Chapter 5
The war had become a slow, grinding nightmare, each day dragging like the pull of an anchor on a ship stranded in storm-tossed seas.
By the second year of the campaign, the Velaryons' initial momentum had faltered, snuffed out by the pirates' cunning and the unyielding weight of the jungle. What had begun as a swift, decisive sweep turned into a grueling slog. The pirates—scattered, elusive, and always watching—refused to meet them on the open field, preferring instead to vanish into the dense undergrowth, where the very earth itself became an enemy. The jungle, with its suffocating canopy, was a labyrinth of death, where every step was a risk and every night was fraught with the terror of ambush. It was a war of attrition, and the land itself seemed to hunger for the lives of those who dared tread upon it.
Prince Daemon Targaryen had been with them from the start, a force of nature whose presence loomed over the campaign like a dark storm cloud. His fiery red banner, emblazoned with the image of a dragon, had flown high above their ranks since the first clash. Mounted upon Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, a creature of such size and wrath that the very sky seemed to tremble when it. With every victory he claimed, no matter how hard-won, Daemon's fierce spirit ignited the hearts of his men, spurring them on even when the jungle seemed to conspire against them. He was a commander of the old breed, one who believed in battle's savage glory and the strength of the sword. And as the pirates faded into the shadows of the trees, Daemon pursued them without hesitation, knowing that if he faltered, so too would the morale of the Velaryon forces.
Daemon's fiery temperament stood in stark contrast to Bealor Velaryon, who had once joined the campaign as a promising young knight, eager to prove his worth. In the beginning, he had been full of the arrogance and optimism of youth, quick to believe that honor could be earned in a single strike. He had lost his father in the war and quickly sent his brother away, much to the disapproval of his generals, in a desperate grab for control. His generals discontent was quickly dispelled as Bealor proved to be more than just a great warrior.
Bealor's reputation as a strategist grew when he devised a plan to trap a pirate fleet in a narrow riverbend, using the dense jungle as cover. The pirates, thinking they had outpaced the Velaryon forces, sailed confidently into the trap. At the signal, Bealor's forces emerged from the trees, flanking the pirates from both sides and cutting off their retreat. The pirates were caught between the Velaryon army and the river itself, their ships too large to maneuver.
Now, standing at the edge of the camp, Lord Bealor stared into the suffocating darkness of the jungle, the distant sounds of the night pressing in around him. His once-polished armor was marred and stained, the gleaming steel now dulled by the wear of countless battles. Every scratch and dent upon it spoke of a cost—of lives lost, of innocence eroded, and of the years that had passed with no end in sight.
Beside him, Daemon appeared, as if summoned by the night itself. The red and black of his armor flickered faintly in the torchlight, casting an eerie glow as he approached. There was no warmth in his eyes, only the cold intensity of a man who had long since given up hope of peace. He was the embodiment of fire, relentless and consuming, a force that burned everything in its path. Bealor could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy with the years of bloodshed they had shared, and the weight of what still lay ahead.
"Penny for your thoughts, lad?" Daemon's voice was light, carrying a trace of amusement despite the oppressive weight of the night around them.
Bealor didn't so much as glance at him, his gaze fixed on the dense, shadowed expanse of the jungle. "Wondering if it's worth it."
Daemon's laugh was dark, full of the knowing weight of experience. He clapped a hand firmly on Bealor's shoulder, a gesture meant to reassure but instead carrying the weight of unspoken truths. "Of course it's worth it. Every pirate we burn, every ship we sink, is one less thorn in the realm's side. Don't forget that."
But Bealor wasn't so sure. The words felt hollow in his chest, swallowed by the ceaseless rustle of the jungle's secrets, the slow drip of death that lingered in the air. He could see the pirates in his mind, their desperate faces twisted in the flames, but it was the faces of the dead that haunted him—his own men, those who had followed him into the fire.
————-
Daemon's presence was a constant—steadfast, unmoving in the chaos of war. But even the most unshakable could break beneath the weight of endless bloodshed. The fire that once blazed in his eyes had dulled, replaced by a heaviness that hung over him like a cloud. The wit and bravado that had once inspired laughter now carried a biting edge, as if the very nature of the campaign had slowly worn away the sharpness of his spirit. His temper had grown volatile, his commands sharp and merciless. Yet, in the growing darkness of war, it was Bealor who had become the steady hand, the one who commanded with unflinching resolve.
Bealor, once eager to prove himself, had been thrust into the role of leader when his father died. He had become the commander of the largest navy in the known world in the midst of a war, at a age where most men would be more worried about women and alcohol. Dispite it Bealor embraced it, His decisions were brutal, decisive, and often final.
One night, as the campfire crackled between them, Daemon looked at Bealor across the flames. His face was drawn, worn from the weight of command, but the same fire still flickered in his eyes—however faintly.
