Chapter 12: Chapter 12: The Rogue Prince’s Attention
A day after the burial, I was summoned to Lord Corlys Velaryon’s command tent.
The message came in the morning, delivered by a Velaryon officer whose manner had changed noticeably since our arrival. When we had first reached Bloodstone, the men of House Velaryon had looked upon the Dread Legion with curiosity and caution, as one might look upon a blade bought from a foreign market.
Useful, perhaps, but not yet trusted. Now, as Vaeron and I made our way through the rows of tents, those same men stepped aside with nods of acknowledgement.
Some offered quiet words of respect. Others simply touched fists to their chests or inclined their heads as we passed. Their eyes lingered on me, not with suspicion, but recognition. They had seen me walk into the dunes alone. They had watched the Crabfeeder’s men swarm around me. They had heard the roar when I raised his severed head above the ridge.
My daring, insane plan had paid off. That was what they saw.
They did not see the mass grave. They did not see the names written in Dick’s ledger. They did not feel the horror that still stirred in my stomach whenever I remembered the weight of the Crabfeeder’s head on World Breaker’s point. To them, I was the sellsword captain who had ended the stalemate at Bloodstone. To them, I was brave. Perhaps even heroic.
The thought made me uncomfortable.
Vaeron noticed, of course. He always noticed too much. "You look as though their respect offends you," he said quietly.
"It does not offend me."
"Then what?"
I glanced at the soldiers watching us from beside a row of supply tents. One of them, his arm wrapped in bandages, nodded to me with unmistakable admiration.
"It feels heavier than I expected," I said.
Vaeron was silent for a moment. "Respect usually is."
We continued up the hill toward the command tent, where the seahorse banners of House Velaryon snapped in the sea wind. The tent stood larger than the others, surrounded by guards, officers, and messengers moving with urgency.
The campaign had not ended with the Crabfeeder’s death. Men still needed orders, ships needed repairs, wounded needed tending, and the Triarchy’s remaining forces still lingered like broken teeth across the Stepstones.
Before we reached the entrance, an imposing figure stepped into our path.
Daemon Targaryen.
He stood with the careless confidence of a man who believed every space belonged to him the moment he entered it. His long pale hair shifted in the wind, his armour still marked by smoke and battle, and his eyes fixed on me with that familiar mixture of amusement and threat. Caraxes was nowhere in sight, but somehow the prince carried the creature’s danger with him.
His hand came down on my shoulder before I could enter the tent. It was not a friendly gesture. "I hear you offered yourself as bait in that ridiculous plan of yours," he said coldly.
I kept my face calm. "Yes, my prince."
Daemon’s grip tightened slightly, just enough to remind me that the hand resting on my shoulder was still capable of becoming a fist. His eyes searched mine, perhaps looking for fear, arrogance, or some reason to dislike me more openly.
Then his mouth curved into a wicked grin. "Very well done," he said. "Perhaps you are useful after all."
Vaeron stiffened beside me. I did not move.
Daemon leaned closer, his voice lowering. "If you are staying in Westeros, I may have a need for capable men like you."
That was when I realised we had gained something far more dangerous than Prince Daemon’s scorn. We had gained his attention.
Dislike could be managed. Scorn could be endured. Daemon’s interest, however, was another matter entirely. A man like him did not notice others without eventually trying to use them. If we remained in Westeros too long, the Dread Legion might find itself drawn into schemes that had nothing to do with contracts and everything to do with pride, blood, and fire.
I bowed my head slightly. "Your consideration honours me, my prince."
His grin widened, as though he heard the caution beneath the courtesy and enjoyed it." Does it?" he asked.
"It would be foolish not to be honoured by the attention of a Targaryen prince."
Daemon laughed softly. "Careful, Captain. You almost sound sincere."
"Almost is often enough."
For a heartbeat, I wondered if I had gone too far. Then Daemon’s grin sharpened, and he removed his hand from my shoulder. "Go on, then," he said. "The Sea Snake is waiting."
I gave another brief nod and stepped past him with Vaeron at my side. Only once we were inside the tent did I allow myself to breathe properly.
Vaeron leaned slightly closer. "I do not like that."
"Neither do I."
"He looked at you like a man deciding where to place a knife."
"That may be how he looks at everyone."
"That does not make it better."
No, I thought, it did not.
Inside the tent, Laenor Velaryon was the first to greet me. He crossed the space quickly and clasped my arm with open enthusiasm, his grip firm despite the exhaustion still visible beneath his eyes.
"Captain Galeris," he said. "I have seen men boast of impossible deeds all my life. Few actually manage one."
"I was fortunate, my lord."
"You were half-dead and surrounded," Laenor replied. "Fortune alone did not carry you out of those caves."
