The wind on the Narrow Sea today carried a salty tang, whipping the sails of the United Fleet until they snapped like cracking whips. Every banner was pulled taut, struggling as if trying to tear free from the masts.
The sea-horse sigils on the Velaryon silver ships gleamed coldly in the morning light. As their hulls sliced through the waves, they kicked up silver-white spray, looking like a school of giant, shimmering fish patrolling the currents—elegant, yet hiding a deadly edge.
In contrast, the new longships of House Manderly from the North exuded a rugged, raw power. Their prows were carved with white mermaids and mermen, weathered by the sea breeze yet looking all the more ferocious for it.
When their pine hulls crashed into the waves, the spray landed on the decks like crushed ice. This was the renowned durability of Northern shipbuilding, crafted from millennia-old fir from beyond the Wall, capable of withstanding the deepest, most violent swells of the Narrow Sea. Even a scrape against a hidden reef would hardly leave a mark.
Daemon sat astride The Cannibal, the scabbard of Blackfyre slung across his waist. The dark gold dragon engravings on the sheath felt warm to the touch in the wind, as if containing an unextinguished fire.
He looked down. On the deck of the Blackfyre, Rayford Rosby was crouching beside a scorpion, carefully wiping the mechanism with a silk cloth.
Behind him, Rupert Crabb led the lads from Crackclaw Point in checking their quivers. Most wore simple roughspun tunics and leather armor, clutching short swords polished to a shine. Their eyes held a mix of nervousness and a stubborn refusal to yield—for most, this was their first time leaving the Point to fight, and they were determined not to embarrass themselves before the high lords of the Seven Kingdoms.
"Easy there! That spring is brittle, don't force it!" Rayford shouted at a young soldier who was handling the crank too roughly. He reached out and took the mechanism, demonstrating how to adjust the angle with a gentle touch.
"The Citadel's blueprints are good, but our iron isn't as forgiving as Myrish steel. You have to treat the spring with respect, or it'll snap after a few shots."
Daemon knew the score. These scorpions were prototypes provided by House Hightower, adapted by the Citadel from Myrish designs.
While mass production meant their penetration power was about thirty percent less than the Myrish originals and their range was shorter by a hundred yards, they were still a revolutionary step forward compared to the standard ballistae usually seen in Westeros.
The bolts were tipped with dragonglass shards, capable of punching through standard mail, and coated with a thin layer of Lyseni poison. Even a scratch would cause the wound to fester and rot.
Nearby, Jarman Waters was leading Harlan Hunter, Tybolt Crakehall, and Myles Rivers to inspect the flank of the fleet.
Harlan Hunter carried his longbow, a quiver of silver-fletched arrows at his hip, and a bronze dagger passed down through his family, the eagle-feather tassel swaying with his stride.
Tybolt Crakehall bent occasionally to check the ship's waterline. The Westerman looked brutish with his battle-axe, but he had a surprisingly keen eye for a ship's load and balance compared to the others.
The most conspicuous, naturally, was Myles Rivers. The usually flighty bastard was rarely this serious. He hefted a Northern battle-axe taller than a man, the cold light on the blade blinding in the morning sun. He paced the gunwale, his gaze sweeping the sea with the vigilance of a hawk.
Last night, a patrol had intercepted a Lyseni scout ship. The prisoner had confessed that the Triarchy had set an ambush in the reef-filled waters outside the Stepstones. Hidden in the fog were iron-clad ships and secret scorpions capable of piercing dragon scale, waiting for the United Fleet to enter the shallows.
"Little Daemon! Why don't you come down and have a drink with me?" Daemon Targaryen's voice drifted up from below, laced with his usual mockery.
He hovered Caraxes above the Golden Lion, dangling an exquisite gold wine flask stamped with the roaring lion of House Lannister. The Blood Wyrm's claws gently gripped the mast, the razor-sharp tips just inches from the deck, eliciting gasps from the Western soldiers. Yet, no one dared tell him to move—there were few in all of Westeros who dared tell the Blood Wyrm to sheath its claws.
"That old fox Tymond Lannister was hiding the good stuff. I swiped a bottle—vintage sweet wine from the Arbor. Want a taste?" The Rogue Prince uncorked the flask, the rich aroma drifting up to Daemon on the wind. He deliberately held the bottle high, letting the amber liquid catch the light.
Daemon smiled helplessly and patted The Cannibal's neck.
The black dragon let out a low rumble and swooped down slowly. The wind from his wings flipped Daemon Targaryen's cloak, revealing the silk lining embroidered with Caraxes's silhouette.