"You're too young to look so grim," Daemon remarked, his voice light, though the strain in it was unmistakable.
Bealor didn't meet his gaze. He stared into the flames, watching them lick at the wood, his mind far away. The war had twisted him, burned away the softness he once had. His fingers drummed absentmindedly on the hilt of his sword. He should have been haunted by the deaths. Should have felt the weight of them on his soul. But he didn't. Instead, he felt a gnawing satisfaction with every pirate that fell, every scream that split the air.
"Too young to fight, too young to lead, too young to kill," Bealor said, his voice low and distant, almost void of emotion. "Yet here I am."
Daemon's lips twitched into what might have been a smile, but it carried no warmth, no humor—only the weight of the blood-soaked battlefield that stretched before them. It was a grim expression, worn not as a shield but as an acknowledgment of an unyielding truth. The same truth that had carved its way into both of their souls, reshaping them into something neither had foreseen.
It wasn't a smile of joy or triumph; it was the bitter acceptance of what war demanded. It spoke of sacrifices made in silence, of innocence ground to dust beneath the march of armies, of nights spent haunted by screams and faces burned into memory. It was a smile that mirrored the ruin surrounding them—sharp, jagged, and utterly broken.
"War gives no thought to age," Daemon said in High Valyrian, his voice low and worn, as if each word carried the weight of a thousand battles. His sharp, silver gaze swept over the camp, narrowing as if he could see the specter of death lurking among the shadows. "It doesn't care for your years or your innocence. It only cares for one thing—who is left standing when the swords stop singing."
Daemon's sharp gaze lingered on Bealor, a faint smile tugging at his lips that was more wolfish than kind. He saw it—the darkness creeping into the boy, the hardening of his soul, the slow unraveling of what once had been. "Aye, lad," Daemon murmured, his voice low and almost conspiratorial, like a devil whispering in the shadows. "You've learned what it takes to survive. You've taken the first steps down a path most men fear to tread. But mark my words—this madness doesn't end. It never does. It will take everything from you, piece by bloody piece, and you'll find you don't much mind when it does."
He clapped Bealor on the shoulder "That's the truth of it. You either let it eat you whole, or you learn to savor the taste of what it leaves behind."
Bealor's eyes stayed fixed on the fire, its glow painting his face in shades of shadow and light. He didn't flinch, didn't blink. He didn't need a lesson on the costs of war—not from Daemon, not from anyone. He had paid its price in blood, more than most. He had buried more brothers-in-arms, more friends, more family than any man had a right to endure. The weight of their faces sat heavy on his shoulders, and the gnawing emptiness that followed each death had become a familiar companion.
"I know," he said at last, his voice rough and brittle, a faint crack amid the fire's hungry hiss. He didn't look at Daemon, didn't need to. The words weren't for him. They were for the dead.
The silence between them grew heavy, broken only by the crackle and hiss of the fire—a sound that seemed to echo the inferno that had consumed the jungle and now licked at their very souls. Bealor felt the truth settle over him like a shroud. He was no longer just a soldier in the war; he had become something far darker, something primal. He was war incarnate—a predator moving through the chaos with a chilling precision, his blade an extension of his will. Each kill fed a cold, insatiable hunger within him, a hunger that threatened to devour whatever remnants of the man he had once been.
——-
By the third year of the campaign, the Velaryons and Targaryens had wrung the jungle dry of blood, the fires of their dragons scouring the pirates from every shadowed refuge. Yet the war, brutal and unrelenting, had one final chapter to write—a reckoning on Bloodstone, the pirates' last bastion. The island rose from the sea like a broken blade, its jagged cliffs cutting the horizon, its walls blackened and cruel. The fortress was no mere stronghold; it was a monument to desperation, every tunnel and cranny carved into a weapon by men who knew their time was running short. For three long years, the pirates had skulked through the war like ghosts, striking from the darkness and vanishing before retribution could find them. But Bloodstone was no hiding place—it was a tomb waiting to be filled. This was not a battle for survival anymore; it was the bitter, furious last stand of men who had nothing left to lose.
Bealor Velaryon, now the sharp mind behind the campaign, had crafted the strategy for the final assault. While Daemon Targaryen's boldness had driven many victories, it was Bealor's cold, calculating precision that shaped the plan for Bloodstone. Bealor had studied the island fortress in meticulous detail, mapping its defenses and plotting its downfall like a masterful game of cyvasse. The dragons would serve as the hammer, reducing the walls to ash and rubble, but the true weight of the plan rested on Bealor's forces. He would lead the ground assault, striking with a ferocity that left no room for retreat. This was no reckless gamble—it was a carefully laid snare. The pirates would choke on their last screams, and Bloodstone would be a ruin by dawn.
