Silence fell over Bloodstone, heavy and suffocating.
Under the banner of the three-headed dragon, a simple wooden table had been set up on the beach. It was too small to hold the hatred of five nations.
"If Lys and Myr do not want peace," Prince Aerys declared, flicking imaginary dust from his ruby-encrusted sleeve, "then let my son discuss war with you. He has won one great victory today; he does not mind winning another."
With that, the Crown Prince turned on his heel and marched back to the command tent, flanked by Tywin Lannister and Steffon Baratheon. They left Rhaegar alone at the table—the young wolf to face the pack.
"We come with a desire for peace," the Myrish envoy said smoothly, his voice like oiled silk. "Prince Rhaegar should be grateful for our goodwill. A protracted war benefits no one."
"Goodwill," Rhaegar repeated, his violet eyes flat. "You bring fifty warships to a peace conference. If you do not explain yourselves quickly, I might mistake this for an ambush. And if my dragons react to a threat... well, that would not be my fault."
Ser Barristan Selmy stood at Rhaegar's shoulder, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Behind them, the Westerosi fleet—bolstered by the Tyroshi squadron—blocked the harbor.
The envoys from Lys and Myr shifted uncomfortably. They had expected a boy. They found a warlord.
"We are waiting for the mediator," the Lysene envoy stammered, glancing at the horizon. "Braavos..."
"Ah, yes," Rhaegar smiled, a sharp, predatory expression. "Your saviors."
As if on cue, purple sails appeared on the northern horizon.
The Braavosi fleet was not large, but it carried the weight of the greatest power in Essos. The Titan's ships were sleek, fast, and deadly.
A longboat rowed ashore. Ferrego Antaryon, the Sealord of Braavos (or his highest voice), stepped onto the sand. He was followed by the Archon of Tyrosh, whose beard was dyed a vibrant purple.
They were accompanied by a retinue of guards, scribes, and officials.
Rhaegar watched them approach. He signaled to his own men.
Two thousand Westerosi soldiers—knights in plate, men-at-arms in mail—snapped to attention. Their armor was polished to a mirror sheen, their spears forming a forest of steel.
Above them, the three dragons began to circle, their roars shaking the air.
This was not a welcome. It was a threat.
"We need a bigger table," Rhaegar said to Ser Lucerys Velaryon. "And bring fruit. Let them see we are not starving."
A new, larger table was assembled. Five chairs were placed around it.
Rhaegar sat alone on one side. Behind him stood the chivalry of Westeros: Prince Lewyn Martell, Mace Tyrell, Bronze Yohn Royce, the Blackfish.
On the other side sat the envoys of the Free Cities: Lys, Myr, Tyrosh, and Braavos.
Five crowns. Five powers.
"I told you we would meet again," Ferrego said, taking his seat. He wore the somber browns and greys of a Braavosi bravo, a stark contrast to the colorful silks of the other Essosi.
"The pleasure is mine," Rhaegar replied coolly.
The Archon's son, a foolish young man with green hair, spoke up before anyone else could.
"The Stepstones were no-man's-land! Now that the pirates are gone, we should divide them. Joint administration!"
"Silence!" Ser Lucerys barked. "The Archon has not spoken. Another word, boy, and I will have you thrown into the sea."
The Archon glared at his son, who shrank back.
"Let us not be aggressive," Ferrego said, raising a hand. "We are here for order."
"I defeated the pirates," Rhaegar said, his voice cutting through the diplomatic fog. "I burned the fleets. I bled for these rocks. The Iron Throne has fought two wars in a generation to clear these lanes. Do you think I did it for you?"
He leaned forward.
"Strictly speaking, I cleaned up your mess. Lysene exiles. Tyroshi slavers. Myrish pirates. You should be thanking me."
"Do not be so arrogant, Prince," Ferrego warned, his eyes cold. "Dragons are powerful, but they are young. And you are the only rider. The Titan can build a ship a day. The Faceless Men..."
He let the threat hang.
Rhaegar laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound.
"I forgot. The Faceless Men. They can kill a man, yes. But can they kill an idea? Can they kill a dragon in the sky?"
Rhaegar stood up.
"I have smashed two crowns this week. I do not mind smashing a few more."
Ferrego studied him. The Sealord was a practical man, but he was also superstitious. He saw the fire in Rhaegar's eyes. He had heard the rumors of magic returning. A dragonlord who commanded sorcery... that was a threat Braavos had not faced since the Doom.
"Braavos is not the only power in the world," Rhaegar continued. "And the sword of House Targaryen is not dull."
At his words, the steel sang.
Ser Lucerys drew his sword. Then Barristan. Then Bronze Yohn.
Behind them, two thousand soldiers drew their blades in unison. The sound was like a thunderclap.
"Hoo-ah!" the soldiers roared, their blood hot with victory.
The dragons screamed in answer, diving low over the table, bathing the envoys in heat and dust.
The envoys from Lys and Myr turned pale. The Archon of Tyrosh looked grim. Only Ferrego remained impassive, though his fingers tightened on the arm of his chair.
"We are surrounded," Rhaegar said softly. "By my fleet. By my army. By my dragons."
"Today," he declared, "we will have the peace I want."