Corlys stood at the head of the map table, and though his expression remained more controlled than his son’s, there was genuine respect in the way he looked at me now. The Sea Snake was not a man easily impressed, which made his approval feel more valuable and more dangerous.
"You did House Velaryon a great service," Corlys said. "Bloodstone would have cost us many more lives without your actions."
I bowed my head. "My men paid dearly for that victory."
"They did," Corlys said, and to his credit, he did not dismiss the loss. "Their names will be remembered in our reports, and their sacrifice will not be overlooked when payment is settled."
Vaeron’s eyes sharpened at that, and I could almost hear him beginning to calculate.
"Your acknowledgement is appreciated, my lord," I said.
Corlys nodded once, then turned back to the table. "However, the war is not finished."
The warmth in the tent faded. Laenor stepped back beside his father, and several officers shifted closer to the map. Vaemond stood on the far side of the table, arms folded, his expression sour enough to curdle wine. He looked at me as one might look at a dog that had performed an impressive trick but remained, in the end, a dog.
I ignored him.
"The Crabfeeder is dead," Corlys continued, "but the Triarchy’s forces are not destroyed. They are scattered, leaderless, and afraid, but still dangerous if allowed to regroup. Some hold smaller islands. Others have retreated to ships, hidden coves, or fortified camps. If we stop now, we give them time to recover."
Laenor pointed to several marked positions across the map. "Bloodstone was the heart of their strength here. Without it, their position weakens, but they will not abandon the Stepstones unless forced."
Daemon entered the tent behind us without announcement. No one seemed surprised. He moved to the table and looked over the map with open impatience. "Then we force them."
Vaemond’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing for the moment.
Corlys looked to his officers. "Prince Daemon and Laenor will be essential to the next stage. Their dragons can break ships, scatter camps, and drive men from positions that would otherwise cost us weeks to take."
Daemon smiled faintly. "At last, a sensible use of council."
Laenor ignored him, though I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. "While Seasmoke and Caraxes act as our vanguard, our ground forces will secure the islands after each strike. We destroy supplies, take prisoners where useful, and cut down any who remain loyal to the Triarchy’s cause."
Vaeron studied the map carefully. "Then the Dread Legion will be used to clean up whatever survives the dragon attacks."
"That is one way to phrase it," Vaemond said.
I looked at him. "An accurate one."
His eyes narrowed.
Corlys spoke before the irritation could grow. "Your company is disciplined and experienced in land engagements. After Bloodstone, I trust your men to move quickly, hold ground, and finish what the dragons begin."
There it was again. Trust. Respect. Both useful. Both dangerous.
"We will fulfil the contract," I said.
The meeting continued for some time after that. Routes were discussed, islands named, ships assigned, supplies counted, and targets marked in order of importance. It was less dramatic than the Battle of Bloodstone but no less important. Wars were not won only by brave charges and severed heads. They were won by movement, food, timing, fear, and making sure the enemy had nowhere safe left to breathe.
When the council ended, Vaeron and I made to leave, but Vaemond stepped close enough to force a private word while the others were occupied.
"Watch yourself, sellsword," he said quietly.
I turned toward him. "My lord?"
His expression hardened at the courtesy, as if politeness from me was somehow more insulting than defiance. "You may have succeeded on Bloodstone," he said, "but do not mistake one victory for elevation. You are not on the same level as us."
I held his gaze, keeping my face calm. "I would never imagine so."
The answer irritated him. I could see it in the tightening of his mouth and the flare of his nostrils. Perhaps he wanted me to bristle, to argue, to reveal ambition too openly. Instead, I gave him deference wrapped around nothing he could easily strike.
"Good," Vaemond said.
"For now, my lord, I am only here to honour the contract."
"For now," he repeated.
The words were quiet, but they carried warning. Vaeron said nothing until we left the tent and had made our way far enough down the hill that the Velaryon guards could no longer hear us.
"You collect dangerous men too easily," he said.
"I would rather not."
"Daemon is interested in you. Vaemond dislikes you. Corlys respects you. Laenor admires you."
"That sounds complicated."
"That sounds like Westeros."
I almost smiled. Almost.
For the next three months, the war continued.
The Crabfeeder’s death had broken the back of the Triarchy’s strength in the Stepstones, but it had not ended the conflict in a single stroke. No war of this kind died cleanly. Remnants remained scattered across the islands, some stubborn, some frightened, some too desperate to surrender and too proud to flee. They hid in coves, ruined fortifications, caves, and along narrow beaches where ships could land only in calm weather.
Daemon and Caraxes were violent as ever.
