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The morning mist over Bloodstone had not yet dispersed, but the sound of hammering already rang out from the rapidly rebuilt harbor beneath the red rocks.
The mist, like gauze soaked in seawater, clung to the ship planks with a salty tang. Even the sunlight struggled to penetrate it.
Although the remnants of the Triarchy fleet had retreated last night, scattered broken masts and splintered wood still floated on the sea—fragments left behind by the war.
Shipwrights conscripted by Corlys Velaryon from Hull were busy around the Sea Snake's ram.
Their hammers were wrapped in non-slip burlap. Every strike carried heavy force, driving the precious steel—traded from the Thousand Islands during the Sea Snake's voyages—bit by bit into the cracks of the ram.
Sparks from the hammering landed on the wet planks, instantly condensing into tiny beads of water that slid along the wood grain into the bilge. Mixed with the sound of waves crashing in the distance, it formed the perfect rhythm for the shipwrights.
Old Graham, a master shipwright, had mist clinging to his beard. He squinted at the newly repaired ram, rapping his knuckles against the steel seam. Hearing a solid thud-thud, he wiped his face in satisfaction. "This steel should hold for ten more impacts. Next time we meet the Triarchy's junk heaps, we'll give them a taste of Lord Corlys's power."
On a nearby deck, the archers of the United Fleet were lined up in neat rows. Under the command of Jarman Waters, they were coating their bolts with dragonglass powder.
Jarman's left arm was bandaged—a wound from a grazing arrow fired by one of Racallio's men yesterday. Now, holding a polished dagger, he slit a small opening in a leather pouch filled with dragonglass dust, sprinkling it evenly over the arrowheads.
"Careful now!" His voice was raspy from the sea wind as his gaze swept over the sharpshooters from across Westeros. "Yesterday, those Essosi poison arrows cost us five brothers. Today, these dragonglass bolts will teach the Triarchy bastards the meaning of 'an eye for an eye.'"
The archers responded in unison. Dragonglass dust on their fingertips glimmered like silver in the morning light. Rows of crossbow bolts sat in their quivers like silver thorns ready to strike.
Daemon stood on the deck of the Blackfyre, watching Rayford Rosby tally the wounded.
Rayford's list was spread on a makeshift wooden table. The ink in the bottle swayed with the ship. As his quill scratched across the parchment, his frown deepened with every name.
Just among the new recruits from Crackclaw Point, seventeen were wounded. Three had been grazed by poison arrows. Fortunately, Corlys had stocked the fleet with Myrish fire-herb salve, and medics were currently bandaging the sailors.
Casualties weren't limited to the new recruits. Several followers who had joined Daemon during his tour of the Seven Kingdoms were dead or injured, not to mention the losses from the intense battles since the fleet set sail. There were many familiar faces among the fallen.
Even Rupert Crabb had a deep gash on his arm from yesterday's melee with Racallio's men. Yet he stubbornly continued his patrol along the gunwale, sword in hand, humming a Crackclaw fishing song to relieve the tension.
"Your Highness, there's some noise from the brig," Jarman Waters approached, voice low. "Craghas is cursing Racallio, calling him a 'mad Tyroshi bastard.' Racallio woke up and just laughed, saying Craghas is 'less than a slave, only good for hiding behind iron plating.'"
"Oh?" Daemon raised an eyebrow and followed Jarman to the brig.
Separated by wooden planks behind iron bars, the two prisoners were shouting at each other. Craghas, his black iron armor still stained with blood, was trying to maintain his "Prince of Myr" airs.
Racallio lay slumped on straw, his purple-and-orange hair a mess. He threw out occasional taunts that made Craghas bang his head against the bars in rage.
"Move them to the island dungeons first. We'll interrogate them tonight!" Daemon ordered helplessly. The ship's brig wouldn't survive these two tearing it apart.
---
Night fell. The mist around Bloodstone grew heavy with salt, pressing down on the cold sea.
The ships of the United Fleet lay like sleeping steel beasts. Anchor chains hung in the water. Occasionally, a wave splashed against the dragonglass-reinforced hulls, breaking the post-battle silence.
