bond of shared history, of friendship, of being there for each other when the world seemed to be crumbling. Yet, something in the air felt different, as though we were standing on the edge of something neither of us had the courage to name.
120 AC, the world seemed to lurch under the strain of its own ambitions, shifting like the tides that battered Driftmark's cliffs. The Stepstones—those jagged, sun-scorched isles at the edge of civilization—were ablaze once more. What had long been a contested prize for adventurers and pretenders had now become a crucible of fire and blood, threatening to consume all who drew near.
The lifeblood of House Velaryon flowed through those waters: fleets laden with spice and silk, wine and grain, treasures that turned the Narrow Sea into our dominion. Yet now that lifeblood was choked, strangled by the iron hand of a new threat. The Crabfeeder, a Myrish prince turned pirate lord, had taken the Stepstones and turned them into his kingdom of chaos. His forces, a plague of cutthroats and sellswords, struck at our ships with ruthless precision. They burned hulls and claimed cargoes, leaving charred timbers and broken bodies in their wake.
On Driftmark, the weight of the Stepstones' stranglehold was impossible to ignore, its grip evident in every shadow cast upon the once-thriving harbor. What had been the beating heart of House Velaryon's strength now seemed hollowed and frail. The docks, once alive with the shouts of stevedores and the clatter of cargo being hoisted ashore, now stood eerily quiet. Barnacles grew unchecked along empty moorings, their jagged edges clawing at the undersides of abandoned wharves. The air, once thick with the mingled scents of spice, wine, and salt, now carried the acrid sting of death and decay.
The ships that did return told grim stories before their anchors even hit the water. Their sails hung in tatters, their hulls blackened by fire or riddled with jagged scars left by grappling hooks. Crews stumbled ashore gaunt and broken, haunted by the memory of the Crabfeeder's terror. Too often, ships didn't return at all, their absence a gaping wound that no report could soothe. Driftmark's proud fleet, once the envy of the Narrow Sea, was diminished with every raid.
Even the sea itself seemed to mourn. Its vibrant blue had turned dull and lifeless, an expanse of restless gray churning beneath low, brooding clouds. Wreckage washed ashore with the tide—splintered wood, torn nets, and sometimes worse: the pale, bloated hands of sailors who had failed to escape the Crabfeeder's grasp. Gulls no longer wheeled in joyous flocks but circled low and mournful, their cries more wail than song.
The halls of High Tide fared no better, their stone walls once alive with prideful echoes now reduced to hushed whispers and clipped tones. Urgent councils met in endless circles, their arguments laced with frustration and fear. The banners of House Velaryon hung limp and colorless in the salt-thick air, their once-brilliant hues dulled to muted shades of defeat. A tension filled every corner, like the stillness before a storm, a reminder that the heart of Driftmark would not endure this noose forever.
It was not in my father's nature to sit idle, and I had inherited the same fire in my veins. Driftmark, the proud heart of House Velaryon, now labored beneath the suffocating weight of an enemy's noose. The Crabfeeder's forces were no mere annoyance; they were a gauntlet cast at our feet, a bold declaration of war. He had seized the Stepstones and the vital shipping lanes that carried our wealth and power to every corner of the realm. He dared us to act, to challenge his hold over the lifeblood of our house.
And we would. We had to.
War had come to our doorstep, its shadow long and unrelenting, and there was no choice but to meet it head-on. My father, never one to wait for rescue from idle kings, called his bannermen. Their banners—rich with seahorses, anchors, and waves—flew high over Driftmark, catching the salt wind as the great harbor swelled with ships. The air buzzed with urgency as sailors loaded provisions and sharpened blades, their faces grim but resolute.
At the center of it all was my father, the Sea Snake, in his element. He moved with the precision of a man born to command, his voice cutting through the clamor with unyielding authority. His frustration with King Viserys's apathy burned like a forge fire, fueling his determination to act. Driftmark would not wait for the Iron Throne to decide its priorities. The blood of Old Valyria demanded action, and if the king would not protect the realm's lifelines, then we would.
