The red rocks of Bloodstone turned an even deeper crimson under the wash of dragonfire and blood. Seawater, pooled in the crevices of the reef, was dyed dark red, trickling down the cracks like the earth itself was bleeding.
The arrow storm from the Tyroshi fleet was like a gale of poisoned needles, densely pinning the decks of the United Fleet. Some bolts punched through sailors' ringmail, others thudded into the planks, their fletching trembling in the wind like the last gasps of the dying.
Racallio Ryndoon stood at the prow of his fast ship, looking provocatively at Daemon. His purple-and-orange striped hair danced wildly in the sea breeze, and his dual swords carved two cold arcs in the morning light.
With his left sword, he precisely split a dragonglass arrow in mid-air. That arrow was a Velaryon special, tipped with dragonglass shards capable of piercing standard steel armor, yet his steel blade cut it clean in two.
His right sword thrust out without warning, piercing the throat of a Velaryon sailor. Blood sprayed onto his beard and hair, dyeing the bizarre colors an even garish red, making his appearance all the more hideous.
"Is that all you've got, Targaryen whelp?" He laughed maniacally, stepping over the corpse, the gold coins beneath his feet still jingling—the ones he had scattered earlier as a "reward for the brave."
"Your ancestor Aegon conquered Westeros with the fire of three dragons! Today, I, Racallio, will take the Narrow Sea with these brothers willing to die for me!"
He clapped a sailor on the shoulder. The man, whose wrist bore the scars of shackles, immediately straightened his back, eyes burning with fanatical adoration.
But Daemon dove again on The Cannibal. Blackfyre sliced through the air with a sharp whistle, chopping down at Racallio.
The mad Tyroshi didn't dodge. Instead, he crossed his swords to block. With a crisp clang, the Valyrian steel of Blackfyre clashed with Racallio's steel blades. Sparks flew high, and the impact numbed Daemon's arm. He hadn't expected this hunchbacked lunatic to possess such brute strength.
Racallio used the momentum to spin, his right sword thrusting straight for Daemon's side. The blade scraped the edge of his dragonscale armor, leaving a shallow groove.
"You're better than that idiot Craghas," he said, licking blood foam from the corner of his mouth, his eyes frantic. "But not good enough! I'm going to take your Valyrian steel sword and hang it on my bone pile! Let everyone who crosses the Narrow Sea see that a Targaryen dragonlord's heirloom is my trophy!"
The Cannibal, circling above, sensed his rider's peril. A jet of black fire shot toward Racallio.
But the madman dodged with unnatural agility. He ran along the ship's gunwale, leaping onto a rope and swinging up like a hunchbacked bat, launching himself straight at The Cannibal's wing, his sword aiming to pierce the membrane.
"Grey Ghost!" Daemon shouted urgently.
The small grey dragon dove from high above. Though small, he was incredibly agile. His breath hit the rope Racallio was standing on with precision.
The rope snapped instantly. Racallio lost his footing and crashed heavily onto the deck. His purple silk coat was torn open by wood splinters, revealing a back covered in hideous scars.
Crisscrossing whip marks and knife wounds—clearly relics of his time as a slave—formed a chaotic map of his miserable past.
"What a dragon!" Racallio wasn't angry. Instead, he clapped and laughed, ignoring the pain of his wounds. "Smarter than my cat! When I win this war, I'll keep you in my cabin, feed you Lyseni sweetfish every day, and make you the 'Little Dragon King of the Narrow Sea'!"
He reached out to grab Grey Ghost, but Daemon kicked his wrist away.
From the west came Daemon Targaryen's shout.
Riding Caraxes, he had burned the sail of a Tyroshi mercenary ship. The canvas hung like a rag, quickly consumed by scarlet fire.
Dark Sister flashed. The green-haired head of the mercenary captain rolled onto the deck, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Little Daemon! Stop talking to that lunatic! I'll keep his men busy, you finish him!"
Caraxes's claw crushed the mercenary ship's mast, snapping it like a twig. The ship listed, and the remaining sellswords jumped into the sea, only to be netted by Velaryon sailors.
Even soaked and captured, these mercenaries shouted "Long live Queen Racallio," the fanaticism in their eyes unquenched by the cold sea.
Daemon Targaryen hovered Caraxes over the net, pointing Dark Sister at a mercenary's throat. "Why are you so loyal to him? He's just a madman!"
The mercenary craned his neck, defiant. "He is not a madman! He bought my freedom! He gave me gold and dignity! You nobles are just like the slavers, treating us like cattle. Only he treats us like men!"
Daemon Targaryen was struck speechless. He waved his hand for the sailors to take the man away.
Baelon held the center on Vhagar. Green dragonfire poured down like rain on the Tyroshi formation, boiling the sea into a wall of steam that kept the enemy ships at bay.
"Corlys! How is the flanking maneuver?" he shouted toward the Sea Snake, his voice urgent over the wind. The center fleet was holding, but taking damage. If Corlys could cut off their retreat, the battle would end quickly.
Corlys Velaryon's anxious voice drifted back from the prow of the Sea Snake. "Almost! But they have three fire ships blocking the way! Packed with wildfire and painted with skulls—they'll explode on contact! My silver ships can't get close!"
