Chapter 200: Kneel and Admit Defeat
Three dragons circled and danced above the Narrow Sea Fleet, their roars sounding like thunderclaps. The dragons possessed savage horns and a wild majesty; their wings spread like clouds, their breath boomed like thunder, their voices cracked like lightning, and their ferocity blazed like fire.
On the deck of the Glory of Bloodstone, the commander of the Triarchy, the Lysene Admiral Salazar Dono, looked deathly pale. Yet he refused to bow his head, lifting it instead to stare fixedly at Rhaegar. Behind Salazar, the adjutants and generals knelt with ashen faces and trembling bodies. Today they had witnessed firsthand the terror and ferocity of dragons. Against those swift and brutal flames, they had been utterly helpless. The naval commanders of the Triarchy recalled the old legends—that dragons devoured men—and wondered whether such a gruesome fate awaited them.
Rhaegar watched these defeated men. Yet not one of the Triarchy generals surrendered willingly. The Triarchy could be defeated, but in their hearts they still refused to submit to the monarchy of Westeros or accept the rule of Dragonlords once again. Most of the Free Cities were like this. They were accustomed to councils and governors and considered them superior to kings and princes. Since the fall of Valyria, they had been masters of their own fate.
The scene aboard the Glory of Bloodstone resembled a classical painting—Vercingetorix Surrendering to Caesar. Rhaegar had won the Battle of Bloodstone, but Salazar and the others still knelt with proud, unwilling expressions, refusing to truly admit defeat.
The spacious deck displayed fluttering banners of the red dragon on black and the black dragon on silver. Rhaegar sat calmly in a chair, surrounded by his three young squires: Myles, Jon, and Jaime. The boys' faces were flushed with excitement. Behind him stood the famous lords, knights, and captains of Westeros: Ser Steffon Baratheon, Ser Barristan Selmy, Brynden Tully the Blackfish, Lucerys Velaryon, and Prince Lewyn Martell.
Kneeling below were Salazar and the captured high-ranking officers of the Triarchy—fair-haired, blue-eyed Lyseni and olive-skinned Myrish commanders, all bound and disheveled. Slaves and royal guards stood watch over them.
"Go fetch the ship's painter, along with ink, canvas, and paints," Rhaegar ordered loudly. "I want this moment preserved for future generations."
The crowd exchanged looks, but all obeyed immediately. Soldiers followed orders, especially when the command came from an undefeated general—the triumphant Silver Prince.
A shipboard painter hurried over from another section of the vessel. Normally he drew sea charts, but the war had ended so quickly that he had not expected his brush to find another use.
"Thank you for your hard work," Rhaegar said with a smile. "Paint this scene for us. Admiral Salazar of the Triarchy surrendering to Rhaegar Targaryen aboard the Glory of Bloodstone. This image deserves to shine for ten thousand years and bring honor to future descendants."
The Westerosi around him immediately brightened with pride. To be painted into history itself—who would not be thrilled?
Salazar and the others, however, looked even more miserable.
This was not merely defeating them. This was crushing their spirits.
Rhaegar believed a ruler needed four things to glorify his martial achievements: architecture, books, paintings, and music.
The Young Dragon had once written a book celebrating his conquest of Dorne. Rhaegar intended to go further. Triumphal arches, songs of victory, monumental paintings—every form of glory would be used. Such things strengthened prestige while rewarding those who fought for him.
"It is my honor, Prince Rhaegar," the painter said, deeply flattered. "To paint victorious warriors and heroes is my greatest glory."
He already sensed that this painting would make him famous.
"Admiral Salazar," Rhaegar said at last, his voice turning cold. "Do you surrender?"
"Lys has admirals who die in battle, not those who surrender!" Salazar raised his head and glared at Rhaegar while struggling against his bonds.
"I challenge you to a duel, offspring of dragons! Sorcerer of flames!"
The surrounding lords and knights immediately turned furious.
"Impudent!" Lucerys Velaryon stepped forward and slapped Salazar hard across the face.
Yet Rhaegar simply watched.
"Ser Lucerys. Untie Admiral Salazar and give him a sword."
Silence fell.
"Admiral!" the Triarchy officers shouted with grief.
Salazar accepted the sword and looked toward his men.
"Gentlemen, live on. You are still young. Do not seek revenge for me or waste your lives on foolish dreams."
"I am the admiral. If the Triarchy collapses because of this defeat, then I must be the first to pay the price."
"I do not wish to endure endless impeachment from the Council of Governors, nor live surrounded by widows mourning the dead."
"The Battle of Bloodstone is lost."
"I, Salazar, die here."
Rhaegar stood and drew Orphan-Maker.
"Stand aside," he said.
"No one else has the right to take the life of this patriotic commander."
"The one who grants your death shall be Rhaegar of House Targaryen."
Salazar nodded.
"Thank you."
"If Lys falls because of me, I have already shed enough blood and tears for my motherland."
Swordlight flashed.
Salazar was undoubtedly a skilled warrior, but that was all.
Rhaegar did not indulge in flashy techniques. His sword strikes came like rain. Strength, speed, and instinct merged into one.
Salazar felt as if every clash struck him with the force of a falling mountain.
At last his arm gave out.
Blood splashed.
Salazar's body collapsed heavily upon the deck.
"Collect his body," Rhaegar said calmly. "When Lys comes to negotiate peace, return him home."
He looked down at the corpse.
At least Salazar could still be buried in Lys.
Many of the men who followed him would never return from the bellies of fish and the depths of the sea.
"Who else wishes to follow Admiral Salazar into death?" Rhaegar asked.
No one answered.
No one dared.
Salazar himself had stood no chance.
Who among them would fare better?
Rhaegar sheathed Orphan-Maker and looked down at the kneeling officers.
"Gentlemen... are you convinced now?"
One adjutant shouted angrily:
"You relied on tricks and deception! Your victory was not honorable!"
Rhaegar laughed.
"My tricks?"
"If you had not sent assassins to Rosby, would I ever have found such an opportunity?"
"It was your own greed. The Triarchy simply refused to let go."
Another officer gritted his teeth.
"You relied on dragons and fire! Without them your army was not superior!"
Rhaegar smiled inwardly.
He had not even revealed his Rhoynar water magic.
Compared with what awaited Braavos and the Iron Islands, the Triarchy had been fortunate.
"If you remain unconvinced," Rhaegar said, "pick up a sword and challenge me."
Silence followed.
No one moved.
The Triarchy had already knelt.
Its fleet had been destroyed.
Its armies exhausted.
Its spirit broken.
"Gentlemen," Rhaegar said calmly, "escort our honored guests away."
"Raise every battle banner."
"We need only wait here for the cries of the Triarchy begging for peace."
Brynden stepped forward with a report.
"We've completed preliminary counts. Of the enemy's hundred warships, fifty-two were sunk and five escaped."
"Forty-three were captured."
"Eight are too heavily damaged for further combat."
Rhaegar's eyes brightened.
"Then thirty-five warships remain combat-capable."
A smile spread across his face.
The feeling of obtaining an entire fleet at no cost truly was satisfying.
Though the price of war had been steep, the outcome was more than worth it.
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