The Red Dragon
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31. The bombing
🕑 Added 2025-06-07 18:26:06 +0000 UTCBloodstone, Stepstones
Laenor, after hearing Edd groan, said, “Help me up with this, Edd.” Edd hastily moved to Laenor’s armor and began helping him into it. Laenor’s gaze drifted to his dragon-riding leathers, but he decided against them—time was of the essence.
“Go now, Edd. Show those rats who've been hiding in caves until now how an honorable man of House Velaryon fights. I’m sure you alone could take down ten cowards,” Laenor said, trying to motivate him. Judging by the determined nod and the fire in Edd’s eyes, it worked. The man ran out of the tent, screaming at the top of his lungs as he charged toward the battle.
Laenor hastily gathered the twenty-two dragonglass bombs he had crafted—wrapped in cloth, with one or two already tested—and rushed out of his tent. His goal was to find one of the Velaryons, hopefully one with magic in their blood, who could activate and throw the bombs.
The flaming arrows streaking across the starry night sky made for a beautiful sight, but Laenor had no time to admire it. He darted through the camp, ducking and weaving past soldiers running toward the front lines, responding to orders shouted by their commanders.
Laenor reached the archer line and spotted his uncle, Vaemond Velaryon, shouting commands as archers loosed arrows from behind the fortifications they had spent the last moon building.
“Uncle Vaemond!” Laenor shouted, but his voice was lost in the chaos. He ran closer. “Uncle Vaemond!” he called again, this time loud enough.
“Laenor? What are you doing here? Get on your dragon and burn those cave-dwellers!” Vaemond barked, never once turning to face him, his eyes fixed on the rocky hill where the enemy was hidden.
“I’m here to give you this—look at it!” Laenor yelled, grabbing his uncle’s shoulder and shoving the bombs into view.
“What in the seven hells are you doing, Nephew? Do you not see the enemy in front of us?” Vaemond snapped. His face twisted in frustration. “This is no time to be tossing dragonglass! Go now! If you’re not going to fight, then don’t distract those who are!”
“Father tested you with the dragonglass some time ago, didn’t he?” Laenor said quickly. Vaemond hesitated, his expression torn as he looked between Laenor and the enemy lines.
“Speak quickly and clearly, Nephew. I don’t have the luxury of time,” Vaemond said, finally turning toward him. He shouted for his second-in-command to take over for a few moments.
“That dragonglass was my creation—Father may have told you. This batch is something I’ve recently developed. I won’t go into all the details, but here’s what you need to know: smear your blood on this rune,” Laenor pointed to the etched array, “and throw it within two heartbeats. Do not hold onto it longer than that. Aim for the caves or anywhere a large group of enemy soldiers are gathered. And I mean a very large group.”
Vaemond’s face shifted from doubt to suspicion, then to confusion, and finally to resignation and hope. “I can only trust your word, Nephew. Let’s hope this doesn’t lead to more of our men dying. But a command is a command. Here I go, then. May the tides be with me.”
With that, Vaemond took off toward the direction the arrows were coming from, hoping to reach a position where he could hurl the bombs at the caves—and at the enemy soldiers hidden in large numbers—just as Laenor had instructed.
Laenor watched as his uncle ducked and took cover behind small rocks while enemy archers tried to pierce him with arrows. Truly, his uncle’s loyalty to the head of House Velaryon was the greatest asset they had received without paying a single coin for it. Laenor recalled his uncle's last words before he took off, and a smile crept onto his face.
“I don’t think there is any god of tides—or the sea, for that matter. But if you want the tides to be with you, Uncle... then all you have to do is ask.” Laenor muttered to himself.
With that, Laenor pressed his will upon the sea behind them. Their camp stood only a short walk from the coast, so he had no difficulty commanding the water from where he stood.
