The first acceleration ritual happened on the seventh day after Stormhorn's hatching.
Harry had spent the intervening week studying the Unspeakables' theoretical frameworks, cross-referencing them with what he knew about dragon biology from both worlds, and preparing components that made even Septa Sarya raise her eyebrows.
"Dragon's blood, phoenix tears, powdered moonstone, and your own blood," she catalogued, watching Harry arrange the materials in careful patterns around Stormhorn. "This looks less like animal husbandry and more like the kind of ritual that gets people burned as heretics."
"The Unspeakables specialized in things that made normal wizards uncomfortable," Harry said, drawing runes in silver powder around the ritual space. "Time manipulation, death magic, creature modification. This—" He gestured at the complex array taking shape. "This is relatively mild by their standards."
Stormhorn, now the size of a large dog after only a week of natural growth, watched the preparations with intelligent interest. Through their bond, Harry felt the dragon's anticipation. Stormhorn *wanted* this. Wanted to grow, to become strong enough to protect and destroy in equal measure.
"Relatively mild," Sarya repeated dryly. "The words every healer loves to hear before experimental magic."
"You don't have to stay," Harry pointed out, though he was grateful she'd insisted on monitoring. The ritual required precision and significant power output—having someone watching for signs of magical exhaustion was prudent.
"And miss the opportunity to see if you accidentally explode yourself and a dragon?" Sarya settled onto a cushion at the edge of the ritual space, her medical supplies arranged within easy reach. "I think not."
Harry completed the final rune and stepped back to examine his work. The circle was perfect—or as perfect as he could make it with materials that weren't quite what the Unspeakables would have used. The theory was sound: use temporal magic to accelerate Stormhorn's biological processes, making hours pass as days, days as weeks. The dragon's body would age rapidly while external time remained relatively normal.
The danger, of course, was destabilization. Push too hard and Stormhorn's growth might become uncontrolled, his body developing faster than his mind could adapt. Or worse—the temporal acceleration could feedback through their bond and age *Harry* as well, burning through decades of his life in hours.
"Last chance to tell me this is a terrible idea," Harry said to no one in particular.
"This is a terrible idea," Koro's voice came from the cave entrance. The Summer Islander had appeared silently, as was his habit. "But all our ideas are terrible. This one is just more obviously dangerous." He studied the ritual circle with those unsettling gold eyes. "How long will it take?"
"Four hours of external time," Harry said. "For Stormhorn, it'll feel like forty days. His body will develop accordingly—growing, maturing, building the mass and structure he needs."
"And for you?"
"I'll be anchoring the spell and channeling power the entire time. It's going to hurt, and I'll probably be useless for a day or two afterward." Harry knelt beside Stormhorn, running a hand along the dragon's spine. "But it's necessary. Natural growth would take six months to reach riding size. We don't have six months."
Through their bond, Stormhorn projected confidence and trust. *My human knows what he does. My human will make me STRONG.*
"Then we watch," Koro decided, settling cross-legged opposite Sarya. "If you collapse, we pull you out. If the dragon shows signs of distress, we end the ritual immediately."
"Agreed." Harry took a deep breath, centering himself. Then he pricked his finger with a silver knife and let three drops of blood fall onto Stormhorn's forehead, where they hissed and steamed against overheated scales.
*"Tempus fluxus. Corpus crescere. Vita accelerare."*
The words were Latin mixed with older languages—proto-Germanic phrases the Unspeakables had reconstructed from pre-Roman magical texts. The meaning was simple: *Time flows. Body grows. Life accelerates.*
The ritual circle blazed to life.
Silver light erupted from the runes, forming a dome of pure magical energy around Harry and Stormhorn. Inside, time began to... *slip*. Harry felt it immediately—a dizzying sensation like falling upward, like his perception was stretching thin across multiple moments simultaneously.
Stormhorn's growth began.
It started slowly—so slowly Harry almost thought the ritual had failed. But then he saw it: scales rippling as they expanded, bones lengthening with audible pops, muscles building mass in real-time. The dragon's body was experiencing days of growth in minutes, and Harry was channeling the power to make it possible.
The pain started almost immediately.