The preparations for the assault on Bloodstone were a symphony of controlled chaos, each piece of the Velaryon army moving with grim efficiency under Bealor's watchful eye. In the makeshift war tent pitched on the flagship, the air was thick with the acrid smell of salt and smoke, a smell to well known to the men. Bealor stood at the head of the table, a map of the fortress spread before him, its edges weighed down by daggers. The commanders surrounded him, their faces worn and lined from years of bloodshed, their eyes flickering with the weariness of men who had spent too long in the crucible of war.
Outside the tent, the logistics of the army played out in an unrelenting rhythm. There was no room for failure. Soldiers moved in tight formations, each squad carrying out their tasks with mechanical precision. The docks were a frenzy of activity as warships were loaded with supplies—sacks of salted meat, barrels of water, crates of ammunition, and dozens of crates containing the fragile armor and weapons that had to be protected from the salt air. Horses and mules were led in from the shore, their coats thick with the dust of long journeys. The blacksmiths hammered away tirelessly at the forge, repairing damaged blades, shoes, and shields that had been battered and worn through months of endless fighting. Every piece of equipment had been accounted for, each soldier issued rations and orders, while the dragons' handlers prepared the beasts, their scales oiled and their wings checked for damage. There was no margin for error—every decision, every movement, had been calculated to ensure that the battle ahead would not be lost to a lack of resources or preparedness.
"The dragons will strike here," Bealor said, tapping a finger on the southern cliffs. His voice carried none of the hesitation of the boy who had once followed orders; it was sharp, commanding. "The pirates have fortified the walls, but the cliffs are exposed. Kaelyx and Caraxes will bring them down. Once the southern defenses crumble, we push through the breach."
One of the older commanders, a grizzled knight named Ser Maric, frowned, his scarred brow furrowing. "And if the breach isn't wide enough, my lord? The cliffs could be a death trap."
Bealor's gaze cut through him like a blade. "It will be wide enough. The dragons will ensure that." He straightened, his armored form casting a long shadow across the tent. "Your job, Ser Maric, is to ensure the breach doesn't close. We do not retreat. Bloodstone falls tonight."
There was a murmur of assent, though tension lingered in the air. Bealor could see the doubt in some of their eyes, but he didn't care. Doubt was a luxury they couldn't afford.
Daemon Targaryen lounged near the edge of the tent, his Valyrian steel sword resting against his knee. "You heard the boy," Daemon said with a crooked smile, though his tone lacked its usual playfulness. "Do your part, and we'll be drinking pirate wine by dawn."
Bealor's expression remained hard as stone. "Dismissed. Prepare your men."
As the commanders filtered out, Bealor felt the weight of their eyes lingering on him. He turned back to the map, his hands braced against the table. The world outside the tent was alive with movement—soldiers sharpening blades, sailors hoisting the last of the supplies, the low growl of dragons echoing from the skies.
Then came the messenger. A young squire stumbled into the tent, his face pale, a parchment clutched in his trembling hands. "A raven from King's Landing, my lord."
Bealor snatched the parchment, his demeanor unreadable as he tore the seal open. His eyes scanned the words quickly, but with every line, his anger swelled until it was all-consuming. His jaw tightened so forcefully that his teeth ground together, and the breath in his chest came in short, controlled bursts. The message was blunt and unambiguous—King Viserys had finally sent reinforcements. A fleet of Targaryen ships was on its way, carrying soldiers, supplies, and weapons.
His fingers curled around the parchment, crumpling it as if it were some trivial scrap of paper. He had fought for years—no, bled for years—with his men, watching friends and family die, pouring everything into this war. And now, when the blood had already been spilled, when they had already bled the pirates dry, now, when the fortress of Bloodstone was within their grasp, the king sent his ships. The king sent his men.
"They're sending help now?" Bealor's voice was a low growl, laced with fury that barely contained itself.
Daemon rose from his seat, plucking the letter from the ground and scanning its contents. A bitter laugh escaped him, sharp as the edge of his blade. "Ah, our good king. Ever the decisive ruler."
Bealor's fists clenched at his sides, his voice cutting through the tent like steel on stone. "Decisive? He's a craven, hiding behind his walls while we bleed for his realm." His gaze burned, daring anyone to contradict him. "Viserys sits on his throne of comfort while we bury our brothers in the mud."
Bealor's hands curled into fists, his knuckles white with suppressed rage. For three long years, they had fought this war, scraping by with little more than hollow promises and token support from King's Landing. The Velaryon fleet had borne the weight of the cost, their coffers drained, while his soldiers paid the price in blood. Three years of fire, steel, and death—and now, with the war all but won, Viserys chose to act. It was not aid; it was insult. A gesture too late, meant to claim glory without sharing the burden.
