Abefroeman — Roleplayer Guild

Queenstone Island (Formerly Bloodstone Island), Queen’s Rest (Formerly Torturer’s Deep)

Rhaenyra Targaryen awoke in a cold sweat, having awoken from a fevered dream. She, like many of those that had followed her from the Northern Crownlands and King’s Landing, had taken a nasty cold during the voyage over. A few hundred had passed, no doubt from the lack of clean food and water, but their sacrifice was not forgotten nor in vain. Of the roughly 20,000 people who followed their Targaryen princesses, 18,500 were free, free from tyranny, free from madness, and able to no longer be trapped in creaking wooden ships and at the mercy of the seas. The voyage had taken a little over a week, one fraught with tragedy, sickness, pirates, and fear.

Shivering, Rhaenyra walked over to her window, throwing it open to allow the sunlight to stream into her room. It felt wonderful on her skin, as she wiped sweat from her brow. She knew she was sick, but thankfully, the worst had passed the night before. Her stomach was angry, not to mention her bowels, and on top of it all, it was that time of the month. She let out a soft laugh, marveling how fate seemed to cause chaos at the most inopportune times. Still, she was alive, and many of her subjects as well. She still had not crowned herself a Queen, let alone “Lord” of the Stepstones. Not until all the islands were firmly under her control would she dare such an action. 

Her forbear Daemon Targaryen had crowned himself King, after conquering all but two islands in the chain. Yet, it seemed wrong, if not premature to do something like that until she knew that full control rested solely in her and her sister’s hands. Baela was no doubt off somewhere killing the last remaining holdout pirate lords who had refused to swear fealty to the Targaryen sisters. After the fall of Torturer’s Deep and Grey Gallow’s to the Targaryen forces, all but the most diehard and foolish captains and pirates had sworn their fealty, now knowing what the wrath of a dragon truly was, let alone two. Rhaenyra shook her head, moving to sit down at her table to catch her breath, and to ease the pain that currently emanated from her stomach. 

“Seven be damned,” She thought, as another wave of nausea washed over her. Closing her eyes, she laid back into her chair, letting out a sigh, as the pain subsided. Her mind raced as the thoughts of the past came to the forefront once again. Funny, how when the world seems to be going crazy, with things spiraling in and out of control, we look back to the events of the past, our actions, and those of the individuals around us. The lords and ladies back in King’s Landing, that arrogant bastard Aerys, the Crakehalls… all these people swirled about her conscious thoughts. But, even in all that murky chaos, one face came to the forefront, Kevan Crakehall. 

Of all the liars, cheats, monsters, rats, the negative and undesirable, Kevan Crakehall was one of the few faces that still shined brightly in that darkness that was King’s Landing. That city had paid dearly for the price of Rhaenyra and Baela’s escape to freedom and self-created exile. Perhaps the city was saved, perhaps not, but it was an action that had allowed not only for the sisters and their military forces to escape, but also their civilian populace to complete their own exodus from the Northern Crownlands. Sure, some people had stayed behind, choosing to live in the lands their families had worked and lived on for decades, but other chose to follow the Targaryen Duo, choosing to sail into the unknown. 

Rhaenyra rose up from her seat, heading over to add more firewood to the hearth. The room felt cold, and a little extra heat would not only help cook her food, but also allow for her to relax without shivering every ten seconds. She enjoyed seeing the flames grow, burning higher and brighter, licking greedily at the freshly added lumber. She stood close to the hearth, letting the flames warm radiance wash over her like a wave of comfort, closing her eyes to relish every moment of it. She had secured a great victory on this island, and the nearby ones as well. It was only a matter of time before the outlying stragglers fell into line, and under her domain. 

How novel she thought, looking back onto history once more. She was going to do what no member of her family had ever been able to accomplish, not even Daemon Targaryen. She was going to fully conquer the Stepstones, from the Broken Arm to the Disputed Lands, she would be its Queen, the sole uncontested leader of islands that had never submitted to anyone before. She felt herself smiling, reaching up to cover her mouth as she coughed. This damned sickness, the sooner it was gone, the better. Sighing, Rhaenyra sat back down in her chair, easing her legs out before her to be more comfortable. The sun was still rising in the sky, meaning it was morning at least.

