Chapter 5: Chapter 5: The Exhausted Velaryons
We arrived at the edge of the Velaryon camp and began unloading our men, weapons, horses, and equipment beneath the watchful eyes of tired soldiers. The Dread Legion moved with practised discipline, but even our order could not fully hide the strain of the voyage. Men stepped onto solid ground with relief, some muttering prayers, others simply standing still as if afraid the earth might start swaying beneath them.
The Velaryon camp did not look like the camp of an army on the edge of triumph. The war had been dragging on for roughly two years, and it showed in every face I passed. These were not victorious men who had pushed the Crabfeeder back and broken his forces with ease.
They were haggard, worn thin by heat, blood, and frustration. Black circles sat beneath their eyes, tunics were stained with old blood that no amount of scrubbing could fully remove, and bandages were wrapped around arms, heads, shoulders, and legs in grim abundance.
It would seem the war was following the events of the show more closely than the books, at least for now. A prolonged campaign, frustrated commanders, shrinking patience, and an enemy who refused to meet them properly in the field.
The Crabfeeder did not need to win glorious battles. He only needed to survive, strike, retreat, and scurry back into the caves whenever dragonfire came too close. That, more than anything, was what made him dangerous.
When Vaeron and I approached the Sea Snake’s command tent, it was clear that the problem had begun to poison the mood of the Velaryon commanders. Voices carried from within, sharp and heated, loud enough that the guards outside pretended not to hear while hearing every word.
"The Triarchy knows we are faltering," a man said, his voice heavy with anger. "For weeks we have tried to take Bloodstone, only to be pushed back by their forces. We have lost too many men and too many ships."
I recognised the voice only by process of elimination. Vaemond Velaryon, brother to Corlys, and from the sound of it, a man whose patience had been ground down to its final layer.
Another voice answered him, younger but no less firm. "There is no point in complaining, uncle. Unless you are going to offer a solution, I suggest we remain level-headed."
Laenor Velaryon.
The name struck me harder than it should have. Son of Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys Targaryen. Rider of Seasmoke. Future husband of Rhaenyra Targaryen, at least if history followed the path I knew.
In my old life, he had been a character surrounded by debates, theories, and tragedy. Now he was only a few steps away, speaking inside a tent while men bled outside it.
Vaemond was quick to answer. "Send word to King’s Landing. Plead for King Viserys to send aid. We cannot allow this feud between him and Daemon to deprive us of support."
There was a pause, brief but tense. I could almost feel Laenor preparing a defence of Daemon, but before he could speak, one of the guards stepped into the tent and announced our arrival.
"Captain Othorion Galeris and the Dread Legion have arrived."
Vaeron glanced at me, and I gave the smallest nod before we were escorted inside. The command tent was large, though crowded enough to feel smaller than it was. A long table dominated the centre, covered in maps, markers, weighted parchment, and carved pieces that represented ships, infantry, caves, and contested ground.
Around it stood Corlys Velaryon, Vaemond Velaryon, Laenor Velaryon, and several officers whose attention shifted to us the moment we entered.
For a heartbeat, I forgot to breathe. They were real.
Corlys Velaryon stood at the head of the table, broad-shouldered and commanding despite the exhaustion that even he could not fully hide. His silver-white hair fell around his shoulders, and his purple eyes carried the sharp weight of a man used to command, wealth, and ambition.
He looked younger than the version I remembered from the show, or perhaps simply more worn by war. Either way, there was nothing small about him. This was a man who had crossed seas, built fortunes, defied rivals, and expected the world to move when he pushed against it.
Vaemond stood nearby, rigid with frustration, his jaw set and his eyes bright with anger. He had the look of a man who believed himself surrounded by fools and forced to suffer the consequences of their mistakes. Laenor, by contrast, looked younger, but not weak. There was tension in his face, the tension of a son trying to prove himself in a war that had taken too long and cost too much.
They were pale-skinned, silver-haired, and purple-eyed, every inch the blood of old Valyria. I had read descriptions like that countless times, but reading words on a page was nothing compared to standing before the living proof of them.
I bowed, and Vaeron followed my lead. "My lords," I said. "I am Captain Othorion Galeris of the Dread Legion. We are honoured to fight on your behalf."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vaeron glance at me as if he had just heard a stranger speaking with my voice. Perhaps Othorion Galeris had not been known for polite formality before highborn men. If so, that was another difference I would have to manage carefully.