Inside the Triarchy's former dungeon on the island, the iron bars gleamed cold.
Racallio Ryndoon was chained to the stone wall. His garish hair was plastered to his face, and his burned left shoulder was still oozing blood, yet he refused to be quiet.
With his unchained right hand, he picked at seaweed in the wall cracks, humming a bawdy Tyroshi tune. The melody was wildly off-key, but carried a stubborn, mad energy.
Craghas Drahar was chained opposite him. The crab-claw patterns on his armor were caked with dried blood. He had his eyes closed, feigning death, but at the sound of Racallio's singing, he snapped them open and spat a mouthful of bloody saliva. "You lunatic! You're a prisoner, and you're still singing this filth!"
"Better than you, Crabfeeder," Racallio stopped humming, tilting his head with a grin. "At least I have men willing to die for me. You? Your Myrish 'Elite Guard' surrendered the moment you were captured. Your 'Highness.'"
Craghas's face turned purple. He struggled against his chains, rattling them violently. "I was ambushed by Targaryen dragons! If that black dragon hadn't burned my rudder, I would have fed them all to the crabs!"
The dungeon door creaked open. Daemon walked in holding an oil lamp, casting swaying shadows on the walls.
Grey Ghost followed at his heels. The small grey dragon eyed the prisoners warily, letting out low growls.
"Quiet, both of you." Daemon placed the lamp on a stone ledge outside the bars. The scabbard of Blackfyre tapped lightly against the iron. "The Sand Snakes of Dorne are gathering at the Broken Arm. Which of you can tell me exactly how many men Martell sent? And when are the Triarchy's reinforcements arriving?"
Craghas turned his face away. "I am the High Admiral of the Triarchy. I will never reveal military secrets!"
Racallio suddenly laughed. His shoulders shook, tearing his burn wound, but he kept laughing as blood beaded on the raw flesh. "I could tell you... but you have to agree to one condition."
Daemon raised an eyebrow. "Speak."
"Give me back my swords." Racallio's eyes shone with a sudden, lucid intensity amidst the madness. "I used those blades to kill my first master. I need to take them to the gods."
Daemon was silent for a moment, then nodded to Jarman.
Jarman soon returned with the short swords carved with roses and bones, passing them through the bars.
Racallio grabbed them, his fingers caressing the orange leather on the hilts. A strange smile curled his lips. "Dorne sent five thousand men, led by that mad Prince's bastard daughter, Obara Sand. They're on Tyroshi-built fast galleys, painted grey to match the coastal waters. They'll likely slip through the morning mist. The Conclave of Myr sent ten ships with new scorpions to support them. The bolts are tipped with a mix of 'Tears of Lys' and 'The Strangler'—death on contact."
He paused, leaning close to the bars, his voice dropping to a whisper that sounded terrifyingly sane. "Don't think you've won just because you caught me and Craghas. The Archon of Tyrosh has already sent agents to Essos to hire a mercenary company... descendants of Valyrian runaway slaves. They'll treat you dragonspawn far worse than the Sand Snakes will."
Daemon's grip on Blackfyre tightened.
That mercenary company... He remembered reading about them in the Red Keep's library. They had a long history and were rampant across the Narrow Sea. If the Triarchy had hired them, the pressure on the United Fleet would increase significantly.
"How do you know all this?" Daemon stared into his eyes.
Racallio twirled the blade in his hand, his smile returning to madness. "I am the 'King of the Narrow Sea.' I know everything the wind brings. The Archon of Tyrosh wanted to use me and my brothers to block your dragons, but he was afraid I'd actually take the Stepstones for myself. He planted spies around me long ago. I just played along to see what cards they really held."
Outside the cell, Colin Celtigar's voice called out. "Your Highness, movement from the Western fleet."
Daemon walked out. Colin stood on the deck of a wrecked Triarchy ship outside the dungeon entrance, holding a message just received from a Western sailor. "Lord Tymond Lannister sent Ser Lancel on a patrol with three ships to the west. They just intercepted a Dornish scout. They found a letter stating Obara Sand will use the morning mist three days from now to flank Grey Gallows and link up with the Triarchy remnants there."
