"Gods, that was a damned satisfying battle!"
Laenor's voice rang across the deck, bright and unrestrained, carried on the brine-salted wind. He swung down from Sea-Smoke's saddle in a single fluid motion, boots striking the planks with a resounding thud. His pale hair, damp from sea spray and smoke, clung to his temples, but his grin shone undimmed.
Since the day he had obeyed his father's summons and sailed for the Stepstones, he had not tasted a victory so swift, so clean, nor so utterly exhilarating.
Baelon followed more slowly, lowering himself from Tyraxes's shoulder with a careful pat to the young dragon's scorched scales. Tyraxes growled low in his throat, still restless after battle, wings twitching at the scent of burnt pitch drifting from the sea.
Below them stretched the carcasses of the battle, the broken hulls of Tyroshi and Myrish vessels, some still hissing as seawater met lingering dragonfire. Smoke smeared the horizon in long black strokes.
The joint fleet of Tyrosh and Myr had stood no chance. Not against two dragons descending like storm and shadow, not against Baelon's relentless advance.
They had cut through the enemy's formation like a blade parting silk, seized a dozen ships outright, and then pressed inland to plunder Tyrosh's nearest port. The wealth they had stripped from its vaults glittered now within their holds, gold, gemstones, crates of fine weapons, and enough provisions to feed an army twice their size.
Laenor planted his hands on his hips and exhaled sharply, still riding the edge of battle-high."This strike will cripple Tyrosh," he declared. "Forget building a new fleet, they'll struggle to defend their own damned streets."
Baelon allowed himself a faint smile.He felt much the same. In both his lives, this was the first war he had commanded, and its outcome had been almost absurd in its decisiveness.
"What of our losses?" Laenor asked, brushing soot from his vambrace. "I saw men of Harrenhal falling from above."
Baelon's face sobered. "Dozens, give or take," he replied. "Most cut down by Tyroshi resistance. Two were… unlucky. Tyraxes's fire caught them when they ran the wrong way."
Laenor winced. Baelon continued, voice steady but heavy with truth."The exact number isn't known yet. Cantell is counting what bodies he can."
He leaned against the rail, gaze tracking the waves. The battle had exposed the weakness he already suspected among his forces.
His men had no real experience.
The older veterans of Harrenhal had seen skirmishes, yes, but little that could be called war. The new recruits he'd taken on before the Stepstones campaign had even less.Fine armor and sharp blades could stiffen a man's spine, but they could not transform him into a killer overnight.
Most who had fallen in close quarters were barely past boyhood. A few sellswords had died as well, though the hardened veterans had held the line.
Laenor exhaled through his nose. "There's no war without death. Losing only a few dozen is nothing compared to the scale of this victory. And from what I saw, you've taken enough weapons to outfit several new hundreds."
He wasn't exaggerating. From the sky he had watched the Tyroshi armories emptied, crate after crate hauled aboard, overflowing the holds like a flood.
Baelon nodded. "Equipment matters," he said quietly. "But soldiers matter more. Those green boys shed blood today. They'll fight twice as hard next time."
He straightened."And after this is over, I plan to use those captured weapons to raise a Tyroshi legion, soldiers trained after the manner of the Unsullied."
Laenor blinked. "A legion of Tyroshi? By the Seven-"
"And with the gold we seized," Baelon went on, "I'm considering buying a batch of actual Unsullied from Slaver's Bay."
The words hit Laenor like a slap. He seized Baelon's arm, eyes wide.
"Slaves? Have you lost your wits? The lords of the Seven Kingdoms despise slavery. Openly buying slave-soldiers would insult half the realm!"
Baelon gave him a flat look. "I never said I planned to use them in Westeros. Why in the seven hells are you panicking?"
Laenor released him but muttered, "Because I know madness when I hear it."
Baelon snorted."Westeros hates slavery, yes. Which is why I would never field slave-soldiers there." His voice cooled. "But Tyrosh is another matter entirely."