Temporal magic was *expensive*. It fought against reality's natural flow, demanding constant input to maintain the acceleration. Harry felt his magic draining like water through a sieve, pouring out of him in torrents to fuel Stormhorn's development.
And through their bond, he felt *everything*. Every bone growing, every scale hardening, every muscle fiber multiplying. Stormhorn's sensations became his own—the itching discomfort of rapid development, the hunger as his metabolism accelerated, the instinctive satisfaction as his body became *more*.
Harry's hands began to shake. Sweat beaded on his forehead. But he held the spell, maintained the flow, refused to let the acceleration falter.
One hour passed. Stormhorn had grown from large-dog size to small-pony size. His tusks had lengthened, his wings had gained span, and his four legs had developed the heavy muscle mass needed to support his increasing weight.
Two hours. Now the size of a full-grown pony, Stormhorn's predatory grace was becoming more apparent. His movements had the lethal precision of a apex hunter, and his scales had hardened into proper armor—overlapping plates that would turn aside arrows and possibly even scorpion bolts.
Three hours. Harry was barely conscious, his entire existence narrowed to the singular act of *maintaining the spell*. Distantly, he heard Sarya's voice—concerned, insistent—but he couldn't spare the attention to respond. Stormhorn needed this. Needed to grow. Needed to become the weapon they required to end the Crabfeeder's reign of terror.
And then—finally—four hours.
Harry released the spell with a gasp, and the dome of silver light collapsed. He had just enough presence of mind to register Stormhorn's new size—large as a warhorse now, magnificent and terrible—before darkness claimed him.
---
He woke to filtered sunlight and Septa Sarya's disapproving expression.
"Twelve hours," she said without preamble. "You were unconscious for twelve hours. Your heartbeat was so slow I kept checking to make sure you weren't dying. And when you *did* wake up briefly in hour seven, you tried to get up and start *another* ritual before I had Koro sit on you."
Harry tried to sit up and discovered his entire body felt like it had been beaten with hammers. "Did it work?" he asked, his voice rough.
"See for yourself." Sarya gestured toward the cave mouth, where morning light revealed a familiar silhouette.
Stormhorn had tripled in size. The dragon now stood as tall at the shoulder as a large warhorse, with a body length—including his tail—of nearly twenty feet. His four legs had developed the powerful musculature of a born hunter, and his wings, when he spread them experimentally, spanned an impressive forty feet.
But it was the details that caught Harry's attention. The tusks curving from his lower jaw were now long enough to gore a man. The horns crowning his skull had developed into a wicked array of backward-sweeping blades. And his scales—crimson and obsidian, purple and bone-white—had arranged themselves into patterns that looked almost deliberately designed for intimidation.
Through their bond, Stormhorn's satisfaction was overwhelming. *STRONG now. FAST now. Ready to FLY and HUNT and PROTECT.*
"He's magnificent," Harry breathed.
"He's terrifying," Sarya corrected. "And you're not doing that again for at least a week. Your magical reserves are depleted to dangerous levels, you're dehydrated, and I'm fairly certain you aged yourself by several months in the process." She pressed a cup of water into his hands. "Drink. Then eat. Then sleep more. *Then* we discuss the next ritual."
"How many more?" Harry asked between careful sips of water.
"If you want him full-grown in three months?" Sarya consulted notes she'd been keeping. "At least eight more rituals of similar intensity. Possibly ten, depending on how much time you allocate for recovery between sessions."
"That's not much recovery time," Koro observed from his position near the cave entrance. "Ten rituals in twelve weeks means one every eight or nine days, with whatever recovery you can manage in between."
"I can handle it," Harry said.
"You can barely sit up," Sarya said flatly. "Harry, I understand the urgency. I understand that the Crabfeeder is rebuilding and time is running out. But if you kill yourself accelerating Stormhorn's growth, then all of this—the dragon, the ship, our entire operation—falls apart. We need you alive."
"She's right, wave dancer," Koro said quietly. "A weapon is useless if it breaks before the battle. And you are still thinking like a weapon—expendable, replaceable, valuable only in the moment of use." He moved closer, his gold eyes serious. "But you are not a weapon anymore. You are a captain. A leader. A *person* who has value beyond tactical utility. And we—" He gestured to encompass the crew beyond the cave. "We need you to remember that."
