The morning fog clinging to Bloodstone still reeked of sulfur, draping the red cliffs in a ghostly shroud.
In the harbor, charred timbers and splintered planks bobbed on the swell. Velaryon sailors in small skiffs worked the water, using long hooks to salvage usable wood for repairs and clear the channels for the fleet.
On the deck of the Blackfyre, the ring of hammers on steel was constant. Smiths worked around the scorpion mounts, beating red-hot iron bars into shape on portable anvils. Sparks flew, hissing as they hit the damp deck and cooled into tiny black pearls.
Rayford Rosby stood nearby, a thick ledger in his hands. His quill scratched across the parchment as he tallied the cost of victory.
"Dragonglass bolts down to three hundred twenty," he muttered, brow furrowed. "Seventeen water casks smashed. Myrish fire-paste... half a jar left."
Daemon paused as he walked past, noting the neat rows of Xs in the ledger. "How are the men?"
"We got lucky," Rayford said, looking up. Fatigue bruised his eyes, but his voice was steady. "Twelve wounded from the Crackclaw levy. Three took poison scratches, but Lord Corlys sent over the antidote. They're already walking. As for the prisoners... one hundred thirty-seven Tyroshi mercenaries, eighty-one Triarchy remnants, and three Dornish scouts. Jarman has them in the holding pens under heavy guard."
Daemon nodded, his gaze drifting to the far side of the deck.
A group of dragonkeepers, led by Baelon's personal guard, were carefully scrubbing dried blood from The Cannibal's scales with warm water and roughspun cloth. The "Wild Dragon King," usually a creature of nightmare, lay docile under their ministrations, occasionally letting out a low, rumbling purr of contentment.
Grey Ghost was curled up near his larger cousin's massive foreclaw, happily chewing on a colorful silk ribbon he'd scavenged from a mercenary ship.
"Your Highness," Colin Celtigar called from the gangplank, wiping paint from his hands. "Prince Baelon is convening a war council on the King's Banner. Everyone is waiting—Prince Daemon, Lord Corlys, Lord Tymond, Lord Sunderland... even my uncle."
Daemon adjusted his collar, checking the dragon scale charm Gael had given him, and nodded. "Let's go."
The red rocks of Bloodstone seemed to bleed in the morning light. The camp was alive with the smell of cooking meat and medicinal herbs, a comforting warmth after the cold slaughter of the previous day.
Inside the King's Banner, the atmosphere was heavy with purpose. A massive chart of the Stepstones dominated the table.
Prince Baelon stood at the head, his green eyes scanning the assembled lords. He pointed to Bloodstone on the map.
"We won the interception, but the Triarchy and the Dornish proved more cunning than we anticipated," Baelon said, his voice grave. "They used mercenaries as bait. We cannot rely solely on brute force anymore. We need a defensive line, and we need a plan for governance."
Corlys Velaryon spoke first, his finger tracing the treacherous waters between Grey Gallows and Bloodstone.
"Grey Gallows is a maze of reefs," the Sea Snake said. "Perfect for ambush. I've ordered dragonglass spikes planted in the shallows to tear the bottoms out of their fast-galleys. We can convert the old pirate docks into a battery for ten modified scorpions. Lord Sunderland's men know these waters; they can hold the choke points."
"Bloodstone is the key," Bartimos Celtigar added, tapping the red rock on the map. "The stone here is hard. We can carve watchtowers directly into the cliffs, reinforced with dragon-fused stone. Fireproof and arrow-proof. I suggest leaving a thousand men and a squadron of silver ships to hold it while the rest of the fleet clears the pirate nests."
Daemon Targaryen leaned against the bulkhead, toying with a captured dagger. "And me? Am I supposed to rot here watching prisoners? Caraxes is bored."
Baelon shot him a warning look. "You will take Caraxes and patrol the eastern approach. That's the main channel for any Triarchy reinforcements. And this time, scout before you burn. No solo heroics."
"Fine, fine," the Rogue Prince grumbled, though he straightened up, the memory of yesterday's near-disaster checking his usual arrogance.
Tymond Lannister cleared his throat. "The West can leave five ships. But the rest must return to Lannisport. The burning of the city last year... the wounds are still fresh. If the Ironborn or the Dornish strike the West while we're here, I cannot answer to my bannermen."
"Lord Tymond," Corlys said smoothly, "once the Stepstones are secure, the fleet will support the West. And we've drafted a new trade agreement: Western ships passing through these waters will see their tolls reduced by twenty percent."
Tymond's eyes glinted. He twisted the gold lion ring on his finger. "In that case... for the good of the realm, we can spare three more ships."
The council turned to governance. Edwin Arryn of Gulltown was named provisional quartermaster. Clement Celtigar would manage the fisheries at Echo Bay. Lancel Lannister and Garlan Tyrell were tasked with security and administration, splitting the duties of law and logistics.
It was a masterstroke by Baelon. By involving the heirs of the great houses, he bound their interests to the Stepstones and the Iron Throne, ensuring their support for the long reconstruction ahead.
The meeting broke at noon.
Daemon returned to the Blackfyre, his mind already turning to the logistics of the new defenses. But as he stepped onto the deck, a messenger stumbled toward him.
The man wore the brown leather of the Stormlands, caked in dried blood and dust. He collapsed to his knees, holding out a stained letter.
"Your Highness! Urgent news from Storm's End!" the messenger gasped. "Lord Boremund sent me... The Dornish... Obara Sand is at Cape Wrath! She's engaging the Stormlands fleet! They're burning the villages!"
Daemon felt the blood drain from his face. He snatched the letter.
Obara Sand, fifty ships, three thousand spears. Ambushed patrol at Cape Wrath. Lord Borros engaged, heavy casualties. Villages burning near Stonehelm. Request immediate aid.
Cape Wrath.
The memory hit him like a physical blow. Before leaving King's Landing, Vaegon had warned him. The gateway to the Stormlands. If the Dornish join the war, they'll flank us there.
He had been so focused on the Stepstones he had forgotten.
"Damn it!" Daemon slammed his fist against the rail, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
If the Dornish took Cape Wrath, they could pinch the United Fleet between the Stepstones and the mainland. It would be a massacre.
"Rayford!" Daemon roared. "Resupply the Blackfyre! Water and arrows, now! We're leaving!"
"What's happening?" Daemon Targaryen landed Caraxes on the deck, sensing the shift in the air.
"Obara Sand is attacking Cape Wrath," Daemon said, shoving the letter at him. "I forgot Vaegon's warning. The Stormlands are bleeding."
The Rogue Prince's eyes darkened as he read. "I'm coming with you. Caraxes is hungry."
"No," Daemon said firmly. "The Stepstones need a dragon. You stay and help Baelon hold the line. I'll take The Cannibal and Grey Ghost, and a squadron of Velaryon ships. That will be enough."
He vaulted onto The Cannibal's back. The black dragon sensed his rider's fury and let out a roar that shook the mast. Grey Ghost, sensing the tension, abandoned his silk ribbon and took wing, hovering anxiously.
"Hold the fort!" Daemon shouted to his cousin.
The Cannibal launched into the sky, banking hard toward the west. Below, three silver Velaryon ships broke formation to follow him.
Daemon looked back once. He saw Baelon on Vhagar, circling the King's Banner, a silent sentinel watching him go.
Ahead, smoke stained the horizon over Cape Wrath.
Daemon gripped Blackfyre, his heart heavy with guilt but hardened by resolve. He had made a mistake. He would not make another.
"We win this," he whispered to the wind. "For the Stormlands. For home."
The black dragon shrieked, a promise of fire and blood, and tore through the sky toward the rising smoke.