Viserys's decree had already crossed half the realm by raven and by ship. Long before word could reach the Stepstones, Baelon Targaryen had been named Prince of Harrenhal and Master of the Bay of Crabs. Yet the prince who carried the honor still knew nothing of it. At that very hour he was guiding Tyraxes down through the hot coastal winds, arriving at the edge of the battlefield for the first time.
High above the jagged islands, two dragons streaked across the sky. The vast shadow of Vhagar swept over the sea like a passing storm, and Caraxes twisted beside her like a living spear of flame. Together they rained fire upon the enemy. Their roars rolled over the rocks until the cliffs trembled. But the pirates no longer scattered in blind panic. They had grown accustomed to the thunder of wings and the blaze of dragonfire. The instant a shadow fell across the ground, they slipped into the maze of caves carved into the cliffs. Dragonflame could not reach them there.
For a brief and bitter time, the tide had turned against the Velaryons. Corlys had been grievously wounded during a failed assault and carried from the field bleeding and half-conscious. The command had passed to Vaemond, who had proven astonishingly poor at the task. Even with two dragons to shield him, the Stepstones rabble had driven him back until he huddled behind the defenses on Grey Gallows Island, unwilling to do more than send out scouts and hope for the best.
Daemon and Laena had been left to shoulder the burden alone. Day after day they rode out to burn the pirate camps and break their supply lines, yet no matter how many charred corpses lay behind them, it never felt like enough.
From the back of Tyraxes, Baelon watched the pirates scatter once more. He narrowed his eyes, assessing their retreat.
"They learn quickly, the clever ones," he murmured. "Craghas studies the ground as if it were a second shield. Using the caves this way does lessen the threat from above."
Tyraxes beat his wings once, steadying himself against the crosswinds. The heat of his breath rolled up Baelon's legs. The dragon waited for the command to strike.
"It is a pity for Craghas. Tricks cannot bridge a gulf of strength."
Baelon lifted a hand for attention. Men on the decks of his ships straightened, waiting for the next command.
"Hold position. No one attacks without my order. If the enemy attempts to close the distance, cut them down as you see fit."
Tyraxes dipped in acknowledgement and glided toward the flagship of Baelon's small fleet. The Summer Islander swan-ships, with their wide decks and curved prows, provided ample room for a dragon of his size. The timbers groaned when he landed, yet the ship held firm.
Baelon slid from the saddle and issued instructions to his captains. The moment the last order left his lips, he climbed back onto Tyraxes and vaulted into the sky once more. A gust of wind rippled through his cloak as he angled toward the other two dragons.
"Enough," he called when he came within distance. "The both of you. Stop for now."
His voice carried across the open air. Vhagar twisted her monstrous head in his direction. Caraxes turned more gracefully, giving a low rumble of curiosity.
Tyraxes's descent caught their full attention. Caraxes tilted his head and sniffed the wind. Baelon could almost feel the recognition passing between the beasts. Caraxes accepted him without tension.
Vhagar did not.
The ancient she-dragon stiffened the moment Tyraxes drew near. Her scales shone a deep bronze in the sun. Heat shimmered around her maw as a dangerous glow welled up behind her teeth. She began to rise, ready to unleash a blast of fire.
Laena yanked hard on the reins. "No. Easy, my girl. This is Baelon."
Vhagar lowered her head an inch, though the fire still flickered inside her throat.
Baelon lifted a hand. "Forgive me, Laena. She is right to be wary."
From atop Caraxes, Daemon pulled off his helm. His silver hair, damp with sweat, clung to his temples. The sight of the blood red dragon approaching brought a smile to his face.
"So it is you," Daemon said. "I thought I recognized Tyraxes, but I did not dare hope. It seems my son has chosen an interesting moment to return."
Baelon hesitated before answering. The word felt unfamiliar, heavy with meaning he had not yet untangled.
"Father," he said quietly.
Daemon's expression brightened with unrestrained delight. "I have heard your tales already. The Tyroshi sing your name as if you were the shadow of death itself. They say you carved through their lines until the Archon begged the gods for mercy. Seven hells, Baelon, I almost wish I had flown there myself. A city ripe for the torch. What a glorious thought."
Before Baelon could answer, Laena spoke above the rush of wind.