Still, my father had made one last attempt to rouse the king from his torpor. I accompanied him to King's Landing, a journey meant not for council but for confrontation. We were ushered into the Red Keep, its grandeur overshadowed by the tension that clung to its halls. In the Small Council chamber, my father stood before Viserys, his voice cutting through the stifling air like the crash of waves on rock.
"The Stepstones burn, Your Grace, and the shipping lanes with them," my father said, his tone measured but carrying the weight of his fury. "Every ship that fails to return is a blow to the crown's coffers as well as my own. How many more must we lose before the Iron Throne acts?"
Viserys, seated upon the council's chair rather than his fabled throne, looked wearier than I had ever seen him. The wine goblet in his hand trembled slightly before he set it down. "The Stepstones are a volatile matter, Lord Corlys," he said, his voice strained with the effort of diplomacy. "Intervention risks provoking a larger war—one we cannot afford."
My father's eyes flashed like a storm. "And doing nothing risks showing the world that the Iron Throne is content to cower behind its walls while pirates bleed the realm dry."
I stood at my father's side, silent but watchful. The lords of the council exchanged uneasy glances, unwilling to meet Corlys Velaryon's unrelenting gaze. Even Otto Hightower, ever the picture of poise, shifted in his seat. It struck me then how weak they all seemed, weighed down by indecision while Driftmark stood ready to bleed for the realm.
"I will not wait for your permission to defend my own," my father said finally, the words landing with the weight of a hammer. "The Stepstones are ours to reclaim, with or without the crown's blessing."
Viserys said nothing, though his lips parted briefly as if to protest. Then he sank back into his chair, his silence speaking louder than any words could. The council dismissed us soon after, their whispers echoing down the stone corridors as we departed kingslanding.
The morning I was to leave King's Landing dawned gray, the skies heavy with the threat of rain. The Red Keep was quieter than usual, its bustling courtyards subdued by the early hour. My armor was packed, my horse saddled, and my ship waiting in the harbor below. I had no intention of lingering; every moment felt wasted with the Stepstones still burning.
As I crossed the castle yard, my thoughts consumed by maps and strategies, her voice called out to me.
"Bealor."
I turned, surprised to see Rhaenyra standing at the edge of the courtyard. She wore a simple gown of deep red, the color stark against her pale skin and silver hair. The wind tugged at her braids, and for a moment, she looked younger than her years, a girl caught between duty and something softer.
"Princess," I said, inclining my head. I kept my tone formal, though her presence set me slightly off balance.
"You're leaving," she said, stepping closer. Her hands were clasped in front of her, fingers twisting nervously.
"I am." I replied. "My father has need of me."
She nodded, her gaze briefly dropping to the cobblestones before returning to mine. There was something in her eyes—something she didn't quite let show. "You're going to fight, then. In the Stepstones."
"Yes," I said simply. "We cannot wait for the crown's aid. If we don't act now, we may lose the islands entirely."
For a moment, she said nothing, her expression unreadable. Then she looked past me, her gaze fixed on something distant. "It feels as though the realm is fraying, Bealor. Everywhere I look, there's conflict—at court, across the Narrow Sea… even within my own family. And now you're leaving, too."
Her words caught me off guard, though I tried not to show it. "I'll return," I said, the promise slipping out before I could think better of it.
Her lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Will you? Men who go to war often don't. My mother once told me that."
Her mention of Queen Aemma sent a pang through me. I remembered the godswood, her tears, the grief she had let me see when no one else could. Now she stood before me with that same vulnerability, though she tried to hide it behind her usual poise.
"I will return," I said again, more firmly this time. "You have my word."
She looked at me then, her violet eyes searching mine as if testing the weight of my promise. For a moment, I thought she might say more—something about the way her voice had softened or the way she held my gaze longer than necessary. But she only stepped closer, her hand brushing briefly against my arm.
