Bloodstone, Stepstones
Laenor was surfing through the waters of the Narrow Sea, gripping the ropes tightly as the orcas pulled him with happy, eager whistles. The thought crossed his mind—traveling between the Stepstones like this—something he or anyone had never done, but now he can say that he thoroughly enjoyed traveling between the islands like this.. Surfing across the sea, led by marine life, at a speed even Embaryx couldn't match? That was something special.
Sure, riding his dragon didn't tire him as much, but this was fun. And it allowed him to practice his control over water—something he felt he'd been neglecting in his pursuit of magic. If he ever needed to get somewhere fast across the sea, Laenor was confident he'd rather swim there himself than choose any other form of travel—even by dragon or with his pod of orcas.
Soon, he spotted Bloodstone and mentally commanded the orcas to speed up. With a burst of acceleration that would make any sailor—or even dragonrider—envious, Laenor surged toward the island Daemon now called his seat: the seat of the King of the Stepstones.
As the pod neared the coast, Laenor gave another silent command, and with grace that defied their massive size, the orcas turned in full, facing him for a single heartbeat. In that moment, Laenor let go of the ropes, launching himself into the air. His makeshift surfboard crashed into the shore as he landed with a thud. His legs were briefly numb, but within moments, he was moving again, all too ready to go.
It took Laenor around ten minutes to reach the tall gates of Daemon's keep—massive slabs of dark ebony wood reinforced with nightsteel bands and jagged spikes. The gates stood open, and Laenor passed through, making his way to the great hall, half-expecting Daemon to be lounging on his throne. A suspicion quickly proven right.
The Prince—no, King—was indeed seated comfortably on his black throne. But as usual, it wasn't the throne that caught Laenor's eye. It was what rose behind it: a striking sculpture of Caraxes carved in black stone. It was a near-perfect likeness of the Blood Wyrm, with wings flared and jaws open in a perpetual roar. It towered behind the throne, as though Daemon's dragon itself guarded the seat. Laenor had to admit—it was impressive. Daemon had clearly put thought into every inch of his keep.
Dragon's Forge—that was what Daemon named it.
"What took you so long?" Daemon's voice pulled Laenor from his thoughts.
"Well, Father had me meet with the Volantene envoy. Said they'd come to congratulate him on our victory over the Triarchy. But once I met them, it was clear—they couldn't resist revealing their true purpose: they came on behalf of one of the Triarchs. They want a dragonsteel sword," Laenor said, stepping toward the open balcony. The sea churned below, violent waves crashing against the cliffs. He could hear footsteps behind him as Daemon joined him at the railing.
Together, they looked out at the ocean. Laenor's gaze shifted left, spotting Caraxes lazily curled beside an open structure where fire blazed. Fumes rose into the sky, and the rhythmic sound of hammer striking metal rang faintly through the air. Laenor squinted and listened carefully.
"What's Robb working on right now?" he asked.
"Nothing. He's teaching, not forging," Daemon replied. "With you gone, I had nothing better to do. The Baratheon bastard holed himself up in the forge to hone his craft, so I flew to Dragonstone and brought back some dragonseeds—burly ones, strong enough to apprentice under Storm. Better safe than sorry. Dragonseed or not, anyone from Dragonstone I can trust somewhat. They've been raised to worship us—Targaryens. To them, we're gods who command fire made flesh."
"You know the clause," Laenor said as they descended a narrow stairway leading to the forge. "If he even thinks about writing or speaking about how to make dragonsteel swords, he'll die a painful death."
"Oh, I know it well," Daemon replied as they reached the black stone pathway. "But if he does, and dies for it, we'll have a shortage of skilled blacksmith like him. Finding someone as skilled as him would cost us precious time. That's why I want him to train those lads from Dragonstone. If anything happens to Storm, we'll need apprentices ready."
He glanced toward Caraxes, who stirred slightly—one eye opening and a low grunt escaping his throat, acknowledging his rider's presence.
"You plan to kill him?" Laenor asked, raising a brow.