Harry was quiet for a long moment, feeling the truth of Koro's words settle uncomfortably in his chest. The Unspeakables had trained him to sacrifice anything—including himself—for mission success. But this wasn't a mission anymore, was it? This was... something else. Something that required him to survive past the immediate objective.
"Alright," he said finally. "Eight days between rituals. Nine if I'm particularly drained. That gives me time to recover, and it still gets Stormhorn to full size within three months."
"Better," Sarya said, though her expression suggested she'd prefer even longer intervals. "Now eat this—" She produced a bowl of something that smelled vaguely of meat and herbs. "It's a strengthening broth. Tastes terrible, works wonderfully. You'll have one of these after every ritual from now on."
Harry discovered she was correct on both counts. The broth tasted like concentrated misery, but within minutes he felt strength returning to his limbs.
Through their bond, Stormhorn projected hungry curiosity. The dragon had been watching this interaction with intelligent interest, and now he wanted to know: *When do we do this again? When do I grow MORE?*
"Eight days," Harry told his dragon, both aloud and through their connection. "Eight days to rest and train and get you used to your new size. Then we do it again."
Stormhorn's satisfaction was palpable. *Good. Eight days to learn this body. To practice flying and hunting. To become familiar with STRONG-ME before becoming STRONGER-ME.*
The dragon's growing linguistic sophistication was impressive. A week ago, his thoughts had been simple emotions and images. Now they were approaching actual sentences, complex enough to express nuanced concepts.
"He's getting smarter," Harry observed.
"Accelerated physical growth means accelerated mental development," Koro said. "His mind is maturing as fast as his body. By the time he reaches full size..." He paused, considering. "By then, he'll probably be as intelligent as any of us. Just with a different perspective on morality and problem-solving."
"A perspective that involves eating enemies and commanding storms," Harry said.
"Exactly," Koro agreed. "Which is why training him now—while he's still learning—is crucial. Teach him control, discipline, the difference between threats and crew. Otherwise we'll have a fully-grown dragon who thinks everyone is either food or property."
Harry hadn't considered that. He'd been so focused on *growing* Stormhorn that he'd given less thought to *teaching* him. But Koro was right—a dragon with Stormhorn's power and intelligence but no restraint would be as dangerous to allies as to enemies.
"Training regimen," Harry decided. "Starting today. Basic commands, target discrimination, and flight control once he's confident with these wings."
"I'll help with the flight training," Koro offered. "Understanding wind and weather is similar whether you're sailing or flying. And Stormhorn already has instincts for storms—we just need to refine them."
"What about the saddle?" Harry asked, looking at his dragon's new proportions. "Marro's design was based on estimates of Stormhorn's full-grown size, but the proportions might have shifted with acceleration."
"Marro is adapting," Koro said. "He anticipated this—said the runes you carved during construction would help the saddle grow and adjust as Stormhorn does. Apparently you thought ahead better than you realized."
Harry vaguely remembered adding flexibility runes to Marro's saddle design—symbols that would allow the leather and metal to adapt to changing dimensions. At the time, he'd done it more from general prudence than specific foresight. But it had apparently been the right choice.
"When can we test it?" he asked.
"Marro says three more days to complete the current version. Then Stormhorn tries it on, we see how it fits, and we adjust as needed." Koro smiled slightly. "The carpenter is very excited. He keeps saying this is the most interesting project he's ever worked on, and he once built a ship that could sail underwater for short distances."
"Did that ship work?"
"For about ten minutes before it sank and nearly drowned the crew." Koro's smile widened. "So this saddle is already his second-most-interesting project. Very promising."
Despite his exhaustion, Harry laughed. There was something darkly amusing about entrusting dragon-riding equipment to a man whose previous masterpiece had been a briefly successful submarine.
Stormhorn chose that moment to demonstrate his new capabilities by *leaping* from the cave mouth to a rocky outcropping thirty feet away. The jump was impossibly high, impossibly far, and he landed with perfect four-legged stability that would have been impossible for a wyvern.
