The red rocks of Bloodstone were just chilled by the morning mist, seawater from the previous night still pooling in the crevices of the reefs, when the warning bell from the watchtower tore through the grey sky of the Stepstones once more.
This time, it wasn't the three short, one long signal for "Enemy Fleet Incoming" that allowed a moment to breathe. It was a rapid, unbroken clamor, like a throat being strangled—the alarm for "Overwhelming Enemy Force."
The wind, wrapped in fog, swept over the red rocks, startling even the seagulls roosting there. They flapped their wings and fled toward the western reefs, as if they had already smelled death.
Daemon had just finished inspecting the winch of a scorpion on the deck of the Blackfyre. His fingertips were stained with metallic-smelling grease, tracing the grooves worn into the mechanism—scars left from last night's fierce battle with Craghas's fleet.
He was looking down, wiping the grease from his fingers with a silk cloth, when Rayford Rosby stumbled over, clutching a bloodstained lookout's uniform. Dark red drops of blood dripped from the hem, blooming into wet spots on the deck.
Rayford's face was as white as paper. Usually calm, his voice trembled so much it was almost out of tune. "Your Highness! Tyroshi fleet... at least forty ships! The flagship in the lead... the sail has a 'Bone and Sword' sigil... and standing on it... standing on it is a hunchback with purple and orange striped hair! In the fog, that hair looks like burnt orange peel!"
"It must be Racallio Ryndoon," Corlys's voice came from behind, calm and undeniable.
The brass casing of his spyglass had been polished to a shine by the sea wind, the lens glinting coldly. His gaze was locked dead on the eastern sea, unwilling to even blink.
The wind lifted a corner of Corlys's cloak, revealing the silver seahorse embroidery of House Velaryon on his tunic. He pressed his fingertips against the edge of the spyglass, his voice low. "The Triarchy's true ace, dispatched from Tyrosh. They call him 'Queen Racallio'—don't let the name fool you. He's a man, just too mad to care about gender. He calls himself the 'King of the Narrow Sea.' He's been raiding merchant ships and ransoming slaves in the Stepstones for years, doing things madder than any pirate, yet somehow he has a devoted following willing to die for him."
Daemon looked through the spyglass Corlys handed him. The sails of the Tyroshi fleet looked like a school of bloodstained krakens lying in wait in the morning mist.
The flagship in front had deep purple sails embroidered with crossed silver swords, a pile of beast bones lying between the blades. The silver thread gleamed cold in the fog, like phosphorescence peeled fresh from a corpse.
At the highest point of the forecastle beneath the sail, a hunched figure leaned against the carved railing, toying with two oily beast bones, knuckles white from the grip.
Though hunched, the figure exuded an inexplicable menace. Even when the morning breeze blew his purple-and-orange striped beard and hair, it seemed to arc with provocation—the orange strands floating in front, the purple trailing behind. From a distance, he looked like a half-burnt flame.
"This guy... is his hair dyed?" Daemon Targaryen landed Caraxes on the deck. The scarlet dragon's claws made the dragonglass plating tremble lightly. He stared at the figure, his tone full of disbelief. "Are all Tyroshi this gaudy? First time I've seen such a getup. He loves dressing up more than a whore on the Street of Silk."
"Not just gaudy, but completely mad." Baelon rose from the stern on Vhagar. As the green dragon's wings swept over the deck, the wind knocked over a stack of quivers, scattering arrows everywhere.
Baelon's voice came through the gaps in the dragon's roar, grave. "Intel says his shoulders are uneven because a slaver broke his back when he was a child and it never set right. Yet he wields dual swords, fighting with both hands faster than a normal man with one. He drinks like a fish, downing half a flagon of Tyroshi brandy before every battle, yet he's absurdly generous—he keeps the smallest share of loot for himself. If his men want gold, silk, weapons, he gives it without blinking. But he's terrifyingly mad. Two years ago, a subordinate praised his wife's hair; he gave his wife to the man, laughing that 'good things should go to those who appreciate them.' Even stranger, he hates slavery. Last year in Lys, he spent three days haggling with a slaver to redeem a slave girl, paying three chests of gold. When he freed her, he gave her a small merchant ship as a gift. He is a madman, and a difficult one to deal with."