"This isn't aid," Bealor said, his voice cutting through the air like the edge of a blade. "It's a theft. He means to claim the spoils of a victory he never bled for, to bask in the triumph without ever bearing the weight of the sacrifice."
Daemon's grin widened, sharp and humorless, a wolf's smile without its bite. "That's the way of kings, boy. They sit their thrones and take the glory while others bleed for it. Let him drape himself in his laurels, let the singers write their pretty verses about his triumph. We'll know the truth of it. The realm may cheer his name, but we'll know who spilled their blood for this."
Bealor turned sharply, his eyes narrowing as they fixed on the map spread across the table. The brazier's flames cast flickering shadows on his face, but the fire in his gaze burned hotter still. "Let him send his ships. Let him send his soldiers," he said, his voice cold and biting. "They'll find nothing but ashes and corpses when they arrive—a battlefield already drowned in blood and a war long since won. We don't need his banners to finish what we started."
Outside, Kaelyx roared, the sound reverberating through the camp like the rumble of distant thunder. Bealor's grip tightened on the edge of the war table, his fingers digging into the wood as if to steady himself against the weight of his fury. The brazier cast flickering shadows over the map, but his gaze remained fixed, unyielding. Victory would be his—of that, he had no doubt—but it would be a triumph steeped in bitterness, bought with blood and fire. Let Viserys claim his hollow laurels, let him bask in the adoration of bards and lords. Bealor would take the truth with him, a burden far heavier than any crown, and leave the songs and stories to men who had never bled for them.
————
As the first pale fingers of dawn crept across the horizon, Bealor stood at the prow of Sea Blade, the ship's once-bone white pristine hull now marred with the scars of countless battles, its ghostly appearance made all the more haunting by the wear and tear of the war. His eyes were locked on the distant silhouette of Bloodstone, its jagged cliffs rising like the gnarled teeth of some ancient, ravenous beast, waiting to devour them whole. Above, Kaelyx circled lazily, his dark wings cutting through the morning sky, a predator's shadow flickering over the restless sea. The world seemed to hold its breath, the silence before the storm stretching thin, unbearable. Each creak of the ship's wood, each cry of a distant gull, sounded too loud in the stillness, magnified by the tension that hung heavy in the air. Bealor's grip tightened around the rail, his knuckles pale, his thoughts a storm of grim resolve. The calm would not last. Soon, the blood would flow, and the sea would taste death once again. But for now, it was the waiting, the weight of knowing what came next, that pressed down on him like the promise of doom.
Daemon approached, his familiar presence as undeniable as the fortress before them. The older man's smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, an expression that never seemed to fade, not even in the face of such grim anticipation. Daemon's very being was a living threat, his eyes burning with the fever of battle, unquenched by time or war. He was a force of nature, a man who knew no fear, only the savage joy of the fight.
"Feel it, lad?" Daemon asked, his voice carrying easily over the crashing waves. There was something almost palpable in the way he spoke, a hunger for the coming violence, as though he could already taste the blood in the air.
Bealor did not answer, his gaze fixed on the pirate banners fluttering against the cliffs, ragged and defiant in the rising wind. He could feel the heat in his chest, the fire building as they neared the end of this war. But he held his silence. Daemon's words slid past him, fading into the distance. The calm before the storm? There was no calm in war. There was only the sharp edge of the next battle. Only the certainty of death.
"Feel what?" Bealor finally answered, his voice low and steady, a stark contrast to the tumultuous thoughts within him.
"The calm before the chaos," Daemon repeated, his tone heavy now, as though the moment itself demanded reverence. "That last breath before the storm swallows everything."
Bealor's eyes flickered once more to the pirate banners, snapping in the wind like the final defiance of a dying beast. The island was no longer a fortress—it was a tomb, and the pirates, with all their bravado, were already dead, though they did not yet know it. In that moment, Bealor felt the weight of the inevitable press upon him. His hand tightened instinctively around the hilt of his blade. The pirates would fall. The fortress would burn. There would be no escape, no mercy.
He turned to Daemon, his jaw set, his eyes burning with a fire to match the dragons overhead. "Let's make sure it swallows them first."
____
Battle for Bloodstone
The fleet came in like a shadow upon the water, its black hulls slipping through the waves with a predatory grace. At the forefront, Sea Blade cut the path, her scarred white prow glinting faintly in the dim light, like the ghost of some great sea creature long since hunted to extinction. Behind her, the Velaryon fleet followed, sails billowing under the whip of a rising wind, their proud banners snapping against the dawn sky. The colors of Driftmark flew high—silver seahorses dancing against fields of sea-green—visible even as the mist clung stubbornly to the waves.
Ahead lay Bloodstone, an island that looked less like a place and more like a curse. The fortress itself was a jagged scar upon the land, carved into the bones of the island's cliffs. Its towers rose unevenly, clawing at the sky like gnarled fingers. Torches burned along its crumbling walls, their flickering light marking the frantic movements of men scrambling into position. Here was the den of the pirates—a nest of thieves and butchers who had ruled these waters too long. Their refuge would be their tomb.
