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Morning light, heavy with the dampness of the Rainwood, washed over the docks of Mistwood, dyeing the Mertyns' Owl Tower a pale, wet gold.
Dew still clung to the ivy scaling the tower, shaking loose in the breeze to spatter the cobblestones below. The sound mixed with the heavy tread of dockworkers loading crates, weaving the unique, bustling clamor of a Stormlands dawn.
The torch at the tower's peak still burned, a dying star against the grey-black stone, answering the cold glint of armor reflecting off the water. That shimmer wasn't just sunlight; it was the steel of the United Fleet, bobbing in the morning tide of the Sea of Dorne.
This was the morning the young lords of the Stormlands would march on Ghaston Grey. The air smelled of salt, fresh-baked oatcakes, and the metallic tang of sharpened steel.
On the docks, Mertyns maidservants moved among the ranks with woven baskets, handing out warm bread and clay jars of goat milk. Occasionally, a young soldier would take the food with red-rimmed eyes, and the older women would pat their shoulders, promising that the hearth fires would still be burning when they returned.
Daemon stood at the prow of the Blackfyre, his fingertips grazing the dragonglass plating on the rail. The cold seeped into his palm.
The marks of the smiths' overnight labor were fresh—steel nails driven deep into the seams of the red rock hull, their heads still bearing the dents of hasty hammers.
He looked down into the water. The morning sun pierced the surface, illuminating schools of tiny fish darting around the hull, oblivious to the coming violence.
Grey Ghost was curled at his feet, happily chewing on a piece of dried fish a servant had brought earlier. The small dragon pinned the treat with a claw, tearing at it with relish, though his vertical pupils remained fixed on the horizon, toward Ghaston Grey.
"Your Highness. Lorent and the others are ready."
Roland Connington's voice came from the gangplank. The Knight of Griffin's Roost wore crimson leathers, the longsword he'd lost to Daemon at the tourney hanging at his hip.
The griffin sigil on his scabbard caught the light, the gold thread raised and bright. His mother had stitched it before she died, and before every battle, Roland polished it as if it were a holy relic.
He strode onto the deck, his boots heavy on the wood. Behind him came the Fell brothers. Thurgood gripped two short daggers wrapped in oilcloth; Willis carried a longbow, his quiver full of green-fletched arrows—a gift from the Redwyne archers.
Daemon nodded, scanning the harbor.
Three Velaryon silver ships had raised their sails, looking like white knives cutting the water. Sailors were already cranking the winches of the dragonglass scorpions, angling the deadly bolts toward the open sea.
Twenty Stormlands longships formed a line behind them, their iron-shod rams gleaming. Borros Baratheon stood at the prow of the Windproud, his shoulder bandage fresh and white. He was shouting to his men, his voice booming over the water, drowning out the pain of his wound.
"The Dornish vipers think they're safe behind their rock!" Borros roared. "Today we burn their food! We show that Sand Snake bitch this is our sea!"
Behind him, swords were raised—Byron Swann's longsword, Andrew Estermont's greatsword, Bryce Caron's daggers—a forest of steel saluting the sun.
Daemon watched them, remembering the hunt at Griffin's Roost, the laughter around the fire. Those boys were men now, forged in the heat of war.
He touched the charm in his tunic. He could almost see Gael standing on the docks of King's Landing, worrying about crossbows.
Soon, he thought. Just Obara left.
Grey Ghost nudged his hand, letting out a low purr.
"Move out!" Roland blew the brass war horn. The sound was mournful and deep, rolling over the waves to echo against the cliffs.
Sails snapped taut. Ropes were cast off.
Lorent Grandison led the vanguard in three fast skiffs, the Sleeping Lion banner of his house unfurling in the wind. Thurgood and Willis stood at the prow, eyes scanning the horizon. Their job was to find the supply line.
According to the prisoner they'd broken the night before, Obara's supply ships left Ghaston Grey at noon, running food and water to the Broken Arm.
Daemon mounted The Cannibal. The black dragon's wings swept over the silver ships, the downdraft whipping the sailors' clothes.
The Cannibal's scales were obsidian mirrors in the sun. With a powerful thrust, he was airborne, the pressure wave flattening the whitecaps below.