"This is a battlefield, not a place for father and son to exchange praise. Whatever you wish to discuss, leave it for later."
Daemon gave a short bark of laughter and lifted both hands in surrender. "Very well. We will speak when we return to camp."
He tugged Caraxes's reins, and the Blood Wyrm veered toward their base. Baelon and Laena followed.
As the shore came into view, Baelon raised a hand. "Go ahead. Bring word of our return. I will lead my ships in behind you."
He guided Tyraxes back toward the swan-ships and signaled the armada to advance. The long sail stretched on, broken only by the distant cries of seabirds and the rhythmic crash of waves against hulls.
Grey Gallows Island finally crept into sight. The land was bleak and wind-scoured, crowned by scattered tents and crude fortifications. This was the ground where Daemon had fought and bled for months.
The dragons descended in a storm of red dust and swirling wind. Their landings sent loose stones skittering across the camp. Inside a nearby command tent, Vaemond Velaryon jerked upright at the sound, hand flying to the dagger at his belt.
"Daemon. Laena. You return earlier than expected."
Vaemond's silver hair clung to his gaunt cheeks. Exhaustion had carved deep hollows beneath his eyes. He had worn the burden of command poorly, and it showed in every line of his body.
Daemon did not answer. He stood beside Caraxes, gaze fixed on the sky as he waited.
When Tyraxes finally descended, Vaemond stiffened in surprise. The heat of the dragon's breath washed over the camp.
"What is this," Vaemond said, turning to Laena. "Another arrives, and on such a beast."
Laena kept her voice steady. "Daemon's son brings reinforcements. This is Baelon Targaryen. The same Baelon who sacked Tyrosh, cut down their Archon, and half the city besides."
Her tone was even, yet steel threaded through it. Corlys had fought the pirates to a standstill again and again. The moment Vaemond had taken command, he had lost Bloodstone Island, the largest of the Stepstones. The memory lay between them like a stone.
Vaemond's jaw dropped. "Reinforcements. The prince himself. By the Seven, you might have led with that."
Relief swept over him so suddenly that his knees nearly buckled. After months of dwindling supplies and rising fear, the sight of a Targaryen prince arrived with a fleet felt like a blessing.
"Send word through the camp. Quickly. All men are to gather and greet Prince Baelon and his forces."
He fussed with the front of his tunic, brushing away dust as if to wipe months of failure from his appearance.
Laena watched him with mild confusion. "What has gotten into him," she murmured.
Daemon answered before she could think further. His voice carried an edge.
"He seems far more eager to honor my son than to honor me. I wonder why that is."
Vaemond shot him a brief glance but offered no reply. Pride and fear wrestled on his face. Laena stepped between them before the tension could thicken.
"If you had flown to Tyrosh and done what Baelon did," she said with blunt honesty, "I imagine Vaemond would greet you just as warmly."
She spoke without malice, but the truth landed like a blow. Laena was younger than Rhaenyra, barely more than a girl, yet her words struck with the force of a lance.
Daemon swallowed. For a heartbeat he said nothing.
He had always dreamed of burning Tyrosh. The Free Cities deserved the flame for their constant meddling. But to strike them unprovoked would have set all Essos ablaze, and one dragon, even Caraxes, could not carve deep enough wounds to make the risk worthwhile.
Baelon had done what he had not dared attempt. The thought stirred something sharp inside him.
Pride.A thread of envy.And a dawning recognition that his eldest son might already stand ahead of him in the arts of war.
Before the feeling could settle, Vaemond cried out in alarm.
Daemon looked toward the sea. A fleet glided toward shore, row upon row of ships catching the afternoon sun. Many bore carved prows and hull designs he knew all too well.
The ships of the Triarchy.
No. Not all of them.
Some were unmistakably Baelon's, taken from Tyrosh or surrendered along the way. There had to be more than a hundred.
Laena clasped a hand over her mouth. "By the Mother."
At the head of the fleet sailed the largest vessel any of them had ever seen, a monstrous flagship that dwarfed every other ship around it. Its shadow stretched over the waves like a herald of conquest.
The men on the shore stared, awestruck. Even Daemon found himself momentarily silent.
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A/N: If you think you know what comes next… you don't.The answers are already waiting ahead.
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