Chapter 4: The Fire and the Shadows
TIMESKIP --- 3 Years----
Bealor IV
The sea stretched endlessly before him, a mirror of gray skies that seemed to press down on the world. Bealor Velaryon stood at the prow of the Sea Blade, his broad shoulders hunched against the biting wind. At twenty, he was a man hardened beyond his years, his towering frame carved by war and weather. His once-youthful face bore the marks of three years in the Stepstones: a scar running from his temple to his cheekbone, a jagged souvenir of a pirate's blade; lines etched deep around his mouth, born of grim commands and sleepless nights. His sapphire-blue eyes, so like the scales of his dragon Kaelyx, no longer held the brightness of boyhood. They were steely now, sharp and unyielding, like the steel of the sword that rarely left his side.
Bealor's hair, damp from the spray of the sea, clung to his brow. What had once been neatly combed silver-blonde locks now hung in rough waves, streaked with the grit of salt and ash. He ran a hand through it absently, staring out at the horizon. Home lay beyond it—Driftmark, the island he hadn't seen in three long years. The thought of returning stirred something deep within him, a mix of relief and unease.
The Sea Blade rocked gently beneath him, her timbers creaking like the groans of an old soldier. Bealor's calloused hands rested on the railing, the wood rough against his palms. It was a feeling he had grown accustomed to—the unsteady ground of a ship beneath his feet, the salt air filling his lungs, the distant cry of gulls mingling with the memory of screams. He was at home here, among the waves, and yet he was weary of it. The war had taken more from him than he could measure.
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flashback
The sea roared beneath the Velaryon fleet, each wave crashing against the hulls of black-sailed warships with the fury of a living thing. They moved as one, a relentless tide of timber and steel cutting through the narrow, treacherous channels of the Stepstones. Above them, the sky was a murky gray, the sun barely piercing the heavy clouds, as though the gods themselves held their breath. From his place on the deck of the Sea Blade, Bealor Velaryon watched the horizon with a mixture of awe and unease, his hands gripping the railing hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
The air carried the sharp tang of salt, but it was fouled by something darker—smoke. It wafted from the charred remains of pirate ships littering the waters, their broken masts jutting out like the bones of fallen beasts. Embers still glowed faintly in the distance, and the occasional body bobbed in the waves, a grim reminder of the battles already fought. Bealor had seen the wrecks before from the safety of Driftmark's cliffs, distant specks on the horizon. But here, amidst the carnage, the scale of it was overwhelming.
He tried to steady his breathing, but his heart pounded relentlessly, as if it sought to escape the confines of his chest. This was not the tourneys or drills he had trained for. Those had been games of precision and skill, with blunted swords and wooden shields. This was something else entirely. This was war.
Bealor's gaze shifted to the fleet surrounding him. The great galleys of House Velaryon moved with an eerie grace, their black sails emblazoned with the proud seahorse sigil of his house. Each ship was a marvel of craftsmanship, built for speed and strength, their decks bristling with archers and rows of sailors manning the oars. The Sea Serpent, flagship of the fleet and his father's pride, towered above the rest, its figurehead—a massive sea dragon with eyes painted a gleaming gold—seeming to snarl at the enemy they had yet to face.
Corlys Velaryon stood at the prow, his silver hair streaming in the wind like a banner of war. The Lord of the Tides exuded an aura of calm authority, as if the chaos surrounding them were no more than a summer squall. Bealor envied that calm. His father had seen countless battles, weathered the storms of the Stepstones before. To Corlys, this was a familiar song, one he had danced to many times. But for Bealor, the melody was new, and the notes jarring.
"First time's the hardest," his father had told him that morning, his voice steady, his hand firm on Bealor's shoulder. "But you're my son. The blood of Old Valyria runs strong in your veins. You'll find your courage when it matters most."
Bealor had nodded, though the words had felt distant, like they belonged to someone else. Now, standing here on the brink of battle, he wasn't so sure. His eyes fell to the sword at his side, its blade polished but plain, a tool rather than a treasure. He thought of Daemon's words at the tournament: A man is only as good as the steel he carries. What kind of man would he prove to be today?
Above them, the sky was alive with the beat of wings. Kaelyx soared, his immense wings cutting through the air like a living storm. The dragon's sapphire-blue scales glittered in the pale light, shimmering like jewels in the sun, each muscle beneath them rippling with raw power. His roar echoed across the sea, a sound that seemed to shake the very heavens themselves. The mighty beast was a creature of legend, a symbol of House Velaryon's ancient bloodline, and today, he would be more than a symbol.
The sea churned and the wind howled as the Velaryon fleet advanced, their black sails billowing like the wings of some ancient, mighty beast. The Sea Serpent carved through the waves, its hull cutting the water with deadly precision. From his position on the deck, Bealor Velaryon watched the horizon. His heart pounded, each beat echoing through his chest, drowned out by the roar of the battle ahead.
Salt and smoke thickened the air, the acrid scent of burning wood and flesh rising from the wrecks of shattered pirate ships. The narrow channels of the Stepstones, once a realm of quiet danger, had been transformed into a chaotic slaughterhouse. Wreckage floated on the surface—splintered masts, broken hulls—and the very sea itself seemed to boil with bloodlust, its waves dark and furious, as if eager to swallow more of the dead and dying. The distant screams of men in battle mingled with the crackling of flames, filling the air with a low, mournful wail that twisted deep in Bealor's gut.
His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, the cold iron a sharp contrast to the heat of the moment. He could feel the weight of it—the weight of his father's legacy, the weight of the Velaryon name—and beneath it all, the crushing weight of his own inexperience. He had seen the carnage from afar, watched as his father's fleet sailed through the mist from the safety of Driftmark's cliffs. But to stand amidst it—to be surrounded by the roar of the battle, the scent of death, the frantic clamor of men struggling for their lives—was something else entirely.
This was war. And Bealor felt it in his bones.
"Focus," Lord Corlys's voice rang out over the din, calm and unwavering amidst the growing chaos. His father stood at the prow of the Sea Serpent, the lord of the tides unshaken as the world around them erupted into madness. His silver hair blew behind him, catching the light like a banner in the wind, while his eyes—piercing, unyielding—never left the horizon. "The pirates know these waters, but we are Velaryons. This is our domain."