He paused, adding, "I've ordered grappling hooks to drag them off course, but their sailors are suicidal! They're charging straight at us!"
Daemon looked over. Three Tyroshi fast ships were indeed charging the Velaryon silver ships. Their decks were piled with smoking jars of wildfire, fuses lit, ready to blow at any second.
The sailors on board wore expressions of resolute madness—Racallio's death squad, determined to take the silver ships down with them.
"The Cannibal, burn the jars! Be careful not to detonate them!" Daemon ordered.
The black dragon soared, his fire hitting the fuses with precision. The wicks burned away, and the jars rolled harmlessly on the deck without exploding.
Corlys seized the chance to steer the silver ships around the fire ships. Silver seahorse sails filled with wind, darting like lightning to the rear of the Tyroshi fleet.
Light scorpions on the silver ships targeted the sterns of the Tyroshi vessels. A rain of bolts punched through the wood, and water began to flood their holds.
Seeing his retreat cut off, Racallio laughed even harder. He pulled a bone whistle from his tunic and blew a piercing note.
"Cut off my retreat? Good! Good! Today the Narrow Sea will remember my name! All ships, ram the United Fleet! If we die, we take them with us! Let them know the price of angering the 'King of the Narrow Sea'!"
The Tyroshi ships went berserk, charging the United Fleet. Some even turned their prows to ram the sides of the Westerosi vessels, seeking mutual destruction.
Daemon Targaryen and Caraxes had to unleash wave after wave of fire to drive them back. But there were too many enemies, and Caraxes's fire began to weaken. The red dragon had fought hard yesterday against Craghas and was now exhausted, his scales dulling.
"You madman!" Daemon charged Racallio again, Blackfyre glowing with the residual heat of dragonfire, aiming for his chest.
This time, Racallio didn't block. He rolled behind a mast, his dual swords suddenly thrusting at Daemon's knees, forcing him to jump back.
But in that instant, Grey Ghost dove from the mast above. Dragon breath washed over Racallio's left shoulder. Though the pale grey fire wasn't as intense as The Cannibal's, it still made him scream. His silk coat charred instantly, revealing the hideous scars beneath, flesh curling and smoking.
"My shoulder!" Racallio clutched the wound. The mania in his eyes finally mixed with pain, but he refused to yield. "Damn dragon! I'll pluck every scale off you!"
He charged madly at Grey Ghost, completely ignoring Daemon behind him.
Blackfyre slashed through the air with a sharp whistle, striking Racallio's swords.
Clang!
Racallio's ordinary steel blades stood no chance against Valyrian steel. They snapped instantly. The broken tips flew across the deck, embedding themselves in a wooden post, quivering.
Disarmed, Racallio didn't surrender. Like a wounded beast, he lunged at Daemon with his bare fists.
Daemon sidestepped, bringing the edge of Blackfyre to his throat. "You lose."
Racallio panted, his purple-orange hair plastered to his face with sweat, yet he was still laughing—a laugh full of defiance. "Lose? So what? The Triarchy still has Lyseni poison, Myrish crossbows, Tyroshi sellswords... You can't win! The Sand Snakes of Dorne are gathering a fleet at the Broken Arm! They'll be here soon! Your Targaryen dragons will have their wings pinned by Dornish poison bolts and drown in the sea!"
Daemon pressed the blade closer. The cold steel reflected in Racallio's eyes, cutting off his laughter.
"Dorne?" Daemon's voice was ice. "I'd like to see if House Martell's spears can stop the dragonfire of House Targaryen."
Just then, Corlys shouted: "Prince Daemon! The Tyroshi fleet is surrendering! We've captured their vice-admiral!"
Daemon looked back. The sails of the Tyroshi fleet were coming down—the signal of surrender. Only a few fast ships tried to resist, but they were hemmed in by the Velaryon silver ships, unable to escape.
Their vice-admiral was forced to his knees on the prow of the Sea Snake by two Velaryon sailors, head hanging low in despair.
Seeing this, Racallio suddenly threw himself forward onto Daemon's blade. He wanted to commit suicide, to let Blackfyre pierce his throat, trying to preserve his last shred of dignity like Craghas Drahar yesterday.
Daemon pulled back just in time, kicking him to the deck. His dragon-leather boot pinned Racallio's chest, immobilizing him. "I won't let you die that easily. You want to be 'King of the Narrow Sea'? I'm going to lock you in the dungeons of King's Landing. I'll make you watch as we crush the Triarchy, secure the Narrow Sea, and turn your so-called 'Kingdom' into sea foam."
Racallio lay on the deck, laughing in despair. Tears finally leaked from his eyes, mixing with sweat and blood. "You can't win... Essos has endless reinforcements... The greedy slavers across the Narrow Sea will keep coming like sea monsters, tearing at your dragons until they are exhausted, and then deliver the final blow to you arrogant dragonlords..."
His voice grew fainter until his head lolled to the side, and he passed out—likely from blood loss or sheer exhaustion from his mania.
Daemon ordered Racallio dragged away and locked up with the "Crabfeeder," Craghas Drahar, who had tried to escape earlier.