It was a custom job by a King's Landing tailor, made from Summer Islands golden silk—light, tough, and windproof.
"Can't you behave? Uncle Baelon said we need to stay alert in the shallows. We don't want to get snipped by Triarchy scorpions."
Daemon landed on the deck of the Golden Lion. As soon as his boots hit the wood, Western soldiers swarmed around him, offering water and towels. A few younger squires boldly reached out to touch The Cannibal's tail where it draped onto the deck. The black dragon flicked the tip of his tail but didn't strike.
"Scorpions?" Daemon Targaryen sneered, taking a swig of wine. A drop ran down his chin. "Those Myrish toys couldn't catch Caraxes's shadow. And even if we have rotten luck and get hit, they probably can't punch through the scales. What are you afraid of? Speaking of which, are you still carrying that packet of honey cakes from Little Aunt Gael? I saw Grey Ghost flying around yesterday with an oilcloth packet in his mouth, embroidered with Dreamfyre, no less."
At the mention of Gael, the tips of Daemon's ears turned slightly pink. He was indeed carrying the packet she had shoved into his hands at the last moment, tucked inside his armor. She had stayed up all night embroidering the little Blackfyre sword and The Cannibal on it.
"Mind your own business. Just be careful. According to Bethany's intel, the prototype ballistae the Citadel copied aren't incapable of piercing dragon scale," Daemon deflected, pointing toward the eastern sea. "Besides, Corlys says that fog over there doesn't look right. It might be hiding Triarchy scout ships. Take Caraxes and scout it out. I'll have The Cannibal back you up. If it's an ambush, signal with dragonfire."
Daemon Targaryen immediately dropped the playful act, vaulting back onto Caraxes. "Relax. I'm not just a rake from the Street of Silk."
He patted Caraxes's neck. The red dragon let out a piercing screech, spreading his wings and shooting toward the fog bank. His scales shimmered with a bloody light in the sun, like a streak of red lightning plunging into the mist.
Daemon followed closely on The Cannibal, with Grey Ghost trailing low behind them.
The pale grey dragon was still timid, sticking close to The Cannibal's wing and occasionally nudging the larger dragon's claws with his head, like a clingy puppy.
Daemon stroked Grey Ghost's head. The small dragon purred in satisfaction and picked up speed.
Visibility in the fog was terrible; you couldn't see ten paces ahead. The sea wind, heavy with moisture, slapped against their faces, cold and sticky like a wet rag.
From the distance came the booming sound of waves crashing against reefs—dull and heavy, like the growl of a behemoth, tightening the chest.
Daemon gripped the hilt of Blackfyre, scanning his surroundings. The fog hid too many unknowns. One wrong move, and they'd walk straight into a trap.
Suddenly, a sharp dragon roar pierced the mist ahead. A jet of scarlet dragonfire erupted, sizzling through the air and vaporizing the fog into billowing white steam.
"Ship ahead!" Daemon Targaryen's shout cut through the gloom. "Looks like a Lyseni scout! Silk sails!"
Daemon ordered immediately, "The Cannibal, cut them off! Don't burn it all—leave survivors!"
The black dragon understood, skimming low over the water. He breathed a stream of black fire around the scout ship, boiling the sea and sending up walls of scalding steam.
The scout ship tried to come about and flee, but Grey Ghost cut off their retreat. The timid dragon, emboldened by his "big brother's" lead, nimbly circled to the prow and spat a burst of fire at the sails. The canvas caught instantly, burning a massive hole. Losing power, the ship began to spin helplessly in the waves.
Caraxes dove, his claws snagging the mast and wrenching the ship to a violent halt.
Daemon Targaryen leaped from the dragon's back, landing on the deck. Dark Sister flashed from its scabbard, the blade pressing against the scout leader's throat. "Talk. Where is the Triarchy's main fleet? Where are the scorpion batteries?"
The leader, a thin man dressed like a Lyseni merchant, was sweating grease. Trembling, he pointed toward the Stepstones. "In... in Echo Bay! There are three Iron-Hulls... ships clad in heavy plate... scorpions on the forecastles... and Tyroshi sellswords... they buried iron spikes in the shallows..."
Daemon landed The Cannibal on the deck. The tip of Blackfyre flicked open the sheepskin scroll in the scout's tunic. It was a deployment map of the Triarchy forces.
Scorpion nests were dug into the cliffs on both sides of Echo Bay. The Iron-Hulls were parked inside the bay, blocking the entrance. The shallows were mined with poisoned iron spikes designed to tear open ship bottoms.