Bealor swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath, to push the fear down into the pit of his stomach where it could not rise to choke him. His father's words carried the weight of a thousand battles fought and won. To Corlys, it was just another skirmish—one more fight in a long line of many. But for Bealor, it was the first.
He turned his gaze toward the fleet, the sight of the black sails cutting through the murky fog like the wings of an ancient creature. The Sea Blade, his own ship, rocked gently beneath his feet, its deck alive with the hurried movements of the crew preparing for the oncoming battle. Archers strung their bows, soldiers checked their weapons, and sailors hurried to man the ballistae. Each moment stretched longer than the last, each heartbeat louder than the next. The pirates were close now, their ships visible through the fog, their sails dark and taunting.
Bealor's hand clenched around the hilt of his sword, his knuckles pale against the worn leather. His grip was white-knuckled, as though he could somehow anchor himself to the ship with the strength of his hold. The battle ahead was not some fleeting skirmish. This would be something else. It would demand more than the drills and lessons ever had. More than the tales of glory he had heard from the safety of Driftmark.
His breath was steady, but his heart beat like a drum in his chest. Am I ready?
The question lingered, unanswered.
Then came the cry from the lookout, cutting through the tension like a blade. "Enemy ships closing in! They're coming fast, my lord!"
The words, harsh and urgent, shattered the fragile calm that had settled over the Sea Blade. Bealor's gaze snapped to the horizon, where, through the mist and rising smoke, dark shapes began to take form. The pirates had arrived—swift, merciless. The sea, once a calm expanse beneath their sails, had become a boiling cauldron, churning with the promise of blood.
There was no more time for doubt. The fear, the uncertainty, could no longer be afforded. He had been born into this. It was time to prove he was worthy of that legacy.
The pirates had arrived.
Their vessels swarmed like a pack of wolves, darting in and out of the mist, the black sails rising against the dull sky like shadows of death. Grim and unyielding, the enemy ships were a chaotic, feral swarm. Smaller, faster, and more numerous, their hulls carved through the waves with deadly purpose, their crews like wolves, lean and hungry, eyes gleaming with the promise of blood. They had no fear—no sense of the consequences—only the certainty of their prey. And they were about to collide with the might of House Velaryon.
Bealor felt the shift in the air, the quickening pulse of the battle, as his fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. His breath came in sharp bursts, his gaze flickering from the approaching enemy to his uncle, who stood nearby. His eyes flicked to Veamond, the ever-steady presence of his uncle, the seasoned captain whose hands had gripped the wheel of many a ship in such moments.
"Take command, Uncle," Bealor commanded, his voice steady despite the storm that raged inside him. "I'll be with you soon."
Veamond's sharp eyes met his, and a small, approving nod passed between them. The older man didn't hesitate, as he stepped up already barking orders. There was no time for further words, only action.
Bealor spun on his heel, his heart a battle drum in his chest, and moved swiftly to the mast. He climbed with the speed of a man driven by instinct, his boots sure on the rigging, his hands gripping the ropes with practiced ease. The ship creaked and groaned beneath him, but there was no time for fear. His gaze sought the sky—Kaelyx was waiting.
At the top of the mast, Bealor paused, the wind howling in his ears. Below him, the enemy was closing in, their ships coming in from all sides like a storm about to break. But above him, his dragon waited.
With a final breath, Bealor launched himself from the mast. Time slowed as he fell, the wind rushing past his ears, before Kaelyx's massive wings swept beneath him, catching him like a child in the arms of a mother. The dragon's sapphire-blue scales shimmered in the muted light, his eyes gleaming with the fire of battle.
The world was suddenly smaller, more controlled, as he sat astride his mount. The great beast's wings flapped in steady rhythm, carrying them higher into the sky, above the chaos of the battle below. Bealor's gaze locked onto the enemy ships, each one an obstacle, each one a challenge.
The pirates were closing in, their ships darting through the waves like sharks drawn to blood. But high above the fray, with Kaelyx beneath him, Bealor Velaryon felt the fire of battle roar to life in his chest. The fear that had clutched at his heart moments ago was gone, burned away by the dragonfire coursing through his veins.
Kaelyx roared beneath him, a sound so loud it seemed to shake the very heavens. Below, the Sea Blade and her sisters braced for the inevitable clash, their decks alive with shouts and movement. The enemy ships, ragged and swift, closed the distance like a tide threatening to consume them all
"Let them come," Bealor murmured, his voice low, swallowed by the wind as Kaelyx surged forward. The dragon's wings carved great arcs through the storm-gray sky, his shadow rippling over the waves below like a harbinger of wrath.
With a sharp cry, Bealor leaned forward, urging Kaelyx into a steep dive. The dragon obeyed without hesitation, his massive wings folding in tight as they plunged from the heavens like a thunderbolt loosed by the gods themselves. The wind screamed past Bealor's ears, tearing at his cloak and hair, but he held firm, his eyes fixed on the ship below.
The pirate vessel seemed to shudder at the sight of them, its dark sails flapping wildly as though seeking to flee. On deck, chaos erupted. Men pointed skyward, their voices rising in frantic cries, half-warning, half-prayer. Others scrambled for cover or snatched bows from nearby racks, fumbling to nock arrows with trembling hands.
Bealor's lips curled into a grim smile. Let them panic. Let them see what comes for them.
Kaelyx roared, the sound reverberating like the clash of titanic shields. The dragon's sapphire scales gleamed like a thousand jewels in the dim light, his massive form casting a shadow over the ship that seemed to swallow it whole. The pirates froze, some transfixed by the terrible majesty of the beast, others too paralyzed by fear to even raise their weapons.
"Dracarys."
As Kaelyx's flame erupted, Bealor felt the heat lick at his face, even from the saddle high above. The torrent of sapphire fire struck the pirate ship with a force that seemed to shake the very sea. For a moment, Bealor could see every detail in perfect, horrifying clarity—the sails igniting like dry tinder, the ropes snapping and curling as they burned, and the men on deck caught mid-motion, their faces twisted in terror.
The fire consumed everything it touched. Wood splintered and cracked, hissing as it drank in the flames, and the blackened planks of the deck buckled under the intense heat. Bealor's gaze was drawn, unwilling, to the pirates themselves. Those closest to the blast disappeared entirely, their bodies incinerated in an instant, leaving only charred shadows where they had stood.
