The waves of the Narrow Sea were like enraged beasts, slapping against the hulls of the United Fleet. The spray, mixed with sparks of dragonfire, froze into sulfur-scented pellets as it hit the deck.
The three iron-clad behemoths of the Triarchy were right in front of them. Driving abreast, these black iron monsters were half again as wide as the Sea Snake. Their decks were bristling with over twenty black iron scorpions each, the poison bolts in their grooves gleaming with a purple-black light—looking exactly like the arrows that had claimed Daemon's life in the Red Waste in his previous life.
Hanging from the mast of the center flagship—identified by the captives as the command ship of Rhadib Interlucos, the Triarchy's vice-admiral for the Stepstones ambush—was a crimson banner. It bore the "Three-Headed Chain," symbolizing the alliance of Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr.
"They're trying to chain the ships!" Corlys Velaryon's shout cut through the din.
Standing alone in the Sea Snake's crow's nest, his brass spyglass revealed heavy chains being lowered from the iron ships' sterns. The seasoned sailor saw it instantly: they wanted to form an "Iron Wall" to block the United Fleet's advance.
"All Velaryon silver ships, flank right! Use chisels to cut those chains! Northern longships, charge the center! The Manderly rams can take the impact of the iron ships!"
Baelon soared on Vhagar. The bronze-green dragon spread her wings, blotting out half the morning sun.
"Center fleet, hold formation!" His voice carried the weight of a veteran commander. Vhagar's breath struck the water before the iron ships, boiling the sea into a wall of sulfurous steam, building a natural barrier for the fleet. "Little Daemon, take The Cannibal and destroy the scorpions on the left! Big Daemon, Caraxes takes the right! Don't let them loose a single bolt!"
"On it!" The two Daemons responded in unison—one voice steady, the other wild, but both resolute.
Daemon dove on The Cannibal. As the black dragon swept over the Blackfyre, Rayford Rosby and Myles Rivers raised their specially crafted shields. They caught the first volley from the iron ship—a rain of poison bolts that hissed like acid, burning shallow pits into the shield faces.
"Prince, watch out! The arrows are poisoned!" shouted Myles, his Northern battle-axe slung on his back, the blade still stained with the blood of the scout from earlier.
The Cannibal circled the left iron ship, unleashing a torrent of black fire.
Unlike normal flame, this fire seemed to ignite the very water, spreading along the waterline and racing toward the ship's steering gear. A Triarchy sailor, his hand caught by the creeping flames and the chilling aura of death they carried, screamed and raised an axe to sever his own arm in a desperate bid for survival.
But Grey Ghost stopped him—the timid grey dragon nimbly circled to the prow and melted the winch of a Myrish scorpion with a burst of fire, rendering it useless.
"Good boy, Grey Ghost!" Daemon praised as the dragon returned to his side, feeling the creature's excited vibration through his fingertips.
Just then, a roar came from the right. Scarlet fire erupted into the sky.
Daemon looked over to see Daemon Targaryen and Caraxes entangled with Tyroshi sellswords. Fast skiffs had darted out from behind the iron ship, mercenaries hurling burning spears at the Blood Wyrm's belly.
"The Cannibal, assist!" Daemon ordered. The black dragon wheeled around, snapping the skiffs' masts with a precise burst of fire, leaving them spinning helplessly in the waves.
Daemon Targaryen seized the chance to leap from Caraxes. Dark Sister flashed, the Valyrian steel dropping two mercenaries instantly.
"Little Daemon, you're late! Caraxes was about to go fishing with his claws!" He grinned, wiping blood from his face, missing the sellsword approaching from behind with a curved blade.
"Look out!"
Daemon threw a dragonglass dagger from his belt. It struck true, pinning the mercenary's wrist. The curved blade clattered to the deck.
Daemon Targaryen spun, pressing Dark Sister to the man's throat. Seeing the green hair, his tone turned icy. "Tyroshi filth. You dare strike at a dragon of House Targaryen?"
At the same time, the Northern Manderly longships slammed into the chains.
"Ram them!" shouted William Manderly, the Earl's nephew. The oak prow, cold with the aura of the North, smashed into the links.
With a crisp crack, the chain snapped. Wood and iron flew. The longship rocked violently, sending several Northern soldiers into the sea, but they were quickly hauled back up by their comrades, wiping their faces before charging the iron ship with axes raised.
