The war room on Bloodstone was originally the command center for the Triarchy's garrison, but the United Fleet had since completely transformed it.
Captured tri-color Tyroshi banners and the "Three-Headed Chain" flags of the Triarchy were nailed to the crimson rock walls. The corners of the flags were scorched black by dragonfire, and a few arrows still hung from the frayed edges.
These were trophies from intercepting the Tyroshi scouts a few days prior. The purple venom on the arrowheads had been corroded into dark patches by the sea breeze, but they still radiated a grim menace.
The long table in the center of the hall was carved from Summer Islands hardwood. Claimed as spoils of war, the tabletop still bore sword gashes and crossbow bolt holes—marks of Redip Introlos's desperate struggle when he was captured on his own warship.
A massive nautical chart of the Stepstones was spread across the table, marked with red wax to show the United Fleet's defensive lines:
Grey Gallows was held by Lord Sunderland, alongside Lancel Lannister, Garlan Tyrell, and Horace Tully.
Echo Bay was entrusted to Lord Bartimos Celtigar, along with Clement Celtigar and William Manderly.
Bloodstone itself was garrisoned by Ser Horace Redwyne, his nephew William Redwyne, and Lord Sunderland's three bannermen: Lords Borrell, Longthorpe, and Torrent.
Beside every stronghold marked on the map sat a tiny dragon figurine, representing the strike range of the dragonriders.
Morning light spilled through the stone windows, casting diamond-shaped patches of light across the map. Mixed with the faint scent of sulfur drifting from the dragon lairs, it created an atmosphere unique to this final war council.
As the commanders filed into the hall, the heavy thud of boots against stone rang out clearly. Prince Baelon wore black armor trimmed with red gold. His breastplate bore a variation of the Targaryen three-headed dragon modeled after Vhagar. Fragments of green dragon scales were wedged into the joints of his armor—a testament to his dragon fiercely protecting him during the clash with the Tyroshi mercenaries.
Corlys Velaryon's silver-white hair was tied back with a seahorse-patterned ribbon. At his waist hung a brass spyglass, its lens still dusted with the red grit of Bloodstone.
Tymond Lannister's golden lion surcoat swept the floor. He constantly twisted the gold ring on his finger, his eyes carrying that calculating caution unique to the West.
The Rogue Prince, Daemon Targaryen, sat uncharacteristically still. A jeweled brooch—loot from recent skirmishes—was pinned to his collar, and Dark Sister hung at his hip. Yet, he kept kicking the table leg with the toe of his boot, betraying his impatience.
The most striking figure was Racallio Ryndoon. The "King of the Narrow Sea" had been stripped of his heavy chains, now bound only by a silver rope. His purple-and-orange striped hair and beard had been combed, though it couldn't hide his hunched posture.
Seated at the far end of the table, Racallio toyed with a piece of sheep bone looted from a mercenary. His eyes were a complex mix of emotions. While he had already proven his "loyalty," he still carried the awkwardness of a prisoner, masking a deep curiosity about the coming war.
When Daemon Blackfyre walked in, Grey Ghost slipped in quietly behind him. The pale little dragon hugged the wall, sliding over to curl up at his boots. The dragon occasionally lifted his head to scan the room, vertical pupils wide with vigilance.
The Cannibal's low roar echoed from outside. A massive black shadow swept past the stone window, momentarily plunging the hall into darkness and causing Lancel Lannister to instinctively grip his sword hilt.
"Everyone is here," Baelon's voice shattered the silence. He pressed a finger against Tyrosh on the map, his violet eyes sweeping the room. "I have gathered you all today for one reason. This war for the Stepstones is finally coming to an end."
He paused, tracing the marker for Echo Bay. "Do you remember when our United Fleet first arrived in the Stepstones, and the ambush Redip Introlos laid for us? That Lyseni bastard thought he could trap us with ironclad ships and poison arrows. And the result? His flagship was incinerated by The Cannibal, and his head now hangs from a gibbet on Bloodstone as gull feed."