Others were less fortunate. A man staggered, his clothing ablaze, his screams rising above the roar of the nlue inferno. His flesh blistered and peeled, blackening as he flailed, his hands clawing at his burning face before he pitched over the railing into the churning sea. Another fell to his knees, his eyes wide with disbelief as his lower body vanished into the flames, the smell of roasting meat sickeningly familiar.
Bealor's stomach twisted, a cold weight settling in his chest even as his blood sang with the adrenaline of battle. He had imagined this moment before, but never like this. He had envisioned the glory of dragonfire, its devastating beauty, but not the wet, choking sound of a man trying to scream with lungs seared shut, or the way the smoke carried the nauseating stench of charred hair and flesh.
Kaelyx circled above, his roar triumphant, but Bealor felt no triumph. His hand trembled on the reins, his breaths shallow. Below, the ship was a funeral pyre adrift in the waves, the few pirates who had escaped the initial blast flinging themselves into the sea, their shrieks fading as the water swallowed them. But the ocean offered no mercy. Flaming debris floated like islands of despair, and the wounded clung to them only to find themselves burned anew.
He turned to Kaelyx, and with a fierce smile, urged him forward, plunging once more into the heart of the battle. The dragon's roar filled the sky, and Bealor knew that the pirates would soon learn what it meant to face the true wrath of House Velaryon.
Four months of blood and salt had passed, and the Stepstones remained a battlefield carved by fire and steel. The pirates, cornered and desperate, came at them now with a ferocity born of hopelessness. Their ships were no more than a patchwork of plundered wood and rusted iron, held together by nails and prayer. Yet their numbers were vast, an unrelenting tide of grim desperation against the disciplined might of House Velaryon.
Bealor stood on the deck of the Sea Blade, his eyes narrowed against the sea spray as he surveyed the chaos unfolding before him. The first wave of pirate vessels had been crushed like driftwood beneath the might of the Velaryon fleet. Black-sailed warships, sleek and deadly, cut through the enemy lines with precision. Above, the skies were ruled by dragons.
Caraxes and Seasmoke swept low, their massive forms casting shadows over the churning waters. The pirates screamed as jets of dragonfire rained down, engulfing their flimsy vessels in roaring infernos. Ships that had seemed menacing from afar were reduced to charred husks within moments, their crews throwing themselves into the sea to escape the flames—only to meet death in the unforgiving waves.
Bealor gripped the railing tightly, his knuckles white as he watched the carnage. Four months of war had hardened him, though he still felt the weight of every life lost, whether ally or foe. The first time he had seen a man burn, he had wretched over the side of his ship. Now, he simply turned his gaze to the next target. War demanded steel—not just in hand, but in heart.
"Your orders, my lord?" called his uncle Vaemond, standing at the helm. His face was grim, his armor tarnished from battle.
Bealor tore his eyes from the inferno and steadied his voice. "Bring us forward. Pin the lead ship between the Sea Blade and the Sea Fury. Their numbers mean nothing if we shatter their formation."
Vaemond nodded and bellowed commands to the crew, his voice cutting through the din of battle. The oarsmen moved as one, their strokes powerful and deliberate, driving the *Sea Blade* toward the enemy with the force of a striking serpent.
Above, Kaelyx circled, his sapphire scales shimmering in the pale sunlight. Bealor felt the pull of their bond, a connection that had deepened with every battle. He could feel the dragon's hunger, the barely restrained fury as it waited for its moment to strike.
"Not yet," Bealor murmured, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His eyes scanned the pirate fleet, searching for their leader—the one ship that commanded this rabble. The pirates were animals, but even animals had an alpha. Kill it, and the rest would scatter.
The Sea Blade crashed into the side of a pirate galley, its steel-tipped prow tearing through the hull with a sickening crack. The pirates on deck howled as Velaryon soldiers poured across the gangplank, blades flashing in the sunlight. Bealor did not join the fray; his place was not with the foot soldiers. His battlefield was above.
"Now," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. Kaelyx answered with a deafening roar that silenced the chaos for a fleeting moment. Bealor turned to the mast, his boots pounding against the wooden deck as he climbed.
He reached the top in moments, the wind whipping his hair as he leapt into the saddle. Kaelyx launched himself into the sky with a mighty beat of his wings, and Bealor's world became a blur of wind and fire.
Below, the pirates faltered. The sight of a dragon in full flight, its rider cloaked in the colors of House Velaryon, was enough to send many scrambling for cover. Bealor leaned forward, his voice steady as he called to his mount. "Burn them. Burn them all."
Kaelyx descended with the fury of a storm, his roar echoing across the waves as his fire erupted in a deadly arc. A pirate flagship, larger than the rest, exploded into flame. Bealor watched as the men on deck screamed and scattered, their desperate attempts to douse the inferno futile against the dragon's wrath.
Bealor's gaze fell upon the stricken vessel, a pirate ship marked not by black sails or crude weaponry, but by the terror etched on the faces of those aboard. Near the bow, he saw them—huddled together like sheep before the slaughter. A mother clung desperately to her child, shielding the boy's face from the chaos around them. Men, ragged and skeletal, scrambled to lower lifeboats into the churning sea. Their movements were frantic, hopeless.
They were slaves.
A knot twisted in Bealor's stomach, heavier than the sword at his hip. These were no pirates. They were captives, chained to oars or pressed into labor by the monsters he had come to destroy. Yet the flames cared not for innocence or guilt.
Kaelyx roared, circling above the doomed ship. Bealor felt the dragon's eagerness, the primal urge to reduce the vessel to ash, but he hesitated. His fingers tightened around the railings, his knuckles white as his mind raced.
"Not this one," he murmured, though the words barely reached his own ears.
But it was too late. Fire leapt from mast to hull, devouring the ship with ravenous speed. The screams of the slaves rose above the crackling flames, a terrible symphony that pierced Bealor's ears. Men leapt into the sea, only to be dragged under by the current or pulled back by the chains still fastened to their ankles.
The mother was the last to move. She stood at the bow, her child pressed tightly against her chest, her eyes fixed on the blazing wreckage around her. Bealor thought she might leap, but she didn't. She simply stood there, her face a mask of defiance and despair, until the fire consumed her too.
From above, Bealor watched it all, powerless to stop it. This was no glorious battle, no triumph of House Velaryon. This was horror, pure and unrelenting.
