Dawn broke over Bloodstone like a bruise, purple and gold bleeding into the grey sky. The air was thick with the scent of smoke, salt, and the iron tang of old blood.
The horns blew—low, mournful notes that signaled the end.
From the sky, Rhaegar watched the final advance. The island was a mosaic of banners. The black and red of House Targaryen formed the core, flanked by the crimson of Lannister, the green of Tyrell, the yellow of Baratheon, and the orange of Martell.
It was the might of a continent, focused on a single rock.
"Advance!"
The order rippled down the lines. Thousands of men surged forward, tearing down the last of the wooden palisades. But there was no battle cry, no clash of steel.
The enemy was already dead.
Hunger had done the work of a thousand swords. The pirates who stumbled out of the caves were skeletons wrapped in rags, their eyes hollow and vacant. They threw down their rusted weapons and fell to their knees, begging for water.
Rhaegar landed the Silver Emperor on a flat plateau near the main cave entrance. Balerion and Belaerys circled overhead, their shadows keeping the prisoners cowed.
A group of men emerged from the darkness. They were in better shape than the others, though still gaunt. At their head walked a man with wild brown hair and a beard that reached his chest. He wore a crude crown fashioned from driftwood and sea glass.
He carried a box.
"Klarl Rhaen?" Rhaegar called out, dismounting.
The man spat on the ground. "Klarl Rhaen is dead. He was a coward who hoarded food while his men starved. I killed him."
He kicked the box open. Inside lay the severed head of the Lysene exile, his face frozen in a rictus of terror. Next to it lay a pile of gold, jewels, and Myrish lace—the plunder of a dozen raids.
"I am Sharak," the man announced, puffing out his chest. "I am the King of the Narrow Sea now. And I offer you a trade."
"A trade?" Rhaegar raised an eyebrow. He recognized the name. Sharak was a notorious pirate captain, a man who claimed descent from the legendary Lysene admiral Sharako Lohar.
"This treasure," Sharak said, gesturing to the gold. "For the lives of my men. Let them live, and I will give you the wealth of the Stepstones."
"Your men are already my prisoners," Rhaegar said coldly. "And this gold is stolen. It belongs to the merchants you murdered."
"Then I offer you a death," Sharak snarled, drawing a long, curved saber. "A king's death. Duel me, Dragon Prince. If you win, you take it all. If I win... well, at least I die standing."
Bronze Yohn Royce stepped forward, his hand on his sword. "I will take his head, my Prince. Do not dirty your blade on this filth."
"No," Rhaegar said, holding up a hand. "He asked for a king."
He unbuckled his sword belt and handed the [True Dragon] spear to Ser Barristan. He drew a standard steel longsword from a soldier's scabbard.
"To use Valyrian steel would be an insult to the art," Rhaegar said, testing the blade's balance. "Come then, Sharak. Let us see if your sword is as sharp as your tongue."
The armies formed a circle. Thousands of men—knights, lords, and starving pirates—watched in silence.
Sharak attacked with the fury of a desperate man. He was fast, his saber weaving a complex web of steel. He fought dirty, throwing sand, feinting low, aiming for the joints in Rhaegar's armor.
But Rhaegar was a storm.
He moved with the grace of a water dancer and the power of a dragon. The [Sword Rune] hummed in his veins, sharpening his reflexes, guiding his strikes.
Clang. Parry. Riposte.
Sharak was good. He was a survivor of a hundred deck fights. But Rhaegar was something else. He was trained by the best blades in Westeros and enhanced by ancient magic.
"You are slow, 'King'," Rhaegar whispered, stepping inside Sharak's guard.
With a fluid motion, he batted the saber aside and drove his sword through Sharak's chest.
The pirate gasped, his eyes widening. He looked down at the steel protruding from his ribs, then up at the violet eyes of the prince.
"At least..." Sharak coughed, blood bubbling on his lips. "At least I died... a king."
He collapsed. The driftwood crown rolled away into the dust.
Rhaegar pulled his sword free and wiped it on Sharak's cloak. He stood over the body, his silver hair shining in the morning sun.
"The King of the Narrow Sea is dead," Rhaegar announced, his voice carrying to the back of the crowd. "And the war is over."
A cheer erupted that shook the island. Caps were thrown into the air. Spears were banged against shields.
Mace Tyrell rushed forward, beaming. "Magnificent! A duel for the ages! The bards will sing of it!"
Tywin Lannister nodded approvingly. "Clean. Efficient."
Prince Aerys looked at the body, then at his son. For a moment, his eyes were clear, free of the madness that so often clouded them.
"You have done well, Rhaegar," the King said quietly. "You have done very well."
Rhaegar looked out at the sea. The blockade ships were already lowering their sails. The smoke from the burning wrecks was beginning to clear.
The Stepstones belonged to the Iron Throne.
But as he watched the horizon, Rhaegar knew this was only the beginning. The Free Cities would not stay quiet forever. And the game for the soul of Westeros was just starting.
He sheathed his borrowed sword and walked toward his dragon.
"Let's go home, old friend," he whispered to the Silver Emperor. "We have a wedding to plan."