Within moments, a great mass of seawater rose and bent to Laenor’s will, forming into a towering half-dome—large enough to cover their entire camp and obscure it from the enemy’s view. Enemy soldiers stared in stunned silence, frozen in place at the sight of the watery shield shimmering under the starlit sky. From the corner of his eye, Laenor saw that his uncle was clever enough to recognize the purpose of the shield—it was a distraction, one that gave him a chance to move closer to the enemy unnoticed.
Two minutes passed before the enemy snapped out of their daze. Someone fired a flaming arrow at the shield. Laenor watched it fizzle out the moment it touched the water, falling harmlessly to the ground. More arrows followed, but none fared any better.
Laenor sighed with satisfaction. His uncle was nearly in a position. With a final thought, he commanded the water to fall gently across the burning tents, snuffing out the fires started by the enemy’s flaming arrows. Once his task was done, Laenor looked around. The expressions around him were a mixture of awe, fear, and even reverence. But all that changed in an instant.
A sound thundered from the direction of the caves—loud enough to echo across all of Bloodstone. Everyone turned toward it.
A few moments earlier – Vaemond Velaryon
Vaemond ran as if his life depended on it. And it did. He knew his nephew’s display would not distract the enemy for long. Ironically, the moment he had asked for the tides to be with him, the sea had answered—thanks to Laenor.
His nephew’s plan was madness. He didn’t even fully understand what these square pieces of dragonglass would do, and yet here he was, following that plan. Utter madness.
But Vaemond had made a vow long ago—one he had sworn to himself and to the name of his house: never disobey the head of House Velaryon, Corlys Velaryon, and his heirs and progeny. Now, seeing the sky blotted out by a wall of water above their camp, Vaemond knew he had been right to make that vow. His brother, Lord Corlys Velaryon, was already a legend—the Sea Snake, whose nine voyages would be told for generations. But as if that legacy were not enough, he had sired a son who could perform feats Vaemond had only heard of in ancient tales of gods and sorcerers.
So, when his nephew asked him to carry out a plan that might end with him dying beneath a hundred arrows, it had taken Vaemond only a moment to recall his vow. And here he was, crouching behind a rock barely large enough to hide behind. He glanced back at the camp and smiled when he saw the flames dying beneath the falling water. It was a proud smile—a satisfied one. If he were to die here, so be it. He would die content.
He had taught his sons everything they needed to know. They were old enough to fight and survive. He trusted his brother to protect them and to honor their futures. Corlys had even mentioned granting them a few of the Stepstone islands once victory was achieved. What more could the sons of a second son ask for? His wife was dead, and he had no daughters.
An arrow whistled past him, snapping him out of his thoughts. It grazed the air near his head. He shook himself from his reverie. There was still work to do.
Vaemond drew a dagger and took out one of the dragonglass blocks. The crimson veins running through it reminded him of what he had seen in Corlys’s tent a moon ago. And then came the memory: a tiny flame, the brightest blue he had ever seen, igniting from one of those dragonglass pieces after being anointed with his blood. His brother’s words still rang in his ears—House Velaryon reclaiming their magic.
If Vaemond had one regret, it was that he would not live to see his sons wield magic.
He shook his head. Not the time.
He cut a deep gash into his palm—he would need a lot of blood to smear on all the dragonglass in his possession. Taking a deep breath, he smeared his blood across the High Valyrian runes etched into the dragonglass, peeked over the rock, and hurled one toward a nearby cave where Triarchy men were hidden.
An arrow flew by, nearly nicking his scalp, but Vaemond ducked down just in time. Then—boom. The explosion was greater than anything heard or seen in his entire life. The cave entrance was obliterated, and the blast killed dozens of men nearby.
Vaemond peeked out again, eyes wide with glee. He looked down at the remaining dragonglass in his hands and then back at the destruction. He repeated the process a few more times.
By the end of it, a savage, almost mad grin had spread across his face.
The wrath of Vaemond Velaryon—the Bomber of the Stepstones—had been unleashed.