When the ship finally sank beneath the waves, its charred skeleton swallowed by the sea, Bealor found himself staring at the spot where it had been. His chest ached, not from exertion, but from the weight of what he had seen.
"Blood and fire," he whispered bitterly, his voice raw. It was the motto of House Targaryen, the words of their kin. But here, amidst the carnage, they felt more like a curse.
Kaelyx roared again, impatient for the next target. Bealor closed his eyes for a moment, forcing the image of the mother and child from his mind. There were still enemies to destroy, still battles to win. But some part of him—the boy who had once dreamed of glory—was gone, burned away with that ship and its innocent cargo.
When he opened his eyes again, they were harder, colder. He gave Kaelyx the signal, and the dragon soared toward the next cluster of pirate vessels. But no matter how many flames they unleashed, he knew he could never burn away the memory of those faces.
The landing on the island began with the gray light of dawn bleeding over the horizon, its feeble rays casting long shadows on the jagged rocks and tangled mangroves of the shoreline. The Velaryon forces came ashore in waves, their boots sinking into the wet sand as the sea roared behind them. Black banners snapped in the wind, the silver seahorse of Driftmark shining like a promise of vengeance.
Resistance greeted them, scattered and desperate—pirates armed with rusted blades and mismatched armor, screaming curses in a dozen tongues. It was no battle but a slaughter. Bealor Velaryon strode through the chaos like a storm made flesh, his blade a silver arc that cut down those who dared to stand before him.
Kaelyx circled overhead, the beat of his mighty wings stirring the air like the harbinger of death itself. The dragon's sapphire scales gleamed as the first light of the sun caught them, his roar echoing across the beach. Flames licked the jungle's edge, the remnants of a ship's crew reduced to charred bones and smoke.
When the sands were stained with blood and the cries of the dying faded to silence, Bealor slid his sword back into its sheath. The dragon descended, landing with a thunderous crash that sent waves of sand spilling over the bodies at his feet. Bealor approached, resting a hand on Kaelyx's snout.
"Stay aloft," he murmured, his voice low but commanding. "Watch the skies. Let none approach unseen."
Kaelyx huffed, a sound like distant thunder, and with a single powerful beat of his wings, he was airborne again. Bealor's gaze lingered on his mount for a moment before turning inland.
The jungle loomed ahead, dense and foreboding, its canopy a tangle of green and shadow. It reeked of damp earth and rotting vegetation, the cries of unseen creatures piercing the humid air. Bealor tightened his grip on his sword's hilt and joined the soldiers assembling at the treeline.
The plan was simple, as all plans seemed in the telling. Advance through the jungle, locate the pirate encampments hidden among the caves, and burn them to the ground. Simple. But Bealor had learned in three years of war that nothing ever remained simple once steel met flesh.
The men pressed forward, a grim procession of hardened sailors and soldiers. Their boots trampled the undergrowth, and their breaths came heavy in the oppressive heat. Bealor took the lead, his eyes scanning the shadows for the telltale glint of steel or the flicker of movement. Each step felt like an invitation to death, the jungle alive with malice, every rustle of leaves a warning whispered by the gods.
The jungle betrayed them first. What seemed like solid ground gave way with a sickening crunch as the lead soldiers stumbled into a concealed pit lined with jagged stakes. A dozen men vanished in an instant, their screams shattering the thick, humid air. Blood pooled at the edge of the trap, dark and glistening, as the unlucky few impaled writhed in agony.
Bealor froze mid-step, his instincts screaming that this was no ordinary ambush. The jungle seemed to breathe around him, the very trees closing in as if the land itself were complicit in the slaughter.
Then came the arrows. Silent and swift, they hissed through the air like venomous snakes, embedding themselves in flesh and wood alike. Men fell clutching at their throats, black blood seeping from the wounds, their death rattles swallowed by the oppressive heat.
"Shields!" Bealor roared, his voice cutting through the chaos like a captain's whip. His men scrambled to obey, but it was already too late. The attack had no center, no clear enemy to strike. The jungle itself seemed to move, alive with malice.
The pirates came next, rising from burrows and hidden dens like specters of the forest. Their faces were painted with ash and mud, their weapons crude but deadly—daggers, hatchets, and spiked clubs that gleamed with poison. They moved with animalistic speed, striking and retreating into the shadows before the Velaryon forces could rally.
Bealor's sword sang as he parried a blade aimed at his neck, the strike coming from nowhere. He drove his attacker back with a ferocious swing, the steel catching the pirate in the shoulder and carving deep. The man screamed, falling to the ground clutching his ruined arm, but before Bealor could strike again, another assailant lunged from his blind side.
The Velaryon line wavered, discipline faltering in the face of an enemy they could not see, could not predict. Bealor's blood thundered in his ears, his movements instinctive now, honed by years of war. He cut down one man, then another, his sword cleaving through flesh and bone, but it was like cutting through water. For every pirate he killed, two more seemed to rise from the undergrowth, their eyes glinting with murderous glee.
"Form ranks!" he shouted, his voice raw. "To me! Hold the line, damn you!"
But the line was already broken, scattered across the jungle floor. The air reeked of blood and sweat and fear, the cries of the dying mingling with the shrill war cries of the enemy. Overhead, Kaelyx roared, his shadow sweeping over the canopy as he loosed a stream of fire that set the treetops ablaze. Smoke billowed, thick and choking, but even the dragon's wrath could not reach the pirates lurking beneath the jungle's veil.
Bealor gritted his teeth, his sword dripping crimson. He had faced worse odds before, but something about this fight gnawed at his resolve. The jungle was their enemy as much as the pirates, and for the first time in years, he felt the cold edge of doubt creep into his heart.
Bealor's instincts took over, his body moving faster than thought. The pirate lunged, his blade aimed for Bealor's throat, but steel met steel with a clang that rang through the suffocating air. The force of the parry shuddered up his arm, but Bealor held firm. The pirate snarled, his breath reeking of rot, and lunged again, but Bealor's counterstrike was faster, precise. His blade drove deep into the man's chest, piercing leather and ribs alike. The pirate's snarl turned into a gurgle as he collapsed, blood foaming at his lips.
There was no time to linger, no time to think. Another attacker was already upon him, this one wielding twin daggers that gleamed with black poison. Bealor sidestepped the first strike, slashing upward in a brutal arc that sent the man reeling, clutching a severed hand. Before the pirate could even cry out, Bealor's blade silenced him, the weight of his strike cleaving through flesh and bone.
