Chapter 18: Siege of Bloodstone - 108 AC

 Within the hushed confines of the Small Council chamber in the Red Keep, King Viserys sat composedly upon his seat, attentively absorbing the deliberations of his advisors regarding matters concerning the realm. Though a veneer of tranquility adorned his countenance, the burdens of his rule seemed to weigh upon him, manifesting as a faint trace of strain. Nevertheless, he remained an attentive listener, clutching in his hand a goblet brimming with wine that had been recently poured by his eleven-year-old daughter and designated heir, Rhaenyra.

"Your grace, tidings have arrived from The North," proclaimed Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King. "Lord Rickon Stark has gained a son, named Cregan, securing the Stark lineage and avoiding a succession crisis."

"Indeed?" Viserys replied, a smile gracing his lips, as his gaze turned to the Grand Maester. "Runciter, dispatch a raven to Winterfell, convey the crown's felicitations."

"It shall be done, my king," acknowledged the Maester, offering a slight bow. His goblet was refilled by Rhaenyra's dutiful hands.

"Your grace, there are tidings from the Stepstones," interjected Tyland Lannister, the newly appointed Master of Ships. "Daemon and his forces have conquered all but one island in the region. Our shipping lanes have been reclaimed, and patrol vessels, adorned with the sigils of Velaryon and Celtigar, now dot the surrounding waters."

The king's head inclined with curiosity. "That is indeed heartening news. Does this imply the conclusion of the war?"

"Not entirely, your grace," Tyland responded. "Currently, they are laying siege to Bloodstone. The island is entirely blockaded by their fleet, and they seek to starve out the Crabfeeder. According to the reports we have received, it appears the island will capitulate within the year. Ser Clement Celtigar, meanwhile, has begun fortifying Grey Gallows with his own men, fashioning a makeshift outpost. It seems he intends to establish it as his own domain, thereby bolstering the stability and security of the region."

"Ah, Ser Clement," mused the king, a tenuous smile adorning his features. "It seems three scions of Valyrian Houses have united their forces and achieved remarkable feats. Is that not a cause for celebration? Perhaps we should extend them a warm reception upon their return."

"They have ventured into conflict without seeking your consent, your grace," the Hand interjected firmly. "If the crown were to fete their homecoming, it would convey weakness and indecisiveness to the other lords who have suffered the depredations of the Crabfeeder."

Viserys merely emitted a contemplative hum, withholding a verbal response. It was now the appointed moment for the Master of Coin to address the court. "Regarding the Celtigars, your grace," he began, "The port of Brackyore has been progressively reducing its tolls and tariffs year after year, causing a decline in our tax revenues. Should we issue a warning to them, your grace?"

The king arched an eyebrow in surprise. "You say they have been consistently lowering their tariffs? How is it then that they manage to amass profits so swiftly?"

"They have alternative sources of income, such as warehouse rentals and ship repairs, your grace," Otto explained. "These are presently untaxed."

"I see," the king mused. "Perhaps we could engage in negotiations with them, proposing a tax on their warehouses and ship repairs instead of demanding an increase in port tariffs."

"That is indeed an exceptional suggestion, your grace," Lord Beesbury interjected, nodding in agreement. "However, I must express concern. With Ser Clement establishing his outpost in the Stepstones, how should we proceed with the tax and—"

"Perhaps we should postpone that discussion, Lord Beesbury," the king interjected politely. "The war has barely concluded." Lord Beesbury bowed slightly in acknowledgment.

Now, it is the turn of the Master of Laws to address the assembly. "Your grace, there is a matter that has been weighing heavily on my mind," he begins. "Once again, it concerns the Celtigars, a topic that has dominated our discussions today, apparently."

Viserys chuckles softly, noting the recurring mention of the Celtigars. "Very well, Lyonel," he says, granting the floor to the nobleman.

Lyonel clears his throat and proceeds to speak. "Your grace, I must bring to your attention a matter concerning the offspring of Ser Clement. Specifically, I confess my lack of knowledge regarding your grace's house policies concerning the ownership of dragon eggs."

Viserys tilts his head, curiosity piqued. "Dragon eggs?" he repeats, seeking further clarification.

Lyonel continues, his words taking on a solemn tone. "As you may already know, Lady Laena possesses the gift of being a dragonrider. Her mother, Princess Rhaenys, also shares this ability. And of course, House Celtigars are of Valyrian descent, although muddled. Presently, there are no eligible heirs within their family who could be entrusted with a dragon egg. However, if I may propose..."

Otto interrupts, his voice filled with skepticism. "Are you suggesting, Lord Lyonel, that the king should bestow a dragon egg upon the Celtigars?"

Lyonel maintains his composure and responds with resolve. "Indeed, Lord Hand, I raise this suggestion. I am well aware that such matters do not fall within my jurisdiction, and I hesitate to meddle in the affairs of your noble house. Nevertheless, it is my belief that such a gesture could serve to strengthen the bond between your two houses, just as King Jaehaerys once did with the Velaryons. Additionally, it may lay the groundwork for a future alliance through marriage. The rapid ascension of the Celtigars should not be underestimated, your grace."

