Chapter 94 — Negotiations Shattered, Daemon the Liberator
Dawn bled slowly across the horizon, staining the waters around Tarth with rose and gold. At the western harbor, Lord Boremund Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, waited with his retainers beside the warships anchored offshore. Salt wind pulled at his black-and-gold cloak as he shaded his eyes and peered eastward.
"Prince Daemon should have reached us by now…" he muttered.
Before his captain could respond, a thunderous sound tore the sky.
A dragon's roar.
Then another.
Then many.
The soldiers of Tarth froze, heads snapping upward as Caraxes descended first—long-necked, crimson-scaled, screaming his war-cry that echoed for leagues. Behind him wheeled Meleys, regally crimson-and-copper under the morning light. Farther above circled the three great riderless dragons who had been drawn by Caraxes' call: Vermithor like living bronze; Silverwing, pale and graceful; and the cobalt shape of Dreamfyre, spiraling lazily in the clouds.
Though none obeyed Daemon, their presence alone was enough to shake the seafolk and Stormlanders to their marrow.
Daemon cut a fearsome shape as he dismounted. He wore dark red plate, engraved with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen; black onyx and red garnet glinted on the chestpiece. His cloak—dyed the color of fresh-spilled blood—snapped behind him like wings.
Lord Boremund approached quickly, striving for dignity yet unable to hide the awe on his weathered face.
"Prince Daemon," he said, bowing. "Half the dragons of the realm above my modest isle… The sight near stopped my heart."
Daemon's smile was thin, dangerous.
"Fear not, Lord Boremund. Had I brought all of them, your isle would be ash by now."
The Stormlanders laughed nervously.
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The Fleets Gather
From north and west came the Royal Fleet and the Valyrian Fleet sworn to House Velaryon. The Ironborn longships from the Iron Islands appeared next, black-sailed and hungry for blood. From the Sisters came the pale, sharp-prowed Sistermen ships. Men-at-arms from the Stormlands crowded the shoreline to join the march.
Rhaenys arrived astride Meleys, helm under one arm, wind whipping her silver-gold hair. Behind her stood Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake himself, eyes scanning each mast and warship with a mariner's instinctive calculation.
"They fear you now," Corlys said quietly to Daemon. "The Triarchy sent envoys the moment rumors reached them. They wish to bargain."
Daemon's lips curved in contempt.
"They wish to survive."
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The Godswood Negotiation
The meeting took place beneath the pale branches of Tarth's small Godswood, where a single weirwood stood sentinel. Daemon sat upon a carved oaken chair, with Rhaenys, Corlys, Lord Boremund, and Lady Gael standing behind him.
The Triarchy's delegation approached cautiously:
Bennet, a Tyroshi with green-dyed hair
Enzo, a Lysene with perfumed silver curls
Preston, a gaunt old Myrman with trembling hands
They brought chests of gold, sapphires, spices, and silks—attempting to drown the realm's grievances in luxury.
Preston bowed deeply. "Prince Daemon, the Triarchy values peace above all. The conflicts… unfortunate misunderstandings."
Daemon's eyes gleamed.
"A misunderstanding is when a man steps on another's foot. Not when three city-states conspire with Dorne to murder my father."
The envoys flinched.
Corlys stepped forward, voice sharp as a drawn blade.
"After Prince Baelon's death, you seized the Stepstones, butchered the garrisons, and fed our men to crabs. Spare us your lies."
Enzo spread his hands in feigned innocence.
"Pirates, my prince. Merely pirates. Admiral Craghas—"
"Crabfeeder," Daemon corrected coldly.
"Yes… him. He is hunting them now. When the islands are secure, they will of course be returned to you."
Daemon leaned forward.
"Return what already belongs to Westeros?"
The envoys exchanged uneasy looks.
Bennet gathered his nerve.
"Prince Daemon, Dorne stands with us. The Triarchy has bought fleets from Volantis, Braavos, the Summer Isles. Mercenary companies wait by the score. If Westeros enters the Stepstones, you shall be crushed between us."
Daemon rose slowly.
"Two hundred years ago, the Kings of the Reach and Rock sought to crush Aegon the Conqueror. Their armies were reduced to ash at the Field of Fire. Shall you repeat their folly?"
