The night fog rolling off the Sea of Dorne tasted of brine and cold iron, a wet shroud pressing down on the waters of Cape Wrath.
Daemon rode The Cannibal high in the gloom. From this vantage, the ocean below was a sheet of obsidian, rippling with cold light. There was no debris from shattered hulls, no oil slicks rainbowed with blood, only the rhythmic hush of waves slapping against the reefs and the occasional cry of a nightjar. The air lacked the copper tang of battle.
It was too quiet.
The distress letter from Lord Boremund Baratheon had been explicit: Obara Sand. Fifty warships. Three thousand mercenaries. A massive assault on Cape Wrath.
It spoke of heavy casualties, of Borros Baratheon engaging a superior force, of villages burning along the Marches.
But the sea beneath him told a different story. It looked pristine, untouched by the havoc of war.
"Where is the fleet?" Daemon muttered, his fingers unconsciously tracing the outline of the dragon-scale charm beneath his tunic. The warmth of it did little to thaw the suspicion tightening in his gut.
The war in the Stepstones was effectively over. The Triarchy's admiral, Craghas Drahar, was in chains. Their vice-admiral was dead. The "King of the Narrow Sea" was rotting in a cell. The Tyroshi mercenaries were scattered or dead.
Dorne and the Triarchy were allies of convenience, nothing more. With the Triarchy broken, Obara Sand had no strategic reason to launch a suicidal full-scale invasion of the Stormlands.
Unless this wasn't an invasion at all.
The Cannibal let out a low, vibrating growl, his massive wings disturbing the mist. Daemon followed the dragon's gaze. To the west, faint pinpricks of light bobbed on the horizon—lanterns moving south with the current.
"Grey Ghost, take a look," Daemon whispered.
The pale grey dragon dove immediately, skimming inches above the whitecaps. He released short, controlled bursts of flame, using the residual heat to mark a path through the soup—a trick Meleys had taught him during the fleet exercises.
Moments later, Grey Ghost returned. Clenched in his jaws was a scrap of torn cloth.
Daemon took it. It was rough burlap, stained with saltwater and blood, embroidered with a crude sun-and-spear. It wasn't the heavy canvas of a warship's sail; it was the cheap material used on light raiding skiffs.
"Just as I thought," Daemon murmured, his grip tightening on the rag. "Scavengers."
The cunning Sand Snake knew the Triarchy had fallen. She wasn't here to conquer; she was here to maintain the illusion of a threat. She was using small, agile raiders to harass the coast, keeping the Stormlands' forces pinned down and confused while she likely prepared her exit.
"Your Highness! Ships ahead! Stormlands colors!"
The shout came from the deck of a Velaryon silver ship below.
Daemon looked down. Emerging from the mist were three longships flying the Crowned Stag of House Baratheon. They were pursuing three narrow, grey-painted Dornish skiffs.
Standing at the prow of the lead Baratheon ship was a figure in red armor.
"Roland Connington," Daemon recognized the Griffin of Griffin's Roost immediately.
Roland was shouting orders, urging his oarsmen to close the distance on the fleeing Dornish raiders. The Dornish ships were fast, built for these waters, and they were slipping away into the fog.
"Cannibal, cut them off."
The black dragon folded his wings and dropped. He didn't roar; he simply unleashed a wall of black fire across the water in front of the Dornish ships. The sea boiled instantly, a curtain of scalding steam blocking their escape.
Grey Ghost darted in, spitting fire at the raiders' rigging. The burlap sails caught instantly. Dead in the water, the Dornish skiffs spun helplessly until the Stormlands ships slammed alongside, boarders leaping across the rails with steel in hand.
Roland Connington looked up, shielding his eyes from the sudden light. When he saw the black shadow blocking out the moon, his exhausted face broke into a grin.
"Little Daemon!" Roland bellowed, waving his sword. "About damn time!"
Daemon landed The Cannibal on the deck of Roland's flagship. The timber groaned under the weight, the scabbard of Blackfyre clanking against the rail.
"I got the letter," Daemon said, sliding from the saddle. "Where is Borros? What is the situation?"
Roland's grin faded. He wiped sea spray from his face. "Borros took a spear to the shoulder. One of the Sand Snake's elite guards got him a few days ago. He's recovering at Mistwood. Since he went down, the big attacks stopped. Now it's just... this." He gestured to the burning skiffs. "Mosquitoes. We swat them, they run to the Sea of Dorne. We turn back, they return. It's endless."
Daemon nodded. "Secure the prisoners. Take me to Mistwood. Where is Lord Boremund?"
"The Duke is holding the Marches with the older lords," Roland explained as his men shackled the surviving Dornishmen. "Stonehelm and Summerhall have been hit hard by mercenaries. He's afraid of a flanking maneuver, so he split the forces. Those of us from the fleet came here to back up Borros. We didn't expect the main host to vanish into the mist."
---
The journey to Mistwood took an hour.
The castle of House Mertyns rose from the edge of the rainwood, its grey-black walls draped in wet ivy. The Owl Tower stood sentinel against the night, the beacon fire at its peak burning like a vigilant eye.