She looked at me then, her violet eyes searching mine with a quiet intensity that made the world around us seem to fade. Without a word, she reached into the folds of her cloak and drew out a ribbon, its crimson hue gleaming in the light, the gold trim catching like fire. She stepped closer, so close I could catch the faint scent of lavender in her hair, and tied it around my forearm with fingers that trembled just slightly.
"For luck," she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper as her fingers lingered against mine, placing her favor into my hand. Her violet eyes searched mine, unwavering, her expression unreadable save for the faint flush that crept along her cheeks. For a moment, she seemed as caught in the stillness as I was, her lips parting as if to speak before silence reclaimed her. My own gaze faltered, drifting from her eyes to the curve of her lips, and I cleared my throat, stepping back. She straightened then, folding her hands in front of her as if to compose herself, though her eyes followed me still. The moment broke, but its weight hung heavy, like the press of a storm not yet spent.
"Be careful," she announced as she reverted to her best public demeanor.
Her touch was gone as quickly as it came, leaving a warmth that lingered despite the chill in the air.
"I will," I said.
She hesitated, as if there were more she wanted to say. Then she stepped back, her expression smoothing into one of cool resolve. "Driftmark is fortunate to have you. Don't make me regret letting you leave."
The faintest trace of humor touched her tone, but her eyes betrayed something deeper. I bowed my head, unsure how else to respond.
"I'll see you again, Rhaenyra," before following my father
——————————————
The great hall of High Tide thrummed with unease, the air thick with salt, smoke, and the muted growl of the sea beyond its walls. For the first time in years, the lords sworn to House Velaryon had gathered under one roof, their weathered faces bearing the marks of long campaigns and hard lives at sea. The long table was a battlefield of words before the war itself had begun, tempers sharp as daggers and voices rising like the tide. The braziers roared with flame, their heat doing little to dispel the chill that had settled over the room. At the head of the table stood my father, the Sea Snake, his presence commanding as his shadow stretched long against the stone walls. I sat just to his right, my place of honor as heavy as the gaze of the men who weighed me like cargo untested by storms.
But before I stepped into the hall, my mother called for me. I found her in the solar, her figure framed by the window as the late afternoon sun glinted off her silver hair. She turned as I entered, and for a moment, I saw not the Queen Who Never Was, but simply my mother.
"Bealor," she said, her voice softer than usual, though it carried the firmness I had come to know well. "You're about to walk into a room filled with men who will question your every word, your every movement. Some will see your youth as a weakness." She stepped closer, her dark eyes searching mine. "Do not let them."
I nodded, though my throat felt tight. "I won't," I said, though the words felt hollow.
Her hand came to rest on my cheek, a rare gesture of affection. "You are your father's son, but you are also mine. And while Corlys rules the seas, I know the tides of men's hearts better than any lord in that room. Listen to them, Bealor, but do not yield to their doubts. You have the blood of Old Valyria in your veins. Make them remember it."
I felt the weight of her faith settle over me, heavier than any armor, but far warmer. "I'll make you proud, Mother," I said.
"You already have," she replied, and as I turned to leave, I felt the steadiness of her gaze follow me, like the anchor of a ship braving rough waters.
When I entered the great hall, my father was waiting. He looked up as I approached, his expression unreadable beneath the torchlight. "You'll sit beside me, boy," he said, his tone neither a request nor a command, but something in between.
"Yes, my lord," I answered, taking my place at his right hand as the murmurs of the lords quieted to a low hum.
"Today, you do not sit as my son alone," Corlys said, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear. "Today, you represent the future of this house. Remember that."
"The crown should act, Lord Corlys," said Lord Garren, his voice gruff and his fingers drumming impatiently on the table. He was an old man, one who had served Driftmark through many storms, but his tone carried the doubt of someone who had seen too much. "The Stepstones are not just our problem. They are a threat to the entire realm. Why should we bleed alone?"
"The crown will do nothing," my father replied, his voice low but unyielding. "Viserys prefers peace, even at the cost of strength. We cannot wait for the Red Keep to act while the Crabfeeder chokes our trade and dares us to respond."