Low murmurs of agreement echoed through the hall. William Manderly slammed a hand on the table. "His ironclads looked terrifying, but they cracked the second we rammed them! If His Highness hadn't commanded so brilliantly, we might have actually drowned in Echo Bay!"
Baelon raised a hand for silence and continued. "Then we took Grey Gallows and purged the Triarchy's pirate garrisons. Those scum chained captured smallfolk to the gibbets to feed the sea birds, thinking it would break our resolve. And the result? We burned their scorpions, smashed their lairs, and avenged our brothers. Even the gold they hid beneath the reefs became our spoils."
His voice rose, carrying the seasoned authority of a veteran commander. "After that, the 'Crabfeeder' Craghas Drahar came with Myrish repeaters and the Triarchy fleet, threatening to feed us to the crabs. And the result? His fleet was shattered by Corlys's silver ships, and he was taken alive. He's currently rotting in a cell on Bloodstone on a hunger strike, acting like a beaten wild dog!"
At the mention of Craghas, Racallio suddenly let out a sharp laugh, dropping his sheep bone. "That idiot only knows how to hide behind his Myrish crossbows! He cleared the pirates out of the Stepstones years ago through sheer numbers. The moment he faced a true Targaryen dragon, he didn't even have the balls to lift his sword!"
Laughter rippled through the room. Even Tymond cracked a rare, slight smile.
Baelon ignored the interruption, turning his gaze toward the Dornish Sea. "The Sand Snakes of Dorne thought they could carve out a piece for themselves. Obara Sand took her fleet to ambush the Stormlands, burning our villages and stealing our grain. And the result? Duke Boremund and the Stormlords held the Marches, and my nephew, Little Daemon, burned Ghaston Grey to the ground with The Cannibal. That Sand Snake never even touched dragonfire before she tucked her sun-and-spear banner between her legs and fled back to Dorne!"
Daemon remembered the smoke over Cape Wrath, Borros Baratheon's stubbornness through his injuries, and Roland chasing down the raiding ships. His fingertips unconsciously stroked the charm hidden in his tunic.
"And as for Tyrosh's proud 'King of the Narrow Sea'..." Baelon's gaze locked onto Racallio. The madman instantly wiped the smirk from his face, sitting up straighter under the Spring Prince's authoritative stare. "Racallio. Tell us. When we captured you, how much fighting strength did your mercenaries actually have left?"
Racallio blinked, then burst into laughter. "Less than thirty percent! Those sellswords from the Disputed Lands saw the wind turning and wanted to run. If I hadn't forced them with gold, they wouldn't have dared sail near Grey Gallows. His Highness's dragonfire is too fierce, and your silver ships are too fast. We... lost fair and square."
"Well said," Baelon slammed the table, his voice booming. "The Lyseni saw the Triarchy suffering defeat after defeat and lost their stomach for war. Their silk merchants are desperate to resume trade through the Stepstones, and the Myrish artisans are terrified we'll cut off their raw materials. The Dornish Sand Snakes took a heavy beating, and House Martell's main host is tied up in the Red Mountains—they can't spare a single man. It is only the new Archon of Tyrosh who still dreams of swallowing the Stepstones!"
He brought his fist down hard on Tyrosh's location on the map. "He used gold to buy mercenaries from the Disputed Lands, treasure to bribe the pirates of the Narrow Sea, and land to tempt the Dornish Sand Snakes. And the result? The mercenaries were crushed, the pirates are our prisoners, and the Sand Snakes vanished! Yesterday, we annihilated the 'Broken Blade' mercenary company he bought. His so-called elite vanguard couldn't outrun The Cannibal's fire and became fish food!"
The atmosphere in the hall ignited.
Lord Sunderland stood up, followed immediately by Lords Borrell, Longthorpe, and Torrent. "The Prince speaks truly! We have no reason to stay on the defensive! It's our turn to strike! Burn the Tyroshi ports to the ground and show them the price of insulting Westeros!"