Corlys signalled for us to rise. "Welcome, Captain. We are glad to have you. As you can probably tell, this war is beginning to exhaust us all."
"That much is clear, my lord," I said carefully.
Corlys did not seem offended by the honesty. If anything, he looked like a man too tired for flattery. He motioned us closer to the table, and Vaeron and I approached while the Velaryon officers shifted aside.
The map showed Bloodstone and the surrounding positions, though even at a glance I could see the problem. The battlefield was not open ground where numbers could simply overwhelm the enemy. It was crueller than that.
Corlys and Laenor explained what had transpired while Vaemond stood silently, arms crossed, visibly restraining himself from interrupting. The war was nearing its deciding point, and Bloodstone had become the place where the outcome would be settled. If the Crabfeeder could be broken here, the remaining Triarchy forces would likely crumble. If not, the campaign would continue to bleed the Velaryons dry.
From what I knew, the Battle of Bloodstone would eventually be won by Daemon acting as bait, drawing the Crabfeeder’s forces from their caves and allowing Corlys and his men to ambush them.
The issue was that, by my understanding, such a victory should still have been some distance away. Perhaps months. Perhaps a year. Perhaps less, if my presence had already begun nudging the world in strange directions.
The Velaryon strength had diminished through constant skirmishes, failed assaults, and the slow grind of island warfare. They still had ships, of course, and they still had disciplined men, but there were fewer than there should have been.
Around thirty ships seemed ready for serious action, along with a few thousand footmen who looked more stubborn than fresh. Reinforcements from Driftmark were expected, but they were weeks away, and weeks meant more time for the Crabfeeder to entrench himself deeper into the island.
Laenor turned to us with interest rather than suspicion. "You have seen the map and heard our position. I would value an outsider’s view."
Vaeron stepped forward before I could speak, his eyes already moving across the map with focused precision. "Truthfully, my lord, you are caught in a choke point beyond these dunes."
He pointed to one stretch of marked ground. "Your men advance here, only to be pinned by archers on these rises. Their footmen hold you in place long enough to bleed you, and when dragonfire comes, they retreat into the caves before suffering enough losses to break. You can take ground, but you cannot hold their attention long enough to destroy them."
I looked at my brother with genuine admiration. It was a near-perfect assessment of the situation, delivered without arrogance and without hesitation. Vaeron had identified the problem almost immediately, which explained why Othorion had trusted him so deeply. My brother did not need to swing a sword to be dangerous.
Corlys looked at Vaeron with new interest. "That is accurate."
Vaeron gave a slight bow. "Then your enemy has made the caves his shield, my lord. The question is not whether you can burn him out. You clearly cannot, not while he refuses to remain outside long enough to be caught. The question is how to make him believe leaving the caves is worth the risk."
That was my opening. "There is a way to lure rats from their holes," I said.
Every eye turned to me.
I took a slow breath, knowing that what I was about to suggest would sound like madness because, in truth, it was. "You need bait. Something valuable enough, insulting enough, or tempting enough to draw the Crabfeeder’s men out of the caves and onto open ground. Once they commit, the dragons and infantry can close the trap."
Vaemond stared at me as if I had proposed throwing the entire army into the sea. "You are suggesting we send one man onto the dunes to lure out the Crabfeeder?"
"I am suggesting that someone must make the enemy believe victory is within reach," I said.
Vaemond slammed his fist onto the table hard enough to rattle the carved markers. "No man would be brave or stupid enough to do that. Show me a man willing to march alone into that hellpit, and I will show you a madman."
Laenor’s expression shifted. For a moment, no one spoke. Then he said one name. "Daemon."
Vaemond’s face reddened, and his eyes twitched with anger. "Daemon is the reason we are losing this war."
"At least he is fighting, uncle," Laenor replied sharply. "Tell me, what role have you played in this council other than Master of Complaints?"
"Enough, Laenor," Corlys said, his voice firm enough to cut through the argument before it could fully ignite.
Laenor looked away, jaw tight, while Vaemond glared at him with barely restrained fury. Vaeron and I stood awkwardly beside the table, trapped in the middle of a family dispute that clearly had roots deeper than the present conversation. The Velaryons were proud, powerful, and exhausted, which was a dangerous combination in any command tent.
"If King’s Landing will not support Daemon, why should any of us?" Vaemond demanded.
Before Laenor could answer, a sound tore through the air outside the tent.
A dragon’s cry.
