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HOGWARTS: REGULUS LORD OF THE STARS
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American Horror: Grind Edition
The morning light on Bloodstone carried a warmth unlike any other day, thick with the sulfur breath of the dragon lairs where the great beasts had nested these past weeks. Yet as the sun climbed over the red cliffs, it painted the United Fleet's sails in shifting blocks of gold and crimson.
Metal filings from the shipwrights' night work still glittered on the dock's flagstones, mixing with morning dew into tiny silver beads that the soldiers' boots ground to powder. The air smelled of pine tar on the rigging, fresh-baked soldier's flatbread, and the heavy sulfur rolling down from the temporary dragon dens—an unmistakable overture to the final battle.
Daemon stood at the prow of the Blackfyre, fingertips tracing the fresh dragonglass plates nailed along the rail. The bronze rivets still showed dark red streaks of cooled iron from the Dragonstone forges, the fusion of volcanic glass and Reach oak that had kept them alive through every ambush so far.
The Cannibal sprawled across the empty stern deck, obsidian scales catching the light with a dull gold sheen. The great black beast sensed the day's difference; every few moments he lifted his head toward Tyrosh, throat rumbling low, claws idly scoring deep grooves into the planks.
"Looks like the old Wild Dragon King is even more impatient than we are," Daemon Targaryen called from the gangplank. He wore his modified black-and-red riding leathers, Dark Sister at his hip and a captured Tyroshi short blade beside it—the scabbard etched with the Weeping Tower sigil, proof the original owner had been someone important in Tyrosh. In his hand swung a wineskin of Arbor red brought back by the Redwyne relief crews. "Racallio's down there chatting with the sellsword prisoners again, promising to help us talk the rest of his old crew into laying down arms. You coming to watch the show?"
Daemon shook his head, eyes sweeping the dock.
Beside the Velaryon silver ships, Corlys Velaryon and his kin were personally checking every dragonglass scorpion winch.
Allan Redwyne and young Horas had their archers lined up along the rail, green-fletched arrows packed tight, dragonglass dust on the heads gleaming like black ice.
At the head of the Stormlands contingent, Borros Baratheon—shoulder still bandaged—roared orders anyway, while Roland Connington, the Fell brothers, and a yawning Lorent Grandison helped load fresh water casks and double-check sails.
The Northern longships sat cold and hard, William Manderly directing his crews to hang the ice-wolf shields of House Stark along the gunwales, edges still dark with blood from the last fight.
"Racallio has his uses," Daemon said, bending to scratch Grey Ghost's snout as the little pale dragon trotted up. "Mad as a hare, but clever. And he hates the same men we do." Grey Ghost carried a silk handkerchief embroidered with his own likeness—the one Gael had sewn into every supply packet. He treated it like his favorite toy.
Daemon Targaryen slung an arm around his younger cousin's shoulders, grinning. "You sure you checked Caraxes's saddle this morning? Don't want it falling off mid-flight again like yesterday's drill. Uncle Baelon and Rhaenys nearly had heart failure."
"Relax. I fed the big red six whole pigs and gave him a proper bath. He purred like a damned kitten. He'll outfly The Cannibal today, watch."
Rayford Rosby came hurrying up, cradling an oilskin packet still warm from the ovens. "Your Highness! Brienne Tarth arrived with the royal squadron. Princess Gael sent these honey cakes—and a letter!"
Daemon took the packet. Inside, the cakes were cut into neat pieces, each wrapped in paper printed with tiny Cannibals. The letter sat folded between them.
Gael's handwriting was even lovelier than last time. At the bottom she had drawn a small dragon egg beside the words: Heard Grey Ghost has been fussy. Saved one cake just for him—don't let The Cannibal steal it.
Grey Ghost's vertical pupils widened the instant he smelled it. He nudged Daemon's hand until a piece was broken off, then curled happily against The Cannibal's massive foreclaw to eat. The black dragon glanced down, snorted once, and let the little one keep it.
The pair's silent understanding had grown far beyond the days when islanders swore The Cannibal used to hunt the "timid grey" for sport.
Colin Celtigar appeared at the foot of the gangplank, sleeves stained with fresh ship-paint. "Your Highness, Prince Baelon wants you on the King's Banner for final confirmation. Racallio says there's a sellsword captain called Scarface—his old second-in-command. One look at his token and half the mercenaries will probably throw down their swords."
Daemon tucked the letter safely inside his tunic, right against the dragon-scale charm, and followed.
The camp on Bloodstone had already emptied. Only a few rear-guard soldiers struck the last tents. From the prison direction came the clank of chains—Jarman Waters marching Craghas Drahar toward a transport ship. The Crabfeeder would spend the battle locked away on Dragonstone; no one wanted him causing trouble mid-fight.
Inside the King's Banner's war cabin, Baelon frowned over the chart while Tymond Lannister twisted his gold ring. "My heavy Western ships will hold the center as planned. Lancel will bring three galleys to cover our rear against flankers. But that Tyroshi Archon… will he seed the harbor with wildfire?"
"Almost certainly," Corlys said, tapping the reef maze outside Tyrosh. "My friends across the Narrow Sea say he bought every wildfire jar Myr would sell. He'll hide them in the shallows and blow them when we close. My silver ships will lead with long hooks to drag the jars clear; your dragons can burn them safely once they're out in open water."
Daemon stepped in just in time to add, "Grey Ghost will fly with the silver ships—he's small enough to mark every jar in the reefs. The Cannibal and Caraxes will handle the ones we pull out. Vhagar stays high to watch for scorpions."
