Servant Ambrosius
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Interlude
🕑 Added 2024-08-12 07:00:44 +0000 UTCPlanetos, The Stepstones
107 AC
The War for the Stepstones. When Prince Daemon and Lord Corlys Velaryon had announced their intention to war against the pirates squatting over that chain of islands many had thought it to be a long, arduous war to be fought over the course of many years; after all, despite what the forces stationed there are called it is an open secret that they are supported by the Triarchy, an alliance of the Free Cities of Myr, Lys and Tyrosh, three colonial daughters of the Valyrian Freehold.
Yet contrary to popular belief the war has not lasted longer than a year and already all save one of the islands has already fallen under Prince Daemon’s forces with their commander, Prince-admiral Craghas Drahar, being personally beheaded by Prince Daemon not six moons into the conflict.
Despite this Prince Daemon is not the one whom the Triarchy fears most. No, that honor belongs to the four Targaryen bastards that accompany him. None know when Prince Daemon made their acquaintance nor their origin other than them being the bastard children of Saera Targaryen, the former princess of the Seven Kingdoms and King Jaehaerys’ daughter turned whore. A claim that many would doubt were they not accepted by Prince Daemon himself.
While they may not ride a dragon like the Prince himself, the four bastards of Princess Saera, affectionately named the Great Bastards by their allies are demons upon the battlefield the likes of which have never been seen before.
Graceful, quick, and as deadly as they are otherworldly beautiful, the Great Bastards have cultivated a reputation for being the deadliest foes to stumble upon regardless of the number of foes they face.
Aegon, the presumed leader of the Great Bastards, is a demon whose spear slithers through the gaps of his opponent’s armor like a viper. Jaehaerys, the youngest of the lot, moves gracefully and quickly in between foes, like a wraith set upon reaping as many lives as possible with his Valyrian steel sword. Rhaenys, the eldest, is as deadly, if not more so, than Aegon for her spear is coated in all manner of poisons with the effect varying each day per her mood. On the worst of days those who survive their wounds from her spear soon die from shitting their bowels out. The last, Daenerys, is no less dangerous despite her delicate appearance. After forcefully taking command of their archers, she forged them into a force capable of turning the tide of battle with their mere presence. With range and accuracy unheard of, the archers under her command have been able to force their enemies into favorable positions for her allies lest they be eradicated.
Of course that alone was not enough to completely suppress the Triarchy, for the Stepstones after all are full of caves and hidden holes to ambush any invaders. And Craghas Drahar is no duallard, quickly changing strategy to take advantage of the terrain. Unfortunately that strategy was short lived, for two moons after Prince-admiral Drahar adapted such strategies Jaehaerys returned to the war with a massive black direwolf in tow.
With fur as black as night and eyes as blue as the Ice-Dragon Star in the sky, the direwolf, aptly named shadow, and his companion Jaehaerys stalked the Triarchy’s forces out of their hiding holes and into the open where they were turned to ash by Prince Daemon’s dragon or slaughtered to a man by the forced led by the Great Bastards.
At sea the Triarchy did not fare better for Lord Corlys continually proved himself to truly be the Sea Snake by sinking ships after ships of the Triarchy.
Soon all that is left of the Triarchy is a pitiful force hiding within the caves of the innermost island, Torturer’s Deep.
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The sound of the war camps echoes through the air as Jaehaerys makes his way towards the command tent. The men, still not accustomed to Shadow’s presence, shy away from him for his direwolf is scarcely far from him.
Entering the command tent, a massive tent of red and black with the Targaryen flag hanging over, Aemon is met with the curious glances of the commanders of this army.
Lord Corlys, his brother Vaemond, and his son Laenor occupy one side of the table. Aegon and Daenerys share another side, Rhaenys stands by her lonesome awaiting him, while Daemon stands on his own at the last side.
“Well?” asks Vaemond impatiently, only to be ignored entirely by Jaehaerys who makes his way to Rhaenys while Shadow makes herself comfortable at the tent’s entrance.
“The remnants of the Triarchy seem to be under the belief that a fate worse than death awaits them should they surrender.” Jaehaerys says. “Of course they are not entirely wrong.” he adds with a shrug.