It was sharper than Seasmoke’s, more violent, with a strange, shrieking edge that seemed to scrape across the bones. The men in the tent reacted immediately. Some looked toward the entrance. Others stiffened. Corlys’s expression shifted only slightly, but I saw it, a flicker of recognition mixed with irritation and reluctant relief.
I knew that sound before anyone said the name. Caraxes. The Blood Wyrm. Daemon Targaryen had returned.
For several moments, no one moved.
The sound of Caraxes faded across the camp, but the silence it left behind was almost worse. Men shifted outside the tent, voices rising and falling in sudden bursts, while the heavy beat of wings passed somewhere overhead. The canvas walls trembled faintly, disturbed by wind that did not belong to the sea.
I stood still beside the map table, aware of my own breathing in a way that made me feel foolish. Daemon Targaryen was about to enter the tent. The Rogue Prince. The rider of Caraxes. A man I had read about, watched, judged, and argued over in the safety of another world.
Now he was here.
That should not have unsettled me as much as it did. I had already seen Seasmoke fly above us, had stood before Corlys Velaryon and heard Laenor speak with my own ears. Yet Daemon was different. Corlys was important to history, Laenor even more so in ways the realm did not yet understand, but Daemon was one of the great sparks waiting near the powder. He was the sort of man who did not merely live through events. He provoked them.
Vaeron glanced at me, perhaps sensing the shift in my posture. I forced my face to remain calm, but inside, Heinrich Adler was waiting like a nervous boy outside a theatre curtain, desperate and terrified to see whether the legend matched the man.
The answer came when Daemon Targaryen pushed through the tent flap. He entered like a blade being drawn.
His armour was darkened by ash, sand, and old blood, with scratches across the metal that looked too fresh to be decorative. Pale hair hung loose around his face, damp with sweat, and his expression carried the cold fury of a man who had spent too long being denied the victory he believed belonged to him. There was no warmth in his eyes when they moved across the tent, only irritation, contempt, and a dangerous impatience.
He was exactly what I had expected. Worse, perhaps, because there was no screen between us now.
Daemon did not bow to Corlys, did not greet Vaemond, and barely acknowledged the officers gathered around the map. His eyes flicked briefly to Vaeron and me, taking in our armour, our colouring, and whatever he thought a sellsword captain was worth, before dismissing us just as quickly.
"I heard shouting," Daemon said. "I assumed either someone had finally found a solution, or Vaemond had discovered another way to complain."
Vaemond’s jaw tightened. "Your absence from council has not improved your manners."
"My absence from council is usually the only useful thing about it," Daemon replied.
Laenor stepped in before Vaemond could answer. "Daemon, the Dread Legion has arrived. Captain Othorion Galeris has offered a possible solution to Bloodstone."
Daemon’s gaze returned to me, sharper this time. It was not a welcoming look. It was the look of a man deciding whether something before him was a weapon, a nuisance, or simply not worth his time.
"Has he?" Daemon asked.
I bowed my head slightly, careful not to overdo it. "My prince."
He looked almost amused by that, though there was no kindness in it. "A Valyrian sellsword with manners. How rare."
Vaeron’s posture stiffened beside me, but he said nothing. I kept my expression neutral, though I could feel the heat of the insult beneath my skin. The old Othorion might have answered sharply. Heinrich Adler wanted to avoid being noticed. The man I needed to become could do neither.
"Laenor believes the plan has merit," Corlys said, his voice measured.
Daemon turned toward him. "Then I am already suspicious of it."
Laenor ignored the jab, though his mouth tightened. "The Crabfeeder will not remain outside the caves long enough for us to break him. We have tried force, dragonfire, and repeated assaults, but every time we advance, he bleeds us and retreats. Captain Galeris suggests we draw him out with bait."
Daemon’s expression did not change, but something in the tent shifted.
Laenor continued. "One man advances alone, visible enough to tempt them, valuable enough to make them believe the risk is worth taking. Once the Crabfeeder sends men out to capture or kill him, our forces strike from concealment. Seasmoke and Caraxes cut off retreat. The infantry closes the trap."
Daemon stared at him for a long moment. Then he laughed once, cold and humourless. "No."
The refusal fell like a stone into water. Around the table, several officers exchanged looks. Vaemond’s lips pressed together, Rollis’s eyes narrowed, and Corlys’s face hardened, though whether from annoyance or expectation, I could not tell.
Laenor frowned. "You have not even considered it."
"I considered it before you finished speaking," Daemon said. "It is a fool’s plan."
"It is the only plan we have heard that might draw them out," Laenor replied.
