Stepstones – Bloodstone fort
“Have you seen the spoils the captain brought back?”
“No, what is it this time?”
“Not what, but who.
Pentoshi women.”
The two men stood atop the wall, laughing heartily.
The fort on Bloodstone had been raised through years of hardship, built from a hundred different materials, scavenged, stolen, hauled across the sea.
Pirates had built it for pirates.
Tonight it was alive with noise.
A great pirate summit was underway, and the halls rang with drink and boasting.
One of the men raised his torch, its light spilling a few meters into the dark.
Somewhere out there, past the black water, their ships waited.
He squinted, trying to make them out.
But instead he saw something else.
A shape.
No, only its outline.
“You see that?” he asked the man beside him.
“Is that a pirate?”
The other man followed his gaze, frowning.
Then, far off, a torch flared to life.
A single freckle of flame.
Then another beside it.
More.
Even more.
The men stumbled back slowly, tilting their heads toward the sky.
Those weren’t torches.
They were arrows.
A wave of shouts erupted from below.
Hundreds.
Maybe thousands.
“Fuck!” the first man screamed, turning to run, but an arrow found his throat before he reached the door.
The other man managed to slip inside, sweat pouring down his forehead.
For a moment he only froze.
Then he remembered.
He had to warn the others.
He had to warn his captain.
So he ran.
In the hallways he stumbled into other pirates running wild, arrows raining down from above.
Through a narrow slit he saw men dying in the courtyard.
It was pure chaos.
“Captain!
Captain!” he shouted, bursting into the main hall.
Pirate lords and their retinues filled the room.
But where was his captain?
“Captain Xarxos?!”
Captain Xarxos blinked and looked around.
On his left, a dark haired young woman lay naked.
On his right, a blonde woman slept just as soundly.
He hiccuped.
Then he froze and listened.
Shouts.
He sprang from the bed, his belly swaying, and grabbed his hat and his sword.
He stomped toward the door.
“What is going on?!”
He assumed his men were fighting each other again.
They were a rowdy bunch, always eager for a reason to draw steel.
“My god…” he muttered as the chaos erupted before him.
Fire crackled everywhere.
Pirates fought across the courtyard, on the walls, even in the doorways.
“The Triarchy.” Xarxos understood, anger rising in him.
He fastened his belt in a hurry as a sellsword charged at him, screaming.
He raised his sword, blocking the blow just in time, and shoved the man back.
He drove his fist into the man’s jaw, then slashed across his chest.
The soldier screamed, clutching the wound, and collapsed.
A group of pirates burst through a side door and threw themselves at the attackers.
Xarxos went to join them.
“Men!” he shouted, raising his sword.
They turned and recognized him.
“Let’s fuck these bastards in the ass!” he roared, driving his blade into a man already grappling with one of his own.
The pirate grinned and fell in beside him.
And so the counterattack began.
The next thing Xarxos could remember was his bloodsoaked hands, clutching his shoulder.
Some bastard had managed to land a sneak attack, piercing his shoulder.
“Fuck,” he cursed, deflecting another attack, his eyes moving downward.
He had fought his way up onto the wall.
In the courtyard below, more and more sellswords stormed inside.
The worst part was that the gate hadn’t even been breached.
Some drunk bastard had left it open.
So they had been able to flood in from the beginning.
He saw his men getting overwhelmed, recognizing some of his crew, when suddenly a different kind of shout echoed out.
“Retreat!
Retreat!”
For a moment he thought it was his own men, but no, it was the enemy.
But why?
They were winning.
Then something in the air changed.
Perhaps it was only the wind growing stronger, but there was shiver ran through Xarxos as he slowly turned his head toward the beach.
Green flames reflected in his brown eyes.
It was all he could see.
The flames burned so bright they lit up the entire night.
Never had he seen something like this.
“Dragon…” a pirate next to him muttered.
For a moment it stopped.
Only the ships in the harbor kept burning.
But then it came again, and Xarxos could see it clearly.
A horrifying black Dragon, enormous, was moving directly towards them.
His eyes tore wide open as the stream of green horror rushed closer and closer.
So he jumped.
To run.
Behind him, the stone wall was torn apart.
He could feel the heat, burning his back.
For a moment he thought he would die, but still he managed to land in a stack of hay, screaming out in pain.
The impact was too great and his eyes closed, his mind slipping away.
Darkness.
Then slowly they opened again…
His vision was blurry at first, as was his hearing.
He could hear a sound, louder than the rest.
But what was it?
As his eyes focused once more, he knew what it was.
A charred man was crawling toward him.
His eyes were the only white contrast, the hair, the clothes, the skin, everything was burned.
He was missing arms and legs as he crawled nearer and nearer.