She leaned back, closing her eyes. At least she had slept through the night, finally. Being sick was a miserable experience, but in a way, it humbles people. Rhaenyra shook her head once again, rubbing her head as she tried to ease away the pain in her mind, a headache starting to form. It was going to be a long day to say the least, but she took solace in knowing that soon she could be back in the field, helping her people, helping her sister. The sooner that she had conquered the Stepstones, the sooner she could begin to revolutionize these backwards pirate havens into a truly united and cultured realm worth being recognized. The rebirth of the Kingdom of Stepstones would be in honor of King Daemon Targaryen, in honor of all true Targaryen descendants that truly deserved to be called Kings and Queens. 

Rhaenyra began to doze off, her eyes closing, while her head began to bob in exhaustion. She soon found herself daydreaming, perhaps closer to a fever dream, but all the same, she began to recollect of the voyage from King’s Landing, the storming seas, the pirate fleet, and finally the siege of Torturer’s Deep. She’d been cooped up in the conquered castle since it had fallen to her forces, or rather, the dragons, and then the remaining pirates and brigands being mopped up by her loyalist forces. Perhaps it was the dead that spread the sickness to her, or perhaps it was just latently waiting within her body before it finally struck, but either way, she’d been sick for the past week, bed ridden and unable to lead.

The voyage itself started off alright, but soon descended into a chaotic storm that sank its fair share of ships. She’d nearly been thrown off her own ship twice, thankfully being saved once by the rigging and the second time none other than Ser Trevan Waters. He had definitely saved her from falling into the briny deep, even though it nearly threw him into the sea as well. She understood why the seas were so feared. She had felt so powerless, so utterly weak and at the mercy of the tides and winds. Even her dragon hated being cooped up, and had chosen to fly for the most part, circling high above the fleet in the safety of the calm skies. They had not prepared enough for the voyage, nor was anyone else for that matter.

Though, after a week of rough and stormy seas, the storm finally broke, and land was finally sighted. She exalted at finally coming to the safety of land, after finding the ancient seat of power of King Daemon Targaryen, Lord of the Stepstones, Protector of the Narrow Sea, King from the Broken Arm to the Disputed Lands. The entire fleet had let out a cheer that was told by those that had surrendered could be heard from shore. Through fire and blood she and her sister conquered the Stepstones, with the might of their dragons, and the prowess of their loyal soldiers and generals, lords and commoners alike. It took all but a day to conquer Torturer’s Deep and firmly control the entire island. Though, who could truly say otherwise, when one had dragons?

The castle was old, and ill maintained, which had helped the Targaryen forces wrest control from the pirate and brigands who had laid claim to it. They were fierce fighters, and they didn’t let their island redoubt fall without a fight, but once the two dragons were unleashed, most if not all semblance of resistance and defiance evaporated, gone like smoke in a storm. The dragons had ushered in their resounding victory over their enemies. By day’s end, the smoke and flames were gone, and repairs were underway to the castle, which had been renamed Queen’s Rest, in honor of Princess Rhaenyra, and of Queen Rhaenyra of centuries past. Rumor said that this very castle was the one raised by King Daemon Targaryen, when he crowned himself King of the Stepstones, so very long ago.

She was so happy that day, so alive, so full of energy and vigor. Yet, that night, she had come down with a sickness, and like the others, she became bed ridden. Like anyone when they were sick, she simply slept and rested, occasionally getting up for food, water, or to vomit and make use of the latrines. So much for the fabled blood of the dragon, but either way, she endured through it all, still provided direction, even when she could barely walk or leave her room. It was Baela who shined brightly in this time, riding to and fro atop her dragon, Jadefyre, and bringing the other islands of the Stepstones to heel. 

The smart pirates had surrendered, pledging themselves to the service of Rhaenyra and Baela in exchange for pardons and jobs. The others… well, their ships lay at the briny depths, burned atop the waves, or were roasted in their own small holdfasts, those that lingered being put to the sword by the roving bands of Targaryen patrols and military forces. It was a feat of military genius, luck, and sheer force of will, that had allowed for these separate, individual islands to now fall under one flag, one banner, and truly become a unified Kingdom. Though to call it that, even now, was premature, far too early and too soon. 

Time was their ally here. The Stepstones were fractured and had fought against one another. This played to the Targaryen’s advantages, mainly in that they only had to face one enemy at a time, and those fools who stood up to them, well, they soon learned the same fate as Harren the Black did when Harrenhal was burned by Aegon the Conquerer. Still, time and patience would win out the day though. After all the castles and keeps had fallen, they’d need to be rebuilt, the shanty’s burned and replaced with true villages, and the land tamed and tilled for farming. The Stepstones were a wealth of resources that no one had ever bothered to truly tap into, something that both sisters were not going to ignore.