The jungle closed in, a blur of shadow and movement, of blood and sweat. Bealor fought like a man possessed, his sword a relentless blur of steel, his boots slick with mud and blood. Around him, the cries of the wounded mingled with the wet crunch of blades finding their marks and the crackle of distant dragonfire. Somewhere above, Kaelyx roared, the sound reverberating through the dense canopy, but the jungle's tangled branches turned the beast's presence into little more than a ghostly echo.
"Bealor!" a voice cut through the chaos. He turned, his blood-smeared face snapping toward the source. Ser Vaemond, his uncle and seasoned commander, was hacking his way through the underbrush, his crimson-streaked sword cutting down a fleeing pirate. His silver hair clung to his face, damp with sweat and grime, his voice hoarse from shouting. "Fall back to the ridge! We're too exposed here!"
Bealor glanced around, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He could see the truth of it. The Velaryon line was scattered, their ranks shattered by the pirates' ambush. Men were dying in clusters, their screams swallowed by the dense, stifling jungle. Bealor nodded, his voice raw as he shouted for the retreat. "To the ridge! Form up!"
The Velaryon soldiers began to fall back, stumbling over roots and corpses, their shields raised against the pirates' arrows. Bealor moved with them, his blade cutting down anyone foolish enough to get too close. But then he saw them.
Ahead, near the shadow of a crumbling stone ruin, five soldiers were trapped, hemmed in by pirates. They stood in a tight circle, their shields locked, desperately fending off blows from all sides. One of them, younger than Bealor's own younger brother, caught Bealor's gaze. His face was pale with terror, his eyes wide as they met Bealor's.
"Help us!" the boy screamed, his voice cracking with desperation.
Bealor froze, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. Above, Kaelyx's shadow flickered through the treetops, circling, waiting for his command. He could end it all in an instant—burn the pirates and the jungle to ash—but the fire would claim the soldiers too.
"Bealor, we have to go!" Vaemond's voice was urgent, closer now.
Bealor's teeth clenched, the weight of the decision pressing on his chest like a millstone. For a moment, the boy's scream was all he could hear, cutting through the chaos like a blade. His fingers twitched, and Kaelyx roared again, sensing his hesitation.
But Bealor turned away.
"Retreat!" he shouted, his voice breaking as he climbed the ridge.
The screams followed him, haunting and relentless, even as he reached the higher ground.
That night, the Velaryon forces made camp on the ridge, though no one spoke of victory. The jungle below was silent now, save for the mournful calls of distant creatures and the faint rustle of unseen predators. The pirates had vanished into the shadows, leaving behind their traps and corpses to haunt the land. The air was thick with the stink of decay and sweat, the cries of the wounded echoing through the camp like ghostly whispers.
The soldiers gathered in uneasy clusters around their fires, their faces hollow with exhaustion. Men sharpened blades that had dulled from too much killing, while others drank deeply from flasks, seeking to banish the memories of the day's bloodshed. A thin mist coiled around the camp, clinging to armor and skin, as if the jungle itself sought to claim them.
Bealor sat apart from the others, a lone figure hunched by the flickering flames. His bloodstained hands rested on his knees, trembling ever so slightly, though whether from fatigue or something deeper, he could not say. His sword lay beside him, the once-proud blade now tarnished and smeared with grime. He had not cleaned it. He couldn't bring himself to.
The firelight played across his face, casting sharp shadows that seemed to deepen the lines carved there by years of war. His eyes, once bright with the spark of youth, were dark and heavy now, burdened with the weight of what he had seen and done. The screams from the jungle still echoed in his mind, refusing to fade, as if the voices of the dead had followed him up the ridge to sit beside him in the gloom.
He flexed his fingers, staring at the dried blood that clung to his skin, flaking away in patches. Whose blood was it? A pirate's? A soldier's? It all blended together now, an endless tide of crimson. Bealor tried to swallow the bile rising in his throat, but the taste lingered, bitter and unyielding.
Across the camp, a soldier sobbed quietly clutching a stump where his leg once was, the sound raw and childlike in the stillness. Others muttered prayers to the gods, their voices low and fervent. Bealor said nothing. He had no prayers left to give.
The jungle stretched out below him, dark and impenetrable, its secrets hidden beneath a canopy of green. Somewhere out there, the pirates were regrouping, sharpening their blades, setting their traps. He should have been thinking of strategies, of how to root them out, but his mind would not obey. It circled back to the boy in the jungle, his face pale with terror, his scream piercing the humid air.
Bealor clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. He had made the right choice—hadn't he? The soldiers who followed him depended on his command, his decisions. He couldn't sacrifice the many for the few. That was what leaders did. That was what war demanded.
And yet, the boy's scream lingered, sharp and unyielding, like the edge of a blade pressed against his mind, refusing to let go. Bealor shut his eyes, but it only made the memories sharper.
Kaelyx lay coiled nearby, the great dragon's sapphire eyes glowing faintly in the firelight. He watched his rider with a calm that only deepened Bealor's unease. The creature was silent, but his presence spoke volumes—a looming reminder of the destruction they had wrought together.
Bealor reached out, his hand brushing against the warm, scaled hide of the beast. The heat radiated through his fingers, grounding him, yet it brought no solace. The images persisted: burning ships split apart like carcasses, men screaming as they fell into pits of sharpened stakes, and above it all, the boy's face—pale, terrified, lost.
"First time's the hardest," a voice said.
Bealor started, his hand falling away from Kaelyx. He looked up to see Ser Vaemond stepping out of the gloom. The older knight moved with the ease of a man who had seen too many battlefields to count, his armor battered but still serviceable. Vaemond lowered himself to the ground beside Bealor with a grunt, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering firelight. He held out a flask of wine, its metal surface dented and scratched.
"You think too much," Vaemond said, his voice dry as driftwood. "You did what you had to do. We all did."
Bealor hesitated, then took the flask. The wine burned as it slid down his throat, but it was a welcome distraction from the bitterness already there. "It doesn't feel right," he admitted after a moment. "None of it does."
Vaemond gave a bitter chuckle, the sound low and humorless. "It's not supposed to. War isn't noble, lad. It's not songs and banners and cheers from the crowd. It's fire and blood and death, and the sooner you accept that, the easier it gets."
