The wind on the Narrow Sea today carried the scent of blood and sulfur, whipping the sails of the United Fleet until they were taut as bowstrings.
The smoke from Echo Bay had not yet fully cleared, but Prince Baelon had already spread a chart of the Stepstones across the table in the council cabin of the King's Banner.
Corlys Velaryon circled two prominent islands in red ink. To the left, dark and foreboding, was Grey Gallows. To the right, glowing with a reddish hue, was Bloodstone.
At the far northeast corner of the map, the black Dragonstone walls of Tyrosh looked like a jagged scar on the parchment, marked simply: Triarchy Garrison Core.
"Grey Gallows is a pirate's nest," Corlys said, tapping the brass point of his compass on the island's harbor. "According to the captives, the Triarchy hides the ships they've plundered from the Narrow Sea here. They also have a battery of Myrish repeating crossbows, modified by the Artificers' Guild. The bolts are dipped in 'The Strangler,' a Lyseni poison. It numbs on contact; within half an hour, the victim suffocates."
Daemon leaned in, his fingertip tracing the gallows symbol on the map.
In the intel reports, this place was described as a remnant of the First Men's crossing, but now it had become a den of sin, marked by the gibbets pirates used to execute those who resisted.
"I'll take The Cannibal and the Left Wing to clear Grey Gallows," Daemon said. "Big Daemon can take Caraxes and the Right Wing to watch Bloodstone. We need to make sure the rest of the Triarchy fleet doesn't catch wind of this and send support."
Daemon Targaryen was toying with the ruby-encrusted scimitar he had seized at Echo Bay. He looked up, grinning.
"Relax. Caraxes's fire will turn the red rocks of Bloodstone even redder. I'll teach those Tyroshi sellswords that they aren't the only ones who know how to cut people down, even if they do dye their hair green."
He deliberately flipped his cloak, revealing the silk lining embroidered with Caraxes. The hem was still stained with seawater from Echo Bay, but it didn't dampen his arrogance one bit.
Baelon tapped the chart, his green eyes sweeping over the commanders.
"The Velaryon silver ships will circle to the reefs on the east side of Grey Gallows. Corlys, you know these waters—cut off the pirates' retreat. The Northern longships will engage centrally; the Manderly rams can shatter their piers."
He paused, turning his gaze toward the Westerlands contingent.
"As for the Western ships..." Baelon looked at Tymond Lannister, who was idly twisting his golden lion ring. "You will be responsible for clearing the wreckage of pirate ships from the waters. Do not let their Myrish crossbowmen ambush our flanks from the debris."
Tymond bowed slightly, accepting the order. A flicker of calculation passed through his eyes, hidden quickly. He naturally didn't mention that his upright, foolish nephew Lancel Lannister had begged to lead a charge. Yesterday, Tymond had only sent three ships to clean up the battlefield, clearly still preserving the West's strength for its own interests.
---
By the next dawn, the silhouette of Grey Gallows emerged from the morning mist.
The gibbets on the island pointed to the sky like withered skeletal fingers, draped with desiccated corpses. When the sea breeze blew, the tattered rags on the bodies snapped and fluttered, sounding like a funeral knell for the coming battle.
Pirate skiffs were docked in the harbor, their sails painted with the Triarchy's "Three-Headed Chain." On the decks, Myrish crossbowmen had already nocked their bolts. The intricate engravings on the crossbow arms were visible even from a distance—the signature craftsmanship of Myr, exquisite and deadly.
"The Cannibal, burn the pier!"
Daemon soared into the sky on the black dragon. Jet-black dragonfire swept over the harbor, instantly setting the wooden piers ablaze. The pirates screamed, fleeing toward the island, only to be met by a rain of arrows from the Northern longships.
William Manderly, clutching a longsword, was the first to leap onto the burning pier. His blade split a pirate's helm as he sneered.
"The ice of the Long Night couldn't freeze us! You think you rats from across the Narrow Sea can stop the North?"
Grey Ghost skimmed low over the water, his breath igniting the canvas of the pirate ships. The timid grey dragon nimbly dodged the bolts shot his way.
The shafts of those arrows were wrapped in purple thread—a specific marker Corlys had warned them about. It signified "The Strangler." Even a scratch required immediate application of a maester's poultice, or if the wound was deep, the limb had to be amputated to stop the poison from stopping the heart.
