Chapter 33: Pirate Hazard
Baelon's solar smelled faintly of parchment and sea salt, the air heavy with the weight of maps and strategy. Myrish carpets depicting the map of Westeros spread across the marble floor, while the walls bore Norvos tapestries showing the glory of the old Valyrian Freehold.
Three Qohorik wooden carvings stood proudly at the room's center — Meleys, Balerion, and Vhagar — carved in dark oak, their wings outstretched as if ready to take flight once more.
Baelon often complained that the Vhagar carving looked nothing like his mighty dragon, and Daemon had once joked that even dragons were vain enough to demand better likenesses.
Today, the room was quiet — too quiet.
Viserys stood beside the Balerion carving, his fingers brushing its wingtip. The golden light from the window caught his soft features.
"This one truly does look like Balerion," he said softly, a touch of reverence in his tone.
Daemon, lounging on the table beside the Meleys carving, gave a half-smile.
"And this one? Looks like Meleys before the Dornishmen killed her, doesn't it? That's why Dorne never bends the knee — they still boast of slaying a dragon."
Baelon turned from the map, his tone steady, practical.
"I didn't summon you here to discuss dragon sculptures. Viserys — while Daemon and I are away, you'll assist Grandfather Jaehaerys and Septon Barth. It's time you gained real experience."
Daemon caught the flicker of irritation across his elder brother's face. Since Daemon's reforms of the City Watch and the Kingsguard, his own reputation had grown — sharper, darker — overshadowing Viserys's quiet charm. The younger prince saw it and bore it silently.
Baelon stepped onto the section of the carpet where the Eyrie was stitched in golden thread. The Three Sisters and Mountains of the Moon surrounded it like a painted crown.
"When Daemon and I have finished in the Vale," Baelon said, "we'll teach the mountain clans their place, clear the Sistermen pirates from the coasts, and then return to King's Landing."
Daemon chuckled, rising from the table. "The mountain clans — the Stone Crows, the Burned Men, the Moon Brothers — yes, they'll fall quickly enough. But the Sistermen Pirates…" He paused, smiling faintly. "They'll be a different beast."
Baelon frowned. "With dragons and the Valyrian Fleet, what could stop us?"
Daemon's eyes glinted with quiet amusement — the kind of knowing that came from both cunning and reincarnated memory.
"The fleet," he said, "belongs to Sea Snake Corlys — and his interests are never so simple as loyalty. Those pirates are the very reason his name rings in every hall of the Vale. Without them, the lords of Gulltown and Runestone would forget how much they need his protection."
Viserys looked puzzled. "You mean… Sea Snake keeps them alive on purpose?"
Daemon's lips curved in that dangerous, mocking smile of his. "He's a sailor before he's a knight. And a merchant before he's a patriot. The Sistermen raids remind the Vale of their dependence on him. So long as those longships haunt the coast, the nobles will pay tribute to the Valyrian Fleet."
Viserys frowned. "That sounds like… something from the histories of Valyria. Governors who let pirates thrive to expand their control."
Daemon nodded. "Exactly. Corlys learned well from his voyages — from the Triarchy, from the Free Cities. He trades in power as much as in gold. Whether pirates live or die depends not on justice, but on profit."
Baelon crossed his arms, thinking.
"This summer's lasted five years already. The Citadel says autumn approaches — perhaps another long winter after. When the snows close the mountain passes, the Vale's only lifeline will be the sea. And who controls the sea, controls the Vale."
Daemon's gaze was distant, his thoughts reaching beyond the moment — beyond even this lifetime.
"Yes," he murmured. "Corlys knows exactly what's coming. When winter falls and hunger bites, every lord from the Fingers to the Eyrie will kneel to House Velaryon."
Viserys, ever earnest, said, "We must warn Grandfather."
Baelon shook his head. "Without proof, it's just rumor. We'll handle the pirates — that's all His Grace needs to hear."
Daemon smirked. "The Sistermen are only the shadow. The true storm gathers in the Stepstones — the Triarchy of Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh. They claim to have expelled the pirates, but they've only replaced chaos with their own tyranny. And when they tighten their grip on the Narrow Sea, even the Iron Throne will bow to their tolls."
Baelon frowned. "Corlys said the Triarchy brought peace. That's what he reported at the council."
Daemon's tone turned dry. "Peace built on chains is not peace. It's only the calm before the fire."
He said no more, though in his heart, Daemon remembered a history not yet written — of Stepstones aflame, of a war that would make his name echo across generations.
He would not stop it. Not this time. He would shape it.
Baelon broke the silence. "Enough talk. The Citadel's ravens have already gone ahead. The lords of the Crownlands and Riverlands will host us on the way north. The Vale awaits."
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The day of departure came swift and bright.
Viserys, Aemma Arryn, and Gael stood before the Dragon Gate to bid farewell. The smell of dragonfire lingered faintly in the air.
Aemma handed Baelon a small silk bundle. "Candies, a doll, a falcon toy — gifts for Lady Jeyne Arryn. She's only three, poor child."
Baelon fastened it to Vhagar's saddle — the great she-dragon's scales dull gold in the sunlight. The largest living dragon in the world, yet her age showed in her movements — slower, deliberate, proud.
Beside her crouched Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, red-scaled and restless. His growl shook the stones. The difference between them was like that between a mountain and a storm.
Aemma sighed. "It's cruel that Jeyne grows up alone in the Eyrie. She should be here, among kin."
Daemon gave a small smile. "The Vale lords would never permit it. To them, the Eyrie is sacred — their mountain crown. They'll guard their young lady like a dragon guards her hoard."
He turned to Gael, resting a hand on her rounded belly.
"You must take care of yourself. Stay in Maegor's Holdfast when the sun's strong. And if Dreamfyre lays an egg, have the Dragon Guard keep it safe. I'll have it placed in our child's cradle."
Gael smiled gently. "I will. Just promise me, when you're in the Vale — no foolish heroics, and no pretty maidens."
Daemon's grin was boyish and wicked. "Worry not, my love. Even if the Vale's maidens could fly, they'd never catch a dragon."
Viserys clasped his brother's arm. "I'm proud of you, Daemon. Bring glory to our house."
Daemon's voice lowered, suddenly solemn. "And you — protect what matters most. Our family. Our dragons. Our blood."
The brothers embraced — two dragons bound by fate, though each would soon fly toward a very different destiny.
Above them, Vhagar's wings unfurled like a thundercloud, and Caraxes screamed his challenge to the sky.
The ground trembled as the princes mounted.
Two dragons rose — one ancient, one wild — carrying the blood of Old Valyria into the dawn.
And in Daemon's eyes, the fire of a past life burned — a promise, a prophecy, and a storm yet to come.
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