"And yet, we are no army," another lord interjected—Lord Velmyn, younger than Garren but no less sharp. "We command ships, not soldiers. To go to war without the crown's support would be folly. Who will pay for the steel we lack? Who will man our decks when our men fall?"
I could feel the heat rising in the room, like the pressure of a storm building on the horizon. I leaned forward, my voice breaking through the growing din. "Do you think waiting will cost us any less? Every day we sit idle, the Crabfeeder tightens his hold on the Stepstones. Every ship lost to his piracy weakens us, not the crown. How long until Driftmark is no better than a fisherman's wharf?"
The lords turned their attention to me, some with surprise, others with open skepticism. Velmyn's lip curled slightly. "And what would you know of war, boy? You may wear the name Velaryon, but names do not win battles."
My fists clenched under the table, but my father spoke before I could respond, his tone cutting. "Enough, Velmyn. My son speaks truth. The Crabfeeder's actions are not an inconvenience—they are a declaration. If we do nothing, he will not stop at the Stepstones. He will bring war to our shores."
"And yet," Garren pressed, undeterred, "we cannot do this alone. Even if the crown will not act, there must be allies beyond the Red Keep. The Free Cities, perhaps?"
"The Free Cities?" my father scoffed, a sharp laugh breaking from his lips. "It is their coin that fills the Crabfeeder's coffers. They will not aid us. This is our fight, and ours alone."
I stood then, my voice louder than I intended, but steady. "If we wait for others to save us, we will be waiting when the Crabfeeder comes for Driftmark itself. House Velaryon has ruled the seas for generations. That will not change—not while we still draw breath."
A silence fell over the room, save for the crackle of the fire. Some of the lords shifted uncomfortably, their doubt lingering, but my father nodded, his approval clear.
"It is settled," he said, his voice final. "We sail for the Stepstones. If the crown will not defend its realm, we will defend it ourselves. Those who would see the seas ruled by cowards and pirates will learn what it means to cross House Velaryon."
One by one, the lords rose, some reluctant, others with grim resolve. As they filed from the hall, my father placed a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm. "Good job son." he said, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
With her blessing, I turned my gaze to the horizon, where the Stepstones waited, bloodied and burning. My preparations began in earnest, and at their center stood the Sea Blade. She was a marvel of Driftmark's shipwrights, my own man-o'-war, born of both tradition and ambition. Unlike any vessel in the fleet, she was as much a statement as a weapon—a shining specter upon the waves.
Her hull was a gleaming white, treated with limewash and polished until it caught the sun like bleached bone. Sailors whispered that the Sea Blade looked more ghost than galley, her pale form a harbinger of doom to those who dared cross her path. Her figurehead was a seahorse carved from driftwood, its mane etched with swirling patterns that mirrored the currents of the sea. Its eyes were black glass, catching the light in a way that made them seem alive, filled with purpose.
The galley was sleek, her lines sharp and predatory. She moved like a serpent through the water, her narrow beam and deep keel designed for speed and maneuverability. The sails, bright as a winter storm, billowed above her, edged in silver thread that shimmered like starlight. On the mainmast flew the banner of House Velaryon—a silver seahorse on a sea-green field—its edges whipped by the salty breeze. Three banks of oars rested beneath the deck, each manned by seasoned rowers whose backs bore the scars of countless voyages. They moved as one, their rhythm like the beating heart of the ship.
The Sea Blade bristled with armament. Two ballistae stood mounted on her forecastle and sterncastle, their iron-tipped bolts capable of ripping through the hulls of enemy ships. Fire pots lined her sides, filled with the alchemical dragonfire that could turn wood to ash in moments. Her decks were lined with hooks and boarding planks, for there was no greater thrill to a Velaryon than to seize an enemy ship and make it our own.