Bealor glanced at him, frowning. "Does it get easier? Really?"
The knight didn't answer right away. He stared into the flames, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost weary. "No. Not really. But you learn to carry it. Or it buries you."
Bealor looked back out over the ridge, his gaze fixed on the impenetrable jungle below. The shadows twisted in the firelight, and for a moment, it seemed as if the trees themselves were alive, their gnarled branches reaching for him. Somewhere out there, hidden beneath the canopy, the pirates were regrouping, sharpening their blades, preparing their traps.
He gripped the flask tightly, the cold metal biting into his palm. "I should have saved them," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"You would've died trying," Vaemond replied bluntly. "And then where would we be? We need you, Bealor. Your men need you. The war doesn't stop because of one bad choice—or a dozen." The words offered little comfort, but Bealor nodded all the same. The fire crackled beside them, casting sparks into the dark. Kaelyx shifted his massive form, his glowing eyes never leaving his rider.
Bealor never did reply. He passed the flask back to Vaemond and rose to his feet, his shadow stretching long and thin against the trees. The jungle called to him with its endless, dark whispers, and somewhere in the distance, he could swear he heard the echo of a scream.
___________________
The camp stirred before dawn, the air thick with the weight of the jungle's damp breath. The fires, once fierce, had dwindled to little more than smoldering embers, their pale glow flickering in the twilight. A heavy mist clung to the jungle floor, creeping like a ghost over the grass and underbrush. Bealor stood in the center of a rough war table, the wood warped and scarred from countless days of use. It was nothing more than a patchwork of driftwood, its surface scratched and marked with hasty maps, crude symbols, and the occasional bone or stone used as markers. He leaned over it, hands steady as stone, his gaze hard and unyielding. The uncertainty, the hesitation that had plagued him the night before, had burned away in the fires of his rage. What was left in its place was pure, cold determination.
Across from him, his father, Lord Corlys Velaryon, stood as a mountain of authority. The Lord of the Tides was a striking figure, his silver hair catching the torchlight in shimmering strands that seemed almost to glow with a quiet, ancient power. His eyes, sharp and cold as steel, were fixed on his son. There was a glimmer of something in them—something that Bealor couldn't quite place. His father had always worn his expressions like a cloak, but today, there was no mistaking it.
"You propose we march into that cursed jungle," Corlys said, his voice quiet, but each word like the strike of a hammer, "into their snares, with a force already worn thin, bloodied and battered." He paused, his sharp gaze cutting across the table, the firelight reflecting in his silver hair like a fading storm. "These pirates are not men; they're shadows. They strike and vanish into the dark, bleeding us with every step. We've danced this dance before, and we've paid the price. Too many good men lost to their games of blood and smoke."
Bealor's hands pressed into the rough wood of the table, his fingers white as he leaned forward. His voice was steady, measured, but his eyes—dark and burning—betrayed the fury roiling beneath his calm exterior. "That's precisely why we'll strike harder than they ever imagined," he said, his words slicing through the tension in the air like a blade. "They think the jungle is their sanctuary. They believe we'll blunder into their traps again, broken and disarrayed, a wolf pack scattered to the winds. But no. This time, we'll be the shadows. We'll be the ones who lie in wait, unseen, ready to strike when they least expect it."
Corlys crossed his arms, his gaze hardening as he regarded his son. The torchlight flickered across his silver hair, casting shadows in the lines of his weathered face. "Go on, then," he said, his voice low, heavy with the weight of unspoken judgment. "Convince me this isn't madness."
Bealor's eyes never left the map, but his hand moved with deliberate purpose, shifting one of the bone markers to the edge of the crude chart. His voice was steady, though the storm in his chest never truly abated. "The pirates think they've shattered our will," he said, his words cutting through the murmur of the camp like a sharpened blade. "They're watching the ridge, waiting for us to huddle in the shadows, licking our wounds. Tonight, we'll let them believe it. We'll leave enough men behind to stoke the fires, keep the smoke rising, give the illusion of a stationary camp."
Bealor's finger traced the jagged line of the map, the motion deliberate as he marked the path through the jungle's tangled outskirts. His voice was cold, unwavering. "But the rest of us will move under the cover of darkness, through the western pass. It's tight, overgrown—Kaelyx can clear it. The pirates will never see us coming. They think we've learned to fear the jungle, that we'll cower on the ridge after the ambush. They don't know we're already thinking beyond their traps."
Corlys's eyes narrowed, his lips pressing into a thin, unforgiving line. "And once you've circled around?" he asked, his voice low, as though the very question weighed heavy on him, his gaze fixed on Bealor as if searching for the flaw he knew might lie within the plan.
Bealor's hand moved to a cluster of stones on the map, his fingers pressing into the jagged edges of the marked area where scouts had reported the pirates' main encampment. "We cut their heart out. Kaelyx will set their supplies ablaze, turn their camp into chaos. While they scramble to put out the fires and salvage what they can, we strike from the trees. Precision, not numbers, will win this battle. If we move swiftly enough, we can eliminate their leaders before they even know we're there."
Corlys's sharp eyes lingered on his son, his gaze searching for some flicker of doubt, or worse—recklessness. But in Bealor's face, he found only grim, unyielding resolve. The kind of resolve that could push a man to war—and beyond it. The kind of resolve that might lead him into the heart of danger without a second thought.
"And if they anticipate this?" Corlys's voice was low, a warning woven between the words. "If it's another trap?"
Bealor straightened, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the map. His gaze was steady, his voice a low growl. "Then I'll bleed for this, Father. I'll die for it, if I must. But they'll know that House Velaryon does not cower. We do not falter. And neither will our men."
A long silence stretched between them, thick as the jungle air, the weight of it pressing down like the humidity. The only sound was the distant rustling of leaves as the wind whispered through the trees. Corlys's eyes narrowed, his lips tight with something between resignation and pride.
"Hell of a thing," he muttered, finally breaking the silence. "To watch your son carve a path through death like it's just another day."
The older man's expression darkened, and his eyes turned cold, a storm rolling behind them.
"Very well," Corlys finally said, the edge of something almost... reluctant in his voice. "But you lead this yourself. If it fails, the blame is yours to carry."
Bealor met his father's gaze, unwavering. "It won't fail."
Corlys stared at him a moment longer, as if weighing his words, before he gave a single nod. But the unspoken fear hung between them—fear that Corlys knew all too well, the kind that could turn a victory into a loss in the blink of an eye.