"Grey Gallows..." Daemon recalled the pirate lair. It was full of secret tunnels. If the Dornish linked up with the remnants there, it would be a disaster.
Baelon landed Vhagar on a massive rock nearby. The green dragon's scales glistened with night dew. He looked at Corlys, who had also arrived. "I sent Big Daemon on Caraxes to scout Grey Gallows. He says there are indeed fires on the island—they seem to be reinforcing defenses. Corlys, your silver ships know the mist. Can you flank the east side of Grey Gallows in three days and cut off the Dornish retreat?"
Corlys nodded, thumbing his seahorse belt buckle. "No problem. But Dornish galleys are agile. We need Northern longships and Western heavy ships to hold the center. Their rams and heavy armor can crush the Dornish hulls."
Daemon looked west. The sails of Tymond's Golden Lion glowed faintly in the dark.
The Western fleet initiating a patrol was unexpected. Perhaps the mention of the mercenary company had spooked the greedy "Golden Lion." Tymond must have realized the Triarchy threat wasn't just to the Narrow Sea, but to Western trade as well.
"I can take The Cannibal and Grey Ghost to the north side of Grey Gallows and burn their fortifications," Daemon said, gripping Blackfyre. "Big Daemon takes the south. Caraxes's fire will force them into the middle. Uncle Baelon, hold the center fleet. Once we burn the defenses, we land and clear the rest."
---
Night deepened. Ravens took flight from the King's Banner, slicing through the fog toward King's Landing and Storm's End.
One letter to King Jaehaerys, detailing the conspiracy between Dorne and the Triarchy. Another to Lord Boremund Baratheon, warning him to bolster coastal defenses against a Dornish surprise attack.
Daemon leaned on the rail, touching the charm Gael had given him. The texture of the scales was comforting.
He thought of her violet eyes and felt a surge of warmth. After this war, I must return quickly. To fulfill the promise of our Valyrian wedding.
Grey Ghost nudged his hand, holding a colorful thread in his mouth—the same one ripped from the Lyseni silk earlier.
Daemon smiled, taking the thread and wrapping it around his finger. "When we get back, I'll have May and Hannah embroider a new cushion for you. Maybe a handkerchief for Gael, too—embroidered with you and The Cannibal flying together."
In the distance, Caraxes's scarlet shadow swept across the night sky. Daemon Targaryen's laugh drifted down, roguish as ever. "Little Daemon! Stop cuddling that timid dragon! We have to burn Grey Gallows tomorrow!"
Daemon waved with a smile. The Cannibal descended, landing beside him. The black wings swept the deck, the wind lifting Daemon's cloak.
He vaulted onto the dragon's back. Grey Ghost followed. The two dragons vanished into the night mist, flying toward Grey Gallows.
The campfires on Bloodstone still burned. The sounds of winches, hammers, and low dragon growls wove together into the final overture before battle.
Riding The Cannibal, Daemon looked down at the Narrow Sea. In the direction of the Broken Arm, he could faintly see the shadows of Dornish scout ships, like vipers in the dark, silently approaching.
He knew that in the morning mist three days from now, a new bloodbath would erupt at Grey Gallows. And he had to win. For the peace of the Stepstones, and to return to Gael.
Moonlight fell on the red rocks of Bloodstone. The sails of the United Fleet, though tattered, stood guard in the harbor.
High above, Daemon touched the charm in his tunic. Gael's violet eyes seemed to be right in front of him.
The Dornish threat was just the beginning. The battle for Grey Gallows, the Triarchy remnants, the dark currents across the Narrow Sea... they were all waiting.
But as long as the dragonfire burned and the fleet stood together, he would guard this sea and the road home.
---
Back in the dungeon, Racallio watched the dragon shadow disappear through the heavy iron bars. He suddenly turned to Craghas.
"See? Their Targaryen dragons... they look a lot tougher than your flashy iron ships. Maybe this time, they really can hold the Stepstones."
Craghas turned his face away, but didn't argue.
Night deepened. The fires on Bloodstone brightened. Soldiers polished their weapons around the flames. The song of dragons and the crash of waves played a heavy prelude for the hard battle to come.