Laenor frowned, listening.
"If Equis, or some other ambitious fool, manages to climb into the Archon's seat after this defeat, I will lend the Unsullied to him. Let him use them to keep order. By then Tyrosh will be mine in all but name."
He rested one hand on the hilt of his sword."The Three Daughters might smile at each other now, but should one weaken, the other two bare their fangs soon enough."
Laenor grimaced. "True enough."
In Baelon's past life, during the years of A Storm of Swords, Tyrosh had been far stronger than now, yet even then war with Myr and Lys had nearly erupted. If a mighty Tyrosh had teetered on that edge, this shattered one would fare far worse.
That was precisely why Baelon had not allowed Tyraxes to bathe the thousand Tyroshi soldiers in indiscriminate dragonfire.
Before the raid, Tyrosh had been an enemy. Now it was a resource.
"You change your tune quickly," Laenor muttered. "When you scolded Ser Hasting earlier, the hatred in your voice wasn't an act."
Baelon shrugged."It wasn't. I came to the Stepstones seeking vengeance, and with a dragon beneath me I killed more Tyroshi than I could count. But that was war, two sides meeting as foes."
He looked toward the smoke-smeared horizon."Now Tyrosh is carrion. Every nearby power will want a piece. Their only hope is survival, and survival requires a leash. I intend to be the one holding it."
Laenor gave a low whistle, amusement mixing with something like unease. "Seven save me. And here I thought Daemon was ambitious."
Baelon's lips twitched. "Father aims for glory. I aim for control."
The distinction hung between them, sharp as a drawn blade.
Laenor shook his head, half-admiring, half-resigned."Well… good luck, then. May your leash hold."
He himself was not driven by such hunger. As heir to Driftmark, son of Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, and Princess Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, his birth alone placed him high above many. To him, ambition felt like a fire that scorched more than it warmed.
He glanced at Baelon, younger, illegitimate by Westerosi standards, born of no great lady, yet fierce enough to bend an entire Free City to his will.
"What now?" Laenor asked. "Do we raid Myr next? Or send the spoils back to Harrenhal before we push our luck too far?"
Baelon's decision was swift."We'll send part of the army back with the treasure. Laenor, Sea-Smoke is wounded, and so are you. I want you both escorting the convoy north."
Laenor stiffened. "I'm fit enough."
"You fought hurt," Baelon said firmly. "And Sea-Smoke took a scorpion bolt to the hind leg. I will not risk either of you, or the treasure we bled for."
The concern in his voice surprised Laenor.
At last, Laenor sighed. "Very well. I'll see everything delivered safely to Harrenhal. When I've recovered, I'll return to the Stepstones to aid you."
Baelon nodded. "Good."
Before dusk he assigned nearly four hundred soldiers to escort the wounded and the spoils northward. Lanterns flickered along the rigging as the treasure-laden ships were organized into their protective formation.
When the fleet finally sailed from Tyroshi waters, Baelon guided them toward an uninhabited island, nothing more than a clutch of rocks and wild scrub, to divide the armada.
One half, heavy with plunder, unfurled its sails and turned toward Westeros.
Laenor mounted Sea-Smoke once more, the dragon snorting as the wind caught his wings. He gave Baelon a curt nod,respectful, reluctant, and tinged with worry.
"Don't die doing something clever," he called.
Baelon smirked. "Clever men die less often than brave ones."
Sea-Smoke launched skyward, trailing mist. The convoy followed, their wakes shimmering silver under the setting sun.
The remaining ships regrouped behind Baelon.Tyraxes rumbled, sensing his rider's intent, a low, eager sound.
Baelon placed a steadying hand on the dragon's warm scales."Come, my friend," he murmured. "We're not done yet."
The wind shifted, carrying with it the distant scent of Myrish spices, bitter, and promising more blood.
He lifted his gaze toward the southeast, where the lights of Myr flickered faintly across the waters.
"Our next target," Baelon said.