Then he spread his wings and *flapped*—generating enough downdraft to kick up dust and make Harry shield his eyes. Stormhorn didn't achieve flight, not yet. But the power in those wings was undeniable. Soon. Very soon, he'd be able to take to the air.
*STRONG,* Stormhorn projected with fierce satisfaction. *FAST. DEADLY. Mine human made me PERFECT.*
"I accelerated your growth," Harry corrected through their bond. "You were always going to be perfect. I just helped you get there faster."
*Same thing,* Stormhorn decided with draconic certainty. *My human's magic made me. Therefore my human made me PERFECT.*
There was no arguing with that logic, apparently. Harry let it go and focused on finishing his terrible healing broth.
"Eight days," Sarya said firmly. "And during those eight days, you're going to rest, eat properly, and let your magical reserves recover completely. No exceptions."
"Yes, mother," Harry said without thinking.
Sarya's expression softened. "I'll take that title," she said quietly. "Someone needs to make sure you don't work yourself to death out of misplaced martyr syndrome."
---
Three days later, Marro unveiled the saddle.
It was a masterpiece of form and function—leather worked soft enough to flex but thick enough to provide support, reinforced with bronze fittings at stress points, and covered in runes that glowed softly when exposed to light. The design was unlike any Targaryen dragon saddle Harry had seen in books.
Where wyvern saddles attached around the shoulder joints where wing-arms met the body, Stormhorn's saddle was designed to sit further back—between his wing joints and the base of his neck. Multiple straps distributed weight across his upper shoulders and chest, and a secondary harness wrapped around his barrel chest for additional stability.
"The key innovation," Marro explained, running his restored fingers along the saddle's lines, "is that it doesn't interfere with any of his movement. His front legs have full range of motion for ground combat. His wings can extend and fold without catching on straps. And his neck mobility is completely unimpaired." He demonstrated with a wooden model he'd built. "See? He can rear up on his hind legs, strike with his front legs, and keep his wings ready to launch—all while you're securely mounted."
"It's brilliant," Harry said honestly. "How did you figure out the attachment points?"
"I watched him move," Marro said simply. "For three days, I just watched how he walks, runs, jumps, how his wings articulate. And I realized that his power center—the part of his body that's most stable during motion—is right here." He tapped the space between wing-joints. "Everything else moves around that axis. So that's where the saddle sits."
"Can we test it?" Harry asked, looking at Stormhorn, who'd been studying the saddle with intense interest.
*Will it make flying easier?* the dragon wanted to know. *Will it help my human stay attached when we hunt from above?*
"That's exactly what it's for," Harry assured him. "But we need to make sure it fits properly and doesn't restrict your movement."
With Marro's help, they carefully fitted the saddle onto Stormhorn's back. The dragon stood perfectly still, allowing the straps to be adjusted and secured. Through their bond, Harry felt Stormhorn's assessment: slightly strange, but not uncomfortable. Like wearing armor that didn't quite restrict motion.
"How does it feel?" Harry asked aloud.
Stormhorn took several experimental steps. The saddle shifted slightly but held position. Then he broke into a run—all four legs coordinating in that lethal sprint that made him so dangerous on the ground. The saddle moved with him, flexing and adjusting but never slipping.
*Good,* Stormhorn decided. *Strange but GOOD. It does not slow me. Does not bind wings. Does not restrict death-strikes with front talons.* He paused, then added with draconic pragmatism: *And it means my human can stay attached during aerial kills. Very practical.*
"Aerial kills," Marro repeated, raising an eyebrow at Harry. "Your dragon is already planning combat tactics."
"He's a prodigy," Harry said dryly. "Now let's see if I can actually sit in this thing without falling off."
With Koro's help, Harry mounted Stormhorn for the first time. The height was immediately disorienting—even at his current size, Stormhorn stood tall enough that Harry was twelve feet off the ground. And unlike a horse, the dragon's four-legged stance meant Harry was sitting further back, positioned between powerful shoulder blades and wings that could extend at any moment.
But the saddle held him securely. Marro had designed stirrups that allowed Harry to brace himself, and handholds worked into the saddle's front gave him something to grip during aerial maneuvers.
"Walk," Harry said, both aloud and through their bond.