As they spoke, the Tyroshi fleet closed in on Bloodstone. Racallio's flagship stopped just out of arrow range. The hunched figure finally straightened up a bit, revealing his height of six and a half feet.
Though hunched, he was still taller than the average Tyroshi. He wore a deep purple silk coat embroidered with roses and lavender, but pinned to his cuffs were two bizarrely shaped short swords, the hilts wrapped in orange-dyed leather.
He reached into his tunic, pulled out a bone jar, shook three sheep knucklebones into his palm, and cast them onto the wooden deck of the forecastle with a clatter.
The moment the bones hit the deck, he threw his head back and laughed, a shrill sound like a seagull's cry. His purple-and-orange beard shook with mirth. "Ha! The gods say today the little dragons of Targaryen should taste the flavor of broken bones!"
"The mysterious Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen? And that rogue Daemon Targaryen?" Racallio's voice came through a brass trumpet held by a subordinate, thick with a Tyroshi accent but peppered with Braavosi slang. "Heard you caught that idiot Craghas? Hand him over, and I'll let you die quickly. After all, the ship of the 'King of the Narrow Sea' needs a lackey to feed the crabs."
Daemon Targaryen stepped forward, gripping Dark Sister, pointing the blade at him. "A mere self-styled king dares bargain with us? I wonder how the Archon of Tyrosh tolerates you? But bringing so many ships... are you here to collect Craghas's corpse?"
Hearing this, Racallio suddenly bent down and dragged a woman dressed in Tyroshi brothel finery out of the cabin. Her skirt was cut high to the thigh, her hair dyed bright purple. A closer look revealed an Adam's apple and rough hands—it was a male Tyroshi mercenary in drag!
"See this?" Racallio pinched the "woman's" chin, laughing inexplicably, madly, as if seized by hysteria. "My boys make better whores than your Westerosi noble ladies! Your fleet just finished a battle, thirty percent of your scorpions are broken, your fresh water will last three days. And you dare challenge me?"
He was right. The United Fleet had just fought a bitter battle with Craghas. Three ships had broken winch mechanisms, and half the water barrels had been overturned during the retreat. The reserves on Bloodstone would likely only last two days.
Corlys frowned, whispering to Daemon, "He's investigated thoroughly. There must be a mole, or the captives talked."
Just then, Racallio kicked the cross-dressing mercenary away and drew his dual swords. The scabbards were carved with roses and bones, respectively. The blades gleamed cold.
He threw the sheep bones again. They landed on the deck, pointing toward the western reefs of Bloodstone. "The gods say the western reefs can hide ships! Your Valyrian silver ships are fast, but the rocks in the reef are harder than your dragon scales!"
As soon as he spoke, ten fast galleys painted dark grey peeled off from the Tyroshi flank, hugging the reefs to circle around the west side of Bloodstone—clearly aiming to ambush the United Fleet's supply ships.
"The Cannibal, burn their fast ships!" Daemon ordered immediately. The black dragon spread his wings. Jet-black fire swept over the reefs, instantly igniting the canvas of the galleys. The ships crashed into the rocks, wood splinters flying amidst screams.
Racallio wasn't angry. Instead, he clapped and laughed, pulling out a flask and taking a huge swig, liquor running down his chin onto his silk coat. "Good! Good dragonfire! Kicks harder than my wives' whips!"
Suddenly, his tone shifted, his eyes sharp. "But how many ships can your little dragons burn? How long can you fight? Every man I brought is willing to die for me! Because I give them gold, I give them freedom, and I give them... women!"
Daemon narrowed his eyes at the Tyroshi decks. Sure enough, many sailors bore the marks of shackles on their wrists—some faint, some scarred deep, clearly from years of slavery.
Yet as these men waved their weapons shouting "Long live Queen Racallio," there was no fear in their eyes, only a fanatical light. They looked at Racallio as a savior.
Corlys whispered, his voice complex. "According to intel I gathered in Tyrosh, he was a slave as a child. He killed his master to escape, so he hates slavery more than anything. All these years raiding merchant ships and noble fleets, he spends half the gold on his army and the other half redeeming slaves. He never forces them to stay, but many choose to follow him, saying that with him, they can live like human beings."