Soon enough, Rhaenyra had fallen fully asleep. Here dreams of the past eroded away to sweet peaceful thoughts of summers spent in the past with her family. Rolling to her side in the chair, she let out a small sigh, enjoying the sun’s rays warming her skin. Soon, the last conscious part of her mind though, she’d be able to be back in the field once more, to be able to rule as a true leader. This damn cold would not get the best of her, and better yet, she was overcoming it even as she finally drifted off to sleep, and let nature take its course. The world would still be there when she woke up, and she had set strict orders not to be bothered unless it was direly important.

Eastern Edge of the Stepstones, Jadefyre Island (Formerly Red Mast Island), Baela Targaryen

Baela looked down upon the smoking ruins of the enemy fleet. They had finally begun to band together, in a vain hope to defeat the Targaryen sisters. It was too little, too late, and their final acts of defiance only seeking to irritate the conquering army. These pirates, brigands, and sellswords had lived without reprisal for far too long, and perhaps because of that, they’d grown lazy and complacent. Either way, against well trained men, and the help of dragons, these outlaws were quickly falling in line, or being burned to a crisp. For whatever reason, it seemed as though every island had just one more cove, one more cave to clear, before it was finally safe. 

The benefit of all of this, at least, was the untold accumulated wealth of who knew how many ships, merchants, traders, kings, queens, princes, princesses, and more. These vile spawn of the forgotten corners of the great kingdoms and realms had congregated in the Stepstones for centuries, turning them into a pirate haven of pirate havens. Not since Daemon Targaryen had anyone ever tried to truly rule over these islands as one unified nation, one people, all under one banner. Baela laughed, turning her dragon to the left, spotting a small smuggler’s ship trying to make for the open ocean. How many more would try and run, rather than surrender? She shook her head, and beckoned Jadefyre onwards, aiming the dragon directly at the fleeing ship.

With one word, a gout of flame shot out, igniting the very waters in front of the fleeing ship. She soared over the ship, nearly causing it to tip over with the gust of wind from Jadefyre’s wings. Her hair streamed wildly behind her, as she turned her head to look at her handy work. The fools were running scared now, having turned back for shore. The bastards thought they could seek shelter in their little grotto, but they were wrong. She urged Jadefyre forward, and with a roaring screech, the dragon ripped the ship in half with its powerful talons, tearing the splintered wood up and away. She let out a laugh, enjoying the fun she was having in mopping up the last of the resistance on this particular island she was at, oh what it was to be alive, and to actually be fighting for something greater than any dared dream of for many a century. Still, she thought, her sister deserved to be here, rather than being bed ridden back in the new capital.

Flying up and away, she turned Jadefyre back towards the center of the island. Her forces were laying siege to a small holdfast, perhaps no larger than on of the towers in Kings Landing, but out here, it was among the largest structures on the island. She circled around the tower, knowing that it’s commander cowered within, his host having scattered at the first sight of her dragon. Even today, after all those years had passed since Danerys took the throne, dragons were still scarce, and in less developed regions, still very much a myth, at least until now. Baela wheeled Jadefyre over, and turned her dragon towards the roof of the keep. It was time to force this battle to a close, and secure this island for the Kingdom of the Stepstones. Jadefyre roared loudly, and came to a halt atop the tower’s roof, gripping at the weather worn stones. The dragon’s eyes scanned for anything that could harm its master, as Baela Targaryen hopped down from her dragon.

She pulled her hair back into an elegant ponytail, tying it off with a piece of deep purple silk. The least she could do is not look like some bedraggled ragamuffin, and more like a conquering Targaryen of old. Baela sighed, sitting down on a crate, as she waited for her prize to show up, knowing that he would not sit idly by with her finally landing atop his keep. Those that had been captured referred to this particular individual as Captain Honjar the Red. Said to be one of the descendants of the original defectors from the Royal Navy so many years ago, the marines and sailors who took the massive warships that the Lannisters had built, and sailed off to the Stepstones to become pirates. He still held one of those ancient ships in his possession, something that would no doubt be a nice prize to take home to Queenstone Island.
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