Bealor stood upon the deck of Sea Blade, his armored silhouette stark against the pale dawn. His eyes, a cool storm of thought, remained fixed on the island ahead. Each flicker of light on the ramparts, each shift of shadow, was cataloged and calculated. He felt the rhythm of the sea beneath his feet, but his mind moved to the beat of war—a driving pulse that grew faster with each passing moment.
Nearby, Daemon Targaryen leaned against the ship's rail, his dark smile cutting through the tension. The prince wore his battle hunger openly, like a second skin, his anticipation almost palpable. He turned to Bealor, his silver hair whipping in the wind, his violet eyes glinting with something dangerous. "Do it, lad," Daemon said, his voice a low, commanding growl. But Bealor didn't need the order. His hand had already risen.
The war horns sounded, deep and mournful, their echoes rolling over the sea. The call was taken up by the other ships, the notes swelling into a cacophony that drowned out even the crash of waves. And then, as if answering the horns, the sky itself came alive.
Kaelyx was the first to rise, his scales gleaming like polished sapphire as he unfurled his massive wings. With a single, powerful beat, he ascended into the heavens, his roar splitting the morning air. Behind him came the other dragons, their silhouettes dark against the blood-red sky. They soared above the fleet, circling once, twice, before diving toward the fortress.
The first torrent of dragonfire struck the outer walls, and the world seemed to hold its breath. For a heartbeat, there was silence—just the soft crackle of flames licking at stone. Then the fire spread, roaring to life with a fury that made the very cliffs shudder. Towers collapsed under the heat, their ancient stones crumbling like ash, and the air filled with the screams of dying men.
The pirates had no defense against the dragons' fury. They fired arrows wildly into the sky, their shafts disappearing into the smoke and flame. The few that found their marks bounced harmlessly off the dragons' armored scales, their defiance as futile as a drowning man clawing at the tide.
Bealor watched from the deck as Kaelyx swept low, his Blue flame engulfing a section of the battlements. The dragon's shadow rippled across the sea like a living nightmare, his roar shaking the cliffs. But even amidst the destruction, Bealor's gaze remained steady. This was only the beginning.
"Bring us in!" he commanded, his voice cutting through the roar of the battle. The oars of Sea Blade churned the water as the ship veered closer to the shore. The other vessels followed suit, their prows smashing through the surf as they closed the distance to the craggy beach. The ramparts burned above them, but the pirates, frantic and desperate, began to rally. Figures appeared on the cliffs, silhouetted against the flames, their bows drawn.
"Shields!" Bealor barked. His men raised their shields just as the first volley of arrows rained down, the shafts striking wood and steel with sharp, staccato cracks. The Velaryon soldiers held firm, their lines unbroken, as the ships ground to a halt against the rocky shore. Gangplanks slammed down, and the assault began.
Bealor was the first to set foot on the beach, Tidebringer in hand. The pirates charged to meet him, a screaming horde of men wielding crude blades and rusted axes. They were a tide of desperation, but Bealor was the rock against which they would break. He moved like a tempest, his hulking frame a blur of lethal precision. His first strike cleaved through a pirate's shield and chest in one motion, sending the man crumpling to the sand. Another came at him from the side, but Bealor turned with the grace of a dancer, his blade finding the man's throat before he could swing his axe.
Behind him, the Velaryon forces poured onto the beach, their shields locked in tight formations. They advanced like an unrelenting tide, their spears driving into the pirates with brutal efficiency. The clash of steel rang out, mingling with the roar of dragonfire and the cries of the dying.
Above, Kaelyx and the other dragons continued their assault, their flames carving swaths of destruction through the fortress. Entire sections of the walls collapsed under their wrath, sending plumes of smoke and debris cascading down the cliffs. The pirates' screams grew louder, more frantic, as they realized their defenses were crumbling.
Yet even as the battle turned against them, the pirates fought with the savage tenacity of cornered animals. From the cliffs, fresh volleys of arrows rained down, striking Velaryon soldiers as they advanced up the rocky slope. Bealor's men faltered for a moment, their shield wall splintering, but his voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
"Hold the line!" he roared, his sword raised high. "We take the cliffs, or we die here!"
The soldiers rallied, their discipline overcoming the pirates' ferocity. Step by bloody step, they pressed forward, driving the defenders back toward the gates of Bloodstone. The island burned around them, its cliffs shrouded in fire and smoke, as the Velaryon forces closed in for the final blow.