"Burn their ports!" Roland and the Fell brothers echoed the battle cry. The young lords of the Stormlands raised their voices in unison. Even Lancel Lannister and Garlan Tyrell nodded fiercely.
The merchant fleets of the Westerlands and the Reach had long sought to secure trade routes across the Narrow Sea. Breaking the Tyroshi fleet would open a massive new maritime artery for Lannister gold and Arbor wine.
Even Racallio started clapping along. It took him a few seconds to remember he was a prisoner and abruptly stopped, catching Baelon's eye.
A faint smile touched the Prince's lips. "You see things clearly, Racallio."
"I just don't want to watch that Tyroshi fool embarrass himself any further," Racallio argued, his neck stiffening, though he couldn't hide his agreement. "That new Archon couldn't even manage a proper bribe to win his election. He stole the throne by murdering his predecessor. His foundation is rotten. If you actually bring the fight to Tyrosh, his own nobles might rebel before you even breach the walls!"
Baelon didn't reply directly. Instead, he surveyed the room, his voice carrying a piercing, rallying power. "My lords, I know you are weary from holding the line. But we are not just defending the Stepstones; we are defending the eastern gates of Westeros! If the Tyroshi take these islands, our merchant ships will be bled dry by tolls, our fishermen will be slaughtered, and our children will fall asleep to the sound of pirate horns! Now, the hour of the final battle is upon us!"
"We will take the fight to them! We will crush Tyrosh's final counterattack right in their own harbor! Let the Triarchy—let every Free City across the Narrow Sea—see this: The waters of Westeros are not their playground! The dragons of Westeros are not to be provoked!"
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the dragonriders in the hall—Daemon Blackfyre, Daemon Targaryen, and Rhaenys, who had stepped out from the shadows. His voice hit a fever pitch. "Remember this! Dignity rests only on the edge of our swords! Truth exists only beneath the fire of our dragons!"
"Dignity on the sword! Truth in the dragonfire!" the commanders roared in unison, the sheer volume rattling the stone windows.
Caught up in the fervor, Racallio forgot his chains entirely and pumped his fists in the air, his purple-and-orange hair flying wildly.
Startled by the sudden uproar, Grey Ghost flinched, but quickly joined in, releasing a low, echoing trill toward the ceiling as if adding his own voice to the war cry.
When the cheers subsided, Corlys Velaryon stepped forward. He placed his brass spyglass on the map and traced the United Fleet's deployment. "Let's tally our strength. The United Fleet currently commands one hundred and twenty large warships. Fifteen Royal Fleet galleys, twenty Velaryon and Celtigar silver ships, twenty-five Stormlands longships, ten Northern longships, ten Western heavy ships, twenty fast ships from the Reach and Riverlands, and twenty ships from the Vale and the Three Sisters."
"Subtracting the thirty ships currently garrisoning Grey Gallows, Echo Bay, and Bloodstone, we have an attack force of ninety capital ships."
He pointed toward Tyrosh. "As for the forces the Archon of Tyrosh can muster, our intelligence has a clear picture. He has roughly forty surviving fast galleys, most of which are hastily patched up from our previous engagements. He has around two thousand mercenaries left from the Disputed Lands—mostly undisciplined stragglers who haven't seen heavy combat. He's scraped together about three hundred Narrow Sea pirates who fight for loot and possess zero discipline."
"As for his allies? The Magisters of Lys took his gold but only sent five empty ships as a token gesture. The Conclave of Myr flat-out refused to deploy troops, stating they had no interest in paying for Tyrosh's ambitions. And the Dornish Sand Snakes are too busy licking their own wounds to honor their promised support."
Myles Rivers, attending the council alongside Daemon, rubbed his head and asked, "Lord Corlys, I have a question. Tyrosh is just one Free City in Essos. Why are they willing to bleed themselves dry over the Stepstones? Even if we take them, is it really that devastating for them?"