"It is bait dressed as strategy."
"Yes," I said before I could stop myself. "That is the purpose of bait."
Daemon’s eyes snapped to me. The tent went very still.
For one awful moment, I thought I had gone too far. Daemon Targaryen did not seem like a man who enjoyed being corrected, least of all by a sellsword he had met less than a minute ago. His stare was cold enough to make my instincts scream at me to look away, but I held his gaze because Othorion Galeris would have.
Or at least, I hoped he would have.
Daemon took one step toward me. "And you would send a man alone into that killing ground?"
"If that man was valuable enough to draw the Crabfeeder’s attention, yes."
"Then send yourself."
Vaeron shifted beside me. "My prince..."
I lifted a hand slightly, stopping him.
Daemon noticed that too. He noticed everything.
"If my death would draw out the Crabfeeder and win you Bloodstone, then perhaps that would be a fine bargain," I said carefully. "But I doubt my name carries enough weight to make him empty his caves. Yours does."
The words hung there, dangerous and deliberate. Daemon’s face hardened.
Laenor looked between us, and I saw the exact moment he understood what I was implying. Corlys understood as well, though he hid it better. Vaemond did not hide anything. He looked almost pleased, not because he liked the idea, but because anything that placed pressure on Daemon seemed to satisfy some bitter part of him.
Daemon’s voice lowered. "You mistake me for a man who takes commands from sellswords."
"I would never presume to command you, my prince," I said. "I am only stating what the Crabfeeder would believe. If Daemon Targaryen walked onto that field alone, wounded pride and all, the enemy would think the gods had placed victory in front of them."
His mouth curled. "Careful."
Corlys finally spoke. "The captain is not wrong."
Daemon turned his glare on him. "Of course you would say that. It is not your hide walking into the dunes."
"No," Corlys replied. "But it is my men dying on them."
That struck the room hard.
Daemon’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, the prince looked less dismissive and more dangerous. There was anger in him, but beneath it something else stirred. Shame, perhaps. Pride wounded by truth. I had read enough about Daemon to know that he could endure hatred better than pity and criticism worse than either.
Laenor stepped closer to the map. "You are the only one who could draw them out properly. If I went, they might suspect a trap. If Vaemond went, they would simply be confused."
Vaemond’s eyes flashed. "Mind your tongue, boy."
Laenor did not look away from Daemon. "But you, Daemon, they would believe. They know you. They hate you. They would risk much for the chance to kill you."
Daemon’s answer came immediately. "No."
Laenor stared at him. "Why?"
"Because I said no."
"That is not a reason."
"It is the only reason you require."
Vaemond gave a sharp, bitter laugh. "There it is. The prince refuses again, and we are all expected to bleed around his pride."
Daemon turned slowly toward him. The air in the tent changed. Vaemond should have stopped there. Anyone with sense would have stopped there, but exhaustion and resentment had clearly worn his caution thin.
"We should send word to King’s Landing," Vaemond said, louder now. "If Prince Daemon will not help end this war, perhaps King Viserys will send men who can."
Daemon’s face went utterly still. That was worse than anger. For one heartbeat, he did not move. Then he lunged.
The movement was so sudden that several men reacted too late. Daemon crossed the space between them with terrifying speed, one gauntleted fist already rising toward Vaemond’s face. Vaemond stepped back, but not fast enough, and if the blow had landed cleanly, I had no doubt it would have broken bone.
Two Velaryon soldiers grabbed Daemon first, one catching his arm and the other throwing himself against his shoulder. It was not enough. Daemon twisted violently, snarling, and nearly tore free with the strength of a man who had spent years in armour and battle.
I moved before I fully thought.
Othorion’s body reacted, perhaps faster than Heinrich’s mind could have managed. I stepped in from the side and caught Daemon’s raised arm with both hands, forcing it down as one of the soldiers tried to pin him back. The metal of his gauntlet was cold beneath my fingers, though his fury seemed hot enough to burn through it.
"Let go," Daemon hissed.
I tightened my grip. "Not while you are trying to cave in a man’s face, my prince."
His eyes snapped to mine, wild and furious. For a moment, I realised how absurd my situation had become. I was holding back Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, from beating Vaemond Velaryon bloody in a command tent while Corlys, Laenor, and half a dozen officers watched.
This was not history as I remembered it. Or perhaps it was exactly the sort of thing history forgot to mention.
