The wind from the Stepstones Islands carried a pungent mixture of salt, fish, and decay. The scent of the sea clung to everything, stinging the nose and filling the lungs with a briny tang that was almost unbearable.
The massive anchor of the Sea Snake slammed into the murky water, sending ripples across the surface and stirring small waves that crashed against the jagged, blood-stained reef. The ship's hull groaned under the pressure, but it held firm, a testament to the craftsmanship of House Velaryon.
Damian Thorne stepped onto the reef, his polished boots crunching against the stones and shattered remnants of old coral. His brow was furrowed, his gaze sharp, scanning the scene that lay before him. He had anticipated danger, defeat, even betrayal, but nothing had prepared him for this.
The camp was a nightmare. A thick stench of spilled wine, stale sweat, and rotting food hung in the air. Soldiers lay scattered in the shadows, some in pairs, others alone, their armor tossed aside carelessly. Flies buzzed incessantly around the bare skin of men and horses alike. Broken barrels, empty bottles, and scraps of half-eaten rations littered the ground.
And in the center of this chaos, on a tattered throne made of driftwood and half-rotted beams, lay Daemon Targaryen—supposedly the King of the Stepstones—clutching an empty wineskin. He slept like a corpse, oblivious to the ruin around him, his snores resonating like the tolling of a bell through the air.
"Is this our 'Prodigal Prince'?" Damian's voice was icy as he spoke to Rhaenys Targaryen, who had come forward to greet him.
Rhaenys's face was drawn and weary. Silver strands streaked her black hair, evidence of sleepless nights and mounting worry. The sea breeze tangled her locks, but it could not erase the tension etched between her brows.
"He's been like this for days," Rhaenys admitted softly, a note of helplessness in her tone. "Ever since the news from… King's Landing arrived, he's locked himself away. All he wants is wine."
Damian snorted, his sharp eyes narrowing as he glanced at Daemon's swollen, drunken features. "A cowardly act," he muttered, voice laced with contempt.
The two walked to a relatively clean cliff that jutted over the gray, churning sea. Damian's gaze swept across the horizon. "In King's Landing, the situation is far worse," he said, voice low but burning with anger. "Viserys, our so-called king, hides in the Red Keep, tinkering with models of stone while the glory of the Targaryens burns around him."
Rhaenys remained silent, her hands clasped in front of her.
"He rejected the Braavosi offer," Damian continued, his fists tightening until the veins on his hands bulged. "He claimed the Targaryens had withdrawn from Essos. He wouldn't even hear the envoys' words. Instead, he rushed to see his Hightower wife give birth!"
The wind whipped around them, carrying the tang of the sea, but neither seemed to notice. Damian's eyes blazed with fury, his voice shaking with barely restrained rage.
"A Dragon King of unknown origin holds Volantis in his hand, slays entire fleets, and conquers the Stepstones," he spat. "And what does Viserys do? He hides in the Strait of Loneliness, betraying his vassals, betraying the Targaryen bloodline!"
Rhaenys let the wind tug at the edges of her clothes, listening quietly. After a long silence, she spoke, her voice calm but thoughtful.
"Viserys may appear weak, Corlys… but perhaps he sees farther than we do."
Damian whirled around, disbelief written across his face. "What?"
"In a war between dragons, there are no winners," Rhaenys said, her eyes drifting into the distance, as though they could pierce time and space. "Our ancestors used dragonfire to unite the Seven Kingdoms, but they also left warnings. Dragonfire can forge kingdoms… but it can also burn the world. Perhaps Viserys fears extinguishing the Targaryen flame through internal conflict."
"That's his fire, not ours!" Damian snapped, stepping closer, eyes sharp and unyielding. "I don't care about prophecies. All I know is that the Velaryon trade routes, our fleets, our wealth, everything we've built on the sea—Viserys is jeopardizing it all!"
Rhaenys understood the weight of his anger. She was not only a Targaryen princess but also the matron of Velaryon. She understood ambition, duty, and the stakes of family legacy.