The envoys quailed as Caraxes rumbled low overhead.
Enzo, sensing desperation, lashed out:
"Do not think dragons make you gods. When Valyria burned, dragonlords in Lys and Tyrosh attempted to rule us. The people rose—killed the beasts and the riders both. We have scorpions, ballistae, poisoned bolts. Bring your dragons to Myr or Lys and we shall—"
He never finished.
A vast crimson shadow dropped from the sky.
Caraxes landed behind him with the force of a collapsing tower. Before Enzo could flee, Caraxes' taloned foot slammed down, grinding prince and silk into a smear of crushed bone and blood.
The forest fell silent.
Preston and Bennet collapsed onto their knees, shaking violently.
Daemon stepped forward, calm as still water.
"You will tell your Archons this: Withdraw from the Stepstones. Surrender the murderers of Prince Baelon. Present me the head of Craghas Drahar. Do these, and you may yet keep your cities from becoming pyres."
He turned away.
"Fail… and Westeros shall scour your lands clean."
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The War Begins
The fleets sailed south, rounding Cape Wrath. Stormlanders joined in waves. On Ithmont Isle they replenished water, then cut for the Stepstones.
The first clash began before dawn.
The Triarchy navy, broad-beamed and laden with crossbow platforms, loosed volleys that battered the Ironborn longships. The sea screamed with bolts and shattered oars.
Then Caraxes descended.
Then Meleys.
Then the riderless dragons, drawn to the scent of fire and slaughter, wheeled overhead like ancient gods awakened.
Daemon guided Caraxes low, drenching oared warships in dragonfire. Sails burst into flame; men leapt screaming into boiling seas. Meleys carved through the rear lines, burning Myrish ships to charred ribs.
Ballistae fired desperately, but could not reach the heights at which the dragons circled.
When Vermithor descended roaring like thunder, the Triarchy's rear line broke. Ships fled. Some rammed each other in panic. Others burned, collapsing into the waves like molten iron.
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Landing on Bloodstone
With dragonfire clearing the shore defenses, the Westerosi army landed. The ringfort fell after Lord Roderick Dustin, the Wolf of Barrowton, smashed through its gates with his greatsword in hand. The North carved through fleeing defenders without mercy.
Inside, Daemon found stores of grain, salted pork, Myrish weapons, and casks of olive oil. He ordered fortifications raised and scouts sent inland.
A slave market—Triarchy-run—was discovered in the interior.
The Vale's knights returned with more than a thousand slaves—men, women, children, and artisans.
Daemon broke their chains himself.
"You were destined for brothels, galleys, and torture pits," he said. "No longer. Serve me, and you will live free."
They knelt, weeping, calling him:
"Dragon Prince!"
"Liberator!"
Corlys frowned.
"Daemon… these are mouths to feed. Better to send them to King's Landing or sell them to Volantis."
"No," Daemon answered. "If I am to make the Stepstones ours, I need hands to build and hearts to bind the isles to me."
He chose translators, blacksmiths, brewers, and tailors. The strongest became laborers. A few skilled women became cooks, healers, and attendants.
His rule was beginning.
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A Guide from the Islands
Daemon needed more—maps of the interior, knowledge of the hidden trails and pirate redoubts. Local islanders were questioned, but none had the knowledge or courage for what Daemon required.
Until Corlys suggested a man named Lucan.
Thin, brown-skinned, sharp-eyed, wearing a fisherman's blue coat—Lucan looked unimpressive until gold flashed in Daemon's hand.
"I am a Rhoynar's son," Lucan declared immediately. "My forebears sailed with Queen Nymeria. They settled Bloodstone a thousand years ago. There is no cove, reef, or passage I do not know."
Daemon flipped him the coin.
"Good. Then show me what is worth taking."
Lucan scratched his jaw.
"There is a place… though few dare near it. In the heart of the island, surrounded by volcanic flows—streams of blackened rock. There are hot springs atop the heights and clear water pools. A fortress could be built there, impossible to assault. But…"
Daemon's eyes sharpened.
"But what?"
"It is the lair of the Pirate King," Lucan whispered. "And guarded by men who fear neither gods nor kings."
Daemon smiled slowly.
"Then they shall learn to fear dragons."
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END OF CHAPTER 94 —
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