The air in the camp seemed to thicken with tension, as the jungle, the war, and everything in between stretched out before them.
The Velaryon forces moved like shadows under the cloak of night, silent and swift, slipping through the narrow western pass. Ahead of them, Kaelyx's flames lashed out, scorching the dense underbrush and clearing their path with a cruel, molten light. Bealor felt the savage thrill of it—the kind of satisfaction only battle could bring—as they advanced, the dragon's fire flickering in the darkness like a herald of doom.
Behind him, his father, Corlys Velaryon, marched with the main force. The Lord of the Tides moved with grim purpose, his silver hair gleaming faintly in the glow of Kaelyx's flames. Bealor felt his presence like an anchor, a reminder that this risk was not his alone. If the pirates had laid another trap, it would be his father, not just him, who paid the price. The thought gnawed at him, but he buried it beneath a surge of cold determination.
This would work, he told himself. It had to. There was no room for doubt now. No turning back.
When they reached the pirate encampment, it appeared just as the scouts had described—unguarded supplies piled haphazardly, tents arranged without order, and men lounging carelessly by their fires. It looked too easy, almost laughably so. Bealor felt the weight of his father's gaze on him but pressed forward, raising a hand to signal Kaelyx. The dragon loomed above, a shadow against the moonlit sky, before unleashing a torrent of flame. The blaze roared to life, consuming the supplies and casting a hellish glow over the clearing.
But the pirates did not scatter in panic.
They came screaming from the shadows of the jungle, armed to the teeth, their faces painted with war paint and malice. Like a tidal wave, they surged forward, cutting through the undergrowth with feral speed and precision. The encampment had been a lure, its burning supplies the bait in a snare meant for Bealor and his men.
Bealor's stomach twisted as he realized the truth. The trap had been laid not just for him—but for his father, marching behind him with the main force.
"Shields!" Bealor roared, his voice cutting through the cacophony, but the ambush was absolute. Pirates descended upon the Velaryon ranks from every direction, their arrows hissing through the humid air to find exposed flesh, their blades flashing like quicksilver in the moonlight. The canopy above was thick, stifling, and Kaelyx's roars reverberated uselessly; the dragon could not see the slaughter unfolding beneath the tangled boughs.
Bealor fought with the ferocity of a storm, his blade a blur as it cut through the chaos. Blood sprayed, men screamed, and still the pirates pressed, wave upon relentless wave. The plan had unraveled, shredded like sails in a tempest. Desperation clawed at his thoughts, but he pushed it down, turning to rally his scattered forces.
His gaze caught on a familiar figure in the heart of the fray—Corlys Velaryon, his silver hair streaked with sweat and blood, standing firm amidst the chaos. The Lord of the Tides held the line with his personal guard, his sword rising and falling like the relentless tide itself, his booming voice calling commands to steady the panicked men.
"Father!" Bealor bellowed, his voice raw, but Corlys did not turn.
The pirates surged harder, their numbers swelling like a flood, their cries deafening. Bealor drove himself forward, cutting down pirate after pirate in his path. The distance between him and his father stretched cruelly, every step a battle unto itself. For every foe he felled, two more seemed to rise, their blades glinting in the firelight.
"Hold the line!" Corlys shouted, his voice as steady as iron, even as the Velaryon men faltered around him.
Bealor's breath burned in his lungs, his muscles screaming with the effort, but he could not stop. His father was at the center of it all, the eye of a violent storm, and Bealor knew he would not abandon the fight, no matter the cost.
Then he saw it—a pirate hidden among the dense foliage, his crossbow aimed with deadly precision. The bolt flew straight and true, glinting like a shard of moonlight before burying itself in Corlys's chest. The Lord of the Tides staggered but did not fall, his sword still clutched in a trembling hand, his voice rising in defiance even as blood stained his armor.
Time seemed to freeze as Bealor watched his father falter, and then it shattered. A primal roar tore from his throat, echoing through the jungle like the cry of a storm. The world around him blurred, the screams and clang of battle fading into a single, all-consuming purpose. Rage flooded his veins, but it was not wild—it was sharp, focused, and unyielding. The Warrior himself seemed to guide his hand as Bealor plunged into the fray.
His blade became an extension of his fury, sweeping through the pirates like a scythe through wheat. He moved with a grace that was almost otherworldly, his every step a calculated strike, his every movement poetry in motion. The first pirate to face him was cut down with a single stroke, his blood arcing in the firelit gloom. The second and third fell before they could even raise their weapons. Bealor spun, his blade slicing through the air, carving a path of death that left no room for hesitation.
The jungle came alive with his dance of destruction. His strikes were precise and fluid, his footwork as light as a shadow's touch. A pirate lunged at him from the side, but Bealor's sword found the man's throat before the attack could land. Another came from behind, and without turning, Bealor drove his blade backward, the steel sinking into the attacker's chest. He moved like the tide itself—unstoppable, inevitable.
Around him, the Velaryon men who had begun to falter now stopped and stared. The chaos of the ambush gave way to awe as they watched their commander. Bealor was not merely fighting; he was waging a one-man war, a whirlwind of blood and steel that seemed untouchable.
A cry rose from the men, a rallying call born of sheer inspiration. "For House Velaryon! For the Lord of the Tides!" They surged forward, emboldened by the sight of Bealor cutting through the pirates like a god of war descended to the battlefield.
Still, Bealor fought on, a whirlwind of steel and fury amidst the maelstrom of blood and chaos. His body moved with a deadly grace, as though some divine force guided every strike, every step. He was relentless, his sword carving through flesh with precision that seemed almost inhuman. Chests split open with the wet crunch of bone, throats gushed rivers of crimson, and limbs were severed with brutal efficiency. The pirates swarmed him, desperate to overwhelm him with sheer numbers, but Bealor moved faster, deadlier. He dodged and parried with a predator's instinct, each counterattack a death sentence.
The crowd around him surged like a tide, but Bealor was the storm breaking it. Sweat and blood slicked his face, but his eyes burned with a cold, unyielding focus. A pirate screamed as Bealor's blade drove through his ribs, the sound cutting through the din of battle like a howl in the night. Another came at him, dagger flashing, but Bealor pivoted smoothly, slashing the man's belly open in a spray of red. The ground beneath his boots grew slick with gore, but still, he pressed on, the scent of blood and fear driving him forward.