With the island's defenses in disarray and the walls burning under dragonfire, Bealor raised his sword, its steel catching the ruddy glow of the morning sun. His signal was clear, and the Velaryon ships surged forward, their sleek hulls cutting through the churning waves. The Sea Blade was the first to reach the shore, its keel scraping against jagged rocks, the sound like a groan of protest from the battered island. One by one, the other ships followed, forming a loose crescent around the craggy beach. Gangplanks slammed down, and the Velaryon soldiers poured out like a flood, their boots splashing onto the wet stones.
The first wave of pirates met them there on the shoreline, a mob of wild-eyed men wielding rusted blades and axes dulled by neglect. Some stumbled, still drunk from the night before, their steps unsteady on the slick stones. Others charged with the reckless fury of men who knew they were doomed but refused to die quietly. They screamed curses and battle cries in equal measure, their voices ragged with desperation.
Bealor was the first to meet their charge. He moved like a storm, his towering frame a hulking shadow amidst the chaos, his blade flashing with deadly precision. A massive brute of a pirate lunged at him, swinging a jagged axe, but Bealor sidestepped with grace that belied his size. His sword came down in a swift arc, cleaving through the man's shoulder and splitting him nearly to the waist. Blood sprayed across the rocks, and the pirate fell with a gurgling cry, his body twitching as Bealor stepped over him.
The Velaryon soldiers followed their commander, a tide of disciplined steel against the ragged ferocity of the pirates. Shields locked, spears thrust forward, they advanced methodically, cutting down the frenzied defenders who dared to stand their ground. The clash of steel on steel rang out, mingling with the screams of the dying and the roar of the sea.
But the pirates were not without their own ferocity. For every man who fell, another seemed to spring up in his place, his face twisted with rage and fear. They fought like animals, their strikes wild and unpredictable, their desperation lending them a strength that even the Velaryon discipline struggled to contain. A group of them retreated up the rocky slope, disappearing into the jagged cliffs above, only to rain arrows down on the advancing soldiers moments later. The black shafts struck with deadly accuracy, piercing armor and flesh alike. Men fell screaming, clutching at their wounds as their comrades pressed on, their faces grim with resolve.
Bealor waded through the melee, his sword a blur of silver and crimson. He moved with a singular purpose, his every step calculated, his every strike lethal. A pirate lunged at him from the side, a curved dagger aimed for his ribs, but Bealor twisted at the last moment, bringing his blade up to deflect the blow. The dagger clattered to the ground, and Bealor's sword followed, slashing across the man's throat in a single fluid motion. The pirate fell, choking on his own blood, as Bealor turned to face the next threat.
"Push them back!" Bealor bellowed, his voice rising above the din of battle. He didn't need to look back to know his men heard him. He felt their presence at his back, a wall of steel and fury driving forward with unyielding resolve. They pressed the pirates up the beach, their shields smashing against the defenders, their swords cutting through flesh and bone. The sand and rocks beneath their feet were slick with blood, the air thick with the coppery stench of death.
The pirates fell back toward the fortress gates, retreating in chaotic waves. But they were not routed. Each retreat was met with a regrouping, a desperate rally that saw them surging forward again with wild cries. Bealor's forces held firm, their lines unbroken, but the pirates' tenacity could not be ignored. They fought as if the walls of Bloodstone were the edge of the world, as if defeat meant annihilation.
The gates of Bloodstone were monstrous, forged from iron and steel, meant to withstand sieges of legend. They loomed like a stubborn challenge to the gods themselves, steadfast against the ravages of time and war. Yet, even these iron behemoths had begun to falter. Dragons had come from the skies like wrath incarnate, and their fire had already torn gaping holes in the fortress's outer walls, leaving the gates vulnerable, battered, and worn. What had once been a symbol of unassailable might now seemed a futile attempt at holding back an inevitable tide.
Bealor's forces closed in, their eyes fixed on the gate, but the pirates, though cornered and desperate, did not relent. They filled the battlements with archers, their arrows slicing the air like a hailstorm of death. Beneath the battlements, a haphazard line of men formed, a pitiful barricade in the face of the Velaryon onslaught. Their faces were wild with fear, but their desperation lent them a grim resolve. The pirates had one advantage left: they had nothing to lose.
Bealor could see it—their fury, their fear. If that gate stood, if they were allowed to regroup and fortify, the battle would stretch on. Hours, maybe days. And the pirates, desperate as they were, would fight like cornered beasts. Bealor had no intention of giving them that chance. Not when the taste of victory was so close.
"Bring the ram!" Bealor's command thundered over the din of battle, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade through flesh. His men heard him, and within moments, the great wooden siege ram was brought forward. It was a monstrous thing, heavy and cumbersome, but its iron head gleamed with a promise of ruin. As the soldiers pushed it forward, its bulk shuddered with the effort, and the air seemed to vibrate with the weight of what was to come.
