Chapter 95 — Pirate Hill, the Dragon's Roost
Pirate Hill rose from the center of the Stepstones like a blistered scar of old Valyria—its jagged ridges wrapped in ghost-grey mist, its slopes veined with molten rock. Rivers of glowing lava circled the mountain on three sides, leaving only a narrow southern pass where men might climb. Everywhere else, the earth itself seemed to burn.
From high above, Daemon Targaryen surveyed the range astride Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm.
The air carried the sulfurous heat he knew so well from Dragonstone—sharp, metallic, almost alive. Caraxes rumbled with pleasure beneath him, wings slicing through the haze.
Behind them soared Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, Silverwing, Dreamfyre, and Seasmoke, each dragon trailing sparks as they drifted like fiery constellations across the sky.
Below, as smuggler Luke had promised, the crest of the mountain opened into a fertile, mist-shrouded plateau—hot springs, streams, thick woods, and a deep blue pool carved by centuries of volcanic breath. A place where dragons felt at home.
A place worth claiming.
For generations, this had been the hidden refuge of pirate kings. When Braavos, Lys, Myr, Tyrosh, or the Iron Throne sent fleets to cleanse the Stepstones, the beaten, the desperate, and the ambitious all fled here. They hid in caves, rebuilt their strength, and surged forth again to plague the Narrow Sea. Thus the locals called it Pirate Hill.
Daemon spotted clusters of them now—bonfires by the pool, women washing clothing in steam-fed streams, children picking fruit. Some stared at the dragons in awe; others, braver or stupider, notched arrows but dared not loose.
Caraxes's roar shattered their courage.
Vermithor answered, his voice like molten metal grinding against stone.
Women screamed. Children fled. Pirates dropped their catch of fish and ran for the caves as the echoes rolled across the mountain.
Below, the Westerosi host had already encamped along the base—tents stretching like a ribbon of molten gold across the foothills, armor glinting in the dying light.
Daemon descended, cloak snapping behind him, and strode into his command tent where Lord Corlys Velaryon, Princess Rhaenys, Gael, and Luke hovered over a detailed map of the Stepstones.
"How many pirates live on the mountain?" Daemon asked.
Luke bowed deeply. "My prince, since Craghas Drahar—the Crabfeeder—began nailing pirates to stakes along the shores, thousands fled here. Men, women, children, slaves taken from across the Narrow Sea. Blood runs thick on Pirate Hill. Entire lineages of pirate bastards fill those caves."
Daemon's smile was thin as a drawn blade.
"Then we take it."
Corlys frowned. "Their numbers mean little. Craghas and the Triarchy fleet remain the true threat. End their fleet, and the Stepstones belong to the Iron Throne."
Daemon shook his head. "And when we win? When our forces withdraw? The Triarchy will return the next moon and claim the islands again. That was the mistake of the last war." His voice sharpened. "This time, we hold. We build. We anchor ourselves."
Rhaenys nodded. "Daemon is right. A foothold inland means a garrison that cannot be surrounded by ships. We lost too much last time relying only on coastal camps."
Corlys sighed but relented. "Very well."
Daemon and Rhaenys mounted Caraxes and Meleys, the Red Queen, and rose with a single thunderous beat of wings.
The Assault on Pirate Hill
The southern pass wound upward like a serpent's spine—too narrow for horses, too steep for siege engines. At its mouth stood the ancient ringfort raised centuries ago by the pirate king Robin, now half-collapsed and smothered in moss.
But the walls still held archers. When they spotted the advancing infantry of Lord Roderick Dustin, the Wolf of the Barrowlands, they loosed a hail of arrows.
Then Dragonfire fell.
Caraxes plunged first, a crimson spear of fury, bathing the ringfort in fire.
Meleys followed, her flames hotter, tighter, a lance of scarlet death.
Stone blackened and split. Archers screamed as their flesh blistered and burst. Others leapt from the ramparts in blind terror.
By the time Dustin and the Northmen stormed the gate, it was already a charred ruin.
The climb continued into the jungled crown of the mountain, where pirates attempted desperate ambushes. Dustin carved through them like a storm made flesh, his greatsword drinking deep. Knights from the Reach, the Riverlands, and the Stormlands joined the hunt, driving the pirates from cave to cave.
By sunset, resistance collapsed.
A hundred pirates lay dead; three hundred more surrendered. Over five hundred captives—women, children, and foreign slaves—were freed.
Many knelt before Daemon, shaking.
"You are no longer slaves," Daemon declared. "You will serve House Targaryen—not in chains but in purpose. Earn your place, and in time you may even find Dragonstone or King's Landing."
A Qartheen girl, pale as milkglass, bowed. "I was trained in Meereen as a bed slave, my prince. I would gladly serve you."
Another, from Pentos, smiled coyly. "I was once chosen as an Ocean Maiden during the New Year rites. My prince, I can—"
Before she finished, Princess Saera Targaryen elbowed forward, eyes glittering. "Daemon, leave these matters to me. Those who wish to serve may join the camp followers. The rest I'll see properly placed."
Daemon gave her a sharp look. "Willingly, Saera. Only willingly."
He assigned the freedfolk to labor, craftwork, hunting, and other trades—forming a new servant-army to support the campaign.
They also uncovered the true wealth of Pirate Hill:
sapphires, gold, electrum, chests of coins, silks, spices, emeralds—treasures stolen over generations. Daemon distributed part of it as reward to the most distinguished knights, Kingsguard, and Northmen.
The Dragons' Roost
As night fell, tents blossomed across the summit. Soldiers gathered fruit—blackberries, papayas, lemons—and fished from the deep pool. Daemon bit into a lemon, the bright scent cutting through the sulfurous air.
He and Gael moved their household into the largest cavern—the former residence of the pirate king. From there, tunnels branched into chambers he quickly turned into storerooms, barracks, and private quarters.
Then construction began.
Daemon chose the northern slope for his fortress. Laborers carved trenches; ships unloaded pure white Tarthian marble at the harbor below. Stone by stone, the foundations of Bloodstone Keep—Daemon's new Dragonstone—took shape.
On the ridge above the valley, Daemon and Corlys watched long lines of workers drag stone up the treacherous path.
Corlys exhaled sharply. "It is a good position—defensible, fertile, rich in water. But a castle? Built in wartime? With marble?"
Daemon smirked. "A dragon's seat must endure."
"Harrenhal took forty years. Storm's End even longer," Corlys muttered. "We stand at war with the Triarchy. Their scorpions and poisons were forged for one purpose alone—slaying dragons. Is building a castle beneath their gaze truly wise?"
Daemon looked toward the distant sea where enemy sails prowled beyond sight.
"It is not merely wise," he said softly.
"It will make the Stepstones ours forever."
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