CHAPTER 96-"Blood for the Old Gods, Fire for the Dragons"
The northernmost ridge of Pirate Mountain rose like a spearpoint into the sky—its crown sharp enough to seem forged, not carved by wind and time. Below that stark peak, Daemon Targaryen had chosen a cavern system as the dragons' new roost. The air was warm from volcanic veins beneath the earth; steam clung to the dark stone like a breath held for centuries.
Outside the cavern mouth, Dragon Guards under Captain Delaine kept constant watch. Caraxes loomed behind them, scales smoldering in the ruddy light. Seasmoke, Dreamfyre, Silverwing, and Vermithor rested deeper inside, each dragon claiming a hollow as naturally as wolves taking dens.
Daemon walked among them daily, speaking in High Valyrian—not as one might command a beast, but as a prince speaking to old friends. The dragons understood him. He felt it in the way their pupils tightened, their breaths eased, their bodies inclined.
Caraxes in particular sometimes leaned close and dragged his rough tongue across Daemon's crimson armor, leaving a wet streak that steamed in the warm air.
To the east, beyond a low ridge, a godswood clung to the mountainside—something no maester's map had ever shown. A dozen pale weirwoods rose in a tight cluster, their red leaves rustling like whispering hands. Faces carved long ago peered from the white trunks: some solemn, some sorrowful, some faintly smiling.
Daemon ran a gloved hand along a trunk.
"A godswood in the Stepstones… The world hides stranger secrets than any archmaester dares write."
Alys Rivers stepped beside him, her voice low and musical. "In the Dawn Age, this was the Arm of Dorne—a land bridge between continents. The First Men crossed here, driving their herds. They brought bronze axes and foreign gods… and war."
She touched a red leaf between her fingers.
"The Children of the Forest remember. In their tales, weirwood groves once lined the Arm from shore to shore."
Terra Uller added quietly, "When the Children shattered the land bridge—whether by spell or storm—many groves drowned, but a few remained on the rising islands."
Daemon had heard a dozen versions of the tale. He believed none fully and doubted none completely. Something ancient lingered here; he could taste it in the still air.
The Camp on the Heights
Below the ridge, the summit teemed with life.
Workmen hauled timber, stone, and iron up the serpent-path that wound to the plateau. The foundations of Daemon's new fortress—Bloodstone Keep—were already taking shape: trenches dug, marble blocks stacked, scaffolds rising.
Warm springs flowed nearby, perfect for bathing and washing. The young women who tended the wounded wore white robes pinned with the sigil of Daemon's newly founded Dragon Academy at Blackwater Bay. Their presence had saved dozens from dying of infected wounds.
But labour and war drew darker appetites as well.
When Daemon returned from inspecting the western ridge, Captain Delaine knelt before him, face grim.
"My prince… another assault. One of the nurses."
Daemon's jaw hardened. "Bring Lord Dustin. We will settle this now."
Judgment Beneath the Heart Tree
The weirwood grove filled with soldiers, freedfolk, knights, and smallfolk. Daemon stood before the Heart Tree, its carved face watching with ancient, impassive eyes. Lord Roderick Dustin, the Wolf of Barrowton, stood at his side—tall, grey, cold as the North.
Women stepped forward one by one, naming the men who had attacked them. Some accused mercenaries. Others named sellswords or drunken squires.
But one name drew a hush across the grove:
Ser Martin Strong.
A broad-shouldered knight stepped forward, sneer fixed on his face. "I only lay with a woman from Lys. A slave. And I'll pay her for it." He shook a purse heavy with coin.
Daemon's voice went cold.
"You will not purchase forgiveness with coin that is already confiscated."
Two guards seized him. Martin Strong struggled, shouting his lineage, his service, his connections.
"I am cousin to Lord Lyonel Strong of Harrenhal! The Sea Snake himself can speak for me!"
All eyes turned to Lord Corlys Velaryon.
Corlys exhaled, weary and disappointed.
"Genetically—yes. He is a Strong. But by ruling of King Jaehaerys… he bears the name Waters. His father was Lucamore the Lustful." The words fell like a hammer. "He has no right to call himself Strong."
The grove exploded in whispers. Even young squires knew the tale of Lucamore—Kingsguard knight, three secret wives, sixteen children, and eventual castration before exile to the Wall.
Martin Waters went pale.
Daemon flicked the Valyrian steel dagger in his hand, its dark surface catching the red glow of weirwood leaves.
"You wear a stolen name. You preyed on the women under my protection. You mock justice in my camp."
Martin spat blood and desperation. "You cannot kill me!"
Daemon stepped forward, voice low and lethal.
"You're right."
Then he leaned close.
"I can do far worse."
Blood for the Old Gods
The punishment of the North had been explained to Daemon only hours before: castration, then exile.
But when Martin Waters broke loose in a panic and kicked Daemon, something in the prince sharpened like a blade drawn too quickly.
Lord Dustin caught the man with effortless strength and drove him to the ground.
And Daemon made his choice.
Before the grove could breathe, the Valyrian dagger flashed.
Castration, swift and merciless.
Then a slash down the chest—clean, practiced, absolute.
The grove recoiled.
Men whispered prayers.
A few dropped to their knees and retched.
Daemon spoke, voice ringing.
"All guilty of rape—face Northern justice."
The Northern warriors moved as one.
Steel flashed.
Cries rose, then died as quickly.
Bodies were opened, chests split, organs hung on the low boughs of the Heart Tree—echoing ancient rites long abandoned by most, remembered by few.
The white bark drank red.
And though rational minds insisted it was only shifting light, only imagination—many swore the carved faces of the weirwoods seemed to smile.
Even the Northerners stared, shaken.
In the camp, people whispered Daemon's name like one speaks of gods.
That night, no woman slept in fear.
No man dared break the prince's law.
Fire's Blessing
The days after the sacrifice hummed with strange energy.
Daemon felt the dragons more keenly—felt the rhythm of their hearts, the rise and fall of their breaths. His bond with Caraxes deepened until it was almost a shared skin.
Above Pirate Mountain, Silverwing and Vermithor danced in the sky, wheeling together in mating flight. On the fourth day, Silverwing retreated to the cavern and laid a warm, glowing clutch of eggs.
Dreamfyre followed days later, inseparable from Caraxes as if something in the mountain had awakened ancient instincts.
Daemon and Gael knelt beside Dreamfyre's clutch as heat shimmered through the stone.
Gael's eyes shone. "The gods have blessed this place. Dragons thrive here."
Daemon touched the eggs gently, reverently.
"Bloodstone Island… the third cradle of dragons."
And for the first time since setting foot on the Stepstones, Daemon felt something more powerful than conquest stirring in his chest:
Legacy.
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