Rupert Crabb led the lads from Crackclaw Point forward, step by step, holding their specially crafted shields. The shields absorbed the impact of the heavy bolts, their sharpened edges occasionally slicing through pirate flesh in the crush.
"Look out! They're using Myrish repeaters!" Colin Celtigar's shout came from the right.
Three pirates, bracing heavy, modified crossbows, fired three bolts at once, aiming straight for Daemon.
Daemon threw himself flat against The Cannibal's back, hiding beneath the dragon's massive wing. The black scales deflected the bolts, which clattered to the ground. The purple poison left faint, sizzling corrosion marks on the dragon's armor.
"Big Daemon! If you keep watching the show, I'm throwing all the wine on the Blackfyre into the sea!" Daemon shouted toward the distant silhouette of Bloodstone.
Almost immediately, a column of scarlet fire rose from the west side of Bloodstone.
Daemon Targaryen landed Caraxes on a Tyroshi mercenary ship that had been attempting to flank Grey Gallows. Dark Sister flashed. A head with bright green hair hit the deck, rolling away from its body.
The mercenary's hat, adorned with a peacock feather—the latest fashion in Tyrosh—now lay soaked in blood.
"What's the rush?" Daemon Targaryen laughed, kicking the corpse aside. "I was just cutting off their rear guard for you!"
Caraxes reached out with a massive claw and crushed the mercenary ship's mast. The vessel listed violently. The remaining sellswords jumped into the sea, only to be scooped up like fish in nets by the sailors on the smaller Velaryon silver ships.
Corlys had said it before: Tyroshi sellswords were loose-tongued. They would spill the Triarchy's garrison secrets soon enough.
---
The battle for Grey Gallows ended quickly.
However, as the United Fleet cleared the field, Daemon discovered a pile of bones beneath the gibbets in the pirate lair. One of the skeletons still wore a silver bracelet in the style of the Stormlands nobility. Judging by the decay, these were likely the remains of the Stormlanders taken during the raids two years ago.
He gripped Blackfyre, the dragon on the scabbard gleaming cold.
"Gather these bones. When this war is over, perhaps we can send them home."
---
By afternoon, the fleet moved on to Bloodstone.
The island was named for its red rock, and under the sunlight, the cliffs looked as though they had been doused in fresh blood.
The west side of the island formed a natural bay. The Triarchy had constructed a defensive wall using the wreckage of the iron-clad ships burned at Echo Bay. Myrish artisans had jury-rigged repeating crossbows and trebuchets atop the scrap metal. Tyroshi mercenaries, clad in gaudy purple-and-green armor, patrolled the wall, their curved blades still stained with the blood of their failed attempt to reinforce Grey Gallows.
" The reefs around Bloodstone are submerged at high tide," Corlys said from the Sea Snake's lookout. His spyglass tracked the outline of the submerged rocks. "I will take my best men and three silver ships around the north side. We'll thread the needle through the reef gaps and cut their supply line. Prince Baelon, I ask that you lead the center fleet in a feint. Prince Daemon, you and Big Daemon take the dragons and burn their siege weapons. Do not let them hit our ships."
Baelon agreed. Vhagar rose, her massive green shadow blotting out the sun. A single roar from the old dragon sent the Tyroshi mercenaries on the wall stumbling back in fear.
"Attack!"
At his command, the Northern longships charged. The rams of the Manderly fleet smashed into the iron-wreckage wall, sending wood and rusted metal flying.
Meanwhile, the seasoned Velaryon captains navigated their agile silver ships through the treacherous reefs, circling to the north. The rest of the fleet moved in coordination, each house playing to its strength.
Daemon dove on The Cannibal. Black fire washed over the trebuchets. The wooden frames caught fire instantly. The Myrish artisans operating them screamed and fled, their olive skin looking pale in the firelight. They wore shackles on their wrists—forced labor, enslaved by the Triarchy.
"Drop your weapons if you want to live!" Daemon shouted from the dragon's back.
The artisans hesitated only a moment before throwing down their tools and crouching on the ground, hands over their heads.
On the other side, Daemon Targaryen charged the flank of the defensive wall. There stood the captain of the Tyroshi sellswords—a man with dyed scarlet hair and a gold helm engraved with the three-headed deity of Tyrosh.
"You were sent by the Archon of Tyrosh?" The Rogue Prince laughed, arching a brow as he pointed Dark Sister at the man. "I hear you choose your Archons by bribery over there. How much gold did you pay him to get this suicide mission? I rode my dragon to the Archon's manse just the year before last to 'negotiate' a treaty. What happened? I heard the Archon I 'negotiated' with was overthrown in a coup by some newcomer right after I left?"