"Willing to die for a madman?" Daemon Targaryen sneered. He gripped Dark Sister tighter, vaulting onto Caraxes and charging a Tyroshi fast ship.
The red dragon's claws gripped the gunwale. Daemon Targaryen leaped down, Dark Sister flashing. The sail was sliced in half, hanging from the mast like a rag.
Stepping over a fallen sailor, his voice dripped with disdain. "I'd like to see if your 'Queen' can protect you mad dogs!"
Seeing this, Racallio suddenly leaped from the forecastle, moving with an agility that belied his hunchback. He flipped in the air, landing silently on the deck of a fast galley, dual swords in hand.
His hunchback didn't hinder him at all. His swords moved like lightning. The left blade parried a sailor's axe with precision, sending the weapon flying, while the right blade pierced the man's throat. Blood sprayed onto his purple coat, blooming like a dark red flower.
Even in the heat of battle, he sang bawdy Tyroshi songs in a high, piercing voice. "Oh~ the waves of the Narrow Sea~ softer than a whore's tits~ Oh~ the blood of the enemy~ sweeter than Tyroshi wine~"
His men joined the chorus, their voices frantic. Even the sailors of the United Fleet were unsettled by the eerie atmosphere. They had seen men charge with battle cries, but never singing smut while fighting. These Tyroshi were truly as mad as their leader.
Baelon dove on Vhagar, green dragonfire sweeping toward Racallio's ship like a wall. The sea steamed as the flames passed.
But Racallio was freakishly agile. He shouted orders for the ship to come about, the hull scraping the edge of the dragonfire, narrowly escaping incineration.
More terrifyingly, he led the ship underneath The Cannibal—into the dragon's blind spot. Several Tyroshi sailors immediately raised crossbows aimed at the black dragon's belly, the tips coated in black venom.
"Look out!" Daemon shouted a warning. The Cannibal seemed to understand, shooting upward. His claws shattered the ship's mast, which crashed down, crushing several crossbowmen.
Black dragonfire rained down again, this time burning through the hull. Water flooded in, the ship listed, and sailors screamed as they jumped into the sea.
Racallio stood on the tilting deck, laughing. His dual swords dripped blood, his purple-and-orange hair wild in the wind. "Your Targaryen dragons fear arrows in the dark? So true dragons aren't invulnerable after all!"
He paused, his eyes venomous, his voice dripping with mockery. "That's right... didn't your ancestor Rhaenys Targaryen and her dragon Meraxes die to a Dornish scorpion bolt? I heard when Meraxes's scales were pierced, the blood sprayed all over the Dornishmen's faces. I wonder if it's true the Dornish captured the Queen? I envy them... I wonder how a Targaryen Queen tastes? Better than a Tyroshi whore?"
Racallio kept spewing madness, trying to unsettle Daemon and the others with his most absurd and vicious words.
He knew the nobles across the Narrow Sea valued honor above all else. Mentioning ancestral shame angered them more than a blade to the gut—especially high-and-mighty dragonlords like the Targaryens.
"And that husband of hers, your ancestor Aegon the Conqueror... didn't he win the Field of Fire by sneaking up and burning the Gardeners? Don't talk to me about 'Dragon Destiny.' I see a bunch of cowards hiding on dragonback!"
As he spoke, he watched Daemon charge onto his ship. Daemon's strikes were getting fiercer, sword light enveloping him.
But Racallio laughed harder, his swords moving faster, even deliberately leaving an opening to bait Daemon. He loved this thrill of dancing on the edge of death. The more dangerous, the more excited he became.
And his plan worked.
Just then, a commotion erupted from the north side of Bloodstone—the direction of the brig where Craghas was held!
Ten guards had been posted there, but now screams and explosions rang out. Smoke poured from the brig's window, forming a grey-black cloud in the fog.
Daemon looked back. Several Tyroshi mercenaries, taking advantage of the chaos, were blowing open the brig door with wildfire. Sparks ignited the haystacks outside.
Grey Ghost immediately dove from the Blackfyre's mast. Pale grey fire washed over the mercenaries. They screamed as they rolled on the ground, clothes burning away to reveal scarred skin.