He was screaming so loudly.
It seemed far to loud.
Xarxos moved away.
The screaming of the man suddenly stopped as he collapsed, his hand still outstretched.
It was hell.
If hell was a place, it was surely this.
Green fire was everywhere, devouring wood and stone alike.
Flesh as well.
Men had been reduced to ash.
Others were charred, or still burning.
Pleas for help and terrifying screams rang out as he stood, mustering himself.
He was alive.
he was wounded, but living.
Haha.
A misplaced laugh echoed over the courtyard as Xarxos stumbled around.
The castle had been melted, neither its walls nor its main structure recognizable anymore.
There was an opening in the back wall.
Xarxos went for it.
He could hear the very same roar behind him.
Was it the Dragon, or the sellswords returning?
Now he finally understood.
The Triarchy had long since set its eyes on the islands.
That exact danger was the reason for tonight’s meeting.
But to think they would ally with foreigners.
With Westerosi.
Worse, with Targaryens.
He leaned against the remnants of the wall, panting.
Behind him, soldiers rushed into the ruined fort once more.
Then Xarxos raised his head.
On a rocky hill nearby, the Dragon had landed, as if watching over the mountainous island.
Xarxos smiled widely as he stumbled forward, heading straight for the Dragon.
Why not kill a Prince?
The night was still young after all…
Maekar stood atop the tallest hill overlooking the island of Bloodstone.
His hair fluttered wildly in the wind as he stood at the edge, watching the carnage below.
The satisfaction was plastered on his face.
Attacks were breaking out everywhere in the Stepstones.
Not just on Bloodstone.
The Triarchy had set sail with a massive armada of ships, attacking the pirates by sea and by land.
Albeit, the largest stronghold was the one before him.
He tilted his head slightly.
“Hah…
Hah…”
Maekar had already noticed it before, and so had his Dragon, but he had ignored it, until he heard the panting.
“Dragonlord!” a man called out.
Maekar turned.
So did Morghul, who bared his massive fangs, each one as big as Maekar himself.
The man standing before him was bleeding from his shoulder and was, besides that, obviously a pirate.
And he was drunk, bearing a kettle of wine in his hand.
“A boy?!” the pirate roared, a mixture of surprise and disappointment in his voice.
“Do I and my Dragon not suffice?” Maekar asked, leaning back.
“Of course you do…Of course…”
“Will you burn me now?” the man asked, grinning.
“No,” Maekar answered, plainly.
“No?” the pirate repeated, pulling his sword.
“Then you will die!” he roared, running toward Maekar.
Maekar pulled out his own sword, squinting slightly.
The pirate swung a wide slash.
Maekar simply stepped sideways, letting the blade slice empty air.
Another strike came from above.
Maekar dodged again, pivoting smoothly behind the man.
Under the cold moonlight, he drove his sword straight through the pirate’s back.
Maekar pulled the steel free and kicked the body down the cliff.
His reflexes had improved.
His pure strength still wasn’t enough to stand against a grown man, but that would soon change.
He could feel his old power returning with every second, every year he grew older.
But tonight, he was finally sure, he would grow stronger than in his last life.
As he raised his head toward the moon, a playful worry appeared on his bloodsmeared face.
“Hopefully I won’t be late…”
The hour had come.
While fire and death rained upon the Stepstones, unbeknownst to everyone, another massive event was unfolding in Westeros.
The Grand Council, called by King Jaehaerys to determine an heir to the Iron Throne after the passing, and alleged murder, of his two sons.
Hubert Hightower scoffed.
For him, everything would remain alleged.
That is what he was telling everyone.
He tilted his head sideways, looking at the scenery outside.
It would have been nice if there wasn’t that goddamn rain.
It had been raining nonstop for a large part of his journey.
They seemed to follow the clouds, or the clouds were following them.
Either way, the outside was dark with raindrops pressing against the Hightower carriage and the men riding beside it.
He squinted.
“There it is,” he murmured, a distant shape forming.
Harrenhal.
Most Lords must have already arrived, but their carriage had been delayed because of the weather.
Hubert smiled.
He was never one to shy away from coming last. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
It carried the biggest spotlight.
As the carriage shook with every turn of the wheel, he drew closer and closer, and his mood grew better and better.
His brother Otto had everything planned already.
it truly was a masterful move.
“Look!”
“There!”
Shouts echoed outside, and Hubert pressed closer to the window.
His eyes scanned the sky.
His mouth fell open slightly.
It was a powerful sight.
Breathtaking.
A Dragon tore through the ceiling of clouds, large, bronze coloured, its wings beating slow and heavy over Harrenhal.
Behind it flew a smaller but still formidable, beautiful silver Dragon.