Stormhorn began moving—slowly at first, mindful of his bonded human's unfamiliar position. The gait was smoother than Harry expected. Four legs meant Stormhorn could maintain steady motion where a wyvern's two-legged walk would bob and sway.
"Faster," Harry urged, and Stormhorn obliged.
The dragon accelerated into a trot, then a canter, then a full sprint that made trees blur past and wind whip against Harry's face. He clung to the saddle, learning the rhythm of Stormhorn's movement, feeling the powerful muscles bunch and release beneath him.
*MORE?* Stormhorn asked eagerly. *Jump? Climb? Show my human how FAST we are?*
"Just circles for now," Harry said, laughing despite the adrenaline. "Let me get used to this before you start showing off."
Stormhorn's disappointment was palpable but he obeyed, settling into a steady run around the island's perimeter. And as Harry learned the feel of riding a dragon—the balance required, the trust necessary, the way their bond translated intent into action almost faster than thought—he felt something click into place.
*This is right,* he realized. *This partnership. This connection. We're not rider and mount—we're two parts of a single weapon system, complementing each other's strengths.*
Stormhorn's satisfaction echoed through their bond. *Yes. My human understands. We are TOGETHER. We are STRONG. And soon we will fly.*
They spent three hours practicing that day. Walking, running, turning, stopping. Learning how Harry's weight affected Stormhorn's balance and how to shift position during different maneuvers. By the end, both were exhausted but pleased.
"Five days until the next ritual," Sarya reminded Harry as he dismounted with shaking legs. "Then we do this all again, and Stormhorn gets even larger."
"And closer to flight," Koro added. "His wings are developing well. Another growth cycle and he'll have the span and strength for real aerial work."
Harry looked at his dragon—already magnificent, already deadly, and soon to be so much more. Three months. They had three months to turn this into the most formidable force the Stepstones had ever seen.
And then they'd teach the Crabfeeder what it meant to face a dragon who commanded storms.
---
## Chapter 7: The Legend Market
While Harry focused on Stormhorn's development, Lysaro and Jarla began their own contribution to the plan: weaponizing rumor.
They stood in a tavern in New Ghis called *The Salty Dog*, nursing terrible wine and watching sailors exchange stories. This was their third night of reconnaissance, learning which taverns catered to which crews, which merchants were loudest with gossip, and which port authorities could be bribed to look the other way.
"The key," Lysaro said quietly, ostensibly speaking to Jarla but pitching his voice to carry to nearby tables, "is that we need to be *careful*. The Crimson Reaper's got bounties on his head now. Every pirate hunter in the Stepstones is looking for that glowing ship."
Several heads turned their direction. Subtle, interested, trying not to appear too curious.
"Bounties," Jarla said, playing her part. "How much?"
"Five thousand gold dragons from the Crabfeeder himself," Lysaro said, improvising wildly. "Ten thousand if you bring him in alive. They say he wants to stake the Reaper out on his beach personally. Make an example."
More attention now. A Myrish merchant leaned closer, pretending to check his tankard but clearly listening.
"Won't work," Jarla said dismissively. "You've seen what that ship can do. Those cannons? They can sink a war galley from three hundred yards. No one's going to collect that bounty because no one can *catch* him."
"I heard," a new voice interjected—one of the sailors who'd been eavesdropping, unable to resist inserting himself into the conversation, "I heard the Reaper's ship doesn't even need wind. That it's covered in witch-marks that make it fly across the water."
"Not witch-marks," another sailor corrected. "Dragon runes. Old Valyrian magic that shouldn't even work anymore. But somehow this foreign bastard made it work."
"Foreign?" Lysaro asked innocently. "Where's he from?"
"Beyond the Sunset Sea," the first sailor said with the confidence of someone repeating fourth-hand gossip as fact. "Or maybe Asshai. Someone said he speaks languages no one recognizes. Uses magic that doesn't follow normal rules."
"I heard he's from Sothoryos," a third voice offered. "That he was raised by shadow-binders and learned to bind demons to his will."
Lysaro and Jarla exchanged glances. The story was already mutating, growing more elaborate with each retelling. Perfect.
