Early 106 ACLaenor stood at the window of his chambers, watching the waves crash against the cliffs below High Tide. The year had turned to 106 AC, and with it came a whirlwind of change that had swept through the Seven Kingdoms like a summer storm.
The previous year had been one of tragedy and turmoil. Queen Aemma Arryn had died in childbirth, leaving King Viserys devastated and Princess Rhaenyra motherless. The realm had mourned, but the political consequences had been swift and brutal. Prince Daemon had allegedly toasted to "the heir for a day," mocking his brother's dead son, and Viserys had banished him to Dragonstone in a rage.Then had come the summons for House Velaryon to attend court and swear fealty to Rhaenyra as heir to the Iron Throne and Princess of Dragonstone. Laenor had watched his parents depart with a strange mix of trepidation and excitement, wondering what changes would follow their return.
They had come back three weeks later, his father's face like a thundercloud, his mother's expression carefully neutral but her eyes flashing with suppressed fury.
"Absolute disgrace," Corlys had growled, pacing the length of the great hall while servants hurried to bring wine and refreshments. "To be summoned to court like common vassals, only to be dismissed as if our blood means nothing."
Laenor had exchanged glances with Laena, who seemed equally confused by their father's rage.
"Viserys is remarrying," Rhaenys had explained, her voice tight with controlled anger. "To Alicent Hightower."
"The Hand's daughter?" Laenor had asked, remembering the quiet, bookish girl who had occasionally visited court.
His father's fist had slammed onto the table, making the goblets jump. "And when your mother suggested that Laena would make a more suitable match - blood of the dragon, rider of Vhagar, the king dismissed the idea out of hand. Said she was too young."
"The Hightowers have Otto's ear, and through him, the king's," Rhaenys had said coldly. "Our blood is too pure, our power too great. They fear what a union with House Velaryon would mean."
Laenor had remained silent during this exchange, privately relieved that his sister wouldn't be married off to the portly king. The thought of his fourteen-year-old sister in the bed of a thirty-year-old man, king or not, made his stomach turn. The modern sensibilities he'd carried from his previous life found such arrangements barbaric, regardless of the political advantages they might bring.
"Let them have their Hightower queen," Laenor had said finally. "We have dragons, we have ships, we have wealth. We don't need royal marriages to secure our position."
His father had looked at him with a mixture of pride and frustration. "You don't understand the game, boy. It's not about need, it's about power and perception."
Now, as Laenor watched the waves below, he reflected on how quickly the political landscape had shifted. The Hightowers were ascendant, the Velaryons slighted, and somewhere on Dragonstone, Daemon Targaryen brooded over his exile.
But despite the political turmoil, Laenor's personal journey had been one of remarkable progress. At twelve, he stood taller than most boys his age, his silver-gold hair falling to his shoulders in waves that caught the light when he moved. His body had begun to fill out from the physical labor of shipbuilding and sailing, muscles developing along his arms and shoulders.
And Seasmoke - his dragon had grown at a rate that astonished even his parents. The silver-gray beast now stretched nearly one hundred and twenty feet from snout to tail, his wingspan casting shadows large enough to cover a small ship. He was approaching Meleys's size, though still not equal to the Red Queen's bulk and power.
The bond between them had deepened as well, becoming almost a second consciousness within Laenor's mind. Through it, he could feel Seasmoke's emotions, his needs, his desires. At night, when the castle grew quiet, Laenor would sit cross-legged on the floor of his chambers, closing his eyes and focusing on the flow of mana through his body.
He would channel it deliberately through their connection, feeling it pour into Seasmoke like water into a dry riverbed. The dragon would accept it greedily, growing stronger with each passing night, their bond thickening until it felt less like a connection and more like shared existence.
"You're getting too big for your cave," Laenor murmured, watching as Seasmoke circled above the cliffs. The dragon had taken to sleeping on the eastern beaches now, where the sand was softer and the space more accommodating for his massive frame.
The voyages had been the true education. His father had kept his word, allowing Laenor to sail with Captain Xhala to Oldtown. The journey had been everything he'd hoped for—the salt spray on his face, the creak of timbers beneath his feet, the endless horizon that promised adventure.
