Chapter 16: The Stepstones Anvil (Age 14)
The Stepstones were a dagger aimed at the heart of Velaryon trade, and by extension, our own. The Crabfeeder and his Triarchy-backed pirates were a plague that demanded a fiery cure. Daemon arrived on Dragonstone, not as a supplicant, but as a force of nature, his ambition a dark echo of my own.
"The Narrow Sea chokes on their insolence," he snarled, his finger stabbing a map of the jagged islands. "They tax what is ours. It is time to collect."
The plan was his in its daring, but mine in its execution. We would be an aerial anvil. Daemon, a whirlwind of death on the ground with his sellswords and the Velaryon fleet, would drive them. And we would smash them from above.
My first true battle on Shadowwing was a descent into a shared madness. I did not fight the Cannibal's rage; I merged with it. We became a single entity of destruction. His black fire wasn't just flame; it was oblivion. We erased pirate ships from the water, leaving only steam and ash.
Alongside us, Rhaenyra on Syrax was precision and command, her golden dragon striking strategic targets. And Laena on Seasmoke was a silver blur, her speed and grace harrying their lines into chaos. But the most terrifying sight was Daemon on Caraxes. The Blood Wyrm lived up to his name, a creature of sinuous, violent grace, and Daemon rode him like a god of war, diving and twisting with a fearless frenzy that was both awe-inspiring and horrifying.
We were a symphony of fire and blood. In weeks, the Stepstones were ours. Daemon crowned himself King of the Narrow Sea on a salt-sprayed rock, with dragons his only crownholders.
The true prize, however, was found in a deep, smoky cave: a clutch of dragon eggs, fossilized yet humming with ancient heat. Daemon, in a move of sharp political acuity, gave them to me. "A king rewards his allies," he said, his smile sharp. "And a prince should have options." The message was clear: our fates were now irrevocably linked.
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The Ripple in the Red Keep
News of the victory struck King's Landing like a thunderclap. The song of the "Four Dragons of the Stepstones" was on every lip, but in the Red Keep, it was a dirge.
King Viserys was said to have smiled weakly, muttering about "brave boys" and "settling matters," before retreating to his models, deeper into denial than ever.
But for the Hightowers, it was a catastrophe. Otto saw the narrative he had so carefully built—of Rhaenyra's unfitness and Daemon's recklessness—shattered. They weren't reckless; they were victorious. They weren't divisive; they were powerful. The Crown had done nothing, and Dragonstone had solved the realm's problem.
Worse was the effect on Aemond. Tales of Daemon's ferocity on Caraxes and my chilling efficiency on the Cannibal fueled his obsession. He wasn't just envious now; he was desperate. His one eye gleamed with a frantic need to possess a fraction of that power, to not be left behind in this new age of dragonlords his family was heralding. He began to train with a viciousness that scared even the master-at-arms, and his inquiries about the dragons on Dragonstone became less scholarly and more covetous.
Alicent watched her son's transformation with dread. The victory in the Stepstones hadn't cowed her faction; it had backed them into a corner, making them more dangerous and desperate than ever. The peace was thinner than ever, stretched over a chasm of mutual loathing and now, proven military might.
We returned to Dragonstone as heroes, our coffers fuller from seized pirate treasure, our reputation forged in fire. But the greatest change was in the eyes of the world. Rhaenyra was no longer just an heir; she was the leader of a faction that could win wars. Daemon was not just an exile; he was a kingmaker. And I was no longer a curious boy; I was the strategic mind and the terrifying weapon that had made it all possible. The message to the realm was undeniable: power resided not in the Iron Throne, but with the dragons. And the dragons were ours.