Bloodstone, Stepstones
Laenor was seated at a table with his father and Prince Daemon, the three of them waiting in silence until the servant finished pouring wine into the cups before them and left the prince's tent. They each lifted their cups, sipping the wine. Laenor noted the slight sweetness in its taste compared to what he preferred back in his own world.
After Daemon's earlier outburst in Laenor's tent, the three had moved to Daemon's tent to discuss when and where the sacrifices would take place—since this time, they weren't within the safety of their own keep, where such things could be done discreetly without fear of looking over their shoulders too much.
"Why think so much? We go to the caves. There are literally thousands of them on Bloodstone," Daemon said with a tone of casual confidence. "With Caraxes and Embaryx, if the Triarchy's men come out of hiding, they'd be doing us a favor, wouldn't they? The more sacrifices, the more power." There was hope in his voice—as if he were wishing the enemy would attack. Laenor only hoped Daemon wouldn't do something foolish to provoke them during the ritual.
"Though more is better, Prince Daemon, we must also be discreet," Laenor replied carefully. "Dragonfire at night would draw attention—from both their men and ours. It could cause the ritual to fail... or worse."
"It would've been easier if we were on Dragonstone," Daemon muttered. "There, we wouldn't have to check every corner for spies and traitors. Still, I think you and your father worry too much. The Faith doesn't hold as much power as you think it does."
Laenor's father sighed. Daemon was still vehemently opposed to hiding anything to do with magic. The gods, at least, were merciful in one regard: Daemon had agreed to keep the blood sacrifices secret for now and would respect the elder Velaryon's wish to reveal nothing until the Stepstones were fully conquered.
"You're too reckless, Daemon," Laenor's father said, voice calm but firm. "It isn't the Faith I fear, but the devout lords who follow it blindly. And the fear and mistrust that magic inspires across Westeros. Things may be different in Essos, but that's why the Andals fled Andalos—they feared magic. That's why even here, they tried to root out every trace of it. Westeros is their heaven, and they believe magic has no place in it. Their collective strength, or their subtle poison, could destroy us."
He fixed Daemon with a hard look. "You may be a dragonrider, but all it takes is a single knife in the dark, or a cup of poison—and you'd be gone. And with you, the only dragonrider of House Targaryen."
The words seemed to land. Daemon didn't answer, but the reminder of how few dragonriders remained gave him pause. Rhaenyra was not counted because her dragon, though older than Emabryx, is still vulnerable to arrows, much less scorpion bolts, and the girl herself is too young.
"So what are we to do?" Daemon asked finally, his voice full of frustrated heat. "Hide our magic in shadows and behind veils like cowards?"
"No," his father replied calmly. "Do what Laenor did. He kept his powers secret for years—trained in silence, honed his craft until he could defend himself and others. Revealing magic now, when only Laenor understands how to activate the runes, is folly. First, we must test if other Velaryons and Targaryens can awaken the glyphs with their blood, as Laenor could. Then we must study these Valyrian glyphs—call them Old Valyrian, if you wish—and train with them. Weaponize them. Once we're ready, only then do we reveal this power to the world."
He ended his speech with finality. Daemon grunted but remained silent, draining his cup and refilling it himself.
"Are you planning to take the captives for sacrifice, Daemon?" his father asked.
Daemon only nodded. The Velaryons had taken prisoners, but most had been tight-lipped. The few who did speak offered only fragments of useful information.
"I'll take them under the pretense of feeding them to Caraxes," Daemon muttered. Laenor noticed the faint flicker of approval in his father's eyes.
"Laenor," his father turned to him now, "what exactly do you plan to empower with this blood magic? Steel—or something else?"
Both Daemon and his father leaned in, intrigued. Laenor's answer widened their eyes, and as he explained what would be imbued with power and how he intended to wield it, Daemon's excitement quickly boiled over. He rose and left for the training yard, eager to channel his energy into drilling the men.
Laenor's father lingered, asking questions that revealed just how deep his curiosity ran. Only when satisfied did he finally leave. But Laenor noticed the fatigue in him—subtle, but growing. As Daemon had said, the old man was worrying too much.
~*~
Laenor dismounted Embaryx near the cave, which was lit with torches and guarded by the snoring bulk of Caraxes, lying peacefully outside. Embaryx, eyeing the older dragon, only snorted and lowered his forearm, allowing Laenor to unstrap the largest chunk of dragonglass he had brought on Bloodstone.
The slab was dark—black as the darkness itself—but if one looked closely, faint runes shimmered along one side, almost imperceptible. It bore a runic array Laenor had meticulously refined and carved, knowing how easily dragonglass could fracture. Though the array was moderately complex, its core intent was singular and potent: to absorb and empower itself.
With a burst of strength, Laenor hefted the slab and began walking toward the cave. Prince Daemon was already waiting inside, leaning on Dark Sister, a glint of excitement in his eyes. He helped Laenor set the dragonglass down near the center, before three men who were bound and gagged. Two of them struggled violently against their restraints, their bodies showing the signs of brutal handling and torture.
Laenor ignored their suffering and unsheathed his Valyrian steel knife, kneeling to carve runes into the stone floor—lines that snaked outward from the captives and led to the dragonglass slab.
"So this is it?" asked Daemon impatiently.
"Yes, this is it. Now we just have to activate these runes and slit their throats to offer them as sacrifice to the magic. The runes will do the rest," Laenor explained calmly.
Daemon, ever curious, questioned him about the runic array—how it worked, how the blood would travel, and how it would be absorbed by the dragonglass. All the while, the three captives thrashed harder, eyes wide in terror. They had understood enough. Their muffled screams echoed off the stone, but the bindings Daemon had used ensured they would not escape.
After several minutes, Daemon grew impatient once more. He tapped the hilt of his sword against his boot, scowling.
Laenor's father had not yet arrived.
It took over fifteen minutes for him to finally appear, walking swiftly into the cave. Daemon looked ready to strangle him on sight.
"Vaemond was adamant about following me," Laenor's father said curtly. "Said he couldn't let me go alone, especially not with men hiding in these caves. Either I had to take him or take guards. I gave him a few tasks and brought some guards a short distance from the camp, just to throw him off."
Daemon let out a string of curses so foul they would've made even the saltiest fisherfolk blush. Laenor's father shot him a glare as the Prince cursed his brother with creative vulgarity.
"Now, Laenor, let's begin," Daemon said, trying to shake off his irritation. "Watching magic might improve my mood."
Receiving a nod from his father, Laenor turned to the dragonglass and the carved runes on the cave floor. He checked them carefully—one final inspection for flaws. Finding none, he drew a deep breath and stepped toward the captives.
He sliced the gags from their mouths. They began to scream, to plead for mercy, to curse him as "demon" and "hellspawn."
Laenor did not hesitate.
He slit their throats, one after another. Their blood spilled, running down the grooves in the stone, flowing toward the dark dragonglass, as the runes began to glow.
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