The morning mist over Grey Gallows was thicker than on Bloodstone, so dense it felt as if water could be wrung from the air.
The damp fog, wrapped in the salty sea breeze, clung to faces like a cold spiderweb, making every breath chill the lungs.
Broken ropes on the gallows swayed in the wind. Frost from the previous night clung to the blackened wood like crushed ice. From a distance, the crooked gibbets looked like a cluster of lurking ghosts. Some beams were snapped in half, the hanging nooses still holding the shape of a tightened throat.
Others had their bases sunk into the soft black sand, the exposed rot riddled with holes from sea worms, looking as if they might collapse into the fog at any moment, guarding this reef-filled sea.
Daemon rode The Cannibal high in the sky. His fingertips felt the chill in the mist, a cold that seeped through his gloves and into his bones, seeming to leech away even the warmth of the dragon's scales.
Every beat of the black dragon's wings churned up massive clouds of fog. Condensation formed on the scales, sliding down the ridges to gather at the claw tips before dripping into the bottomless white sea below.
Grey Ghost clung beneath The Cannibal's wing, his pale grey scales blending almost perfectly with the mist. Only the occasional small burst of fire from his nostrils burned a brief, bright hole in the fog—fleeting, but enough to mark the position of the reefs below.
Corlys had warned Daemon specifically last night before they left: the reefs on the east side of Grey Gallows were hidden just three feet underwater. At high tide, even the shallow-draft Velaryon silver ships had to navigate carefully. The rocks were covered in slick algae; if a hull struck them, it would at least scrape the planks, and at worst, ground the ship. If they were ambushed by Dornish fast galleys in such a state, it would be a death sentence.
"Little Daemon! Over here!" Daemon Targaryen's voice drifted from the fog, carrying his usual roguish lilt, but sharper than usual.
Before his voice faded, Caraxes's scarlet shadow shot out from behind a gallows like a burning lightning bolt tearing the mist curtain. Dragonfire, wrapped in a wave of heat, blasted a crooked wooden frame. The dry wood crackled and snapped instantly, charred splinters falling into the fog with the pungent smell of burning timber, warming the surrounding air.
Daemon immediately urged The Cannibal into a dive. The black dragon folded his wings, dropping like a heavy stone. He landed with a thud, kicking up black sand and mist that rattled against Daemon's leather armor.
Only then did the scene before him clear: the old dock of Grey Gallows had been reinforced by the Triarchy remnants. Rotted pilings had been replaced with new oak, wrapped in barbed chains. The barbs gleamed cold, their tips stained with dark red rust—it was impossible to tell if it was corrosion from the sea or dried blood.
Rotting fishing nets hung from the chains, the hemp ropes black and brittle, ready to snap at a touch. Tangled in the mesh were bone fragments—some small finger bones, some jawbones with teeth still attached. It didn't take much imagination to know these were the remains of commoners or captives who had resisted.
A dozen remnants stood peering into the fog, holding Myrish crossbows. Their movements were stiff, clearly having stood guard in the cold dampness for a long time.
The "Three-Headed Chain" sigil on their armor was wet with mist, dull and rusty. On some, the paint had peeled away to reveal mottled metal underneath.
One man shivered, his bowstring trembling. The man next to him glared and hissed a reprimand, his tone full of impatience and fear.
"They must have locked the commoners and captives in their old lair," Daemon Targaryen vaulted off Caraxes.
Dark Sister sang as it left the scabbard. The silver-white blade flashed in the mist, instantly sweeping across the throat of a nearby enemy. The man didn't even have time to scream before he clutched his neck and fell, blood gushing between his fingers and quickly soaking into the damp ground, leaving only a dark stain.
"When Caraxes and I were scouting earlier, we saw at least fifty commoners locked in the old pirate cave. There's a scorpion aimed right at the entrance. If we get too close, we might hit them."
Daemon frowned. These remnants had gotten smarter—using commoners as shields was vicious, but effective.
He touched the charm Gael had given him in his tunic. It was made from a shed scale of Grey Ghost, the edges polished smooth. The texture of the scale steadied him, dissipating some of his irritation.
"How long until Corlys and the silver ships arrive?" he asked, scanning the fog at the end of the dock, where the faint sound of waves hitting the reef could be heard.
"Soon," Daemon Targaryen pointed east through a thinner patch of fog. "I saw the silver sails earlier. They look like floating clouds in the mist. And the Redwyne fleet—you can see the grapevines on their sails even through the fog. That kid Allan waved at me. They're probably waiting for the tide to navigate the reefs; he doesn't want to wreck his daddy's ships. The Northern longships and the Celtigar fleet should be hitting the front soon too. I saw the Manderly rams shining in the mist—those iron-plated beasts will punch a hole right through any hull they hit."