They had spent a fortnight in Oldtown, and Laenor had been awed by the Hightower, a structure so tall it seemed to pierce the very heavens. He'd walked the streets of the ancient city, marveling at the architecture, the scholars, the bustling port that rivaled even Spicetown.
Most importantly, he had found what he was looking for.
The lodestone had been a small thing, unremarkable to anyone who didn't know what to look for. A merchant from the Summer Islands had brought it as a curiosity, a "magic rock" that drew iron to it like a lover's embrace. When Laenor had seen it in Spicetown's port, his heart had nearly stopped.
He had paid the man three gold dragons for it, a fortune for such a small stone - but to Laenor, it was worth every coin. The rough, pitted surface felt warm beneath his fingers, the stone heavier than it appeared. When he held it near a pile of iron filings, they leapt toward it as if alive.
Now it sat on a velvet cloth in his private study, a small altar to possibility. Beside it lay his experiments, dozens of steel needles, each carefully magnetized by stroking them against the stone in one direction. The iron ones had lost their charge too quickly, but steel held the magnetism for days, sometimes weeks.
The compass was taking shape in his mind. A small, sealed vessel filled with oil to dampen the needle's movement, marked with the cardinal directions. Simple, elegant, revolutionary. With such a device, ships could navigate through storms, through fog, through the darkest nights when the stars were hidden.
He had shown no one yet. His father had been too consumed with the political situation, too angered by the king's rejection to notice Laenor's quiet obsession.
The thought was interrupted by a sharp nudge across his bond with Seasmoke. Images flooded his mind, a massive red dragon with sinuous, serpentine features, its wings spread wide as it descended toward Driftmark. Astride the beast sat a lean, silver-haired man with a distinctive Valyrian profile.
Daemon Targaryen. Riding Caraxes.
Laenor frowned, setting down the steel needle he'd been magnetizing. What would the Rogue Prince want at High Tide? The man had been banished to Dragonstone for his callous remarks about the king's dead son, and relations between the Velaryons and the crown had been strained since the Hightower betrothal.
Still, curiosity pulled at him. He slipped the lodestone into its protective pouch and tucked it into his pocket before heading outside.
The courtyard was already filling with servants and guards, their faces upturned to the sky. Laenor leaned against a column, watching as Caraxes circled High Tide, the dragon's distinctive blood-red scales catching the afternoon sunlight. The beast was enormous, nearly two hundred feet from snout to tail-tip, with a wingspan that cast a shadow large enough to cover half the courtyard.
Caraxes announced his presence with a thunderous roar that shook the very stones beneath Laenor's feet.
It sent servants scattering like startled birds, several dropping whatever they'd been carrying in their haste to clear the landing area.
"Quite the entrance," came a soft voice beside him. Aunt Gael appeared, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders as she gazed upward. Her silver-gold hair was arranged in an elaborate braid, and she wore a simple blue gown that made her violet eyes seem to glow.
"The Rogue Prince does enjoy making an impression," Laenor replied.
His father strode out next, followed by his mother whose face was set in a frown that could curdle milk. Lord Corlys looked intrigued rather than concerned. He’s not surprised.
Caraxes circled lower, his serpentine body coiling and uncoiling in midair with fluid grace. The dragon's wings beat powerfully as he descended, each downstroke sending gusts of wind that whipped at clothing and hair. Laenor had to admit the beast was magnificent - all deadly beauty and lethal grace.
The Blood Wyrm landed with surprising delicacy for a creature his size, claws scraping against the flagstones as he settled his considerable weight. Steam rose from his nostrils, forming small clouds in the cool afternoon air.
Daemon slid from the dragon's back with practiced ease, his movements fluid and confident. His silver-gold hair was cut shorter than the last time Laenor had seen him, falling just past his ears in a style that emphasized his sharp cheekbones and strong jaw. The rogue prince wore black leather armor adorned with red dragon scales - Targaryen colors, but with a more martial edge than the finery he typically sported at court.