The first blow struck like the heavens had fallen to earth. The ram's head slammed into the gate with an earth-shaking force, sending a tremor through the ground beneath Bealor's boots. The iron gate groaned under the impact, its frame straining as if it could feel the death coming for it. The pirates above, as though sensing the moment of reckoning, rained arrows down on the soldiers pushing the ram, but the men pressed forward, unwavering in their duty.
A second blow followed, even more brutal than the first, and the gates buckled. The sound of splintering wood echoed across the battlefield like a death knell. The pirates, driven by desperation, rushed forward to defend their last stronghold. They hurled themselves at the ram, clashing with Bealor's men, their bodies a human wall in a last-ditch effort to delay the inevitable. But Bealor's soldiers were relentless, their resolve like iron, unshakable. With a roar, they surged forward, pushing the pirates back.
The third strike came, a blow that seemed to carry the weight of all the world. The ram's head met the gates with such force that the iron groaned in agony, and with a final, shattering crash, the gates gave way, exploding inward with a fury that sent splinters and debris flying in all directions. The fortress's last line of defense crumbled, and the pirates, for all their bravado, were left with nothing but the wreckage of their hopes.
Inside the fortress, the battle unfolded like a storm unleashed. The air was thick with the clamor of steel, the clash of bodies, and the ragged cries of men fighting for their lives. The narrow alleys, choked with debris and the detritus of a long-abandoned stronghold, turned into killing fields. The pirates, once numerous and fierce, now seemed like animals cornered in a trap, scrambling to flee or die in vain.
The crumbling stone of the fortress walls offered them little protection, and the uneven terrain only served to slow them down. There was no room to maneuver, no way to break free from the relentless advance of Bealor's men. Their discipline and training were as sharp as their blades, and each soldier moved with the deadly rhythm of a well-oiled machine. The pirates fought with desperation, but it was a desperation born of fear, not of hope. They were scattered, isolated, easy pickings for the men who had hunted them across the seas.
Bealor was the harbinger of their doom. His blade moved with a grim efficiency, cutting through the pirates with the quiet fury of a man who had long ago surrendered any hope of peace. The sound of his sword cleaving through flesh and bone was almost drowned out by the shrieks of those who fell before him. His hulking frame was a blur in the chaos, as if he were less a man and more a force of nature, bending the battlefield to his will. Each swing of his sword was a measured thing, an execution, and there was no hesitation in it. The pirates fell before him like wheat before a scythe, their blood staining the cracked stones beneath their feet.
There was no mercy in him, not here, not now. Not when the ghosts of his family's past rose from the depths of this island like specters demanding retribution. The pirates had been the scourge of his house, the thorn in the side of his bloodline for too long, and now, at long last, they would pay for their sins. Bealor's eyes were cold, his face set in an expression that could have frozen fire, and there was nothing in him but the certainty that this battle was the end of the line. The war, the rebellion, it all led to this moment. And when it was over, there would be no more enemies. Only dust, blood, and ash.
Daemon fought beside him, a shadow at his back, a dark presence in the storm. His movements were sharp, each strike calculated, every slash a deadly curve of precision. He cut through the pirates as though they were nothing more than reeds, his sword a whirlwind in the hands of a madman. The sound of his laughter—low, cruel, and laced with a sadistic joy—rose above the fray like the song of a god of death. To him, the slaughter was a game, a twisted pleasure. He reveled in the chaos, the mayhem, the destruction. To Daemon, this was not war; it was a dance of carnage, and the pirates were little more than puppets in the final act.
Bealor, though, fought with a quiet intensity. His face was impassive, his mouth set in a grim line, as if he were a man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He didn't laugh. He didn't taunt. There was no joy in this for him. There was only the cold, brutal knowledge that this was the end. The pirates had brought war to his doorstep, had threatened his family and his people for too long. They were the last obstacle in his way, and he would not stop until they were nothing more than broken bodies scattered across the stones of Bloodstone.
His soldiers pressed forward with him, methodical and relentless, clearing each building, sweeping through each corner. There was no mercy in their eyes. They were warriors who had known too much blood, too much death, and they had come to understand a simple truth: victory demanded sacrifice. The pirates had not been given mercy, and so they would not receive any. The world would be better without them, and Bealor would be the one to make that world a reality.
With every step, Bealor felt the weight of his ancestors bearing down on him. They had fought for this—his father, his grandfather, all the men who had come before him. They had bled for the future, and now, in this final hour, it was his turn to fulfill their legacy. He didn't need to enjoy the bloodshed; he didn't need to revel in the violence. What mattered was the end. What mattered was the certainty that this was the final battle. With the fall of the pirates, his house would be free. The war would be over. And the world would be set right.
And so they fought. Bealor's sword never faltered, and his men moved like shadows through the ruins of Bloodstone. They crushed the last vestiges of the pirate rebellion underfoot, leaving nothing but death in their wake. The pirates, once so confident, so arrogant in their defiance, were now nothing more than broken remnants of a lost cause.