"Your logic is indeed sound, Lyonel," Viserys remarked with a hint of skepticism. "However, we must consider that Lady Laena lacks the Targaryen name. Perhaps a single egg in the future, maybe, but his whole bloodline? I do not think that is feasible. The last thing I want is to have many dragons running around wildly outside Dragonstone and the pit."

Lyonel, his head bowed respectfully, acknowledged the King's words with a nod of understanding. "Very well, Your Grace," he acquiesced. "I shall not dwell on this matter any further, as you wish."

======

Within the confines of a tent, Clement reclined in a spacious round wooden tub, brimming with pleasantly warm water. The billowing steam permeated the chamber, saturating the air with humidity. With his legs emerging from the water and his back resting against the tub's rim, the man luxuriated in his repose. The Stepstones conflict had persisted for a span of two years, although much of it had surprisingly entailed waiting. Armed with a formidable dragon amidst their war arsenal, Clement's faction effortlessly asserted dominion over the shallow seas and the islands. The pirates and soldiers had grown to dread the thunderous roar of the Blood Wyrm, for once they caught sight of the scarlet dragon soaring across the sky, their resolve withered away, rendering them disinclined to engage in battle.

At present, the situation called for patient anticipation. Clement's forces had successfully annexed all the islands, save for Bloodstone, and if one were to consider it part of the Stepstones as well, Tyrosh. The siege persisted with unwavering determination. Occasional assaults by the prince ensured that these soldiers remained perpetually on edge, unable to find respite in slumber.

Abruptly, an unannounced visitor trespassed into Clement's sanctuary, the very fabric of the tent parting to admit his entrance. It was Gormond, still clad in his suit of armor.

"Nephew?" he called. "Are you in here?"

"I am here, uncle," Clement responded. "Has any news arrived from home?"

Gormond advanced further into the tent, beholding Clement's relaxed posture within the tub. A chuckle escaped his lips as he leaned against a nearby desk, folding his arms. "A raven has arrived from Claw Isle. Thirty additional ships are en route, accompanied by a contingent of two hundred men-at-arms."

"That's good." Clement emitted a satisfied hum, his voice carrying a note of contentment. "That's almost a hundred ships now belonging to us."

Perplexed by Clement's intentions, Gormond inquired, "But why do you wish to dispatch the majority of them to this place? The war is all but concluded, and we can easily recuperate our losses within a year or two, undisturbed."

Clement chuckled. "You think the Crabfeeder is the only army the Triarchy has, uncle?"

Gormond sighed wearily, realizing the implications of Clement's words. "So the conflict shall persist," he lamented. "Why are you adamant on having a holding here, anyway? This is a barren land, nephew, a bunch of windswept, rocky islands often swallowed by storms."

"That description sounds similar to our own isle." Clement, rising from the bath, wrapped himself in a cloth, his glistening body and tied hair now fully visible to Gormond. The scars etched across his chest and back bore witness to the year he had spent engaged in battles across the waters and islands of the Stepstones, some still fresh and raw. "The Stepstones serve as a vital maritime thoroughfare," he explained, his tone matter-of-fact. "By securing control over one of these islands, we stand to amass considerable profits for our coffers."

Gormond shook his head disapprovingly. "But imposing tolls would merely mimic the Crabfeeder's actions," he countered.

Arching an eyebrow in response, Clement retorted, "Who said anything about tolls?" Swiftly, he donned a shirt and pants, discreetly covering himself while simultaneously drying his hair with the cloth.

"If your aim is to establish a new trading post, this location poses significant challenges," Gormond observed. "Tyrosh lies to the northeast, Lys to the southeast, and Planky Town to the southwest. A fledgling port in this region would face insurmountable obstacles."

"That's exactly why it's so beneficial." Clement rolled his eyes. "With a few incentives, I'm sure we could do it, uncle. Maybe not in my lifetime, perhaps in my children's lifetime."

Gormond casually shrugged and responded, "Well, do as you wish. After all, you are to be the lord of Claw Isle, not me." His nonchalant demeanor belied the importance of their conversation. "Ah, there's another message," Gormond added, alluding to a matter of potential significance. "If you're interested, it's from Laena."

Clement's brow raised in curiosity, his attention fully captured. "And what does Laena have to say?" he inquired.

"She'll be flying to the Stepstones at the end of the year." Gormond stated.

"I see. She'll be six and ten soon." Clement hummed. "Well, it's fine, the war is ending for now, Corlys won't have much say about it. But what of your own circumstances, dear uncle?"

"What?"  Gormond arched an inquisitive eyebrow, his expression displaying a hint of confusion.

"You're leaving your son for almost two years now." Clement said.  "Furthermore, if memory serves me well, your wife resides just a day's sail away from this very location."