The pirates hesitated now, their steps faltering as they watched their comrades fall one by one, unable to land even a single blow against him. Bealor's strikes became faster, more savage, his body moving in a perfect, almost hypnotic rhythm. He didn't think—he acted, his sword an extension of his will, cutting through the chaos with surgical precision. Screams gave way to silence as the tide of attackers thinned, and still, Bealor did not stop. His strikes were merciless, his gaze cold and unyielding. He was not just a man; he was death incarnate.
When the last prates began to flee, desperation in his eyes, Bealor did not relent, his blade slicing clean through the man's nape. The pirate crumpled at his feet, his lifeblood pooling with that of the others. Bealor stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving, his sword dripping with blood. Around him lay the bodies of over a hundred men, their lifeless forms sprawled across the blood-soaked earth.
He turned, chest heaving, his sword dripping with gore. His men had formed a wall behind him, their morale restored, their fear replaced with something they hadn't felt since the ambush began: hope. Bealor raised his blade, the light of fire catching on the blood-streaked steel, and for a moment, he was not just the son of Corlys Velaryon—he was the embodiment of strength, a legend forged in fire and blood.
Bealor turned to where his father had fought, his triumph turned to ash. Corlys lay amidst the carnage, his silver hair matted with sweat and blood, his breath shallow and ragged. Bealor's heart clenched as he rushed to his side, dropping to his knees.
Corlys looked up at his son, his silver hair matted with sweat and blood, his breath shallow and ragged. Blood poured from the wound in his chest, pooling beneath him like a dark sea. His hand trembled as he tried to reach for Bealor, but the effort only caused more blood to spill from his mouth, a gurgling rasp that vibrated in his throat. His chest heaved with each agonizing breath, but the blood continued to choke him, bubbling and spilling from his lips in sickening spurts.
He struggled to speak, but his words were lost to the choking sounds of his own death. His eyes—still fierce and unyielding—locked with Bealor's, and for a moment, the vast expanse of the seas seemed to rise in them, a life of battle and victory, all of it slipping away in this final, bloody moment.
With a shaky, blood-soaked hand, Corlys reached for the scabbard at his side, pulling out the family sword—its blade gleaming even as crimson dripped from his fingers. He tried to pass it to Bealor, but the motion was too much. A fresh surge of blood spilled from his mouth, splattering across his chest and Bealor's face, staining the sword he could not yet grasp. The sound of his father's final, rattling breaths filled the air, each one more desperate than the last.
Corlys's fingers twitched one last time, trying to offer the weapon, but it slipped from his grasp, clattering against the stone with a hollow sound. His head fell back as his life bled out, the blood staining his armor, the ground, and his son. He never heard his final words, only a choking, ragged rasp as his body went still. The sword, now drenched in both his blood and the family's legacy, was left in Bealor's hands, heavy with the weight of what had been lost.
The firelight flickered, casting shadows across the battlefield littered with the dead and dying. Bealor's throat tightened as he watched his father's chest rise once more, then still forever. Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, the man who had commanded fleets and conquered seas, was gone.
Bealor looked down at the last thing his father gave him, "Tidebringer" he felt himself utter, the sound barely reaching his own ears.
For a moment, the world was silent, the weight of grief pressing down on Bealor like a wave threatening to drown him. But then he felt it—a presence in the skies above. Kaelyx roared, his cry splitting the night like thunder, a sound of mourning and fury. It was a reminder, a summons.
Bealor rose, his father's blood still on his hands, his heart heavy with loss but unyielding. He turned to the men who looked to him now with fear and hope in their eyes. The son of the Sea Snake stood tall, the weight of a house and its future on his shoulders.
Bealor raised his ancestral sword high, its steel catching the flicker of dragonfire in the smoke-filled air. The Valyrian blade gleamed like a shard of moonlight, a testament to the legacy it carried. His voice, cold and unyielding as the winds cut through the din of battle.
"We will return home," I declared, my voice steady, each word a vow forged in steel. "For Driftmark. For House Velaryon. For my father."
The men around me stirred, their grief still fresh but tempered by the weight of my words. They knew what was at stake. They knew what it meant to fight for more than just survival, but for our legacy. I turned my gaze to the jungle, to the night that still reeked of blood and ash, and in that moment, I swore silently that this loss would not break us. This fight—this battle against the crabfeeder—would not be in vain.
We had come to Bloodstone to rid the sea of the pirate scourge, and though we had won, it was a victory purchased with too high a cost. The strategy I had devised was sound—our forces pressing forward, driving the pirates back, and breaking their defenses—but the price of it was steep. Lives were lost. Too many lives. My men's faces were etched with the same exhaustion and grief I felt in my bones, but we had proven ourselves.
And in the chaos of the battle, in the midst of the carnage, I had struck a blow that would echo through the generations. The crabfeeder—the monster who had terrorized our waters—was no more. His blood had stained the sand beneath us, and with him, much of the pirate threat had been extinguished.
But it was more than just the blow to the crabfeeder that would make this day unforgettable. It was the way we had turned the tide of battle, the way we had brought the force of our house to bear against the enemy. It was the name that would be given to me in the years to come.
As the battle subsided and the cries of the dying grew softer, the men started calling me "Tidebringer." A title steeped not only in the actions of this bloody day but also in the ancient books of our family's history. My father had told me stories of my ancestor, Varyon Velaryon, a distant cousin who had commanded a fleet during the War of the Tides—a conflict that had nearly swallowed House Velaryon whole. Varyon was said to have struck a decisive blow against a rival fleet at the height of the storm season, when the seas were most unforgiving. His ship, The Wave's Wrath, had cleaved through a fleet much larger than his own, riding the tides like a serpent, weaving through waves and destroying his enemies in the heart of the storm. He had turned the tide of that war, and when he returned to Driftmark, his crew had hailed him as the "Tidebringer." The name had passed into legend.
I took the name in stride, though I knew it would follow me always, a reminder of both the cost of victory and the responsibility that came with it. The tide had turned that day—not just for the Velaryons, but for me as well. I had claimed my place in our history. And in that moment, I made a vow to myself, to my family, and to the men who had followed me into the flames: I would carry the weight of our legacy, no matter what it cost. And as long as I breathed, I would never let the tide of our house falter again.