“So they refuse to surrender.” remarks Vaemond with a frown before turning to Rhaenys and Jaehaerys. “Of course who can blame them when our allies see fit to inflict the worst of fates regardless of surrender.” he sneers.
“If you wish to say something Vaemond then speak plainly. I tire of your doublespeak and back-handed compliments.” replies Jaehaerys.
“Very well.” says Vaemond as he looks at Jaehaerys before annunciating his words. “The command tent is no place for women and bastards.”
“Nor is it the place for whining children, and yet here you are.” replies Jaehaerys, drawing a chuckle from Rhaenys and Aegon and a frown from Vaemond.
“Enough.” commands Corlys before the situation can further deteriorate.
“How is it?” asks Daemon as he looks at the map on the table.
“Flushing them out is no issue.” says Jaehaerys, “However it seems that the caves here can lead to the elevated mounts. Should the archers appear here then it would leave us vulnerable to arrows.” Jaehaerys says.
“Let them. Seasmoke will burn them to ash.” says Leanor.
Before anyone can answer him a raven flies into the tent, circling over their heads while cawing. As Vaemond makes to shoot it down, Rhaenys stops him.
“That is one of my brother Aemon’s.” she says, causing him to glare at her.
“Impossible. Ravens can only be trained to fly from castle to castle.” says Vaemond.
“Perhaps those trained by Citadel can only do so. Aemon’s however can fly wherever he commands.” replies Daenerys as the raven lands on her outstretched arm.
“We will continue this meeting later.” commands Daemon as he pointedly looks at Corlys.
With a raised eyebrow Corlys leads Vaemond and Laenor out of the tent, leaving only Daemon and the bastards.
Seeing them leave Daenerys reaches out to take the note attached to the raven’s leg only for it to fly to Daemon in order to present him the message.
With a raised eyebrow Daemon unfurls the message with an amused smile on his lips. Aemon elected to stay in Westeros to keep an eye on the court and more importantly the leeches that suck his brother dry. For a year he did not send a single message yet now he sees fit to send a special raven commanded to deliver the message to him and him alone? Daemon is rightfully curious.
The curiosity only grows when he finds it written in cipher, and he quickly reaches for paper and ink to translate it to the underlying High Valyrian.
The translation does not take long, yet as he progresses in his task his previous amusement vanishes and the curiosity grows.
Daemon crumples the translation in his hand once he’s finished, still-drying ink staining his hands. He stands far too quickly, the blood rushing from his head to his pounding heart, leaving him dizzy.
“That bitch,” he says, but it emerges as a croak rather than the growl he could feel building in his chest and not far off he can hear Caraxes’ long whistling screech.
There is no throat to strangle, no gut to bury Dark Sister in, so he seizes the inkwell and hurls it into the ground, where it shatters against the hard shale, black ink spraying outward, but that was nothing, nowhere near enough, and the desk follows soon after, thrown hard enough against the side of the tent to take half the canvas with it.
Most of the men know when he is best left in peace and even Saera’s bastards do not approach him now, but one fool peers through the opening left by the desk. “Prince Daemon, are you—?” The man takes one look at his face, and disappears.
Daemon stares after him, breath ragged, the math already done. Five years. Five years the bitch has kept this from him, has stolen his child—children from him. His gaze falls on the crumpled paper and he picks it up off the ground, reading it over again. Sons. He has two sons who did not know him, who he would never hold as babes or teach to walk or ride or grip their first sword. Who have grown up orphans, in the loveless household of a Royce—the bitch’s nephew, whose face he could recall, pinched and cold, the very image of his aunt.
And Otto Hightower’s wretched hand all over it, grasping now to pull them forever out of reach. You would love that more than anything, wouldn’t you? Having my children raised to lick your boots for whatever scraps of affection they might find. Daemon thinks to himself
“I will kill him,” Daemon says, and it still is not a growl, but a whisper through teeth clenched so tight his jaw aches.
Do not worry about them. I will handle this. Aemon had written, but there is only one way to handle this and Daemon would not leave it to the hands of any other, no matter how capable those hands. No, he will handle it himself and may the Fourteen Flames have mercy on any who stands in his way for he will have none.
Mind made up, Daemon exits the tent and makes his way towards where Caraxes awaits, having long understood his intentions.
Author's Note: Here's the latest chapter. As usual, tell me what you guys think. I