They glided closer, passing above his carriage, and Hubert crossed to the other window to keep them in sight.
The King and Queen.
A powerful arrival by the two ancient pillars of the Kingdom.
Though he had heard rumours of the Queen’s failing health.
A dragonride like this surely wasn’t advisable, then.
Hubert dismissed the thought.
Slowly the horses came to a halt, and footsteps stamped outside.
The door was opened, and Hubert heaved himself outside with the help of a knight.
The rain fell upon his face, plastering his greying hair to his forehead.
“Are we the last?” he asked, greeted by a group of Hightower men at arms who had arrived earlier.
“Nearly,” the leading soldier answered.
Hubert nodded and took his first step, then suddenly stopped.
“Nearly?” he asked.
“Not the entire royal family has arrived yet…” the man said.
In that same moment, Hubert spun around.
From the east, a shrill shriek reached all their ears.
A red Dragon thundered through the sky, its movements wild and serpentine, more worm than bird.
“Prince Daemon,” Hubert breathed.
Truly a hateful variable in his game, he thought, as the Dragon named Caraxes descended further and further, landing somewhere within Harrenhal.
His men had their hands on their swords.
What a pathetic display.
What could they do against the might of a Dragon?
It was a weapon that should belong to no one.
No, it shouldn’t even exist in the first place.
But then there was another.
Another roar.
Another greeting from something Hubert would call not a weapon, but an abomination.
His eyes widened, water flowing over the wrinkles on his face that seemed to deepen with every second.
“The two exiles have arrived,” he murmured, turning around, his head lowering slightly.
An enormously large black Dragon, darker than the sky, flew overhead.
He couldn’t show it, but Hubert was shocked by its size.
The Maesters had said it was slightly smaller than Vermithor, but it was definitely bigger.
He clenched his teeth as he entered the ruin of a keep with his retinue.
After a while, they reached the massive great hall of Harrenhal, built to house thousands of people.
Its ceiling and walls were as tall as towers.
Hundreds of Lords had already gathered, standing on two sides, a small corridor open between them.
For a moment, many glanced at Hubert as he entered, but their gazes and whispers quickly turned back toward the sky.
Through the broken parts of the stone, one could see the black Dragon circle the fortress.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
“Hah.” Hubert breathed out.
Beside him, a riverland lord said loudly, for everyone to hear:
“Just like in King’s Landing, or so I have heard.”
After a few moments, their gossip was interrupted as the large double doors opened once again.
“King Jaehaerys of House Targaryen!”
“King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!”
Every Lord lowered his head, ever so slightly.
Hubert’s stayed high enough to take in the faces of everyone entering.
There was the King and the Queen, who indeed looked weaker than the last time he had seen her.
Then there was Princess Gael, trailing behind.
Behind Gael walked Prince Viserys and his wife Aemma, and beside them, Corlys Velaryon and Rhaenys.
At the far end walked Prince Daemon, careless and confident.
Hubert had heard that his wife was attending as well, despite being pregnant.
And he heard other things as well.
Many rumours were following the Prince.
The group was already halfway through, the double doors closing, when the two guards suddenly stopped.
A silver haired boy stepped through, his hair soaked with rain, walking forward.
As he passed, Hubert could swear the boy’s eyes had met his.
His, specifically.
They seemed so profound.
Little brat, Hubert thought, following Prince Maekar’s back.
The second exile, and…
Blood?
He could swear something had dripped from the boy’s sword.
Maekar could feel the Hightower’s gaze upon him.
“Seek refuge in your high tower.
The higher, the greater the fall…” he whispered, ascending the steps.
He had managed to get here just in time, not having changed his clothes nor cleaned his sword, still fresh with pirate blood.
Jaehaerys took his seat in the middle, on an improvised throne, Alysanne beside him.
The others stood on both sides.
While Daemon, after some hesitation, chose Viserys’s left side, Maekar walked straight toward Corlys, greeting the Lord.
He had to keep up the facade, after all.
“Prince.” Corlys lowered his head.
“Lord Corlys.” Maekar nodded, giving him a knowing smile.
The Lord seemed to understand immediately.
The Stepstones were cleared.
“Cousin,” Maekar greeted Rhaenys warmly.
Jaehaerys tried his best to avoid Maekar’s gaze, while Alysanne desperately searched for it.
Then the old King finally stood up, the hall falling into silence.
The Kingsguard surrounded the small platform in a half circle.
Two new members had joined in Maekar’s absence.
He should grow familiar with them.
“Lords and Ladies of Westeros!
Within my authority as King, I proclaim the Great Council to determine an heir to begin!”
Just like the rain at Harrenhal, you could shower this story with your Stones…