Corlys's Sea Snake had flanked the right. Velaryon sailors in small boats approached the iron hull with chisels, driving them into the seams. Water began to flood the hold.
Myrish crossbowmen on the iron ship tried to fire back, but they were completely suppressed by the combined archery of the Redwyne fleet and the sharpshooters from across Westeros. A storm of arrows rained down.
Allan Redwyne and Young Horas stood at the prow of the Arbor Queen, bows drawn to full capacity, eyes sharp as hawks.
"The left iron ship is sinking!" Rayford yelled from the Blackfyre.
Daemon looked over. The ship, its bottom frozen and cracked by The Cannibal's fire, was listing heavily. Lyseni sailors jumped into the sea, only to be intercepted by Northern longships—surrender or take an axe to the face.
But suddenly, the center flagship unleashed a volley of poison bolts, aiming straight for Vhagar.
Rhadib Interlucos stood on the forecastle, waving a ruby-encrusted scimitar, directing the fire at Baelon.
"Uncle Baelon!" Daemon's heart seized. He urged The Cannibal into a dive. The black dragon's fire intercepted the volley, burning the bolts out of the air.
Baelon wheeled Vhagar around. Green dragonfire engulfed the forecastle. Rhadib was dragged into the cabin by his men just in time, but the wooden structure collapsed, crushing several crossbowmen.
"Cut off the head!"
Daemon gripped Blackfyre. The Cannibal's claws latched onto the flagship's gunwale. Daemon vaulted down, his scabbard hitting the deck with a heavy thud.
Several Tyroshi slave soldiers surrounded him, spears thrusting at his chest. Daemon sidestepped, drawing Blackfyre. The black blade gleamed cold in the morning light, severing the lead spear with one stroke and piercing the soldier's throat with the next.
"Bastard of Targaryen!"
Rhadib's voice boomed from the cabin. He charged out wielding his ruby scimitar, followed by a dozen elite sellswords. "My father, Aris Interlucos, lost to you and your uncle in the Stepstones two years ago only because he led a rabble of pirates! Today, I bring elites to wash away that shame! Do you dare fight me?"
Daemon sneered, slowly leveling Blackfyre at him. "Your father was captured alive by me. You think the son will fare better?"
Rhadib was instantly enraged. His scimitar slashed through the air with a howl.
Daemon met him calmly. Blackfyre clashed with the curved blade, sending sparks flying.
Although the man was arrogant, his blade work was agile, possessing the vicious, tricky style of someone who lived on the edge of a knife. However, he hadn't expected that beneath Daemon's youthful face lay the ruthlessness of a veteran from a previous life—every strike aimed for a vital point, wasting no movement.
The harder Rhadib swung, the fiercer Daemon's counterattack became. His power was like an erupting volcano, yet his stamina was as endless as the sea.
Within a dozen exchanges, Rhadib's arms were slashed by the wind of Blackfyre, blood dripping down his scimitar onto the deck.
"Caraxes, burn his retreat!" Daemon Targaryen's voice rang out. Scarlet fire swept the stern, incinerating the escape boats Rhadib's men were guarding.
Rhadib's face went pale. He turned to jump into the sea, but the tip of Blackfyre pressed against his back.
"Trying to run?" Daemon's voice was as cold as the ice of the Narrow Sea. "The Triarchy raided the Stepstones and murdered Westerosi fishermen. Today is your first reckoning."
Blackfyre thrust forward. The dark blade pierced his chest, blood splattering the deck.
Rhadib collapsed. The ruby scimitar slipped from his hand, rolling to Daemon's feet.
Daemon bent down, picked up the blade, glanced at the gems, and tossed it to Colin Celtigar, who had just boarded. "A toy for Gael and the girls."
Colin caught it, grinning. "The Princess will love it. These gems are brighter than her hairpins."
The fall of the flagship threw the Triarchy's ambush fleet into chaos.
The iron ship on the right tried to turn and flee, but Caraxes set its sails ablaze. Losing power, it was rammed and capsized by the Sea Snake. The left ship had already sunk, leaving only floating planks and struggling sailors.
The soldiers of the United Fleet raised their weapons, their cheers echoing over the water.
"The Spring Prince!"
"The Rogue Prince!"
"The Blackfyre Prince!"
"Lord Sea Snake!"
"Long live the Iron Throne!"
"For Westeros!"