"Absolutely," Corlys replied, picking up a quill and drawing a trade route from Tyrosh to the Disputed Lands. "Tyrosh's geographical position is highly specific; it sits right at the northeastern edge of the Stepstones. If we exert total control over these islands, their merchant fleets must pass through our blockade to enter the Narrow Sea. If their armies want to expand outward, they have to ask our permission."
"More importantly, the Stepstones are rich in fisheries and mineral resources. The Archon of Tyrosh has always wanted to treat these islands as his personal treasury, relying on tolls and plunder to fill his coffers. Now that we've cut off his gold supply, of course, he's fighting for his life."
Before Corlys could continue, Daemon Targaryen cut in. "Lord Corlys is right, but there is one more crucial detail. That new Archon in Tyrosh? His throne is incredibly unstable."
All eyes turned to the Rogue Prince.
Daemon Targaryen shifted in his seat, tapping the jeweled brooch at his collar. "Two years ago, after Little Daemon and I helped my father purge the Triarchy pirates encroaching on the Stepstones, my grandfather sent me to Tyrosh as an envoy to negotiate a treaty with the previous Archon, Alequo."
"The old man was greedy, but he was reasonable. We drank Arbor Gold together, and he gifted me a jewel-encrusted scabbard that I still keep." He drew Dark Sister, the rubies on its scabbard catching the morning light. "But last year, Alequo suffered a 'tragic accident.' They claimed he was swept off a cliff by rogue waves before setting sail. Who actually believes that? The Tyroshi themselves whisper that the current Archon, Sylas, bribed Alequo's guards to throw the old man into the sea!"
Low gasps echoed through the war room.
Racallio nodded vigorously. "Exactly! I heard the same rumors on the Narrow Sea! After Sylas took power, he executed Alequo's three sons and seized the wealth of every noble who supported the old regime. Half his treasury is stolen, and the other half is borrowed!"
"Which is exactly why he cannot afford to lose," Daemon Targaryen sneered, sheathing his sword. "The Tyroshi usually elect their Archons based on who pays the biggest bribes. But Sylas couldn't even out-bribe Alequo. He seized power through murder, and his foundation is weaker than wet paper. If he loses the Stepstones and this war, the nobles he oppressed will absolutely rise up against him. He won't just lose his seat; he'll lose his head."
"The Tyroshi are far more vicious to their failures than we are in Westeros. I hear they like to throw them into the viper pits beneath the Weeping Tower."
Tymond Lannister's expression shifted. As a Lord of the Westerlands, he understood the brutal mechanics of power. He instantly saw through Sylas's madness—it wasn't just ambition; it was the desperate thrashing of a cornered animal.
"So, you're saying Sylas's massive host is essentially a paper tiger?" Lord Sunderland asked slowly, tracing the map toward Tyrosh. "If we push the attack, his internal structure will likely collapse on its own?"
"Highly likely," Corlys nodded. "I also received reports of riots in Tyrosh's streets. To fund this war, Sylas tripled the head tax. Even the bakers can barely afford it. If we win a decisive victory in their harbor and spread rumors that Sylas is planning to sell Tyrosh to the Lyseni and Myrish... the city will tear itself apart in days."
Baelon looked at Daemon Blackfyre with deep expectation. "Little Daemon, what are your thoughts? You've fought their mercenaries and the Dornish Sand Snakes firsthand. You know their tactics best."
Daemon stood and approached the nautical chart, pressing his fingertip against the reef-choked waters outside Tyrosh's harbor. "I propose a three-pronged strike."
1. Phase One: The Velaryon silver ships and the Stormlands longships will launch a frontal assault to draw the full attention of the Tyroshi fleet.
2. Phase Two: The Northern longships and the fast ships of the Vale will navigate the shallow reefs on the western side of the harbor. The heavy Tyroshi ships can't follow them in there. Our light ships will use scorpions to tear the bottoms out of their hulls.
3.