As the final push was underway, Bealor found himself moving deeper into the heart of Bloodstone. His men had begun clearing the inner courtyards and upper battlements, but the pirate leader—the infamous Crabfeeder—was nowhere to be found among the chaos. The sound of steel clashing and men shouting was constant in the background, but there was a stillness to the air around the old, weathered keep, as if even the island itself held its breath.
Bealor's heart beat with a steady rhythm, his grip on his blade tightening as he moved forward, drawn to the eerie silence. It was then that he saw him—Crabfeeder, his face obscured beneath the shadow of his grotesque helmet, stepping out from the cover of an old stone tower. The pirate leader's armor was caked with blood, his long limbs moving with the uncanny precision of a predator.
There was no need for words. The tension between them crackled in the air like static, an unspoken understanding that this was a battle neither could avoid. Bloodstone had been a refuge for the pirate scourge for too long, and Bealor had come to see it burn. But first, he would see the one responsible for this rebellion—Crabfeeder—brought low.
Without warning, Crabfeeder surged forward, his massive cleaver swinging with terrifying force. The blade was a brutal instrument, designed for carnage more than skill, but it was no less dangerous for its simplicity. Bealor met the attack with a clash of steel, the shock of it reverberating up his arm, but he didn't flinch. His own blade, sharp as the promise of vengeance, deflected the cleaver's path, sending it skittering to the side.
The two combatants circled one another, sizing up their opponent. Crabfeeder was a hulking figure, his movement heavy but deliberate, his strikes powerful enough to break stone.
Bealor, towering at 6'6, was an imposing figure, yet his speed defied expectations. Unlike the pirate's brute strength, which came crashing down like a hammer, Bealor moved with an unnatural swiftness for someone of his size. Every motion was purposeful, cutting through the chaos with the precision of a predator.
"You think you've won?" Crabfeeder's voice was low, gravelly, like the scrape of a blade across rock. His eyes burned with fanaticism, the belief that his fight, his cause, had been just. "You'll drown in your own blood before you see your victory."
Bealor's lips barely twitched. The words were a death rattle, the last cries of a dying beast. He had no time for ideology. He had no patience for those who thought themselves gods because they raised their fists against the throne. "Your people are dead, pirate," Bealor said quietly. "And you're next."
With a battle cry, Crabfeeder swung again, his cleaver coming down in a vertical arc designed to crush. Bealor sidestepped, the movement fluid and instinctive. His sword flashed out like lightning, slashing across the pirate's exposed side. Blood splattered, but Crabfeeder didn't flinch. He simply growled, a guttural sound that rumbled in his chest, and followed up with another brutal strike.
But Bealor's footwork was impeccable, his timing a thing of beauty in the chaos of the battlefield. As Crabfeeder's cleaver swung wide, Bealor pivoted and lashed out with a quick, slicing thrust that caught the pirate in the shoulder. A deep gash split the armor, and for a fleeting moment, it looked as if Bealor's blow would be the death of him.
But Crabfeeder wasn't finished. With a savage roar, he spun around, his bloodied cleaver coming down in an arc meant to cleave Bealor in two. This time, Bealor did not have the room to dodge. The blow was too fast. The only thing he could do was raise his sword in defense.
The impact sent a shock of pain through his body, but Bealor held firm, gritting his teeth against the weight of the strike. His blade met Crabfeeder's cleaver, locking in a deadly dance of strength versus precision. The pirate grinned, his teeth stained red with blood, and shoved forward, trying to overpower Bealor's defense.
But Bealor, his focus unwavering, twisted the hilt of his sword with a calculated motion. The blade slid beneath Crabfeeder's weapon, cutting through the chain links of his armor with a sound that would have made lesser men falter. The moment was brief, but it was enough.
With one swift motion, Bealor drew back and thrust forward, his sword catching the pirate in the side, slipping between the gaps in his armor and finding the heart beneath. Crabfeeder's eyes widened in shock as his life left him in a final, ragged breath. His cleaver fell from his hands, the once-feared weapon hitting the ground with a dull thud.
Bealor stood over him, breathing heavily, his sword still dripping with the pirate leader's blood. The weight of the battle hung heavily on him, but there was no satisfaction in the kill. Only the knowledge that another threat had been erased from the world.
The sound of footsteps behind him reached Bealor's ears, and he turned to find Daemon approaching, his smirk unchanged even in the wake of the brutal fight.
"Not bad, lad," Daemon said, his voice grating but approving. "Thought I might get to him first."
Bealor wiped the blood from his blade, his eyes cold and distant. "It's over."
Daemon's gaze flickered over to the fallen Crabfeeder, and he nodded once. "Aye. For him, anyway."