That afternoon, after marching with the main host toward Bloodstone Island, Baelon at last stood before the man he had come to confront, Craghas Drahar, the Crabfeeder.
The man looked nothing like the grotesque creature remembered from Baelon's past life. There was no melting face, no rotting skin, no monstrous aura. Craghas was merely a man in his thirties or forties, broad-shouldered, his hair a mess of brown curls. He wore studded leather darkened by sea salt, and a curved Myrish blade rested at his hip, polished to a cold, clean sheen.
Craghas stepped forward with a cautious smile.
"Welcome, Dragonlords of House Targaryen."
No one answered him. Not Daemon. Not Vaemond. Not the soldiers who stood in tight formation behind them. Their eyes were fixed on him with the quiet fury of men who had buried too many brothers in the Stepstones' stones and sands.
Baelon did not bother with pleasantries. He flicked his hand, a gesture sharp and dismissive.
"All right, Prince of Myr. You know why I am here."
Craghas blinked, surprised by how casually the boy spoke. The prince looked so small beside the hardened warriors around him, yet he stood as if the island already belonged to him.
Baelon continued in a calm, steady tone.
"I can allow you and whatever men remain to retreat to Myr. I can even open a supply route for arms and armor between us."
A murmur rose behind him. Soldiers exchanged startled looks. Many stiffened as if the prince had stabbed them.
They had fought here for what felt like years. They had seen comrades nailed to stakes and eaten alive. They had starved, bled, and clawed their way toward this moment.
Why offer peace?
Why spare the butcher of the Stepstones?
Baelon ignored the muttering. He had no patience to waste on Craghas. He wanted the man gone. The Stepstones were no longer worth another drop of Targaryen blood. His mind was already on supper and future plans.
Craghas studied him in silence. Something like amusement touched his expression.
"I knew it," he murmured. "Someone had to be behind Valyria's sudden move. Bleed us thin, pull the Dragonlords back into the Disputed Lands, create chaos and profit from it."
He stepped closer, lowering his gaze to the prince. "Baelon Targaryen, you frighten me."
Vaemond bristled. Daemon shifted his weight as if preparing to intervene. Even Craghas's soldiers reacted, tightening their grips on spears and swords.
Baelon simply tilted his head.
"You flatter me. Your priority should be returning to Myr. Our goal is to claim the Stepstones. That does not conflict with yours."
The gathered officers began to understand the deeper picture. The Triarchy's balance had been shattered, and Baelon stood at its center. Daemon exhaled through his nose, the hint of a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. He had expected nothing less from his son.
Craghas straightened, placing a hand on the hilt of his blade.
"You have slain many of my men, Prince Baelon. If I return without showing them anything… they will think I surrendered without resistance."
He forced a thin smile that did not reach his eyes.
"So perhaps Your Highness will accept a token. Something small. An arm. A pair of ears. Nothing hateful. Merely proof that I did not bow without cost."
Baelon did not react. Not a blink. Not a breath.
That stillness unsettled Craghas more than any threat.
The Triarchy soldiers behind Craghas stiffened. Hands gripped hilts. Armor shifted. Blades rasped as some half-drew steel, uncertain whether their commander's words were bravery or madness.
Baelon's men answered instantly. Shields locked. Spears lowered. Their formation snapped tight like a jaw ready to bite down.
Overhead, three dragons descended in slow, heavy circles. Their shadows rolled over the men like wavering curtains. The nearest dragon tilted its head, a warning rumble shaking the rocks beneath their feet.
Craghas's eyes darted skyward. His jaw clenched. He had no caverns here, no wooden shields, no terrain to hide behind. Dragonfire would reach him before he could take three steps.
Baelon lifted his chin the slightest amount.
His men saw it too. A ripple of fear ran through them.
Craghas swore under his breath, then barked, "Stand down!"
His voice cracked with strain.
The sound carried desperation. His soldiers froze. The tension in the air eased but did not fade completely.
Craghas had spent years bathing the Stepstones in blood. He had commanded fleets, toppled captains, enslaved traders, tortured locals. Yet at this moment, surrounded by dragons and Targaryen steel, all the cruelty in his life meant nothing.
"We need peace with you," Craghas muttered. "Volantis hungers for our lands. If I cannot hold them back, Myr will fall. Perhaps the whole Triarchy will fall."
Pain clouded his expression. He raised a hand to his ear, then drew the curved blade.
Craghas lowered his gaze.
"I still need my hands to fight Volantis," he said quietly. "So if Prince Baelon permits it… I will offer my ears instead."
Before anyone could answer, he unsheathed his curved blade.
Wet, meaty cuts broke the silence. Blood dripped down his neck and onto the stones. The severed ears hit the ground with soft, sickening taps.
His body swayed. His soldiers gasped, some looking away, others staring in stunned horror.
"How is that, Prince?" Craghas forced out. "If it does not satisfy you, name another price."
Craghas steadied himself, swaying but refusing to fall.
Baelon looked at him for a long moment. Then he sighed quietly, almost disappointed.
"Lord Craghas, when did I ever ask you to mutilate yourself? We were negotiating."
He did not glance at the ears. He did not step forward. He simply turned away.
"Leave the Stepstones tonight. At dawn, my forces will claim them."
Craghas bowed his head. His blood soaked into the ground.
"Very well."
His men supported him as he staggered back. Their faces were pale and wide-eyed. Many had the look of men who had witnessed their leader die, even though he still breathed.
Baelon lifted his voice.
"Withdraw. Give Craghas the Earless his path home. Then enjoy your victory."
A stunned silence followed. Then cheers erupted as the Targaryen soldiers realized it was truly over.
They had won.
Though resentment still boiled in some hearts, Baelon knew the truth. Killing Craghas would only weaken the Triarchy and strengthen Volantis. The Free Cities required a seasoned commander. And Craghas, earless and humiliated yet alive, would serve as proof that even surviving a dragon was enough to steel a man into something stronger.
That night, Baelon hosted a feast upon Grey Gallows Island. The fires blazed, food and wine flowed, and songs rose into the star-strewn sky. The men laughed, cried, and clung to one another. For a time, the bitterness of the war eased.
And when dawn came, they sailed back to Bloodstone.
As expected, Craghas and his soldiers had fled under cover of darkness. The only signs of them were the extinguished fires and bloody footprints leading toward the sea.
The Stepstones now belonged to the Targaryens.
Or rather, to Baelon Targaryen.
He stood upon the rocky shore, hands clasped behind him, as the wind off the sea tugged at his hair.
"We will build a castle here," Baelon said. "This island and the isles north of it will belong to the future Lord of Bloodstone. From here, they will keep Tyrosh in check."
He pointed southward.
"And Grey Gallows Island, along with its chain of islets, will form the domain of the Lord of Grey Gallows. They will stand as our shield against Lys."
Vaemond bowed, While Daemon folded his arms and watched his son with a mixture of pride and unease.
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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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