Chapter 50 — The Battle of Littlefinger: The Rebellion is Quelled
The dawn wind whipped against Dragon Caraxes's wings as he soared over the grey-green sea, his scales gleaming like wet blood in the morning light. Upon his back rode Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Terra Uller, the mysterious Lady of Witch Isle — her amber eyes calm, her hair streaming like seaweed in the wind.
When Caraxes descended upon the royal encampment at the Five Fingers Peninsula, the ground trembled. Below, Vhagar and Meleys roared a greeting, their wings stirring clouds of dust and ash. Knights, sailors, and men-at-arms looked up in awe — and some in fear — at the sight of the dragon's return and the hauntingly beautiful woman dismounting beside their prince.
Prince Baelon Targaryen, his silver hair caught by the sea breeze, approached with a smile that faltered when he recognized Terra.
"Daemon," he began cautiously, "you went to sea patrol, and yet you return with... this lady?"
Before Daemon could answer, Princess Rhaenys Velaryon, ever sharp, spoke first.
"She is Terra Uller — Lady of Witch Isle, wife to the Merling King. I know her well." Her voice carried a faint edge of disdain.
At once, Baelon's expression stiffened. Even the most rational men in Westeros knew the tales whispered of the Uller bloodline — witches, curse-bearers, and sea-devils' brides.
Daemon ignored the murmurs around them. "Lady Terra is no witch," he said coolly. "She knows the treacherous waters of this coast better than any man alive. Her knowledge may end this rebellion sooner than steel alone."
Rhaenys smirked. "Or end you sooner than that. Men who court Uller women rarely live to tell it."
Daemon only smiled. "Then I'll make certain my tale is worth telling."
---
The Shapeshifter's Bond
That evening, as the army made camp, Daemon removed his armor and felt the pulse of Caraxes's blood through his own. His power had grown — the ancient gift of the Shapeshifter flowed in his veins. He could now merge spirit and mind with his dragon entirely.
Through that bond, the dragon's hunger was his hunger; the scent of blood and burning flesh, intoxicating. Caraxes's roar echoed in Daemon's skull like his own heartbeat. No other dragonrider alive — not even his brother Viserys — could match that union of man and beast.
At the campfire, Alys Rivers sat beside Daemon, her pale eyes glowing faintly in the firelight.
Daemon asked quietly, "Do you trust Terra?"
Alys smiled. "I saw her long before she came. Through the Heart Tree's eyes, I knew she would walk beside you. Her magic is of the sea, as mine is of the rivers. Together, we are your circle of power."
Across the flames, Terra traced a weirwood bracelet on her wrist. When she opened her eyes again, they gleamed crimson for an instant — then amber once more.
"I see them," she whispered. "Thousands of pirates. They hide in the caves of Storm Hill, on the Littlefinger Peninsula."
Daemon leaned forward. "There are no weirwoods here. How do you see them?"
"The trees remember," she said softly. "And the gulls remember too. All that lives beneath the sky carries memory, if one knows how to listen."
---
The Dragon Hunt
Daemon relayed her vision to Baelon and Rhaenys. At once, the banners of House Targaryen and House Velaryon rose into the salt wind. A thousand knights and sailors embarked under moonlight toward the smallest of the Five Fingers — a jagged stretch of rock later known only by infamy: Littlefinger Peninsula.
From the clouds above, Caraxes, Vhagar, and Meleys darkened the heavens. When the Sistermen pirates saw the dragons' silhouettes, they fled into their caves like rats.
Daemon's sight merged with Caraxes's. Through the dragon's nostrils, he could smell the fear below — the reek of sweat, smoke, and panic.
"Burn them," he murmured.
Caraxes's fire poured down the hillside, molten red against the stone. Flames devoured ships in the hidden harbor below. By morning, half the pirate fleet was ash and the rest captured by Velaryon sailors.
Still, hundreds of outlaws hid within the hills — deep in tunnels black with damp stone.
"Dragonfire cannot reach them," Rhaenys said grimly. "Are we to let cave-dwellers defy three dragons?"
Daemon's eyes glinted. "Then we will not burn them. We will starve them."
---
The Poisoned Spring
He remembered the spring that trickled from the mountain's heart — a single thread of water feeding the caves.