"Well, *I* heard," Jarla said, pitching her voice to carry, "that he freed forty slaves from the Crabfeeder's cells. Walked into that fortress like he owned it, killed twenty guards, and walked out with every prisoner they were planning to execute."
"Twenty guards?" The Myrish merchant couldn't help himself. "The reports I heard said thirty."
"Fifty," someone else insisted. "My cousin's brother-in-law works in the fortress. He said the Reaper cut through fifty trained soldiers like they were children."
"And the fortress itself," Jarla continued, warming to her role. "He didn't just free the prisoners. He *robbed* the place. Armory, treasury, even the Crabfeeder's personal chambers. Took everything that wasn't nailed down and some things that were."
"Including a dragon egg," Lysaro added casually.
The tavern went quiet.
"A dragon egg?" the Myrish merchant said slowly. "You're saying the Crimson Reaper stole a dragon egg from the Crabfeeder?"
"That's the rumor," Lysaro confirmed. "Don't know if it's true. But there was definitely a dragon egg in that fortress—payment from the Triarchy to Volantis for their support. And after the Reaper's raid?" He shrugged. "No more egg."
The speculation exploded.
"If he has a dragon egg—"
"Do you think it'll hatch?"
"Dragon eggs haven't hatched in years—"
"But what if this one *does*? What if the Reaper has a dragon?"
"Then the Crabfeeder's finished. You can't fight a dragon, even with scorpions."
"Unless it's a small dragon. Young dragons can be killed—"
"But the Reaper has *magic*. What if he uses magic to make the dragon grow faster?"
Lysaro and Jarla let the conversation wash over them, occasionally interjecting details designed to make the legend grow. Not too many—that would be obvious manipulation. Just enough to keep the story spreading, mutating, becoming larger than reality.
"That's three taverns tonight," Jarla said later, as they walked back toward their rented room. "Each one with slightly different versions of the same stories. By tomorrow, half the sailors in New Ghis will have heard about the Crimson Reaper and his impossible ship."
"And by next week," Lysaro added with satisfaction, "those sailors will spread it to every port in the Stepstones. Lys, Tyrosh, Myr—every Free City will hear about the foreign mage who raids fortresses and steals dragons."
"We might be overdoing it with the dragon egg," Jarla said thoughtfully. "If word gets back to the Crabfeeder that we're claiming to have it, he might come after us harder."
"He's already coming after us as hard as he can," Lysaro pointed out. "The bounty's real—I checked with some contacts. Five thousand gold dragons is nothing to dismiss. But adding the dragon egg to the legend?" He grinned. "That makes the Reaper seem even more dangerous. More mysterious. More *impossible*."
"And impossible enemies make soldiers hesitate," Jarla finished, seeing his logic. "If they think they're facing a demon from beyond the Sunset Sea who commands dragons and magic that breaks reality, they're already half-beaten before the fight starts."
"Exactly." Lysaro was warming to his theme. "Fear is a weapon as potent as any cannon. We can't match the Crabfeeder's numbers or his fleet size. But we can make his soldiers terrified to face us. Can make them believe that serving the Crabfeeder means facing something that can't be killed by normal means."
They spent the next week in New Ghis, then moved to other ports—smaller settlements where sailors gathered and gossip flowed like wine. At each stop, they told slightly different versions of the same core story:
The Crimson Reaper was a foreign mage of devastating power.
His ship was impossible—fast as the wind, covered in glowing runes, armed with weapons that shouldn't exist.
He freed slaves and killed slavers with equal efficiency.
He'd raided the Crabfeeder's fortress itself and emerged victorious.
And maybe—*possibly*—he had a dragon egg that might hatch into something the world had never seen.
The stories grew in the telling, as stories always do. Some claimed the Reaper was ten feet tall. Others said he could control lightning with gestures. A few insisted he'd made a pact with the Drowned God and couldn't be killed by drowning—which was oddly specific but captured imaginations nonetheless.
"My favorite version so far," Lysaro reported after two weeks of this, "is the one claiming the Reaper is actually the ghost of a Valyrian dragonlord who survived the Doom and has returned to punish the wicked."
"That one's going to cause problems," Jarla said. "The Valyrians are gone except for a few families. If people start believing in returned dragonlords, it could attract attention from Volantis or other groups who care about Valyrian legacy."
