The Red Dragon
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23. Dragon's Lair
🕑 Added 2025-05-28 17:41:58 +0000 UTCDragon's Lair, Stepstones
“Did he name the isle Dragon’s Lair?” asked Laenor to his father, who stood beside him at the hull of the ship. He couldn’t deny that the name was apt, if nothing else—these islands were riddled with caves, as far as he remembered.
“Yes. Daemon named not only this one but many others as well—Dragon’s Claw, Dragon’s Tooth, Caraxes’s Wrath, Dragon’s Tail, and even one named New Valyria. Though Daemon named that last one in a drunken stupor, and only I know of it. He commanded me never to speak of it,” replied his father, amusement clear in his tone.
“You defied the Prince’s order,” Laenor remarked, smirking with mirth.
“That I did. Woe is me.” Both father and son chuckled as the coast grew closer with each passing moment.
“Though I’ve heard that Prince Daemon is very passionate about our lost motherland and the past glories of the Dragonlord heritage, I didn’t think he was seriously considering making a New Valyria,” said Laenor, subtly probing his father to gauge just how deep Daemon’s obsession with Valyria ran. In his previous life, he had read of Daemon’s pride in their heritage—but many things had proven different in this world over the past three years.
“Many rumors about men or women born of noble or royal blood are usually exaggerations of the truth. But in Daemon’s case, it’s quite the opposite. His obsession with Valyria runs deeper than any whisper would suggest. I’m surprised the man hasn’t already taken to the skies on the Blood Wyrm to fly straight into the Smoking Sea, hoping to find something—anything—more than what he’s already hoarded. Perhaps even to claim the land for himself,” said his father.
His words brought a smile to Laenor’s face. Good. Very good. He had plans revolving around Old Valyria—and he needed a man brave, mad, or obsessed enough like Daemon to see them through.
“Well, I’m surprised you, Corlys Velaryon, haven’t led an expedition to Old Valyria yourself. One successful voyage to that doomed land could make you richer than all the Lord Paramounts of the Seven Kingdoms. And the prestige…” Laenor gave his father a curious look as he mentally commanded the ship to begin docking. His ability to control watercraft had evolved significantly. Commanding this large ship was far easier now than when he was limited to fishing boats on Driftmark. He no longer needed to sit cross-legged and close-eyed like a monk; the war galley obeyed his will effortlessly.
His father snorted. “Like every brave sailor before me, I once fancied myself the man to lead that expedition. To take all the treasures said to lie upon that doomed land, to spread the knowledge of the greatest civilization ever known to man. But when I reached the Smoking Sea and saw the horrors that walk and crawl upon that land—even from afar through my Myrish far-eyes—I abandoned those fancies. I turned my ship back to Driftmark and never spoke of it to family or friend.”
They disembarked, walking down the plank to land. Laenor noted the frown and flicker of horror on his father’s face and decided to let the matter of Valyria rest.
“So, Father, what do you think of my ability to control the ship? Hugging the coast every time you sail and braving the open sea are entirely different experiences, wouldn’t you say?” Laenor asked teasingly, a grin playing on his lips.
Corlys’s face shifted from its former grimness to joy, but before he could speak, a voice called out behind them:
“A Sea’s blessing to House Velaryon! A man who can sail a ship alone with naught but his mind and navigate the deep sea without hugging the coast—is surely a gift from the Sea itself! You are a blessing to House Velaryon, nephew. May the line of House Velaryon stay blessed by the Sea, as it always has. Hail House Velaryon—the Old, the True, the Brave!”
Vaemond Velaryon stood proudly, joy and pride beaming from his face.
The Velaryon men behind him echoed his words as they crossed the rocky terrain of Dragon’s Lair. Soon, they reached the main tent situated at the mountain’s foothill. Their shouts were cut short by a sudden shriek—the sound of leather flaps rustling as the Blood Wyrm came into view, descending from the skies with a thunderous roar and landing near the camp. Laenor spotted a rider on its back.
“Let us go. It seems Daemon has returned from wherever he flew off to,” said Corlys, beginning to make his way toward the main tent.
The tent was large, furnished with chairs, a table, cups, and even a wine barrel—easy to spot for Laenor.
“And Vaemond,” Corlys added sharply, “I know you’re proud of our heritage—but try not to boast too much in front of Daemon. He takes as much pride in his blood as you, if not more. I would not have infighting when our enemy is cunning enough to use such divisions against us.” He pinned his brother with a hard stare to emphasize his words.
Vaemond growled under his breath but nodded in understanding. They stood in silence, waiting for Daemon’s arrival. It wasn’t a long wait.
Prince Daemon entered the tent clad in black armor, his ever-infuriating smirk plastered on his face—though Laenor could spot a flicker of annoyance beneath it.
“Aha! Corlys, you’ve brought your green son too. Is that why you sailed back to Driftmark? Were you missing your boy that much?” Daemon said mockingly as he strode toward Laenor’s father.
“I wanted you to see your face when my son proves his worth here—rather than flying around shouting, ‘Come out, Crabfeeder, your crabs are waiting for their master,’ and doing nothing of note,” his father bit back, as both men clasped hands with firm strength.
“Oh, come now, Corlys. You don’t expect me to believe your son suddenly gained the ability to control water. Even the Velaryons of Old Valyria were never known to wield the sea to their will. How is it your son can do so?” Daemon asked, waving a hand dismissively as he glanced at Laenor from the corner of his eye before focusing on a crude map of the Stepstones laid out on the table.
If his father and uncle were shocked that Daemon knew about Laenor’s abilities, they hid it too well for Laenor to tell. But Laenor cared not for things like that, he is more interested in revealing his ability to Daemon without reservation—he has not forgotten what Daemon said at Maidenpool..
“I told you back during the Tourney of King Viserys’s ascension at Maidenpool—Velaryon blood is old and holds secrets even I do not fully understand. And you, Daemon, are no exception to that ignorance, Targaryen or not.”
A frown crept onto Daemon’s face. He opened his mouth to retort, but before he could speak, a globule of water rose before his eyes, floating mid-air. Daemon’s eyes widened before he quickly schooled his expression, attempting to appear unaffected.
Though he tried to mask his shock, he failed miserably as he watched the water hover—bent to Laenor’s will—without the young man even lifting a finger.
“So the rumors are true. Not only does your son have a dragon growing at an unnatural rate, but he can also control water?” Daemon muttered. “I have to admit, Corlys, I’m both disappointed and… intrigued. Disappointed that it wasn’t a member of House of the Dragon who was blessed by the magic of Old Valyria, and intrigued that we now have more than just my house to prove to the realm that we Valyrians are superior to all—Andals, barbaric First Men, or those cowardly Rhoynish.”
Although Laenor caught a flicker of excitement in Daemon’s tone, his face still showed more disappointment than anything else, and even that excitement faded quickly.
Laenor saw Vaemond scowling, but he said nothing, kept in check by a sharp look from Corlys. Daemon’s disappointment swiftly shifted into calculation as his gaze settled on Laenor with an unreadable expression. Then, abruptly, he turned back toward the map.
“Up until now, we’ve done nothing but grumble as those Essosi half-breeds hole themselves up in caves. But with Laenor’s magic, we might just have a chance to force them out. After that, Caraxes and I will deal with the rest. Let us remind these mongrels how the pure-blooded Valyrians conquer and dominate—as our ancestors once did across Essos and Westeros.”
He slammed a dragon figurine onto the table with a loud clack.
Laenor saw Vaemond straighten with pride, determination shining in his uncle’s eyes as he stared at the map of the Stepstones.