His eyes, when they swept across the courtyard, were sharp and assessing, missing nothing. Exile seemed to have done nothing to diminish his spirit or confidence. If anything, the prince carried himself with even greater assurance than before.
"Lord Corlys," Daemon called, striding forward with that distinctive swagger that had made him both celebrated and feared throughout the realm. "We have matters of great importance that we must discuss."
He approached Laenor's father first, clasping the older man's arm in a warrior's greeting. Then he turned to Rhaenys, taking her hands and kissing each cheek with practiced charm.
"Cousin," he said, his voice carrying that distinctive Valyrian lilt, "you are looking radiant as ever."
Rhaenys's expression remained guarded, though she didn't pull away from his greeting. "Cousin Daemon. Your arrival is unexpected."
Daemon's grin widened as he moved to Aunt Gael, bending to kiss her cheek. "Aunt," he said, his voice dropping to a more intimate register, "your beauty continues to grow by the day. The salt air of Driftmark becomes you."
Gael's cheeks flushed pink, but her voice was sharp when she responded. "Daemon."
The prince merely smiled, seemingly unbothered by her rebuff. Then his gaze fell on Laenor, and his grin grew even wider, showing teeth that seemed almost predatory.
"Ah, the young Velaryon heir," Daemon said, approaching with measured steps. "You've grown, boy, but how much is the question." His eyes, the same violet as Laenor's own, assessed him with uncomfortable intensity. "Still playing with toy ships, or have you learned to sail the real ones?"
Laenor met the prince's gaze without flinching. "I've been to Oldtown and back twice now. Though I hear Dragonstone is quite the destination these days. The weather must be lovely in exile."
Daemon threw his head back and roared with laughter, the sound genuine despite its sharp edges. "Quick as ever, young Velaryon. Your mother's wit and your father's ambition, a dangerous combination."
"Come, Daemon," Lord Corlys said, gesturing toward the main keep. "We'll go to my solar." He hesitated, then added with a glance at Laenor, "Laenor, come with us."
Daemon raised an eyebrow but said nothing, his expression momentarily unreadable. Then he nodded once, sharply, and fell into step beside Corlys as they moved toward the castle.
Laenor followed, his mind racing with possibilities. What could have brought the Rogue Prince to Driftmark? And why would his father want him present for the discussion? At twelve, he was still considered too young for most political matters, despite his position as heir.
As they walked, Laenor felt Seasmoke's curiosity through their bond. The dragon was watching from the cliffs, having sensed Caraxes's arrival. Through their connection, Laenor sent a reassuring pulse—all was well, for now.
The solar was Lord Corlys's private domain, a circular room with windows facing the sea on three sides. Maps and charts covered one wall, while shelves of books and scrolls lined another. A massive desk of dark mahogany dominated the center, its surface cluttered with correspondence, ship designs, and navigational instruments.
"Wine?" Corlys offered, moving to a sideboard where several decanters stood.
"Please," Daemon replied, settling into one of the chairs before the desk without waiting for an invitation. He stretched his legs out before him, the very picture of casual confidence despite his unexpected arrival.
Laenor remained standing near the door, uncertain of his role in this meeting. His father poured three goblets of deep red wine, handing one to Daemon before offering the second to Laenor with a meaningful look.
"Sit," Corlys said, gesturing to a chair beside Daemon's. "What you hear today concerns your future as well as mine."
Laenor took the offered seat, holding the goblet carefully. The wine was Arbor gold, he noted, his father's favorite. Whatever this meeting was about, Lord Corlys was treating it with seriousness.
Daemon took a long drink, his eyes never leaving Laenor's face. "So the boy is to be included in our discussions. Interesting choice, cousin."
"He is no longer a boy," Corlys replied, taking his place behind the desk. "He has proven himself on sea and in the air. And he is my heir."
"The heir to Driftmark," Daemon mused, swirling the wine in his goblet. "And dragonrider.”
"Get to your point, Daemon," Rhaenys interjected, having followed them into the solar. She remained standing, her arms crossed over her chest. "You didn't fly all the way from Dragonstone to discuss my son's dragon."