"Let them come," Lysaro said with his characteristic lack of caution. "More people seeking the Reaper means more people spreading the legend. And if Volantis sends someone to investigate?" He shrugged. "Harry can deal with them. Or Stormhorn can. I'm not picky about which."
But beneath the wild stories and theatrical embellishments, there was a serious purpose. Jarla tracked the responses carefully, noting which stories generated the most fear, which details made sailors refuse assignments in the Stepstones, which rumors caused merchant captains to avoid certain routes.
"The cannon stories are most effective," she reported to Lysaro after three weeks. "Sailors understand conventional weapons. They can imagine being hit by a giant crossbow or burned by wildfire. But cannons that shoot iron balls using explosions? That's *alien*. They don't know how to defend against it, so they assume they can't."
"And the dragon egg?"
"Mixed response," Jarla said thoughtfully. "Some people dismiss it as fantasy. Others are terrified. But everyone *talks* about it. Which means even if they don't believe, they're spreading the story. And enough repetition makes anything start to seem plausible."
They also began spreading more practical information—intel that would help freed slaves find safety and make slavers nervous.
"Lord Corlys Velaryon offers asylum on Driftmark," Jarla told a tavern full of freedmen in Tyrosh. "Any escaped slave who reaches High Tide is guaranteed protection, food, and passage home if they want it. The Sea Snake has made it official policy."
"And the Crimson Reaper?" one freedman asked hopefully. "Will he help?"
"The Reaper helps those who the Crabfeeder hurts," Jarla said carefully. "He's freed dozens of slaves already. If you're trapped, if you're being transported to the markets, if you see his mark in the sky—" She described the Crimson Reaper symbol. "Then help is coming. Just stay alive until he arrives."
It was dangerous, giving people hope. Hope made them try to escape, try to fight back, try to survive. And when hope was disappointed—when the Reaper *didn't* arrive because he was hidden on an island growing a dragon—people died.
But Jarla and Lysaro judged it a necessary risk. Because hope also made slaves harder to control. Made them less profitable. Made the entire slavery infrastructure slightly less efficient.
"Every escaped slave is a loss for the Crabfeeder," Lysaro argued when Jarla expressed doubts. "Every merchant who refuses to transport 'cargo' because they're afraid of the Reaper is a disruption to the Triarchy's operations. We're not just building a legend—we're conducting economic warfare. Making slavery more expensive, more dangerous, less reliable."
"And when Harry emerges with Stormhorn?" Jarla asked.
"Then the legend becomes reality," Lysaro said with fierce satisfaction. "Then all these stories, all these exaggerations, all these wild claims about impossible power—they become *true*. And the Crabfeeder will face something even more terrifying than the rumors suggested."
---
The stories spread like wildfire through the maritime networks of the Stepstones.
In a tavern in Lys, a ship captain refused a slaving contract. "Not worth it," he told the merchant who'd hired him. "The Crimson Reaper's hunting slavers. I'm not risking my ship and crew for any amount of gold."
In Myr, a harbormaster reported to the Triarchy that merchants were avoiding Stepstones routes entirely. "They're saying the waters are cursed. That a demon ship prowls them, sinking any vessel that carries slaves or serves the Crabfeeder."
In Tyrosh, a group of slaves being prepared for transport to Volantis started a riot. They were suppressed, executed as examples. But before they died, they'd carved a symbol into the holding pen's walls: a robed death-figure holding twin blades, rendered in blood.
The Crimson Reaper's mark.
And in the fortress, Craghas Drahar heard these reports and felt that corrosive fear grow stronger.
His operations were being disrupted. His reputation was being challenged. And somewhere out there, a foreign mage with impossible power was turning his name from terror into a warning of what happened when you relied too much on cruelty.
"Double the patrols," Drahar ordered. "Triple them. I want every ship searched, every suspicious vessel seized. And if anyone finds this Reaper—if anyone even *sees* his accursed glowing ship—I want to know immediately."
But the Stepstones were vast, and the *Fawkes* was hidden, and the Crimson Reaper was growing a dragon that would make all the wild stories seem conservative by comparison.
The legend was working exactly as intended.
---
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