CHAPTER 97-"True Dragon Blood, the Gods' Chosen"
Bloodstone Island and the jagged massif the men now called Pirate Mountain had become Daemon's firm stronghold. Yet small, scattered remnants of the Triarchy still lurked across Bloodstone—half-starved sellswords in groups of three or five, hiding in barren hills or abandoned smuggler dens.
The Stepstones had always been a haven for pirates. Many men in the Ironborn longships, Velaryon fleets, and Sistermen galleys had once flown black flags themselves. With the help of Luke — a native smuggler who knew every hidden cove — Daemon swiftly learned which barren ridges sheltered the fugitives.
This morning, his attendants helped him don his dark red armor.
Tyland Lannister tightened the straps.
Tom Staunton and Matthos Tyrell armed him.
Laenor Velaryon offered the last piece — the famed Valyrian steel blade Dark Sister.
Laena Velaryon draped a scaled cloak across his shoulders. She moved with ease among the dragons; her blood sang the same ancient song.
Outside, Caraxes roared, scarlet scales shining like newly polished mail.
Silverwing descended in a slow, regal glide.
Vermithor landed with a thunderous impact that cracked stone.
Dreamfyre circled once before folding her slender wings.
Even Seasmoke — Laenor's former mount — settled obediently near Daemon, humming like a restless cat.
Even Daemon's bravest aides swallowed hard.
Only Laena smiled, and Gael's presence close by kept the air calm.
The Velaryons had sent Laena to serve Gael, hoping she might bond with Silverwing or Vermithor. They did not realize Daemon already held the hearts of those dragons with a bond far older than any "skill" — the strange, burning thread between Valyrian blood and the whispering Old Gods whose roots now twined through Daemon's veins.
The great dragons of Jaehaerys and Alysanne had been mountains of fire and memory. Entering their minds had once nearly shattered Daemon — splitting pain, bones melting, blood burning.
But after the blood sacrifice beneath the Heart Tree — criminals offered to the old gods as Northern justice — things had changed.
Everything had changed.
The godswood no longer smiled.
Its faces shifted: some sorrowful, some hateful, some serene.
Reddish sap seeped from carved eyes like tears.
Daemon stood under the crimson canopy, flanked by Alys Rivers and Terra Uller — two shadows, two witches, both tied to ancient, half-forgotten powers.
"When I first saw them," Daemon said quietly, "the faces were smiling. Now they are not. Is this how they were before? Or have they changed again?"
Alys Rivers' lips curved.
"The Old Gods show only what they wish mortals to see."
Daemon traced the rough bark. A faint tremor ran through his fingers — not warmth, but awareness.
"Will this power last?" he asked. "Or will it fade?"
Terra's eyes gleamed.
"All flames die. All tides fall. Magic waxes and wanes — unless fed properly. The wild tribes beyond the Wall bleed men for folly. You bled men with purpose."
Daemon said nothing. Purpose or not, the memory sat heavy.
To the west, a sept was rising — stone walls slowly climbing. Septons with crystal pendants listened to confessions while septas tended the wounded. A strange sight beneath weirwoods.
Alys Rivers scoffed.
"You give space to Seven worship? Those gods are empty masks."
"Gael suggested it," Daemon replied. "And she is not wrong. I need knights and lords to trust that I have not abandoned the Seven entirely."
Even Aegon the Conqueror bowed before the High Septon to unify Westeros. Faith was power, whether true or false.
Daemon's domain tolerated all beliefs — Old Gods, Seven, the Drowned God, the fiery R'hllor, the masked gods of Lys and Tyrosh, even the strange Summer Island spirits. Unity needed room, not narrow doctrine.
After prayers, Daemon walked toward the dragons.
Caraxes crouched low, inviting him to mount.
Laena approached, bright-eyed.
"Prince Daemon, once the last pirates are gone… will you search for Vhagar?"
Daemon smiled.
"Aye. We shall bring her home."
Vhagar had vanished after Prince Baelon's funeral. Some whispered she hunted the open sea; others thought she nested somewhere in the Stepstones.
Laena's voice was hopeful.
"Perhaps she found a cavern big enough?"
Daemon laughed.
"Vhagar is larger than the Dragonpit, child. She does not hide. She waits."
Laena tended Gael's sons daily — little Aegon and little Jaehaerys adored her. Her presence softened Velaryon hostility and closed old rifts. And Daemon knew Laena's fate from another life — the bond with Vhagar that would one day shake the world.
But this timeline was his to shape.
Before Daemon mounted, another figure approached:
Princess Saera Targaryen, the once-disgraced daughter of King Jaehaerys — not Saenella, not a parody, but Saera as she should be. Bright-eyed, dangerous, charming, unpredictable.
She came with her brood of beautiful bastard sons.
"Dear nephew," Saera purred, "might my boys serve in your Dragon Guard? The world is cruel to sons without fathers."
Daemon studied the youths.
Some dark, some silver-haired, some strikingly handsome — but lineage uncertain, bastardy clear. Westeros cared little for Saera's stories of princes, khalasars, and foreign consorts. Her sons were her shadow — ambitious, hungry, unpredictable.
Daemon's voice was measured.
"The Dragon Guard is perilous. Too perilous for boys. But the Kingsguard needs pages and squires."
Saera beamed, radiant.
"You truly are my good nephew."
Her sons complained about their "destinies" — khal warriors, Summer Isle captains, emperors of Old Valyria — childish dreams Daemon ignored.
When Saera finally herded them away, Daemon mounted Caraxes.
With a command in High Valyrian, the Blood Wyrm launched skyward.
Princess Rhaenys rose beside him atop Meleys, red and radiant.
Dragons wheeled overhead in widening circles — Silverwing streaming gold in the sun, Vermithor a mountain of bronze fury, Dreamfyre a streak of pale blue flame, Seasmoke darting like quicksilver.
Their shadows engulfed the valley.
Men on the roads dropped tools.
Workers paused in awe.
Mercenaries, knights, freedfolk, and fishermen all looked skyward as if witnessing the birth of a new age.
A rainbow arched above Daemon — sunlight on mist, coincidence to skeptics, a sign to believers.
The monks whispered,
"He is touched by the Seven."
Rodrik Dustin murmured,
"No. The Old Gods ride with him."
An Ironborn priest declared,
"He is the Drowned God's chosen."
In that moment, to every army on the Stepstones, Daemon Targaryen was no longer merely prince, warrior, or dragonrider.
He was the one who carried
fire in his blood,
the gods at his shoulders,
and destiny beneath his wings.
The gods' chosen.
The True Dragon.
.---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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