Baelon nodded, gaze sweeping the room. "Half an hour until we sail. Final equipment checks. Dragonriders, keep formation once airborne. No heroics. Our goal is the Archon, not slaughter. Break him and Tyrosh's own nobles will finish the job. Push too far and every Free City in Essos will unite against us."
The commanders answered as one, then filed out.
Daemon Targaryen lingered a step behind, clapping his cousin's shoulder. "When we win, first round on the Street of Silk is on me. I'll cover for you with Little Aunt Gael."
"No need," Daemon laughed, shoving him off. "She worries about you most. Soon as we're back I'm taking her to Dragonstone proper—no sneaking."
On the Blackfyre, the deck thrummed with final preparations.
Rupert Crabb and the Crackclaw lads checked the dragonglass scorpions, bolts gleaming cold.
Racallio squatted among the Tyroshi prisoners, waving a wooden plaque carved "King of the Narrow Sea" and ranting about freedom while the sellswords listened with shifting eyes. A few already looked ready to follow him again.
Daemon didn't interrupt; he simply had Jarman pass out fresh bread and water to the hungry men. Starvation had a way of making even hardened mercenaries reconsider loyalties.
"Enemy scout sighted!"
The lookout's cry cut the air. Eastward, a small grey-painted skiff tried to slip into the reefs, purple-and-green cord on its sail marking Tyroshi nobility.
"Grey Ghost—go."
The little pale dragon shot skyward. A precise jet of flame ignited the skiff's stern sail. The vessel lost way and was quickly surrounded by Stormlands longships. Two haughty Tyroshi lords were dragged aboard, still clutching a detailed harbor map marked in red with every wildfire jar's hiding spot.
"Looks like the Archon really did salt the reefs," Daemon said with a cold smile. "But his 'doom' is closer than he thinks. Give this map to Lord Corlys—adjust the hooks. We'll clear those jars before we even reach the harbor mouth."
Half an hour later Baelon's war horn sounded across the water.
The long note rolled over the waves, cutting through the sea mist. Sails filled at once.
Velaryon silver ships slid out first, sleek as silver fish.
Stormlands longships followed, crowned-stag banners snapping.
Northern longships brought the cold bite of ice, rams gleaming.
Western heavy galleys held the center, golden lions roaring beside every other house sigil in a living tapestry of color.
Daemon vaulted onto The Cannibal. The black dragon's wings snapped open, wind whipping his cloak to reveal the hidden embroidery of The Cannibal and Dreamfyre that Gael had sewn inside. Grey Ghost tucked in close, pale shadow beside black, the two dragons perfectly synchronized despite their size difference.
"Set sail!"
Baelon rose on Vhagar, bronze-green wings blotting the sun, her roar shaking the sea into ripples.
Daemon Targaryen followed on Caraxes, scarlet flame carving a blazing arc across the sky like a banner.
Rhaenys joined on Meleys from the island, crimson wings adding to the chorus. Five dragons sang together—the war-song of the Narrow Sea.
Daemon looked down once. Bloodstone's red cliffs shrank behind them, harbor torches still burning like a final farewell.
He pressed the dragon-scale charm to his chest, feeling Gael's warmth through the cloth.
Win this, come home. Valyrian wedding on Dragonstone. I'll show you The Cannibal's true lair.
"Little Daemon! Eyes forward!" Daemon Targaryen shouted from the side, Caraxes already coiling flame. "Main channel ahead—Tyroshi fleet could be waiting!"
Daemon gripped Blackfyre tighter. The dark Valyrian steel drank the morning light, cold and ready—the same blade that had carved through pirates, Sand Snakes, and mad kings. Today it would help end the Triarchy's grip on the Narrow Sea.
Far ahead, the first Tyroshi picket ships appeared—grey hulls trying to shadow the fleet. The Cannibal folded his wings and dove. Black fire engulfed the lead vessel; men screamed and leaped into the sea, only to be netted by waiting Velaryon ships.
"Archon knows we're coming," Corlys called from the Sea Snake, silver hull already racing to flank. "Stick to the plan—my silver ships clear the reef wildfire, you dragonriders pin their main fleet!"
Daemon nodded, urging The Cannibal onward. Grey Ghost darted ahead, spitting tiny bursts of flame to mark every hidden danger.
Sunlight shattered across the Narrow Sea in gold and red, laying out the battlefield for the history books.
High in Tyrosh's Weeping Tower, Archon Sylas clutched his ruby-hilted scimitar until his knuckles whitened, staring at the horizon.
"Wildfire jars are set in the reefs?" he snarled at his trembling captain.
"Y-yes, Archon. And the five Lyseni ships wait outside the harbor to sweep up whatever's left."
"Good." Sylas's eyes burned with vicious hope. "Let the dragons come. I will drown them in fire and send their charred bones back to King's Landing."
He had no idea that long hooks were already reaching into his reefs, that a small pale dragon was painting every trap with flame, and that three living legends—black, scarlet, and bronze-green—were already thundering toward his harbor.
The waves of the Narrow Sea surged higher. Dragonfire and steel were about to collide.
Daemon Blackfyre, high above on The Cannibal, had only one thought burning brighter than the sun:
Win. Go home. Keep the promise.
Blackfyre gleamed cold in the light. The Cannibal's roar rolled across the water like thunder, the opening note of an eastern crusade that would be remembered for a thousand years.