Daemon strained once more, but the two soldiers held firm, and I kept my grip locked around his arm. Vaemond, to his credit or stupidity, did not look frightened. He looked angry, offended, and perhaps slightly satisfied that he had managed to provoke the reaction he wanted.
Corlys’s voice cut through the chaos. "Enough."
No one moved. Then Corlys stepped closer, and his voice lowered into something more dangerous than a shout. "I said enough."
Daemon’s breathing was hard, his eyes still fixed on Vaemond. Slowly, the fight began to leave his body, though not the anger. I released his arm only when I felt the tension ease enough that he would not immediately swing again.
He wrenched himself free from the soldiers and turned on me. For a second, I expected him to strike me instead. He did not. Instead, he leaned close enough that only I could hear his next words. "Touch me again without permission, sellsword, and I will feed you to Caraxes."
I met his stare and bowed my head slightly. "I will try to avoid making a habit of it."
Something flickered in his eyes, perhaps surprise, perhaps annoyance that I had not cowered properly. Then he turned away sharply, his cloak moving behind him like a torn shadow.
Vaemond pointed toward the tent entrance. "This is exactly why King’s Landing must be told. We are bleeding men while he plays at war and refuses the only plan with a chance of success."
Daemon rounded on him again, but this time Corlys moved between them. "You will not speak another word of King’s Landing in this tent unless I ask it of you," Corlys said.
Vaemond looked at his brother. "You know I am right."
"I know you are tired," Corlys replied. "And tired men often mistake complaint for wisdom."
Laenor’s face was tight with frustration, though he wisely said nothing. Vaeron stood beside me, his eyes flicking between Daemon and me as if trying to decide whether I had just saved the meeting or made myself a future corpse.
Daemon turned toward the entrance. "I will not crawl across the dunes so the Crabfeeder can parade my corpse before his men. Find another fool."
Laenor took a step after him. "Daemon..."
"No," Daemon snapped, not turning back. "I said no."
Then he was gone.
The tent flap fell behind him, and for several moments the silence remained heavy enough to choke on. Outside, the camp continued its work, unaware or perhaps entirely used to their prince leaving rooms as though he had just declared war on everyone inside them.
I let out a breath I had not realised I was holding.
Corlys returned to the table slowly. His expression revealed little, but the muscles in his jaw were tight. The Sea Snake was too experienced to show open despair in front of strangers, yet even he could not hide the frustration completely. The plan had merit. Everyone in the tent knew it now. The problem was that the only man suited to play the bait had refused.
Vaemond broke the silence first, though his voice was quieter now. "Then we send to King’s Landing."
Laenor closed his eyes briefly, as if gathering patience. "And wait weeks for a reply?"
"We are already waiting," Vaemond said. "We are waiting to lose more men, more ships, and more ground."
Corlys looked down at the map.
No one argued immediately, because no one could deny the truth entirely. If word was sent to King Viserys, aid might come. More ships, more men, supplies, perhaps even the royal command needed to force Daemon into swallowing his pride. Yet I knew the shape of that possibility.
A letter from Viserys offering help would not soothe Daemon. It would wound him. It would push him, not because he suddenly believed in the plan, but because he would rather risk death than accept rescue from a brother whose approval he both craved and despised.
That was one path. The other was uglier.
If Daemon would not be the bait, then someone else would have to take his place. Someone less valuable, less tempting, less likely to draw the Crabfeeder fully out, but still bold enough to make the attempt. A desperate prisoner, perhaps. A condemned man. A reckless knight hungry for glory. A sellsword with more ambition than sense.
My stomach tightened.
I knew what men in this world did when the perfect tool refused to be used. They found another tool and sharpened it until it broke.
Corlys lifted his gaze from the map and looked at me. "You have given us much to consider, Captain Galeris."
I bowed my head. "My lord."
His eyes lingered on me a moment too long. He was thinking. That worried me more than if he had dismissed us outright.
Laenor looked toward the tent flap where Daemon had vanished. "He may still come around."
Vaemond scoffed. "Daemon only comes around when his pride leads him there first."
Perhaps, I thought, and that was exactly the problem.
For now, there were only two paths before us. We could wait for King Viserys to send the letter that history suggested would come, and hope Daemon’s pride drove him into the role he had refused. Or we could send another man into the dunes and pray the Crabfeeder cared enough to bite.
Neither path was clean. Neither path was safe.
And as I stood in that tent, surrounded by men I had once known only as names, I realised that changing history would not always mean preventing tragedy. Sometimes it would mean choosing which tragedy happened first.
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