Phase Three: I will take The Cannibal and Grey Ghost, Big Daemon will ride Caraxes, and Uncle Baelon will ride Vhagar. We will execute an aerial strike directly on their command ship. The moment we kill or capture Sylas, the Tyroshi fleet will completely shatter.
He paused, adding, "Furthermore, Racallio should come with us. He holds massive influence over the Tyroshi mercenaries and pirates. If he can talk them into surrendering, it will heavily reduce our casualties."
Racallio snapped his head up, shock written plainly across his face. "You actually trust me? You aren't afraid I'll turn around and help Tyrosh?"
"If you wanted to help him, you would have incited a riot in the Bloodstone dungeons," Daemon chuckled, shaking his head. "You might be a madman, but you aren't stupid. Following a winning side is always better than following a delusional fool who can't see he's already lost."
Racallio flashed a wide grin, his purple-and-orange beard twitching. "Deal! I'll help you! A lot of those sellswords owe me blood debts; I guarantee I can make them drop their swords! But I have one condition. After we win, you give me a small boat. I want to sail down to the Summer Islands."
"Done," Baelon agreed without hesitation. "If you help us win this war, you won't just get a small boat. We'll return your entire fleet and your crew to you."
As the council concluded, the commanders finalized the timetable: they would set sail at dawn in three days, catching the Tyroshi off guard before they could track the United Fleet's movements.
Tymond Lannister pledged his ten heavy Western galleys to anchor the frontal assault. Lord Sunderland guaranteed his Three Sisters sailors would map out safe passage through the western reefs. Corlys immediately set to work organizing the massive logistics required to keep the fleet fed and watered during the crossing.
As the meeting dispersed and Daemon stepped out of the hall, Rayford Rosby hurried over, beaming, a scroll clutched in his hands. "Your Highness! A raven from King's Landing! It's from Princess Gael!"
Daemon quickly took the letter. The parchment carried the familiar, sweet incense of the capital. Gael's elegant handwriting was filled with worry and warmth: "I heard you are marching to war again. Please be careful. I had Brienne deliver the honey cakes to Dragonstone; she'll travel with the Royal Fleet to bring them to you. Also, remember to take your charm into battle. I embroidered a new one for you and sewed it into the cloth wrapped around the cakes."
At the bottom of the letter was a charming little sketch of The Cannibal, with Grey Ghost drawn right beside him, a dragon claw resting triumphantly on a honey cake. The adorable drawing drew a genuine laugh from Daemon.
Sensing his rider's joy, Grey Ghost nudged his hand, purring affectionately. The Cannibal descended from the sky, landing heavily beside him. The black dragon's massive wing gently brushed against Daemon's shoulder, a silent gesture of comfort and solidarity.
Daemon stroked the black dragon's obsidian scales. He looked down at the letter, his heart hardening with absolute resolve. He wouldn't just win this war. He would survive it, and he would return to fulfill his promise to Gael.
Out on the horizon, the Velaryon silver ships were running formation drills, their white sails looking like a bank of silver clouds in the morning light. Toward Tyrosh, the faint silhouettes of scattered enemy ships dotted the skyline—their final, desperate line of defense.
Daemon knew that at dawn in three days, the Narrow Sea would drown in blood. But with his dragons, his brothers, and the woman waiting for him back home, he felt no fear.
Meanwhile, high in the Weeping Tower of Tyrosh, Archon Sylas was screaming at his maps.
His mercenary captain stepped forward, trembling as he handed over a scout report. "Archon, the Targaryen United Fleet is mobilizing. It... it looks like they are preparing to strike our harbor."
Sylas violently hurled his wine goblet at the floor. Crimson wine splattered across the map, staining the marker for Tyrosh. "Impossible! How dare they take the offensive! Issue the order! All fast galleys to the harbor defenses! Move the mercenaries into the reef zones! Anyone who takes a single step backward will be thrown into the viper pits!"
He had no idea that the sails of the United Fleet were already rising, and the roars of the dragons were already echoing across the Narrow Sea. In three days, at the break of dawn, an eastern crusade destined for the history books would officially begin.
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