When Daemon landed The Cannibal on the stone quay, he was swarmed.
"By the Seven, you actually came!" Lorent Grandison yawned, stepping forward in his yellow-and-black surcoat. "I've been chasing these damn raiders for three days. I haven't slept in a week. If you hadn't shown up, Borros was threatening to row a boat out there himself, one-armed."
"Where is he?" Daemon asked, scanning the crowd.
He found him sitting on a stone bench, nursing a tankard of ale. Borros Baratheon looked pale, his left shoulder wrapped in thick, bloody bandages, but his grip on his broadsword was as tight as ever.
Seeing Daemon, Borros grinned, baring his teeth like a wolf. "A scratch! That's all it is! Once this heals, I'm going to burn every ship that Dornish bitch owns!"
Laughter rippled through the gathered men.
Daemon looked around the circle. It was the flower of the Stormlands' next generation.
There were the Fell brothers, Thurgood and Willis, flipping Dornish daggers they'd taken as trophies. Beric Dondarrion of Blackhaven stood stoic as a statue, while his young squire, Criston Cole, watched the sea with an intensity that belied his age. Jasper Wylde was arguing over a map with Andrew Estermont. Byron Swann of Stonehelm leaned against an oak tree, polishing his blade.
Even Edwin Tarth, Brienne's younger brother, was there in shining silver mail, bowing low as Daemon approached.
"The whole lot of us came," Roland said, clapping Daemon on the back. "When Borros got hit, everyone from Tarth to Harvest Hall rallied. We might not have the numbers of the main host, but we're the ones willing to bleed for this coast."
Daemon felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the humid air. These were his peers, the future lords of the realm, united not by a crown's command, but by brotherhood.
"Where is Obara Sand?" Daemon asked, his voice cutting through the reunion. "Where is the fleet?"
The mood sobered instantly.
"Ghaston Grey," Lorent said, pointing into the darkness of the Sea of Dorne. "The old prison castle on the rock. It's a fortress. She's holed up there with maybe thirty ships and two thousand spears. She sends out these raiding parties to bleed us, but the moment we push in force, they retreat under the cover of the castle's scorpions. We can't get close."
"She's stalling," Bryce Caron of Nightsong added. The Heir to the Marches was as handsome as his house words promised, but his eyes were hard. "She hits the weak villages, steals grain and cattle, and runs. She knows we can't pin her down."
Daemon rubbed his chin. "She's not stalling because she wants to fight. She's trapped. With the Triarchy gone, she has no allies. She's waiting for a window to run back to Sunspear without losing her head."
Michael Mertyns, the bookish heir to Mistwood, nodded in agreement. "My father's spies say the main Martell host hasn't moved from the Red Mountains. Obara is on her own."
"So what do we do?" Robin Beesbury asked, his pretty face twisted in frustration. "We can't just let her pick us apart."
Daemon turned to the wounded stag. "Borros?"
Borros stood up, wincing as his shoulder shifted. "I say Daemon is right. She's bluffing! We stop playing defense. We hit Ghaston Grey. We cut off her water and food. If she wants to hide in a rock, let her starve on it!"
"We don't have the ships for a siege," Andrew Estermont argued. "Twenty longships against thirty war galleys and a fortress?"
Daemon smiled, a cold, sharp expression. He thumbed over his shoulder at the mist.
"I brought three Velaryon silver ships. Modified by the Sea Snake himself. Fast, and armed with dragonbone-reinforced hulls. Add your twenty longships, and we have speed."
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
"And you have dragons. The Cannibal and Grey Ghost will burn her scorpions. You hold the sea, you cut her supply lines, and I will rain fire on that rock until Obara Sand begs for permission to leave."
A cheer went up from the young lords. The hesitation vanished, replaced by the hungry anticipation of victory.
"Tomorrow!" Borros roared, raising his tankard. "We sail at dawn!"
---
Late that night, bonfires burned along the Mistwood shore.
Servants brought out roasted boar and casks of storm ale. The young lords sat around the fire, boasting and planning.
Daemon sat near The Cannibal, with Grey Ghost curled at his feet like a massive hound. He watched the firelight dance on the faces of his friends, listening to their laughter.
He touched the charm in his tunic again. If Gael were here, she'd be handing him a honey cake and telling him not to get shot.
"Thinking of the Princess?"
Borros dropped heavily onto the log beside him, handing him a fresh ale.
Daemon took a drink. "I'm thinking that once we deal with Obara, I can finally go home."
Borros laughed, a booming sound that startled the nightjars. "Don't worry! We'll send the Dornish packing, and then the whole lot of us will come to King's Landing. I'm buying the first round on the Street of Silk!"
Daemon shook his head, smiling.
He looked out toward the Sea of Dorne. Somewhere in that blackness lay Ghaston Grey, a jagged tooth of rock hiding a nest of vipers. Tomorrow would be blood and fire.
"To the storm," Daemon said, raising his cup.
"To the storm!" the lords echoed.
The shout rose into the night, mingling with the dragon's low rumble and the crash of the tide, a war song for the generation that would shape the world to come.