"Of course not," Daemon said, feigning offense. "Do you take me for heartless?"
Laenor only snorted in reply.
They entered the forge—a wide, spacious chamber equipped with every tool Robb might need. The man in question was currently instructing two silver-haired youths around Laenor's age, his face split in a wide smile. Hearing the loud, jubilant tone in his voice and the thoughtful way he explained his craft made Laenor briefly wonder if it had been Robb who asked for apprentices, and not Daemon who had simply dropped the two onto him.
Angor and Orys—the names of the two dragonseeds Daemon brought from Dragonstone.
Judging from the reverent expressions on their faces when they looked at Daemon, Laenor realized Daemon was right. The people of Dragonstone truly did worship the Targaryens. Laenor noted that the two boys didn't look at him with the same admiration and awe that they gave Daemon. Only Targaryens, indeed..
Soon, Daemon and Laenor left the trio to their work and made their way outside toward Caraxes.
"So, what's next? What new project are we taking on now?" Daemon asked, his eagerness plain in his voice and gait.
"Well, I'll have to disappoint you," Laenor replied. "There are things that demand my full attention. You'll either have to do whatever you want yourself, alone, or stay put for a while until I finish."
"Such as?" Daemon prompted.
Laenor paused, then glanced sideways at him. Daemon already wore the look of someone who knew the answer—and didn't like it.
"You already know," Laenor sighed.
"Aye, I know," Daemon said, his voice rising with frustration. "And I think it's a bloody waste of time if ever there was one. Gods, I'd rather see you wasting time on whores, wine, and every debauchery a boy your age should be indulging in—rather than chasing a path that doesn't exist. Our ancestors weren't fools, Laenor. If there was a way to wield magic without sacrifice, don't you think they would've found it?"
"I have to try, Daemon," Laenor replied calmly. "Just give it time. I'm certain there is a way. I don't think I'm smarter than those who came before us—but magic is a realm of endless possibilities. Nothing is truly impossible where it is concerned. Difficult, unlikely, time-consuming—yes. But never impossible. I thought I'd made that clear."
Daemon frowned. "Aye, aye. I remember. Stop acting like I've forgotten," he grumbled. "My learning period under you is over."
Laenor chuckled at that.
"We've both spent time on this, remember?" Daemon pressed. "We gathered all the woods from across the world, even plucked scales from our dragons. You told me yourself how chaotic and unruly magic is in our world. There's no changing that. What are we even supposed to do—change magic with magic?" He scoffed and scowled.
"I'll find a way. You'll see," Laenor said, stubborn as ever.
"Go on then. Waste your time," Daemon snapped. "But don't expect my help this time. I've tried and failed. Now I'll turn to other ventures."
Caraxes stirred at the rising tension, growling low and deep. Daemon turned to glare at the Blood Wyrm and sharply commanded him to calm down. The dragon obeyed with a snort.
Laenor sighed, weary. He knew they had exhausted many paths—some hopeful, most fruitless—but deep within, he felt they had missed something crucial. The answer was out there. They just hadn't seen it yet.
But he set those thoughts aside for the moment and glanced at Daemon, who brooded beside him.
"When are we forging your armor?" Laenor asked, trying to ease the mood.
Daemon looked at him hesitantly, but it didn't last. He grunted and replied, "Three days from now. I had other plans, but since you intend to chase your impossible fancy, I'll see them through myself."
"What plans? Let's hear them."
Daemon gave him a long, scrutinizing look, as if weighing whether to share. Then, with a grudging sigh, he spoke.
"I plan to make armor."
Laenor blinked, unimpressed. "That's your great plan?"
"Not for me, you fool," Daemon glowered. "For our dragons. With dragonsteel shielding their weak points—and us in matching armor—there'll be no stopping us. And maybe then I can finally convince my peace-loving brother to do something not even Aegon the Conqueror could accomplish."
Daemon's eyes gleamed with fire as he looked straight at Laenor.
"We could bend the Unbowed. For real this time. Break them. Bring Dorne into the fold. Imagine the glory, Laenor."
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