The mercenary captain turned purple with rage. He had betrayed his best friend, the former Archon, to side with the current one. Hearing the Rogue Prince mock his shifting loyalties, he waved his scimitar and charged.
"Dragonspawn from across the sea! You dare mock Tyrosh!"
His blade never touched Daemon Targaryen.
Caraxes simply slapped a claw down next to him. Scarlet fire ignited the man's gold helm. The captain screamed as he fell, the hair inside his helmet sizzling.
"That's it?" Daemon Targaryen kicked the body. "The captain of the Tyroshi sellswords puts up less of a fight than a drunk in Flea Bottom."
At the same time, Corlys's silver ships completed their maneuver, cutting off the supply lines to Bloodstone.
Seeing their retreat blocked, the Triarchy soldiers behind the wall began to break. As at Echo Bay, some chose to jump into the sea, while others threw down their weapons in surrender.
Daemon landed The Cannibal on the highest point of Bloodstone. There stood a massive rock carved with ancient markings.
During his tour of the Seven Kingdoms, while sailing past the Broken Arm aboard a Redwyne ship, Maester Bernard had given a "lecture at sea." He had said these ruins were left when the Arm of Dorne was shattered. The markings were likely runes of the First Men.
Daemon climbed down and slowly traced the grooves in the rock. He thought of the legends in the books—the Children of the Forest and the Greenseers breaking the land bridge. A sense of destiny washed over him.
Ten thousand years ago, the First Men crossed the Arm of Dorne to enter Westeros. Today, he had brought dragons and a fleet to guard this broken land, ensuring the greed of the Triarchy would not stain it again.
"Your Highness!"
Rayford ran up, holding a scroll taken from the mercenary captain's body. "It looks like a letter from the Archon of Tyrosh to the captain. It says if they can't hold Bloodstone, they are to use 'The Strangler' to poison our water supplies. It also says Myr is sending ten fast ships equipped with repeating crossbows to reinforce them."
Daemon unfolded the letter. The handwriting was scrawled and radiated greed. At the bottom was the symbol of the Tyroshi three-headed god—clearly, the Archon and this dead captain shared a faith.
Daemon read it and sneered. He handed the letter to Baelon, who had just arrived.
"The Triarchy hasn't given up. The Archon of Tyrosh, the Magisters of Lys, the Conclave of Myr... they're coming back for the Stepstones."
Baelon took the letter, frowning. "We must hold Bloodstone and Grey Gallows. They are the keys to the Stepstones. Corlys, leave ten silver ships and five Northern longships here as a garrison. The rest of the fleet will return to Blackwater Bay to rest and resupply—arrows, fresh water, food. Next time we sail, we sail for the main city of Tyrosh. We will show the Triarchy that the Stepstones are no longer their pirate den."
---
The sunset bathed the red rocks of Bloodstone, dying the sails of the United Fleet a golden crimson.
The Cannibal, Caraxes, and Vhagar circled above the island. The song of the dragons mingled with the crash of the waves, crowning this reclaimed land.
Daemon touched the charm Gael had given him, tucked inside his tunic. He could feel the texture of the dragon scales through the cloth.
He knew the war for the Stepstones had only just begun. But as long as the United Fleet stood together and the dragonfire did not fade, he could guard this broken "Arm of Dorne," the eastern gate of Westeros.
---
Far away, in the Bleeding Tower of Tyrosh.
The Archon of Tyrosh read a secret missive and smashed his wine goblet on the floor in a rage.
His mercenary commander bowed low. "Archon, should we send envoys to Lys and Myr to request immediate reinforcements? We can also use gold to hire companies from the Disputed Lands. As long as the price is high, there are plenty willing to fight Targaryens."
The Archon rubbed his temples, a glint of greed in his eyes.
"Go! Tell the Magisters of Lys I want more 'Strangler.' Tell the Conclave of Myr I want twenty fast ships with repeating crossbows. And go to the Disputed Lands. Offer triple the pay for sellswords. I want to see if the Targaryen dragons can stop an army built of pure gold!"
The night deepened. The wind and waves of the Narrow Sea grew stronger. Under the moonlight, the red rocks of Bloodstone stood like a silent barrier, heralding a greater storm about to break over the waters of the Stepstones.