As he spoke, a sharp, long horn blast sounded from the distance. It was the signal of the Northern longships, piercing far through the fog. It meant the Dornish fast galleys were approaching.
Daemon's heart tightened. He vaulted back onto The Cannibal. The black dragon sensed his urgency and let out a low rumble, wings ready to launch.
"You take Caraxes to the west side. Intercept the Dornish ships—don't let them land to support the remnants. I'll take The Cannibal and Grey Ghost to save the commoners and our captured brothers, and burn that scorpion at the cave mouth. When Corlys brings the fleet around the east, we'll hit them from three sides. They won't have anywhere to run!" He gave orders rapidly, his eyes decisive.
"On it!" Daemon Targaryen grinned, showing white teeth, not a hint of nervousness. He mounted Caraxes. The wind from the red dragon's wings blew away the nearby fog, revealing more gallows below.
"Don't let Grey Ghost get scared by the arrows again. Last time in King's Landing, when I first met him, he was hiding under a bed!" He teased, and without waiting for a reply, urged Caraxes west. The scarlet shadow vanished into the mist.
Daemon ignored the jibe. He patted The Cannibal's neck. "Let's go."
The black dragon launched into the air, Grey Ghost following like a pale shadow at his side.
The gallows in the fog grew denser. Some still held desiccated corpses, their tattered clothes revealing the style of Stormlands fishermen—roughspun linen. These were clearly victims of earlier Triarchy raids.
Daemon's heart sank, and his grip on Blackfyre tightened until his knuckles turned white. He could imagine the despair of these fishermen before they died. It hardened his resolve to save the living.
The pirate cave was at the base of a hill on the west side of Grey Gallows. The entrance was blocked by massive boulders, leaving only a narrow crack wide enough for one person.
Two Myrish repeating scorpions were set up outside the crack, their metal parts gleaming cold, the wood polished smooth from use.
Four remnants watched the fog. Two observed, two manned the reload mechanism. Their movements were practiced—veterans.
The sound of crying drifted from the cave—intermittent, filled with unconcealed fear. Women sobbing, children wailing, the weak coughs of the elderly. The sounds cut through the fog, clear and heartbreaking.
Daemon's chest tightened. He couldn't wait. If the Dornish ships got close, the situation would get messy.
"Grey Ghost, burn the winches!" Daemon ordered, voice low and powerful.
The small grey dragon dove, wings tucked like an arrow. He spat a small burst of fire, hitting the wooden winch of the scorpion precisely. The dry wood caught fire instantly, spreading to blacken the mechanism.
The loaders screamed and tried to put it out with wet burlap sacks, but The Cannibal followed up with a blast of dragonfire that forced them back.
The heat of the black dragon's fire was intense; even getting close seared the skin. They could only watch in despair as the winches burned.
Daemon leaped from the dragon's back, Blackfyre flashing in the mist.
He moved like a black shadow, rushing the nearest remnant. His sword split the man's shoulder blade, the sharp Valyrian steel slicing through leather armor and deep into bone.
The man fell screaming. His crossbow dropped, the purple-tipped bolt glinting on the ground—poisoned, certain death if it hit.
"Drop your weapons if you want to live!" Daemon's voice boomed through the fog, undeniable.
The crying in the cave quieted. Several commoners peered through the crack, eyes full of hope. They saw the Targaryen sigil on Daemon and the massive dragon behind him. They knew their rescuers had arrived.
Just then, Corlys's shout came from the east shore: "Prince Daemon! The main force is here! The Dornish support ships are trying to run!" His voice was anxious.
Daemon looked back. Through the fog, he saw a dozen grey-painted fast galleys—Dornish ships. Long and narrow, built for speed, their sails bore the sun-and-spear of House Martell, the red and gold striking in the grey mist.
Caraxes's scarlet fire shot from the fog, igniting the sail of the lead Dornish ship. The canvas burned away in seconds.
Losing power, the ship spun in the waves like a leaf. The Dornishmen on board screamed, trying in vain to put out the fire.
"Big Daemon can't stop that many!" Daemon panicked. He was about to urge The Cannibal to support when several heavy Western ships burst from the western fog.
Their hulls were thick, twice as wide as the Dornish galleys. Decks were packed with heavy infantry holding shields painted with the Lannister lion. The iron-plated rams at their prows gleamed cold as they smashed toward the flanks of the Dornish ships.
"That old fox Tymond finally made his move," Daemon relaxed, a knowing smile appearing. He knew Tymond Lannister wasn't helping out of the goodness of his heart. He was afraid these Dornish ships would escape and threaten Western trade routes later.
The Sand Snakes gaining a foothold in the Narrow Sea would be bad for business.