The Velaryon fleet stretched across the horizon, a line of white and silver cutting through the cobalt waves. The Sea Fury led the armada, her towering masts draped with the proud banners of House Velaryon. The silver seahorse on its field of deep blue caught the sunlight and shimmered like a star fallen to the sea. Her hull, reinforced with steel plates, gleamed as if polished for war, while her prow, carved into the fierce visage of a sea serpent, seemed to sneer at the waters ahead. The fleet followed in her wake, a procession of power and precision that announced itself long before it arrived.
The Sea Fury was a leviathan among ships, a triple-decked man-o'-war built for dominance. Her decks bristled with ballistae, the massive war engines standing ready to hurl flaming bolts into enemy lines. Catapults, rigged with barrels of pitch and iron-tipped stones, lined her flanks, while her lower decks carried hundreds of sailors, oarsmen, and warriors. Smoke-blackened shields, bearing the sigil of House Velaryon, hung from the rails like teeth. At her helm, Corlys Velaryon stood tall, his hair whipped by the wind, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The Sea Snake was in his element here, his command absolute, his confidence unshaken by the Crabfeeder's growing hold on the Stepstones.
Behind her came the rest of the fleet, an array of ships that spoke to the vast resources of Driftmark. There were longships, swift and lean, darting around the larger vessels like wolves around a stag. These were the raiders, their decks manned by sailors with the salt of the Narrow Sea in their veins, armed with bows and grappling hooks to board and burn. There were trade galleys, slower but sturdy, their holds repurposed to carry warriors, siege engines, and barrels of oil. Their once-proud prows, carved with dolphins and mermaids, now bore the scars of hasty reforging into figures of war.
The Firetide was among them, a vessel of chaos and destruction. Her deck shimmered with the green glow of wildfire contained in iron jars, her crew made up of alchemists and Braavosi mercenaries who handled their deadly cargo with reverence and dread. The Whisperer, a sleek and silent scout ship, slipped ahead of the fleet, its dark sails blending with the sea, its captain a Lysene who had sailed these waters long before war had made them treacherous.
But it was not just the ships that made the fleet formidable—it was the men and women aboard. Velaryon knights, clad in blue and silver plate, moved with purpose along the decks, their shields emblazoned with the seahorse of their house. Archers tested their bowstrings, their quivers filled with arrows fletched with gull feathers. Sailors, their skin tanned and scarred by years at sea, sang low shanties as they worked the rigging. Their arms bore tattoos of waves and serpents, marks of their service to the greatest seafaring house in Westeros.
Above it all flew the dragons. Kaelyx, Bealon Velaryon's cobalt-scaled beast, circled high above the fleet, his cries carrying across the water like a herald of doom. His wings stretched wide, each beat causing the waves below to ripple. Beside him soared Seasmoke, Laenor Velaryon's mount, smaller but no less fierce, her pale grey wings glinting in the sun. The sight of them filled the sailors with both dread and exhilaration. The dragons were their strength, their trump card, their fire to counter the Crabfeeder's cunning.
As I prepared to board, I donned the armor my father had commissioned for me. Forged in the smithies of Driftmark, it was a work of art as much as a tool of war. The steel was tempered to a brilliant silver sheen, polished until it gleamed like the surface of the sea under a full moon. The breastplate bore the sigil of our house—a seahorse in flight—crafted from hammered gold and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The pauldrons swept outward like the fins of a fish, their edges engraved with intricate wave patterns.
The helm, crowned with a crest shaped like Kaelyx's wings, fit snugly, leaving only my eyes exposed. A cloak of sea-green wool, lined with white fur, hung from my shoulders, fastened with a clasp in the shape of a roaring seahorse. Beneath the steel, I wore a tunic of dark cobalt, matching the scales of my dragon.
As we set sail, the salt-laden wind tore through my hair, tangling it like the rigging above. The horizon unfurled before me, vast and unbroken, a line that marked not just the edge of the sea but the threshold of everything I had spent my life preparing for. The Stepstones lay ahead—a patchwork of jagged rocks and treacherous waters, now claimed by blood and flame. It was there that destiny waited, harsh and unyielding as the tides, ready to measure my worth against the weight of my house's name and my own untested resolve.