"Looks like they were expecting us." Corlys's voice came from outside the fog. The silver sails of the Sea Snake pierced the mist. The Old Sea Snake stood at the prow, a brass spyglass in hand. "Echo Bay is too shallow. Our smaller ships can pass, but the heavy Western ships will run aground. We have to clear the spikes first, then take out the batteries."
Daemon nodded, handing the map to Corlys. "Lord Corlys, have the Velaryon sailors take small boats with chisels to clear the spikes. I'll take The Cannibal and Grey Ghost to destroy the scorpion nests. Big Daemon, take Caraxes and cover the sailors—don't let the Triarchy archers pick them off. Uncle Baelon, hold the center fleet until we clear the way, then push in with full force."
As Daemon spoke, Baelon arrived on Vhagar, the massive green dragon looming in the mist like a moving mountain.
"Do as he says," Baelon commanded, his voice steady. "Stay safe. Those Myrish scorpions are dangerous, and if they're tipped with Lyseni poison, don't get scratched."
Vhagar let out a long, mournful roar, a blessing for the battle ahead. Daemon vaulted back onto The Cannibal, with Grey Ghost close behind, flying toward the cliffs of Echo Bay.
The fog thinned slightly, revealing the scorpion batteries on the cliffs. Black iron ballistae were mounted on stone platforms, with racks of bolts stacked nearby. The tips gleamed a dark purple—definitely poisoned.
"Grey Ghost, light the torches!" Daemon ordered.
The timid dragon dove, his breath igniting the piles of brush and torches the sailors had stacked at the base of the cliff earlier. Thick smoke rolled up, blinding the scorpion crews, before the dragon quickly vanished back into the mist.
The Cannibal seized the moment to dive. Black dragonfire engulfed the battery. The wooden frames snapped and burned, and the heavy iron machines collapsed with a crash, tumbling into the sea.
"Loose!" shouted a Tyroshi sellsword on the cliff. Arrows rained down like a storm.
Daemon urged The Cannibal upward, dodging the volley, while swinging Blackfyre to deflect the stray shafts.
Just then, a wave of scarlet fire swept in from the flank, incinerating the sellswords amidst their screams. Daemon Targaryen landed Caraxes on the cliff edge. Dark Sister danced, and with a flash of steel, several mercenaries fell.
"Little Daemon! Watch out! More scorpions over there!" Daemon Targaryen shouted.
Daemon flew The Cannibal around and saw three larger ballistae hidden on the other side of the cliff, aiming down at the Velaryon sailors clearing the spikes.
The Cannibal's fire instantly bathed the weapons. The iron glowed red-hot, twisting into scrap.
The sailors in the water worked faster, their dragonglass chisels clinking against the iron spikes. The sound mixed with the crashing waves like a rhythm of war.
Corlys, from the Sea Snake, directed the silver ships to flank Echo Bay, ready to support.
Daemon landed on the cliff, looking at the wreckage of the scorpions and the bodies of the mercenaries. He let out a breath.
Daemon Targaryen walked over, wiping blood from Dark Sister. He grinned. "How was that? My moves today weren't half bad compared to yours, eh?"
Before Daemon could reply, Grey Ghost let out a sharp, urgent cry.
He looked up. On the distant horizon, three massive dark shapes were steaming toward the fleet. Their hulls were clad in thick iron plates, and they flew the black flags of the Triarchy. It was the Iron-Hulls the scout had warned of!
"Dammit!" Corlys shouted. "Their main ambush force is here!"
Vhagar's roar shook the Narrow Sea. Baelon ordered the center fleet into formation. The Northern longships took the vanguard, Velaryon silver ships flanked, and the heavy Western ships braced for the frontal impact.
The Cannibal, Caraxes, and Vhagar rose into the sky together. The roar of the dragons churned the waves. The soldiers of the United Fleet raised their weapons, shouting, "For the Iron Throne! For House Targaryen! For Westeros!"
Daemon gripped Blackfyre tight. He felt the packet of honey cakes inside his tunic. Gael's smile flashed in his mind.
He looked at his "cousin," Daemon Targaryen, who had dropped his playful smirk. His eyes were razor-sharp. "This time, brother, let's give them a real fight!"
The Cannibal spread his wings. A jet of black fire arced across the sky, pointing straight at the approaching Iron-Hulls.
The waves of the Narrow Sea surged. The sails of the Seven Kingdoms rose and fell with the swell. The shadows of dragons cast a pall over the fleet. A counter-ambush that would be written into history was about to erupt in Echo Bay.