"No," Daemon agreed, setting his goblet down and leaning forward. Daemon's hand clenched his goblet so tightly Laenor feared the delicate crystal might shatter. "Viserys, the beloved fool of a brother, has chosen to marry a Hightower," he spat, his voice sharp with contempt. "Sullying our Valyrian blood with Andal dirt."
Corlys's expression remained unchanged, but Laenor knew his father agreed with Daemon. Both men had grudges with Viserys, for different reasons. His father still seethed over the king's rejection of a match with Laena, while Daemon nursed the wounds of exile and perceived slights.
"But I have come to discuss something else," Daemon said, setting down his goblet with deliberate care. "The Stepstones."
Laenor leaned forward, intrigued despite himself. The Stepstones had been a constant topic of discussion in his father's council chambers, but always as a problem, never a solution.
"Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh have grown bold as of late," Daemon continued, his eyes gleaming with that familiar fire that made men either follow him into battle or flee from his path. "And I think it's time we took the Stepstones for ourselves."
Corlys's eyebrow arched slightly, the only indication of his interest.
"Think of the free flowing trade," Daemon pressed, gesturing expansively with one hand. "The glory to be gained, and more importantly, humiliating the Triarchy.”
Laenor's mind raced through the implications. The Stepstones were situated at an incredibly valuable strategic chokepoint. The Narrow Sea could be rough in autumn when storms were common. In winter, the storms were worse but less frequent. The stormlands were especially hit hard by storms which developed in the warmer waters of the Summer Sea to the south. It was suggested that a journey from the Shield Islands to the far side of the narrow sea was so hazardous in autumn that two-thirds of a fleet might be lost in the attempt. Trading galleys were sometimes better off crossing in the safety of the Stepstones.
This meant that sailing through the Stepstones was the safest route to go, because of the predictability. The Stepstones, including Bloodstone and Grey Gallows, divided the narrow sea from the Summer Sea to the south. Tyrosh was on the northeasternmost of the Stepstones. The sea lanes of the Stepstones could control travel to and from the narrow sea.
If you wanted to travel and trade with Qarth, Yi Ti, and Leng, the Stepstones needed to be a friendly place to travel.
Tolls had been increasing significantly in recent years. The avarice of Craghas Drakor, and his Lysene and Tyroshi admirals had driven up the tolls via the Stepstones to outrageous levels.
"You propose war," Corlys said flatly, though there was an undercurrent of interest in his voice.
"I propose liberation," Daemon countered, his smile sharp as a Valyrian steel blade. "The Triarchy's pirates have grown fat on our tolls for too long. Their greed strangles the flow of trade that benefits all of us."
"And what would be our role in this... liberation?" Rhaenys asked, her voice carefully neutral.
Daemon's eyes gleamed. "House Velaryon commands the finest fleet in the Seven Kingdoms. With your ships and my dragon, we could drive the Triarchy from the Stepstones.
"And what of the Crown?" Laenor asked, finding his voice. "Would the king support such an action?"
Daemon's laugh was bitter. "My brother is too busy playing with his models and doting on his new Hightower bride to concern himself with the realities of power. But the Stepstones would enrich the realm, not just House Velaryon."
Corlys studied Daemon for a long moment. "And what would you gain from this venture, Prince Daemon? Glory? Redemption in your brother's eyes?"
"Freedom," Daemon replied simply. "A realm of my own making, rather than one granted by my brother's favor."
Laenor watched his father's face, trying to read the thoughts behind those weathered features. Lord Corlys had always been ambitious, but also pragmatic. Taking the Stepstones would be a massive undertaking, requiring resources, ships, and men that could be lost if the campaign failed.
"The Triarchy is not to be underestimated," Corlys said finally. "Their fleet is substantial, and their commanders experienced."
"Which is why we need dragons," Daemon countered, gesturing toward the window where Caraxes and Seasmoke could be seen circling each other in the distance. "Your daughter commands Vhagar, the oldest and most fearsome dragon in the world. Your son rides Seasmoke, who grows stronger by the day. Rhaenys has Meleys, and I have Caraxes."
