Seahorse's tail, Stepstones
Corlys sat in the chamber below the Seawatch Hall of Poseidon Tower—his brother Vaemond's seat. He considered Vaemond lucky to have his seat made of Black fused stone, just like the Targaryens on Dragonstone. In hindsight, if anyone deserved such an honor, it was his brother. His loyalty to House Velaryon was as questionable as snow in Dorne—said to be none at all.
House Velaryon's "bomber," as Laenor jokingly called him. Corlys smiled faintly at the thought. Vaemond wore the title proudly, saying that with magic in his blood, his line would gladly accept the role. And truth be told, Vaemond excelled at hurling those magical dragonglass bricks. Corlys had tried his hand at it too, but his timing and aim fell short of his brother's uncanny precision. Vaemond instinctively knew when to throw and where. With Laenor tasking him regularly, his skill only grew sharper. It was Vaemond who captured most of the Triarchy's men once the stunner bombs were invented. Daemon and Vaemond's relationship, once bristling with hostility, had become surprisingly functional—perhaps even cordial.
Corlys's gaze drifted to the sword resting beside him—the dragonsteel sword of House Velaryon. When Laenor first placed it in his hands and declared it the finest dragonsteel sword in the world, Corlys was left speechless. He had known Laenor and Daemon had already rediscovered the ancient craft of forging dragonsteel, but Laenor's claim of the finest dragonsteel sword in the world was another matter entirely. Unlike the dark, smoky blades typically seen in old Valyrian steel, this one shimmered a light grey, with rippling streaks of blue like flashes of storm-lit sea. He had half-suspected his son of dyeing it, but Laenor swore he had not.
Corlys had a name in mind for the blade—a name he truly wanted—but he couldn't claim that right. Because neither had he paid for it, nor did he help to make it, like Daemon, who had helped his son unearth the secret lost to time. For nearly an hour, father and son argued until Laenor finally relented, offering suggestions of his own. Riptide and Sea Serpent were names Corlys liked well enough, but when Laenor said another, both agreed at once.
Redwave. That was the name—Redwave, the dragonsteel sword of House Velaryon.
Corlys often wondered how far House Velaryon and House Targaryen would go, with both Laenor and Daemon now obsessed with magic. He had already received a torrent of ravens from across the Seven Kingdoms and even from Dorne, each letter thick with flowery flattery than the last, all veiled requests to commission a dragonsteel sword. And it had only been a moon and a half since Laenor laid the first dragonsteel plate before him.
The secret had spread—quickly, and wide. Just yesterday, an emissary from Volantis had arrived at Seahorse's Tail, congratulating House Velaryon on its victory over the Triarchy. Corlys hosted them in the fused-stone tower he now occupied, taking particular delight in the look of awe that washed over their faces. No doubt they had heard of Valyrian stonework being done here, but seeing it was something else entirely. After all, Volantis and the Old blood of Volantis still clings to pride in its Black Walls. And rightly so, because after the Doom, there are precious few places in the world where black fused stone still stands. That, too, might change—with Daemon and Laenor's plans unfolding.
Corlys also considered something else the Volantenes might come to realize soon: with fused stone, dragons, and dragonsteel, House Velaryon and House Targaryen might be seen as true heirs of Old Valyria. Not that it mattered. Neither house sought to reclaim Essos. Their eyes were fixed firmly on Westeros.
Shaking himself from those thoughts, Corlys turned back to the matter at hand. He began drafting letters to the lords he had chosen to rule parts of the Stepstones: House Redwyne, House Celtigar, House Estermont, and two minor houses. Many others had come with hopeful smiles and second sons in tow, but Corlys had dismissed them outright. As if sending a hundred green boys would entitle them to land. They had left scowling and frothing, but there was little they could do against House Velaryon's growing might.
The houses he selected had enough naval strength to hold the islands long enough for Corlys to profit. He had initially planned only to win the war, humiliate the Triarchy, and depart. But once the fortifications rose and tolls were collected at sea, the gold flowed like a current. When he counted the coins, he no longer saw barren rocks—he saw opportunity. He would hold these stones until his vaults overflow with gold.
Though he doubts that Triarchy will just sit back forever. But any attacks from them might prove futile, for within two or three years, these houses he had assigned would begin to see the profits—and once they did, they would be more than willing to fight if the Triarchy dared to send ships again. And that was just the first part of the plan. The second? Simply wait. At the rate his son's power and dragon were growing, Laenor might not even need Daemon's help to drive the Three Daughters of Valyria back to their cities.
Corlys was just finishing his first letter—to Lord Celtigar—and sealing it with the sigil of House Velaryon when someone knocked at the door. He bid them enter, and in came his guard, Gared, his face alight with excitement and awe. Though the man tried to compose himself, he failed spectacularly.
"My Lord, Lord Laenor has been spotted. He will be here any moment now," Gared said breathlessly.
"Hmm," Corlys murmured, hiding his amusement behind a calm facade. "And by the look on your face, I presume my son has chosen to travel by sea?"
"Aye, my Lord! Lord Laenor has ropes tied to a herd of great black-and-white sea beasts! He rides atop a wooden plank, gripping the ropes—by the gods, the speed at which he's moving, it's out of this world! I've heard those beasts can eat a man in one bi—"
"Gared," Corlys cut in smoothly. "I've seen the beasts. They are dangerous, true. Deadly predators, capable of killing a man with ease—but they are not large enough to swallow one whole. Now, off you go. Back to your post."
"But my Lord, I—"
"Gared," Corlys said more firmly, and the guard quickly bowed and scurried off, closing the door quietly behind him.
Corlys sighed, shaking his head. He suspected he might have been too lenient with his men if this was their standard of decorum. He reached for a fresh parchment to begin his next letter, but before he could finish a single line, another knock came. With another sigh, he set the quill aside.
"Enter," he called.
Laenor stepped inside, his gait light, his presence calm. Corlys noted with some satisfaction that his son had nearly reached Daemon's height—and he wasn't even ten-and-six yet. It was a relief. Laenor, though more comely than even Laena, had been a small and delicate child until his tenth year.
Now, though, the scent of sea salt and wet wood clung to him—faint but unmistakable. Corlys would never admit it aloud, but he loved that smell.
After greeting his father, Laenor took his seat. They spoke for a while about his time on Bloodstone, where he'd been assisting Daemon for the past month. The Prince, ever prideful, disliked that his keep looked simpler and duller than Vaemond's seat of Seawatch. So, together with Laenor and that Baratheon bastard, Robb Storm, he returned to Bloodstone to rebuild his keep in fused black stone.
Daemon also planned to construct a massive forge—large enough for two dragons the size of Caraxes to aid in the crafting of dragonsteel. Even the silver sent by King Viserys had arrived there.
After half an hour of talk, Corlys finally broached the matter that had prompted his summons.
"Laenor, I trust you've spoken to Prince Daemon about the request I mentioned in my letter?" Corlys asked, eyes fixed on his son.
Laenor showed no surprise; he had clearly anticipated this conversation.
"I have," he said evenly. "And though it took us half a day to forge a single decent dragonsteel weapon, Daemon and I agreed—we are amenable to selling such weapons… provided we are paid well for wasting our precious time."
Corlys nodded, pleased. His son and Daemon had wisely decided to make their labor expensive. As it should be.
"Excellent," Corlys said, smiling now. "I'm sure many will be eager to pay whatever sum you demand. To own a dragonsteel weapon is an honor."
And oh, how Corlys could already feel the gold pouring in—gold from the Lannisters, from the wealthy magisters of Essos, from any who dared to dream of dragonsteel in their hands.
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