The noise on Bloodstone was deafening. The roar of dragons, the clash of steel on shields, and the shouts of thousands of soldiers created a wall of sound that pressed in on the envoys from all sides.
Rhaegar sat calmly at the center of the storm.
To the envoys of Lys and Myr, the young prince looked less like a diplomat and more like an executioner waiting for a signal. They were surrounded. A sea of Westerosi steel hemmed them in, and three dragons circled overhead, their shadows passing back and forth over the table like a pendulum.
"Guest right," the Myrish envoy stammered, his face pale. "We are guests, Prince Rhaegar. To harm us would be a curse."
"I am aware of the laws of gods and men," Rhaegar said, his voice cutting through the din. "But my soldiers are fresh from battle. They are... excitable. I can order them not to attack, but accidents happen when tempers run high."
He leaned forward, his violet eyes boring into them.
"So let us make sure there are no accidents. Let us sign the treaty."
The Archon of Tyrosh, sensing the moment, stepped in as the peacemaker. His purple beard bobbed as he spoke.
"Come now, my friends! The Prince is reasonable. We are all neighbors here. Let us find a solution that benefits everyone."
It was a performance, of course. Tyrosh played the good cop, Rhaegar played the bad cop, and Braavos held the scales.
The negotiations were tense, fueled by heat, hunger, and fear. Every clause was fought over. Lys and Myr tried to wriggle out of concessions, but every time they stalled, the dragons roared, or the soldiers took a step closer.
By sunset, it was done.
The Treaty of Bloodstone was signed and sealed with the wax of five cities: the red dragon of King's Landing, the Titan of Braavos, the weeping goddess of Lys, the tripartite god of Tyrosh, and the lens of Myr.
The terms were clear:
Sovereignty: The Stepstones would be administered by the Iron Throne for a period of ten years, after which a new summit would be held.Trade: The Free Cities were guaranteed low, fixed tolls and protection from piracy.Finance: The Iron Throne would take a low-interest loan from the Iron Bank of Braavos to rebuild the island's infrastructure (a clause insisted upon by Ferrego).Repatriation: The bodies of the Lysene exiles would be returned to Lys, a face-saving measure for the Magisters.
It was a victory for Westeros, but it was a fragile one. Everyone knew this wasn't a permanent peace; it was a ceasefire.
"Long live the Peace of the Narrow Sea!" the Archon shouted, raising his hands.
Prince Aerys, looking delighted to be the center of attention, clasped hands with the sullen envoys. He preened like a peacock, soaking up the applause that Rhaegar had orchestrated.
"We have brought order to chaos!" Aerys proclaimed. "Let the world see the benevolence of House Targaryen!"
As the delegations prepared to leave, Ferrego Antaryon approached Rhaegar on the beach.
"You played a dangerous game today, Prince," the Braavosi said quietly. "Steel is brittle. If you bend it too far, it snaps."
"Sometimes you have to bend the world to fit your vision," Rhaegar replied.
Ferrego chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "Watch your back, boy. Lys and Myr will not forget this humiliation. Their gifts will be poisoned. Their smiles will hide daggers."
"I have dragons to watch my back," Rhaegar said.
"Dragons sleep," Ferrego warned. "Faceless Men do not."
He boarded his ship without looking back.
The Archon of Tyrosh was the last to leave. He pulled Rhaegar aside, his usual joviality replaced by a somber look. He gestured to his son, the green-haired youth who was currently arguing with a servant.
"Prince Rhaegar," the Archon said softly. "I ask a favor. Not for Tyrosh, but for a father."
"Name it," Rhaegar said.
"My son... he is ambitious, but he lacks the talent to survive the game we play. When I am gone, the vultures will circle. If that day comes, I ask that you remember our friendship. Give him sanctuary."
Rhaegar looked at the foolish young man, then at his own father, who was currently laughing too loudly at a joke Tywin Lannister hadn't made.
Fathers and sons, Rhaegar thought. We are all trapped by blood.
"I will remember," Rhaegar promised.
The Archon nodded, relieved, and departed.
With the foreigners gone, the Westerosi army erupted into celebration. The pirates were dead, the Free Cities were cowed, and they were going home rich with plunder and glory.
Bonfires were lit on the beach. Casks of wine were breached. The smell of roasting pork and fish filled the air.
Rhaegar sat at the high table, watching his men. He felt a deep, exhaustion settling in, but also a sense of accomplishment. He had done what no Targaryen since the Conquest had managed: he had tamed the Stepstones.
Prince Lewyn Martell stood up, raising a goblet.
"My lords!" Lewyn shouted, drawing the camp's attention. "A toast to victory! And an announcement!"
The chatter died down.
"In honor of this great alliance between the Iron Throne, the Reach, and Dorne," Lewyn continued, smiling at Rhaegar, "my sister, the Ruling Princess of Dorne, has invited Prince Aerys and Prince Rhaegar to Sunspear!"
A cheer went up, but Rhaegar felt a jolt of surprise.
Sunspear. The seat of House Martell.
And the home of Elia.
The game moves south, Rhaegar thought, raising his cup. From fire to sun.