Aegon Targaryen stood upon the jagged cliffs, his boots caked in the grey dust of construction. Below him, the port of Bloodstone was a hive of frantic activity.
The "port" left behind by the Velaryons had been little more than a collection of rotting pylons and shaky piers—fine for stopping a ship, but useless for building an empire. Aegon needed more. He needed a deep-water harbor that could house a royal fleet and anchor the trade of the Narrow Sea.
"Your Highness, the draft here is deep enough for the heaviest galleys, and the shelf is flat," a master craftsman said, thrusting a roll of parchment covered in charcoal scribbles under Aegon's nose. "With enough stone, we can build a quay that will rival Oldtown."
Aegon squinted at the blueprints, clicked his tongue, and shoved them back. "I'm a dragon, not a mason. I don't care for your squiggles, only the result. This isle is the heart of my duchy. If these docks can't hold a war-fleet and a hundred merchantmen by next season, I'll find a craftsman who can."
The builder paled, clutching his drawings. "My Lord, I've built ports for thirty years—"
"Then build me this one," Aegon interrupted, his voice dropping to a cool, dangerous silk. "Gold is the least valuable thing I possess. Do it well, and you'll retire in a manse. Fail me, and you'll find out how well you swim in plate armor. Begin."
The Narrow Sea, One Hundred Miles North
While Aegon carved his legacy into the stone of Bloodstone, a massive relief fleet cut through the choppy sapphire waters of the Narrow Sea. Dozens of ships, their sails emblazoned with the beacons of Hightower and the lions of Lannister, stretched toward the horizon.
"My Lord, the pirates are swarming," a scout reported to Kraken Hightower. "They've been shadowing our wake since we passed Tarth. They're getting hungry."
Kraken looked back at the dozens of smaller sloops and longships hovering like flies on the edge of the fleet. "Let them starve. Or let them try. We have the wind and the steel. Speed up! We don't stop for gnats."
This fleet wasn't just carrying grain and salt-beef; it was carrying the "Proletarian Knights" of Westeros. These were the second and third sons—landless, titleless, and desperate. In the Seven Kingdoms, they were wandering swords with nothing to inherit. But in Aegon's Stepstones? They saw a frontier. They saw unploughed land, toll-roads, and the chance to forge a House of their own.
They weren't just guarding the supplies; they were guarding their future. And they were itching for a kill.
The pirates, unaware they were following a fleet of starving wolves in polished plate, finally broke. With a chorus of drunken cheers, hundreds of pirate longships lunged from the mist, hurling grappling hooks like iron spiders.
"Brothers! A carnival of gold!" the pirate captain roared as his ship slammed against a Hightower cargo vessel. "Take the ship and the women are yours!"
On the deck of the merchantman, the "prey" waited.
As the first wave of pirates vaulted over the railings, cutlasses raised, they didn't find terrified sailors hiding behind barrels. They found a wall of steel.
"Brothers! The opportunity has arrived!" a knight roared back. "Heads for the Prince! Fiefs for us!"
The pirate captain blinked. Standing before him were twenty knights in full, gleaming plate armor, their visors snapped shut. They looked less like men and more like iron statues.
"Oh no," the pirate whispered, his bravado vanishing. "Run! Run back!"
But it was too late. The "bulky" plate armor of Westeros was surprisingly agile in the hands of men who had trained since they were seven. The knights moved with lethal, practiced grace.
Choke—
A veteran knight drew a greatsword and swung. The blade didn't just cut; it erased the pirate captain's torso. Blood painted the deck scarlet as the one-sided massacre began. The pirates trying to flee were trampled by their own comrades rushing up the ladders, creating a meat-grinder of chaos.
However, the Stepstones pirates were nothing if not persistent. As the smaller crews were butchered, the "Real Threat" emerged—larger galleys with better-equipped sellswords who didn't fear the heavy armor.
Balkan and his younger brother Bars, two wandering knights from the Crownlands, stood back-to-back amidst the spray of gore.
"A true knight kills three men in ten breaths, little brother!" Balkan shouted, cleaving a pirate's shoulder down to his ribs. "Don't fall behind!"
"I'm counting!" Bars panted, parrying a dirk and punching the attacker in the face with a steel gauntlet.
They were fighting for more than their lives. They were fighting for the three acres and the stone house Aegon had promised. They were fighting to be more than just "landless."
Thwack!
A crossbow bolt hissed past Bars' ear. Balkan tackled his brother to the deck just as a second bolt thudded into the mast where his head had been.
"Eyes up!" Balkan hissed. "Chatter later, kill now!"
The sea was turning red, shark fins breaking the surface to claim the fallen. The battle was a stalemate of iron against numbers—until the clouds above the fleet split open.
A high-pitched, musical scream echoed across the water.
Hiss!
Tessarion, the Blue Queen, tore through the overcast sky. Her cobalt scales shimmered like a jewel against the grey, and as she tucked her wings for a dive, the cobalt fire in her throat began to glow.
The "True King's" reinforcements had arrived.
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