Grey Ghost followed, a pale shadow in the mist, spitting small bursts of fire to mark the reefs.
As the fog lifted, Ghaston Grey emerged from the sea.
It was a nightmare of a castle, perched on a jagged spire of black rock that thrust vertically from the ocean. The walls were red sandstone, but Obara had reinforced them with iron plates, giving the fortress a scarred, industrial look.
Scorpion batteries lined the cliffs, their dark bolts pointing out to sea.
"Your Highness! Scouts!" Lorent's shout drifted up.
Three grey-painted skiffs darted out from behind a sea stack, dragging chained, floating mines behind them.
Willis Fell didn't hesitate. His green-fletched arrow took the lead steersman in the throat. Thurgood leaped onto the second boat as the ships collided, his daggers a blur. Lorent's longship rammed the third, shattering its hull.
"The supply ships are west!" Thurgood shouted, wiping his blade.
Daemon looked west. Five heavy cogs flying the Martell sun were lumbering through the chop, escorted by two Tyroshi mercenary galleys. The decks of the escorts were packed with purple-and-green armored soldiers holding Myrish crossbows.
Triarchy remnants, Daemon realized. Obara was still using them.
"Roland! Tie up the escorts!" Daemon ordered. "Velaryons, target the waterline of the transports! Cannibal, with me!"
The black dragon dove.
Daemon felt the heat rise as The Cannibal opened his maw. A torrent of black fire engulfed the sails of the lead mercenary ship. The canvas vaporized. Smoke billowed, blinding the crossbowmen.
Grey Ghost, small and wicked, darted toward the cliff batteries. He ignored the ships and went for the winches on the shore, melting the mechanisms before the crews could bring them to bear.
Roland's longships slammed into the confused mercenaries. Stormlands steel met Tyroshi iron. Bryce Caron moved like a dancer, his daggers finding gaps in armor. Eric Dondarrion and Criston Cole fought back-to-back, a whirlwind of sword and shield.
The Velaryon silver ships flanked the heavy transports. The thrum of scorpions filled the air. Dragonglass bolts punched through the wooden hulls below the waterline.
The supply ships groaned and began to list. Dornish sailors leaped into the sea, only to find Stormlands longships waiting to fish them out—or push them under.
High on the walls of Ghaston Grey, Obara Sand watched her lifeline sink. She slammed her spear against the iron parapet, screaming in frustration.
Her plan to bleed the Stormlands dry while waiting for reinforcements had failed. Her mercenaries were dying, her food was at the bottom of the sea, and a black dragon was circling overhead like an executioner.
"Retreat!" she hissed. "Back to the sands!"
The order went out. The remaining Dornish ships in the harbor cut their lines and fled south toward the Broken Arm, abandoning the fortress.
Daemon watched them go. He could have chased them, burned them all, but he held The Cannibal back. The Marches still needed guarding.
By noon, the battle was over.
The sea was littered with debris and bobbing casks of wine. The Stormlands lords cheered from their decks, passing wineskins and clapping backs.
Daemon landed on the Blackfyre. Grey Ghost landed beside him, presenting a length of purple silk he'd torn from a mercenary's tunic.
Daemon laughed, scratching the dragon's snout. He looked at the empty fortress of Ghaston Grey. The wind whipped the tattered Martell banner on the walls.
"Your Highness!" Rayford Rosby ran up, waving a parchment. "Message from Stonehelm! Byron Swann held the line! The mercenaries are retreating! And Prince Baelon has secured the Stepstones!"
Daemon let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"What now?" Roland asked, handing him a cup of ale. "Do we go back to the Stepstones?"
Daemon took a long drink. "Leave a garrison here. Michael Mertyns and Robin Beesbury can hold Mistwood. The rest of us go back to Bloodstone. The Triarchy isn't finished yet. But we've broken their teeth."
As the sun began to set, the fleet turned east.
The Cannibal and Grey Ghost circled high above, their roars mingling with the crash of the waves.
Daemon stood at the prow, Blackfyre planted on the deck. He looked back at the Owl Tower of Mistwood, its beacon burning bright in the twilight.
He touched the charm in his tunic.
"Wait for me, Gael," he whispered. "I'm coming home."