"I'm not just doing this for Velaryon," Damian continued, his voice hardening but softening at the edges. "It's for our children—Laenor, Laena. Their futures cannot rest on the mercy of a coward."
"Where is Lana?" he asked suddenly.
"She patrols the nearby waters," Rhaenys replied. "Vhagar needs to stretch his wings, and so does she. The atmosphere on this island… it's suffocating."
Damian's eyes returned to the endless ocean. "When the Braavosi arrive, everything will be settled." His voice carried the chill of steel and the certainty of command. "When the time comes, if things go well, I'll call Lanino back from that cage in King's Landing. If not…"
He paused, gaze hardening further. "Let him stay there. At least it will leave a path for the Velaryon family."
Rhaenys's heart sank. She looked at her husband's determined profile and knew he had staked everything—wealth, honor, family—on this plan. There was no alternative, and she would follow him.
---
Night fell over the Stepstones. The camp smelled of sweat, alcohol, and smoke. Damon Thorne groaned as he struggled to awaken, a violent cough tearing through his chest. His head throbbed as though it might split, and his vision swam in dizzying waves.
When the blurry image of Damian Thorne became clear in the flickering candlelight, Daemon froze.
"You're awake?" Damian asked, voice cold and unwavering.
Damon pushed himself upright, a sarcastic grin tugging at his lips. "Why, Lord Sea Snake, have you come to see me laugh? Or to announce that Viserys intends to strip me of my title?"
"Your throne, your camp… it's drowning in wine," Damian said sharply, tossing a folded letter onto the table. "The Braavosi will be here soon."
Damon's clouded eyes sharpened, pupils narrowing like a predator roused from slumber. "Braavosi?" His voice was rough and wary. "When did those faceless loan sharks become allies of the Dragon King? Do they covet dragons? Are they here to chain Korak-Hugh or sell my other hand for coin?"
Damian's gaze softened with approval. Even drunk, the prince retained his instinct for survival, his caution unbroken.
"They are not friends," Damian said carefully, leaning forward. "But we share a common enemy. The so-called Dragon King has seized Volantis, and the Braavosi are afraid. They'll provide gold and ships… if we help them neutralize this threat."
Daemon let out a bitter, incredulous laugh. "So you want me, a Targaryen prince, to become a sellsword for Braavos?"
"No," Damian corrected firmly, word by word. "I want your revenge."
He locked eyes with Daemon, and the fire in the prince's violet gaze flared.
"Your brother—the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms—refused the Braavosi's alliance," Damian said, voice like a poisoned blade. "He said the Targaryens have withdrawn from Essos. He does not care for the Stepstones, for Volantis… or for your lost arm. He sees it as a distant quarrel. While King's Landing celebrated a newborn daughter, you were forgotten."
Damon's lips trembled. "Shut up!" he roared, rising abruptly. He overturned the table beside him. Wine jugs and cups shattered on the floor, spilling sticky liquid onto the wooden planks. His chest heaved violently, bloodshot eyes blazing. Rage, humiliation, and pain twisted together into a tempest of fury.
Every word Damian had spoken burned like molten iron. The slight caution and distrust Damon had felt toward Braavos vanished, consumed by a single, all-encompassing thought: revenge.
He would make the Eastern Dragon King pay in blood, and he would force his brother on the Iron Throne to witness the power of the sibling he had abandoned.
"Let them come," Damon said, voice hoarse but chillingly calm. "Let them come with their gold and fleets. I will use their ships, I will carry my dragons… and I will tear our enemies apart."
He turned slowly, half his face illuminated by the flickering candlelight, a mask of determination and fury. "Then the world will know who the true Dragon King is."
In the corner, Rhaenys watched quietly, taking in every word, every gesture. She saw how Damian's carefully chosen words had roused the slumbering beast in her husband, locking him into the path of vengeance that Velaryon needed.
She wanted to speak, to warn them of the cunning and danger of Braavos, to temper the flames of anger before they consumed everything.
But the words died in her throat. She knew… Corlys had chosen this path for Velaryon, and Daemon's wrath was the weapon that path required.
Once the fire of revenge is ignited, it cannot be extinguished.
---