The Rogue Prince seemed almost liberated after Bloodstone, as if the death of the Crabfeeder had removed the insult that had been poisoning him for two years. He threw himself into the remainder of the campaign with brutal enthusiasm.
Caraxes descended upon ships that tried to flee, burning sails and decks until the sea itself seemed to glow with reflected fire. Camps that refused surrender were put to flame. Men who had thought distance would save them learned quickly that wings made distance a fragile thing.
Laenor and Seasmoke were no less important, though their presence felt different. Where Daemon was fury unleashed, Laenor fought with more discipline, using Seasmoke to scatter enemy formations, break defensive lines, and drive men toward waiting infantry.
Watching the two dragons work in the same campaign was both magnificent and horrifying. No matter how many times I saw them fly, part of me remained the man from Dresden, staring upward in awe at creatures that should not have existed.
Another part of me began to understand why men feared the dragonlords.
The Dread Legion moved with the main army, securing ground after dragonfire had done its work. We captured beaches, searched caves, cleared ruined outposts, and cut down those foolish enough to continue fighting for a dead cause.
Compared to Bloodstone, most engagements were small and brief. The enemy had lost its centre, its commander, and much of its courage. Once men believed a cause was doomed, it became difficult to make them die for it.
Still, men died. Fifteen of mine over three months.
The number was low, almost mercifully so, especially compared with the price paid at Bloodstone. Yet I had learned enough by then not to treat small numbers as small losses. Fifteen men still meant fifteen names, fifteen shares paid out, fifteen spaces around fires that would remain empty. I took each report from Dick and read each name myself, even when Vaeron told me I did not need to.
I did need to. If I stopped reading the names, they would become numbers. If they became numbers, I feared what I might become.
By the end of the third month, the remaining Triarchy forces had been shattered badly enough that resistance became more nuisance than threat. Ships were sunk or captured. Camps surrendered. Survivors fled east, carrying stories with them of dragonfire, Velaryon ships, and the sellsword captain who had taken the Crabfeeder’s head.
Those stories grew, as stories always do.
By the second month, men claimed I had walked through a hundred pirates without being touched. By the third, I heard a sailor swear that World Breaker had burst into black flame when I raised it above the ridge. Another insisted I had challenged the Crabfeeder to single combat beneath Seasmoke’s shadow, which was close enough to the truth to be irritating.
Vaeron found the rumours amusing. I did not. Legends were easier to create than control.
Then, as if the world wished to make the matter official, Daemon Targaryen was crowned King of the Narrow Sea.
It happened earlier than I expected, though perhaps I should have expected that. Bloodstone had fallen sooner. The Crabfeeder had died by my hand rather than Daemon’s. The remnants of the Triarchy had broken more quickly beneath the combined pressure of dragons, Velaryon ships, and the Dread Legion’s ground forces.
History had shifted, and now the consequences stood before me in the form of a crown placed upon the Rogue Prince’s head.
The ceremony was not grand in the way coronations in King’s Landing might be grand. There was no Iron Throne, no great sept, no cheering city. It was held on Bloodstone, beneath banners marked by salt, smoke, and war.
Corlys stood nearby, proud but watchful. Laenor looked pleased, though tired. Vaemond looked as if he had swallowed something bitter and was determined to blame Daemon for the taste.
Daemon, for his part, looked amused. He accepted the title as if it were both a prize and a joke only he understood.
When the men cheered him, I watched from among the officers with Vaeron at my side. Caraxes coiled in the distance, red and monstrous against the rocks, while Seasmoke circled once overhead before gliding toward the shore. The sight was impressive, but my thoughts were elsewhere.
In the history I knew, Daemon’s kingship in the Narrow Sea was temporary and troublesome. A crown won in war could become a burden in peace, especially for a man like him. Yet now it had come sooner, shaped partly by my interference. I had not meant to crown him earlier. I had only meant to reach Westeros, earn favour, and create a place for myself near the events that mattered.
Instead, I had already changed them.
Vaeron leaned toward me as the cheers continued. "You are thinking too loudly again."
"I am thinking that crowns are dangerous things."
"That is why sensible men avoid wearing them."
I looked at Daemon as he smiled beneath the weight of his new title. "Daemon is not a sensible man."
"No," Vaeron said. "But he is a powerful one."
That was the problem.
The Stepstones campaign had given the Dread Legion coin, reputation, and the attention of some of the most important figures in the world. House Velaryon respected us. Laenor trusted us. Daemon had noticed us. Vaemond disliked us, which was not ideal, but perhaps unavoidable.
By every practical measure, the contract had been a success. And yet, as the men cheered the new King of the Narrow Sea, I felt no peace. Only the uneasy awareness that the board had changed.
History was no longer something I was approaching. It was something I had already touched.
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