The two commanders of the Triarchy fleet were now stripped of their glory—one unconscious, the other chained and cursing.
Daemon slowly turned to survey the battlefield. Smoke still lingered, the air heavy with the scent of blood and sulfur.
On the red rocks of Bloodstone, soldiers of the United Fleet were clearing the dead, repairing ships, and tending the wounded.
The wreckage of the Tyroshi fleet floated on the water like broken black wood chips, rising and falling with the waves.
The Cannibal landed on a piece of floating debris, licking the salt and blood from his claws. Even the eyes of the "King of Wild Dragons" were full of fatigue.
Grey Ghost lay at Daemon's feet. The small grey dragon was panting hard, but still nudged Daemon's hand with his head, seeking praise.
Daemon Targaryen landed Caraxes beside Daemon. He hadn't wiped the blood from Dark Sister yet; red drops fell from the blade, forming tiny beads on the deck. "That lunatic was tough. He almost hurt Caraxes."
He patted the red dragon's neck. Caraxes let out a low hum in agreement.
He paused, looking at Daemon with approval. "Nice move with Grey Ghost. Baiting him to expose a weakness... I didn't think that timid dragon was so useful. Back in King's Landing, I saw him hide under a bed because of a cat."
Daemon smiled and stroked Grey Ghost's head. The dragon purred, tail wagging gently. "He's always been agile; he just never had the chance to show it. Thanks to him, taking Racallio down was much faster."
Baelon flew over on Vhagar, landing on the beach next to the King's Banner. He leaped down and walked to Daemon, clapping his shoulder, eyes full of pride. "Well done, Little Daemon. Racallio Ryndoon and Craghas Drahar are the Triarchy's heavy hitters. Catching them is like cutting off both their arms. Pacifying the Stepstones will be much easier now."
Corlys approached, holding a letter found in Racallio's cabin. The paper was Lyseni silk-paper, the handwriting scrawled but legible.
"Your Highness, this is correspondence between the Archon of Tyrosh and the Dornishmen. That mad Prince Morion Martell... his bastard daughter, the 'Sand Snake' Obara Sand, has gathered five thousand Dornish troops at the Broken Arm, ready to support the Triarchy."
Corlys pointed to the text. "According to the plan, they will mass at Ghost Hill and Tor, just like in the Vulture King's war, then cross the Sea of Dorne to land at Cape Wrath. They intend to ravage the Stormlands while our fleet is occupied, catching us in a pincer movement. They also agreed that once Racallio took Bloodstone, they would attack the other islands together and completely control the Narrow Sea lanes."
Daemon took the letter, his finger tracing the words "Cut off the Narrow Sea" and "Starve the Targaryens." He frowned.
"The Dornish are colluding with the Triarchy. We must notify King's Landing immediately. Grandfather and Viserys need to prepare the Marches. Tell Borros Baratheon to take the Stormlands fleet back to defend his home. Send a raven to Lord Boremund Baratheon to prepare the coast defenses against this mad prince's bastard daughter trying to restart the Vulture Hunt. And tell the rest of the fleet—especially Tymond Lannister—to stop slacking off! Everyone needs to clear the Triarchy remnants from the Stepstones fast, before they can link up with the Dornish!"
Baelon looked at Daemon Blackfyre, his "nephew" and "youngest son," now commanding with such ease and confidence. He felt a surge of emotion. The child he thought needed protection was now a pillar, analyzing the war and issuing orders.
He nodded firmly. "I will send ravens to King's Landing and Storm's End at once. We rest on Bloodstone for three days—resupply water and food, repair the ships and scorpions—then we attack Grey Gallows. The remnants of the Triarchy are there. We must clear them out, or they will be a thorn in our side forever."
The sunset bathed the red rocks of Bloodstone, dying the sea a golden crimson, like a sheet of silk spread over the water.
Though battered, the sails of the United Fleet stood tall in the harbor, banners snapping in the wind.
The Cannibal, Caraxes, and Vhagar circled overhead. Their roars mingled with the crash of the waves, celebrating the victory, yet warning of the storm to come.
Daemon touched the charm in his tunic, feeling the texture of the dragon scales.
He thought of Racallio's words, and of Alys Rivers's prophecy. He knew the war for the Stepstones was far from over.
The Sand Snakes of Dorne, the remnants of the Triarchy, and threats hidden in the eternal night... they were all waiting.
But he was not afraid. He had The Cannibal and Grey Ghost. He had Daemon Targaryen, Baelon, and Corlys. He had the soldiers of the United Fleet. And he had Gael waiting for him in King's Landing.
He would use Blackfyre and The Cannibal's fire to guard this sea, to guard the peace of this century, and to guard everything he cared about.
Night deepened. Campfires lit up on Bloodstone, like stars scattered across the red rock.
Soldiers sang around the fires, their voices full of the joy of victory, but also hidden hope for the future.
Daemon stood at the prow of the Blackfyre, gazing at the horizon. His sword was stabbed into the deck, the dark gold dragon on the scabbard gleaming cold in the firelight. He knew the next battle was coming soon.