Caraxes circled high above, his shadow alone shattering the last of the enemy's will. One long, roaring pass of dragonfire turned every remaining fortification into smoking rubble.
The battle ended in minutes.
Dornish banners dropped. White flags rose.
"Caraxes!"
The great red dragon landed on the beach with a heavy thud, molten eyes sweeping over the rows of swollen corpses nailed to wooden stakes. He snorted a disgusted blast of flame that burned away the stench of rot.
Daeron stood on open ground and accepted the surrender.
A middle-aged knight, bound and filthy, dropped to both knees. "Most honorable Dragon King Daeron the Third… we yield. We accept your judgment."
Daeron studied the man. Silver-gray armor scarred from years of fighting. A purple surcoat bearing a crossed sword and comet. Not the usual olive skin of pure Dornish blood—black hair, violet eyes, the clear stamp of old Valyrian blood.
Barristan stood beside him, face tight.
Daeron didn't need the hint. "Your name. Starfall or High Hermitage?"
The knight lifted his head. "I am Andrian Dayne, Lord of Starfall. Arthur Dayne and Ashara Dayne's older brother."
Daeron kept his face blank, but inside he thought, Thank the gods I didn't burn the whole island.
He nodded for the man to be untied. "Lord Dayne. Why are you here on Grey Gallows? Fighting for Rhaegar?"
Andrian rubbed his wrists, voice weary. "Prince Doran summoned me. I was ordered to support Rhaegar's campaign and left behind to hold this island."
He knew the price. Any Westerosi lord who fought for Rhaegar forfeited his lands and titles.
Barristan helped him stand. The big man was tall and broad, but Barristan could feel—no life force. Just another pretty sword with no real power.
Daeron gave a small nod. "Lord Dayne, if your regret is real, I'll give you a chance to earn it back."
Andrian dropped to one knee again, gratitude plain on his face. "Thank you, Your Grace."
Daeron pulled him up and brushed dust from his pauldron. "Arthur's on Bloodstone right now. You might see your brother soon. He's leading three Kingsguard on the push to Tyrosh."
Andrian's shoulders loosened for the first time all day.
Daeron turned away and waved for his commanders.
Lucerys Velaryon would keep the royal fleet sweeping the Stepstones clean.
Davos would hold Grey Gallows and Bloodstone with two thousand Constabulary Knights.
Stannis would keep the Dragon-Tongue Knights ready on the islands—knights were useless on open water anyway.
When the orders were given, Daeron rested one hand on Caraxes's warm scales and looked east across the Summer Sea.
Rhaegar… you lost the Stepstones you bled five years to take. I wonder how that feels.
---
Lys
The Summer Sea was thick and humid. Rain clouds hung low, heavy with the promise of a downpour.
The latest sea fight had just ended. Broken Lysene ships burned on the water.
Rhaegar stood at the rail, knuckles white, staring after the retreating Lysene fleet.
He had taken the Stepstones, seized their grain and special gems, used half to pay his men and sent the rest to Sunspear. He had planned to rest, rebuild, then hit Lys when the time was right.
But Oberyn had warned him—Dorne's lords were furious that House Martell was still bankrolling Rhaegar's war. Doran couldn't hold them back much longer.
So Rhaegar had crowned himself King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea and struck at Lys anyway.
Two battles so far. The first almost reached the city walls. This second one was a bloody draw.
"Stone Step Islands are barren. Every supply line runs through Planky Town. Lys fights on home ground—they can bleed us forever."
Rhaegar clenched the rail until the wood creaked. He needed one clean victory. Just one. If he could force terms with the Lysene archons, he could stay in the east and build something real.
Footsteps approached.
He turned. "Oberyn. Shouldn't you be—"
Oberyn's face was grim. He held out a sealed letter. "Read it. Then brace yourself."
A single cold raindrop hit the deck beside Rhaegar's boot.
He broke the seal.
Iron Throne declares war on Tyrosh… Daeron the Third conquers the Stepstones… Dornish soldiers raise white flags…
Line after line. Fact after fact.
The Stepstones—gone.
Five years of blood and gold, handed to his younger brother because Daeron had dragons and Rhaegar did not.
Oberyn gripped his shoulder. "Rhaegar, listen—"
Blood flooded Rhaegar's mouth. He coughed hard, spraying bright red across the deck.
"Five years… wasted."
His eyes rolled back. He collapsed backward into the rain.
"Rhaegar!"
Oberyn caught him, shouting his name, pinching his upper lip, trying to wake him.
Thunder rolled. Cold rain came down in sheets, soaking them both. Rhaegar's face tilted to the sky, rain mixing with the blood running from his nose and mouth.
---
Grey Gallows
Caraxes and Toothless wheeled overhead, their shadows enough to keep every curious eye on the ground.
Fifty Lannister ships had anchored. Red-cloaked soldiers poured down the gangplanks.
Sandor Clegane spat as he climbed down the ladder. "Fucking salt wind tastes like whore's cunt."
Tyrion stood on the beach, arms crossed. "Ser, a little decorum? We're supposed to be civilized."
"Go fuck your decorum. It ain't worth a copper more than a whore's drawers." Sandor shot him a glare. "And I'm no knight. Never will be."
Tyrion shrugged. Five years hadn't changed much. He was still short, still sharp, still carrying the weary look of a man who'd been kicked too many times by life.
On the other side of the beach, Kevan and Jaime went to find the king.
Daeron listened to their report, then laughed once, cold and short. "Tywin won't fund the town? After everything I've done?"
Kevan kept his eyes down. "The Hand believes every coin must be weighed twice in wartime."
"Sounds like the treasury's running thin already." Daeron shook his head. "I'll have a word with him when I get back."
A small boat was allowed through the blockade and beached nearby.
Moments later Barristan returned with a formal Tyroshi delegation—lead envoy, three deputies, six female slaves, six male porters, eight guards. Three heavy wooden chests.
The lead envoy, an olive-skinned old man with a dyed purple beard and a silk headwrap, bowed low. "Most noble Daeron the Third, Gualkhar of Tyrosh brings you greetings."
Daeron didn't waste time. "Your Archon sent you?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
Daeron's voice turned flat. "Then he's here to surrender?"
"No, no, no." Gualkhar shook his head quickly. "The Archon says crowning the false prince was a mistake. He offers three chests of gold for your forgiveness and friendship."
Daeron smiled without warmth. "Tell your fat Archon to wash his neck. I'll be there soon to take his head."
He waved them away.
Gualkhar's face twisted. "If there is no deal, we want the gold returned!"
Daeron's smile sharpened. "It's mine now. I'll use it to hire more men."
Gualkhar looked ready to explode.
Daeron gave the order without raising his voice. "Cut off one hand from each of them. Hang the hands around their necks and send them back to their silver-handed Archon."
Screams echoed across the beach minutes later.
Jaime winced. "Losing a hand… man won't be swinging a sword again. Or wiping his own ass."
Tyrion elbowed his brother. "Know what the difference is between them and me?"
Jaime glanced down. "What?"
Tyrion held up both hands and grinned. "I may be a dwarf, but I've still got two hands. They're tall… and down to one."
He made a crude grabbing motion.
Jaime's face darkened. "Watch yourself. Look what happened to Uncle Tygett."
Tyrion just laughed.
Daeron gathered Lucerys and Kevan for a quick council.
"The Stepstones are ours. Every soldier not needed for garrison duty sails for Tyrosh. We finish this."
War was coming in earnest now.
Tyrosh had backed a false dragon.
They were about to learn exactly what that mistake cost.