Chapter 113 Slaying the King of the Narrow Sea
Dawn on Bloodstone, and the pirates' blood from the day before still stains the palisades; the reek of gore and smoke lingers.
The war-horn sounded—low, mournful. War-drums rolled, hearts pounded. From the iron throne's host came the rasp of steel on steel, the clatter of mail.
Rhaegar circled above on his dragon; the beast's shriek cracked like thunder.
From the sky he saw the island's battle-lines formed: every house in its own colours and helms, the whole of Bloodstone turned into a bright, restless sea.
The core was the black-armoured, dragon-helmed Targaryen host; the crimson-cloaked, lion-helmed Lannisters; the green-gowned, plate-mailed Tyrells; the yellow-cloaked, stag-helmed Baratheons. Supporting them, the yellow-turbaned, light-armed Dornish Martells.
Steel blazed in the sun, soldiers rolled their shoulders, murder in their eyes. Only the last stronghold remained on Bloodstone—an assault or two, and the dragons would finish it.
Rhaegar swooped low three times above the ranks; each pass the cheers rose, thunder upon thunder.
"Long live Targaryen!" "Long live Lannister!" "Long live Storm's End!" "Long live Tyrell—for Tyrell and Highgarden!" "Long live Martell!" Shouting, they lifted the palisade gates, widened the causeway, and set out to wipe Bloodstone from the map.
With bright slogans they formed in line and marched on the last fortress of the island.
Mail, steel, and will merged into one iron river—tens of thousands bent on smashing everything in their path.
The last Lysene exiles and pirates had burrowed into the island's central stone hill—caves and tunnels—but hunger had hollowed them; the push would cost fewer lives than usual.
Rhaegar wheeled his dragon above the stony heights: scant trees, only earth and rock. A deathly quiet—no defenders, no scorpions, no bowmen, no stakes.
Moments later a brown-haired man—unkempt beard, makeshift crown—waved a white flag and led fewer than two hundred out of the caves. Unarmed, their eyes blank with dread.
"Kral of Lys?" Rhaegar called.
"Kral Rheen, exile-governor claimant of Lys. The old King of the Narrow Sea is dead—I am the new one!" He was tall and gaunt, a freshly-honed blade of a man. His crude crown of gold, silver and gems bore mermaids, krakens, stars.
Rhaegar saw the ragged band: sallow faces, blood-stained clothes; many wore ill-fitting finery. Their looks were coarse, not the classic Lysene blue eyes, pale curls, and porcelain skin.
Clearly the exiles and pirates had turned on each other; the delicate Lysenes, unused to labour, had been easy prey. They preferred mercenaries—Lysene citizens did not fight well themselves.
The brown-haired man had chests brought forward. One held the heads of the Lysene exiles—on top, the self-styled King of the Narrow Sea, Kral Rheen, eyes wide in terror—then kin, friends, loyal guards.
Other chests brimmed with plunder: gold, jewels, spices—dazzling wealth.
"Kral was no King of the Narrow Sea—coward, traitor! He let others die while he hid. I, Sharak, am king now!" He was the last captains' chief.
"Sharak? You're about to die—still clinging to that crown?" Rhaegar landed his dragon before the lines. He recalled Sharak Loha, admiral of the Kingdom of the Daughters, who once shattered the iron throne's fleet, slaying Prince Jacaerys and his dragon. A foe in Westeros, a hero in Lys.
The host burst into laughter: a beggar posing as a king of the sea.
"Prince, let this treasure buy my men's lives," Sharak said, gesturing at the hoard.
"Bind them!" Bronze Yohn barked. The pirates—save Sharak—were trussed up. Dead, their gold would still be his.
The pirates looked both relieved and ashamed; even a brief reprieve from death was welcome.
"Not your own life?" Rhaegar's violet eyes blazed into Sharak.
"I was born a pirate and I'll die one. I won't grovel—I'm free. Before I go, I'd taste being king. In Westeros I'd never rule, but we Lysene spit on your rigid laws—we are ever free." A pirate dies, but not without his crown.
"Then I grant your wish."
"My thanks!" Sharak said, letting fall the white flag.
Between two armies, under thousands of eyes, the duel began: Sharak, King of the Narrow Sea, against Rhaegar, the Sea-Burner, the Tyrant of the Straits.
Soldiers and knights lowered their weapons, riveted by the rare spectacle.
Rhaegar sheathed the shadow cleaver; valyrian steel would be unfair. For honour's sake he had a common Longsword given to Sharak, and took another for himself.
"Better I slay a Dragonlord than let a prince become kinslayer!" Sharak lunged, steel flashing swift and venomous.
Battle had been his only tutor; the pirate chief's blade-work matched any first-rank swordsman.
"Too slow, King of the Narrow Sea!" Rhaegar's Longsword swept wider, wilder.
Steel flashed like lightning round the prince's silver hair—he blazed like living fire.
Mastery is strength, speed, craft, endurance. Speed and power break all tricks.
Sharak was master enough—but Rhaegar was a true dragon, stoked by fire.
Each cut came faster, a storm of steel that swallowed Sharak whole.
Blood fountained; head and body parted. Where he fell, the earth drank deep.
So ended the one-day King of the Narrow Sea, swept into the dust of history.
The King of the Narrow Sea is dead; perhaps the war-years die with him.
Rhaegar grounded his sword, point in the earth. Silver hair shining, he stood before tens of thousands a colossus beneath the open sky.
A man came forward, offering the sea-crown of the fallen king—already wiped clean of blood.
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