Terra stepped forward. "I have the means." From her satchel she drew a small crystal vial filled with crimson liquid. "A drop of this will bring them crawling from the dark before dawn."
Baelon hesitated. "Daemon, you trust this witch too easily."
Daemon smiled thinly. "A Targaryen must sometimes trust fire to fight fire."
Caraxes carried them aloft once more, rising into the clouds before diving toward the mountaintop spring. There, beneath the pale moon, Terra unstoppered the vial. One drop of red fell into the stream — and the water shivered.
By morning, the caves echoed with screams. Those who drank from the poisoned pools fell to madness. Some clawed at their eyes, others tore at their own flesh. When the sun rose, the survivors stumbled down the slopes, hollow-eyed and trembling, begging for mercy.
Daemon watched without pity. "The rebellion ends here."
Seven pirate lords were hanged before noon. The rest — over a thousand — were divided: the weak and maimed sent to the Wall, the strong to labor on Daemon's new holdings along the Blackwater Rush.
And so, the Sistermen Rebellion, which had plagued the Vale since the death of Duke Aelin Arryn, was crushed utterly.
---
The Three Sisters
That night, three dragons darkened the skies above Sisterton — the main isle of the Three Sisters. Flames reflected off the waves as Caraxes, Vhagar, and Meleys descended upon the decrepit port. The stench of rot and fish filled the air; corpses swung from gallows over the harbor.
Awaiting them were Marquess Marlon Sunderland, lord of Sisterton, and Ser Willem Manderly of White Harbor. Sunderland's bravado wilted beneath the dragons' gaze.
Prince Baelon's voice was cold. "Three dragons to cleanse three isles. Some say your own lords are pirates themselves, Marlon."
The Marquess paled. "Lies, Your Grace! I have hanged many of their kind!"
Daemon's eyes lingered on the twin lighthouses — Nightlamp and Wavebreaker — whose false fires had long lured ships to their doom. "Then hang your greed as well," he said. "Each Sistermen house shall send one heir to the Red Keep as hostage. If piracy rises again, their blood will pay for it."
Marlon bowed low. "As you command."
That evening, at Sunderland Castle, the royal company dined on Sistermen stew — a rich broth of crab, lamprey, and cream — spiced with saffron at Marlon's desperate expense. Yet no one truly enjoyed it; the shadow of dragons lay long across the feast.
---
Return to King's Landing
For half a month, the skies of the Vale burned red with dragonfire. When the last wildling tribes fled the Mountains of the Moon, Daemon and his kin turned homeward.
As the dragons approached King's Landing, the people poured into the streets, their cheers rising like surf. Three dragons — Caraxes, Vhagar, and Meleys — descended into the Dragonpit, wings folding like sails.
In the Red Keep, King Jaehaerys I, radiant upon the Iron Throne, awaited them with Queen Alysanne, Corlys Velaryon, Maester Barth, and Prince Viserys.
"The realm owes you peace," the old king declared. "The pirates are slain, the Vale is secure, and my fiftieth year of rule may yet be celebrated in peace."
Rhaenys bowed. "It was Daemon's campaign, Your Grace."
Jaehaerys smiled faintly. "Then let his reward match his flame."
Daemon knelt briefly before turning — as Princess Gael, heavy with child, ran into his arms.
"I missed you," she whispered.
Daemon brushed a silver strand from her face. "Then I have brought you company to make the waiting sweeter. Lady Terra Uller, Alys Rivers, and Monica Butterwell shall attend you. Ser Mia Hogg and Mona Darklyn will be your shields."
Behind him, his circle stood — witches, warriors, and wise women — each bound to Daemon by fate, ambition, or fire.
Prince Viserys clapped him on the shoulder. "You've returned just in time. The tourney draws near, and the city holds its breath for peace."
Daemon smiled — though his eyes glimmered with stormlight. Peace was never meant for dragons.
---
🔥 End of Chapter 50 — "The Battle of Littlefinger: The Rebellion is Quelled"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If you like the story please give it some power stones and reviews. And if you want to read 30+ advance chapters or just want to support me please join my patreon at [email protected]/Translatingfanfics