Lancel Lannister stood at the prow of the lead ship, his silver-white armor and gold lion sigil shining.
With a shout, the Western ship rammed a Dornish galley. Crack! The hull splintered, a massive hole tearing open. Water flooded in.
Western infantry leaped down, axes splitting Dornish spears. Gold lion armor flashed in the mist as the two sides clashed. The clang of weapons and screams of the dying echoed in the fog.
Lancel fought fiercely, his sword piercing a Dornish sailor's chest. Blood splattered his armor, a stark contrast to the gold lion.
"The Lion of the West won't let you vipers run wild!" he shouted proudly, rallying his men.
But the Dornish ships were too agile. The heavy Western ships were powerful but slow.
Three Dornish galleys managed to slip past, heading for the reefs on the north side of Grey Gallows. The reefs there were dense, the fog thicker. If they got in, they would be impossible to catch.
"The Cannibal, after them!" Daemon vaulted onto the dragon's back.
The black dragon launched, spewing a stream of black fire at the stern of the fleeing ships.
The rudders burned away. The uncontrolled ships smashed into the reefs. Wood flew, hulls snapped, and Dornishmen jumped into the sea.
Grey Ghost followed, nimbly circling the prows and burning the arrow quivers. Fire spread to the rigging, enveloping the bows.
The Dornishmen struggling in the water were quickly scooped up by Velaryon silver ships that arrived on the scene. The sailors were practiced with their nets; no one escaped.
Corlys stood at the prow of the Sea Snake, white hair messy in the wind. He held a letter found on a Dornish ship, his face grim.
"Prince Daemon, look at this. According to the Sand Snake's plan, Obara Sand isn't even here! These are bait! She took the main force to the Broken Arm west of Bloodstone to ambush our supply ships!"
He handed the letter to Daemon.
A corner was wet with seawater, the ink running slightly, but it was readable.
The handwriting was scrawled and vicious: "Once the Bloodstone supply ships are destroyed, the Targaryen fleet will be rootless. When the Triarchy reinforcements arrive, we will starve them to death in the Narrow Sea."
Every word felt like a poisoned needle.
"Damn it!" Daemon's back went cold.
The supply ships for Bloodstone had just left this morning, escorted by Rayford and three ships. They carried ten days' worth of food and water for the entire fleet. If Obara destroyed them, the massive United Fleet would only have five days of supplies left. They would be in a desperate situation without the enemy even lifting a finger.
"Big Daemon, take Caraxes and the Western ships to chase Obara! You must stop her! Corlys, clear the remnants on Grey Gallows, save the commoners, make sure no one escapes. I'm taking The Cannibal and Grey Ghost back to Bloodstone to warn Rayford to divert to Claw Isle!"
He issued orders rapidly, his voice urgent.
Daemon Targaryen landed Caraxes beside him. The playfulness was gone, replaced by seriousness.
"Don't worry. I won't let those Dornish vipers touch Rayford. He still owes me a cask of Arbor Gold from a bet two days ago!" He smiled slightly to ease the tension, but his eyes were steely.
Daemon nodded and launched The Cannibal.
The fog over Grey Gallows had lifted slightly. Sunlight hit the gallows, making the crooked wood glare. Blood, charred wood, and broken scorpions on the ground silently told the story of the battle.
Northern longships had docked. William Manderly led his men to clear the rest of the remnants. His axe swung with power, smashing the boulders blocking the cave. The rocks collapsed, revealing the huddled commoners.
They poured out, kneeling before the soldiers, weeping with gratitude.
The Cannibal swept over the sea, wind kicking up waves.
Daemon looked down. Toward Bloodstone, he could faintly see the white sails of the supply ships—tiny dots on the distant sea. It calmed him slightly.
He touched the charm in his tunic. The warmth seeped through his clothes, strengthening his resolve. He had to reach Rayford before Obara did.
Grey Ghost flew beside The Cannibal, occasionally breathing small bursts of fire onto the water to mark the path.
Daemon knew this war for the Stepstones was more complex than he imagined.
Dornish ambushes, Triarchy reinforcements, the scheming of the fleet's lords... every step held danger. One wrong move could lose the game.
But he was not afraid. He had his dragons, his family, his brothers, his soldiers, and Gael waiting in King's Landing.
They were his shield and his drive.
He would use dragonfire and Blackfyre to stop every ambush, guard every inch of the sea, until the threats were driven out and the Narrow Sea was at peace.
The red rocks of Bloodstone drew closer. The supply ships grew clearer.
Daemon gripped Blackfyre and whispered to the dragon, "Faster. We have to beat the vipers."
The black dragon roared, wings beating faster, cutting through the morning mist like a black lightning bolt, racing toward the supply ships.
A new interception battle was about to quietly unfold in the waters west of Bloodstone.