Grey Ghost didn't forget to pick up a piece of wood blasted from the explosion and fling it at Racallio. The splinter grazed Racallio's cheek, taking a lock of purple-orange hair with it—a provocative declaration.
Racallio touched his cheek, feeling a sting. The little dragon had cut him.
But instead of anger, his eyes lit up like fire, staring fixedly at the circling Grey Ghost with fanatical adoration. "What a tiny dragon! No bigger than my horse! Scales bright as silver dust... cuter than my pet cat!"
He shouted at Daemon, his voice drowning out the roar of the waves. "Give me that little dragon, and release Craghas, and I'll withdraw! How about it, pretty Targaryen boy? I'll even throw in my three most beautiful wives—they're not just lookers, they're great with a whip! You'll taste something fresh!"
"Are you insane? You lunatic!" Daemon Targaryen roared, flying in from the side. Caraxes's scarlet fire swept the edge of Racallio's ship, instantly igniting the rigging.
He looked at Racallio's mad face and felt his stomach turn. "Who wants your crazy women! You pervert, don't corrupt my cousin! Grey Ghost is his dragon. You touch a scale on him, and I'll strip your bones to feed the dragons!"
Racallio wasn't angry. He pulled a gold-threaded silk bag from his tunic and tossed it into the air. Gold coins rained down onto the deck with a crisp clatter, glinting temptingly in the sunlight.
"Look! I have money! Don't you Westerosi love this?" He paced on the coins, the metallic jingle mixing with his laughter, grating on the ears.
He paused, the fanaticism in his eyes turning cold as he looked at Daemon. "But if you won't give it, I'll take all the slave girls on Bloodstone—oh wait, I know you Westerosi don't have slaves. But rest assured, I hate slavery too. I'll give them freedom. Following me is better than following you hypocritical nobles! Don't you Westerosi nobles treat girls as bargaining chips for marriage? Compared to me, who is more shameless?"
Daemon gripped Blackfyre. He thought of Gael's words at the docks. He thought of the fishermen plundered by the Triarchy. His resolve hardened.
"What you want, I will not give. What you want to destroy, I will protect. The Narrow Sea is not your kingdom, and the Stepstones are not a place for your madness. Today, you either retreat or you die. There is no third path."
Hearing this, Racallio suddenly stopped laughing. He bent down, picked up the sheep bones, and threw them again.
This time, the bones pointed to the center of the United Fleet. His eyes burned with mania. "The gods say... today we see blood! Then I shall oblige the gods! All forces, attack! Whoever wounds a Targaryen dragon first gets ten chests of gold, and when we get back, I'll give him the best whores in Tyrosh!"
The sails of the Tyroshi fleet filled instantly. Arrows rained down like a storm. The thwip-thwip of Myrish repeaters and Racallio's bawdy war songs wove together into the maddest battle hymn the Bloodstone waters had ever heard.
The Cannibal let out a low roar, black fire burning toward the enemy ships. Grey Ghost followed, nimbly dodging the arrow rain.
Daemon Targaryen charged Racallio's flagship on Caraxes, Dark Sister flashing.
Baelon ordered the center fleet into formation, Vhagar's green fire creating a barrier in the sky.
Corlys took the Velaryon silver ships and several fast galleys to circle behind the Tyroshi fleet, ready to cut off their retreat.
Racallio stood on the deck of his fast ship, dual swords spinning like a whirlwind, every strike delivering mad power. He threw his head back and laughed, purple-orange hair dancing in the wind. "Come on! Little Targaryen dragons! Let's see if your fire can break my bones!"
Daemon grabbed The Cannibal's claws and dove, Blackfyre gleaming cold. He had only one thought.
This mad "King of the Narrow Sea" must stay on Bloodstone today. Otherwise, the future of the Narrow Sea would be chaos. And he had to guard this sea, guard the road back to King's Landing, and guard his promise to Gael.
The red rocks of Bloodstone were dyed golden-crimson by dragonfire. Amidst waves scented with blood and sulfur, a duel between a madman and a dragonlord officially began in the morning mist of the Narrow Sea.