Some praised the Seven, others the Old Gods, and some even shouted long life to the Old King and the Good Queen back in King's Landing. All these voices merged into a roar that seemed to make the very waves tremble.
On the Golden Lion, holding the rear, Lancel Lannister had tried several times to order a charge, only to be stopped by Tymond Lannister.
"Uncle, we can't wait anymore!" Lancel was red-faced with urgency. "The whole fleet is fighting for their lives, and we're watching? The West and House Lannister will be the laughingstock of the Seven Kingdoms!"
Tymond sipped his wine slowly, his gaze complex as he watched the battle. "A laughingstock? Compared to the interests of the West and House Lannister, what is a joke? Prince Viserys is the future Lord of the Seven Kingdoms after Baelon. There is no need for us to bleed for Daemon Blackfyre or those Eastern lords."
He paused, looking at his nephew. "Lancel, remember: A Lannister always pays his debts, but we never make a losing trade. Last summer, we suffered the humiliation and trauma of the Burning of Lannisport. This forces us to endure and hoard our strength. When the sun of our bright future finally dawns, that is when the Lion of the West will roar again across Westeros."
Lancel wanted to argue, but Tymond's glare silenced him. He could only grip his sword hilt in frustration, watching the United Fleet clean up the battlefield.
By the time the sunset dyed the Narrow Sea blood-red, the battle was over. The sails of the United Fleet were still orderly, though the hulls bore fresh arrow holes and scorch marks.
The Triarchy's three iron ships were either sunk or captured. The sea was littered with debris, bodies, and broken banners. The air smelled of dragonfire, blood, and salt.
Baelon descended from Vhagar onto the King's Banner, the dragon's green scales stained with soot and blood.
He looked at the two Daemons approaching him, a rare smile on his face. "Well done, my two Daemons. Today, you taught the Triarchy that the dragons of the Iron Throne are not to be trifled with."
Daemon Targaryen acted uncharacteristically modest, scratching his head. "Father and Little Daemon commanded well. I was just support this time."
Daemon Blackfyre turned to Corlys, who was directing the counting of prisoners. "Lord Corlys, what about Echo Bay's defense? We need to leave a garrison to prevent the Triarchy from returning."
Corlys nodded. "I've already assigned several Velaryon silver ships, along with Celtigar and Redwyne vessels, to hold this passage. Prince Baelon and I have discussed it: once we secure total victory and retake the Stepstones, we will propose to the King that a 'Governor of the Stepstones' be appointed, filled by one of our own."
Daemon touched the oilcloth packet inside his armor. The paper was damp from sea spray, but the embroidery of Blackfyre and The Cannibal was still clearly visible.
He thought of Gael's instructions at the docks, and the expectation in her pale violet eyes. A warmth surged in his chest.
This victory wasn't just for the Iron Throne. It was so he could return to her sooner and fulfill the promise of their Valyrian wedding.
Grey Ghost landed gently on his shoulder. The small grey dragon rubbed his head against Daemon's cheek, a colorful silk thread hanging from his mouth—likely ripped from a Lyseni merchant's robe.
Daemon smiled, taking the thread and wrapping it around his finger. "When we get back, I'll have the maids embroider a new cushion for you."
Daemon Targaryen leaned in, eyes lighting up at the thread. "Nice silk. Better than what they have on the Street of Silk! Hey, Little Daemon, do you have any of those honey cakes left? I'm starving after all that fighting."
Daemon smiled helplessly. He pulled out the oilcloth packet. The cakes were intact, though cold. "Here. It's the last one."
The Rogue Prince grabbed the cake and took a massive bite, mumbling, "You know, Little Aunt Gael's cooking is actually good. Much better than the hardtack that 'Western Master Chef' on Tymond's ship calls food."
The sun sank into the horizon. The sails of the United Fleet turned toward the heart of the Stepstones.
The Cannibal, Caraxes, and Vhagar circled overhead. Their roars wove with the sound of the waves into a victor's song, heralding the coming great war for the islands and the final victory.
Daemon stood at the prow of the Blackfyre, his sword stabbed into the deck, the dragon on the hilt gleaming gold in the dying light.
He knew this victory wasn't the end, but a new beginning. The Stepstones were not yet fully reclaimed, and the road ahead was long.
But in this moment, he only wanted to win the final victory quickly, return to King's Landing, return to Gael, and tell her: I won. I came back safe.