The Narrow Sea was a canvas of grey waves and white foam, but today, it would be painted red.
Above the roar of the wind, three dragons screamed.
Rhaegar rode the Silver Emperor, the wind whipping his silver-gold hair and tearing at the black scales of his armor. To his left and right, Balerion and Belaerys cut through the clouds like obsidian and amethyst arrowheads.
Below them, the "Shadow Fleet" plowed through the swells. It was a motley armada. At its heart were the two leased Tyroshi carracks—fat, round-bellied merchant ships that had been retrofitted with scorpions and catapults until they looked like bristling, wooden boars. Flanking them were sleek Velaryon warships and aging galleys from the Royal Fleet.
Commanding the sea forces was Ser Lucerys Velaryon, a cousin of the Lord of the Tides. He was a sycophant at court, but on the deck of a ship, the man was transformed. The salt air seemed to stiffen his spine.
The fleet flew a kaleidoscope of banners: the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, the silver seahorse of House Velaryon, the runic pebbles of House Royce, and the nine bats of House Whent. It was a "Dream Team" of Westerosi martial power, assembled by Rhaegar's will and Mace Tyrell's ambition.
Rhaegar had left Caesar and his personal guard to secure King's Landing, entrusting the capital's defense to trusted lieutenants. Here, in the open air, he was surrounded by legends: Ser Barristan the Bold, Ser Brynden "Blackfish" Tully, and Bronze Yohn Royce.
He had fought hard to be here. King Jaehaerys II had been reluctant to risk his heir and the last dragons in a war that had dragged on for years. The War of the Ninepenny Kings had bankrupted the crown once; another protracted conflict in the Stepstones could do it again.
"Dragons are weapons, Father," Rhaegar had argued. "If we do not use them, our enemies will cease to fear them. A quick war is a cheap war."
Now, he had to prove it.
Rhaegar closed his eyes and pressed his hand against the [Fire Sight] ruby beneath his breastplate. He channeled a spark of [Blue Flame].
The world fell away. In his mind's eye, flames danced, resolving into shapes.
He was looking for Klarl Rhaen, the Pirate King of the Stepstones. But without a blood connection—like the one Alys Rivers had used to track Daemon Targaryen—the scrying was difficult. The islands were a maze of caves and hidden coves, and Rhaegar had no sample of the Pirate King's blood.
Fog. Rocks. Broken ships.
The vision shifted.
Ten miles to the east. A squadron of galleys painted with the green stripes of Myr.
"Got you," Rhaegar whispered.
He opened his eyes and guided the Silver Emperor down toward the flagship. He landed lightly on the forecastle, startling the crew.
"Commander Lucerys!" Rhaegar shouted over the wind. "Enemy fleet, ten miles east-southeast! Myrish mercenaries. Turn the fleet!"
Lucerys didn't hesitate. "Hard to port! Signal the squadron! Battle stations!"
The Tyroshi "boars" turned lumberingly but with surprising speed, their massive sails catching the wind. The Goldenheart archers, positioned on the high castles of the merchant ships, checked their bowstrings.
Ten miles later, they found them.
The Myrish squadron had been patrolling a narrow channel, confident in their isolation. When they saw the Westerosi fleet emerging from the mist, panic rippled through their lines.
But the panic turned to terror when they looked up.
"Dragons! By the Seven Hells, dragons!"
"They said they were hatchlings! They said they were cats with wings!"
The Myrish captain, a scarred veteran of the Disputed Lands, drew his sword and cut down a screaming sailor. "Hold fast, you dogs! Scorpions! Get the scorpions up! We killed a dragon once, we can do it again!"
It was a brave thought, but a foolish one.
Rhaegar signaled the dive.
"Dracarys!"
The three dragons folded their wings and fell from the sky like thunderbolts.
The Myrish scorpions swiveled, their crews frantically cranking the winches. Bolts flew into the air, seeking the soft flesh of wings and bellies.
But Rhaegar had trained for this.
The dragons wove through the barrage, banking and rolling with a fluidity that defied their size. They were not stationary targets. They were living missiles.
Rhaegar guided the Silver Emperor toward the lead galley. As they leveled out, fifty feet above the water, the dragon opened his maw.
A river of silver-gold fire erupted.
It hit the deck of the Myrish ship with the force of a physical blow. Wood shattered, sails vanished in a flash of ash, and men screamed as their armor cooked them alive. The fire didn't just burn; it clung, viscous and hungry, fueled by Rhaegar's magic.
Behind him, the Blackfish unleashed his archers. From the high decks of the Tyroshi carracks, a rain of Goldenheart arrows fell upon the enemy. The shafts punched through mail and leather, silencing the scorpion crews before they could reload.
It was a slaughter.
But the Myrish captain was stubborn. Clinging to the burning wreckage of his bridge, he leveled a heavy crossbow at the silver beast sweeping past.
He waited. He aimed not at the body, but at the eye.
Twang.
The bolt flew true.
Rhaegar saw it coming through the [Mind Curse]. But they were too close, moving too fast to dodge completely.
Shield!
The [Shield Rune] on the Silver Emperor's forehead flared with a bronze light.
The bolt struck just above the dragon's eye. Instead of piercing the brain, it shattered against the magical barrier, leaving only a shallow scratch on a silver scale.
The Silver Emperor roared—not in pain, but in fury.
He twisted in the air, his golden eyes narrowing. He saw the ant who had dared to sting him.
Rhaegar felt the dragon's rage flood the bond. It was a cold, primal desire to erase the offender from existence.
Burn him, Rhaegar agreed.
The Silver Emperor hovered, ignoring the lesser arrows bouncing off his armored underbelly. He bathed the Myrish captain in a concentrated blast of silver flame.
The man didn't even have time to scream. He was simply gone, turned to vapor and bone dust in a heartbeat.
Balerion and Belaerys joined the fray, sensing their brother's anger. Purple and black fire mixed with the silver, turning the channel into a cauldron of destruction. The water boiled. The ships cracked and sank, dragging their screaming crews down to the Drowned God.
From the decks of the Westerosi fleet, the soldiers cheered until their throats were raw. They watched the "boar" ships ram the crippled survivors, crushing them against the rocks.
As the smoke cleared, Rhaegar circled once more, looking down at the burning wreckage.
The Myrish squadron was gone.
The dragons were untouched.
"The Stepstones are open," Rhaegar murmured, turning his mount back toward his fleet. "And the Dragon is hungry."