Laenor felt a thrill of excitement at the thought. Three dragons against the Triarchy's fleet would be devastating. The Stepstones could be secured, the tolls abolished, and trade would flow freely again.
Laenor's mind raced with possibilities. The Stepstones campaign would be dangerous, yes, but also an opportunity to prove himself in a way that went beyond sailing and dragonriding. He would be part of a military operation, learning strategy and tactics from experienced commanders.
He could see Rhaenys was on the verge of saying something, her lips parting as she prepared to object. Daemon raised a hand, forestalling her words.
Daemon leaned forward, his voice dropping to a silken purr. "But I would not ask you to risk your dragons in this venture."
"I need your men, and the score of young men across Westeros who would be all too eager to wage war."
Corlys's eyes flashed with interest, and his mind was calculating the various possibilities. He tapped his fingers against the desk, the sound like distant drumbeats in the quiet solar.
"We will discuss this further in private," he said finally, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Laenor straightened in his chair, his mind racing with the implications. The Stepstones had been a thorn in his father's side for years, their tolls cutting deeply into House Velaryon's profits. A campaign to seize them would be dangerous, but the rewards...
"Laenor," Corlys said, turning his attention to his son. "We will discuss this later."
Laenor bowed his head in acknowledgment. "Of course, Father."
But Laenor knew war was on the horizon. The only question was what would his role be in the war. Would he be sent to fight alongside his father's men? Would he and Seasmoke be called upon to rain fire upon the Triarchy's ships?
"Laenor," his father said, interrupting his thoughts, "we will convene the council tomorrow. Meet me tomorrow morning."
"Yes, Father." Laenor rose from his chair, understanding he was being dismissed. As he turned to leave, Daemon caught his eye, a knowing smirk playing across the prince's lips.
"Your son has grown into quite the young man, Corlys," Daemon observed, his voice carrying clearly across the solar. "He reminds me of myself at that age."
"You flatter me, Prince Daemon," Laenor said, keeping his voice neutral despite his discomfort. "Though I hope I've inherited more than just your looks."
Daemon laughed, the sound sharp and genuine. "Oh, you've got your mother's wit as well. A dangerous combination."
Laenor bowed slightly to his parents and the prince before making his exit. The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving him alone in the corridor. He leaned against the wall, his mind whirling with the implications of what he'd just heard.
The Stepstones campaign would be his first taste of true warfare. His voyages to Oldtown had been peaceful journeys, educational rather than dangerous. This would be different. Men would die. Ships would burn. And he would be expected to contribute.
Through his bond, he felt Seasmoke's curiosity, the dragon sensing his turmoil. Laenor sent back a reassuring pulse, though his own thoughts were far from settled.
As he walked toward his chambers, Laenor found himself thinking of the compass. The device was nearly complete, a small wooden box with a magnetized needle floating in oil, the cardinal directions marked in his careful hand. He had planned to present it to his father before the next major voyage, a gift that would transform navigation forever.
But now, with war looming, the compass took on new importance. In battle, knowing direction could mean the difference between victory and defeat. If ships could maintain formation despite fog or darkness, they would have a significant advantage over their enemies.
Laenor quickened his pace, suddenly eager to return to his workshop. There was still work to be done before the war council tomorrow. If he was going to play a role in this campaign, he would need to be prepared.
The corridor seemed longer than usual, each step bringing him closer to decisions that would shape his future. War. The word echoed in his mind, heavy with consequence. He was twelve years old, still a boy by most measures. Yet he rode a dragon, commanded the sea, and now stood at the threshold of battle.
When he reached his chambers, Laenor went straight to the small table where his compass lay. The needle quivered as he approached, drawn by the lodestone in his pocket. He opened the box, studying the delicate instrument with new eyes.
This small creation could change the course of a battle, perhaps even a war.
Laenor sat at his desk, pulling out parchment and quill. If war was coming, he would need more than just a compass. His mind raced with possibilities, improved ship designs, better weapons, strategies that could give them an edge against the Triarchy.
He began to sketch, his hand moving with newfound purpose. The Stepstones campaign would be dangerous, yes, but it was also an opportunity. For House Velaryon. For his father. And most importantly, for himself.