Gormond rolled his eyes dismissively, his response laced with a touch of nonchalance. "Rest assured, she shall manage adequately. And as for Arthor... I intend to return to him once the siege reaches its conclusion."

"A commendable plan indeed," acknowledged Clement, his head nodding approvingly. "Perhaps you might consider bringing his mother along as well."

Gormond scoffed. "You're so curious, aren't you?"

======

Amidst the tumultuous chaos of the battlefield, Clement stood resolute on the damp sands of Bloodstone Island. His round shield was elevated, mirroring the stance of his men who trailed behind him. They formed a tightly knit formation, cautiously advancing along the shoreline, buffeted by the crashing waves. As they pressed forward, Clement beheld the ghastly sight of decaying corpses strewn across the sand—mostly fallen pirates who had met their demise days, if not weeks, earlier. Charred remains also littered the area, mingling with the harrowing sight of their own comrades impaled upon the shore, their flesh ravaged by ravenous crabs.

Above their heads, a deluge of arrows whizzed through the air, directed predominantly towards the island. The pirates, their ammunition nearly depleted, struggled to mount a retaliatory assault. The air resonated with the relentless thundering of artillery fire, primarily scorpion bolts, soaring through the sky in an attempt to suppress the sporadic archers emerging from the cave, providing cover for the landing troops.

Surrounding Clement were the soldiers of the Sea Snake, adorned with the distinguished Velaryon emblem, alongside the sellswords enlisted by Prince Daemon. Leading the charge were Clement's marauders, positioned at the forefront, absorbing the brunt of the enemy's missile barrage. Yet, their swiftness in advancement far surpassed that of their adversaries.

In a swift motion, Caraxed unleashed a torrent of flames upon the stationed archers situated on the island's hills, obliterating all in its path. Men scattered frantically, their anguished cries echoing in the air, their emaciated bodies bearing witness to the pangs of starvation.

Upon the fiery signal, Clement's marauders dispersed, relinquishing their orderly formation. Instead, they surged forward, converging upon the remaining defenders guarding the caves, their eyes ablaze with trepidation. The distance between the opposing soldiers swiftly diminished, culminating in a violent clash. Shields collided with resounding force, and swords and axes drew crimson trails of blood.

Clement found himself immersed in the midst of this chaotic scene, surrounded by the sounds of clashing weapons and the cries of men. With his axe in hand, he swiftly struck down an opponent with a single forceful swing, cleaving the man's body into two gruesome halves. Without hesitation, he swiftly redirected his attention to another foe, raising his axe high above his head before ruthlessly splitting the man's skull in twain.

It didn't take long for the rest of the landed soldiers to join the frenzied charge towards the cave. Banners of aquamarine and yellow intertwined in a vibrant tapestry as the soldiers pushed forward, leaving behind a trail of fallen comrades and lifeless bodies.

In a sudden display of prowess, the Blood Wyrm in the sky gracefully descended, its powerful wings casting ominous shadows upon the blood-soaked sand. The rogue prince, a figure of intrigue and defiance, gracefully dismounted from his fearsome steed, Dark Sister gleaming in his hand. With swift determination, he surged towards the entrance of the cave that lay hidden within the isle.

Soon enough, the caves were inundated with a flood of men, with Clement counted among their ranks. In the cramped and claustrophobic confines of the small chamber, his movements were constrained, yet he deftly maneuvered his axe, gripping it tightly, his focus honed. Utilizing the pommel of his axe, he disoriented an adversary, delivering a powerful blow that carved a deep, gaping wound across the man's face, causing brain matter to spill forth like a morbid fountain.

With each swing and strike, the men relentlessly advanced deeper into the heart of the cavernous system, each blow claiming the life of a single unfortunate soul.

"Craghas Drahar!" A commanding voice echoed within Clement's ears. It was Daemon, brandishing his sword with fervor, pointing it towards the mastermind behind the mayhem— the Myrish prince, the Crabfeeder. Amidst the battle, Daemon engaged the man in a merciless duel, reminiscent of a predator toying with its prey. It wasn't long before the head of the Crabfeeder was severed from his body, a grisly trophy that Daemon triumphantly held aloft, revealing it to all within the center of the cave system.

His men, recognizing the demise of their leader, quickly began to scatter, attempting to escape the clutches of their merciless pursuers. Yet Clement's marauders showed no mercy. They swiftly blocked every possible exit, leaving the hapless enemies with no avenue of escape. In a relentless display of ferocity, they systematically slaughtered their disoriented opponents one by one, akin to pigs being led to their ultimate slaughter for consumption.

The enemies crumbled to the earth, their gaunt frames strewn across the sandy terrain, while entrails adorned the ground and severed heads tumbled upon the boots of Clement's soldiers. Responding to a resounding horn blast echoing from the distant battlefield, Clement removed his helmet, his breath ragged with exhaustion. His men, their voices united in triumphant cries, proclaimed the victory, signaling the long-awaited end to the tyrannical rule of the Crabfeeder.