The Battle of the Stepstones had begun not with a whimper, but with a roar.
Smoke rose from the broken hulls of the Myrish galleys, black oily pillars that wept into the sky. The sea was littered with debris—shattered spars, torn sails, and the floating bodies of mercenaries who had chosen the wrong contract.
The Tyroshi "boar" ships wallowed in the swell, their crews busy lowering longboats to salvage what they could and dispatch the survivors. War was a brutal artist, painting in shades of red and grey.
Rhaegar landed the Silver Emperor on the wide, flat deck of the flagship. The dragon's claws gouged deep furrows in the wood as he settled, his wings folding like a cloak of liquid mercury. Balerion and Belaerys landed on the flanking ships, their presence alone enough to silence the victorious soldiers.
Rhaegar removed his helm. His silver hair was windblown, his violet eyes burning with the adrenaline of combat. He wore black scale armor with the three-headed dragon wrought in silver on his breastplate. At his hip hung a long, curved falchion of castle-forged steel—a placeholder until he could reclaim Blackfyre—but in his hand, he held the true symbol of his authority: the [True Dragon] spear.
"A glorious victory, my Prince!" Ser Lucerys Velaryon approached, bowing low.
Rhaegar looked around at the men. They were young, hardened by the sea, their faces smeared with soot and blood. But in their eyes, he saw awe. They weren't just fighting for a king; they were fighting for a legend.
"Feed the dragons," Rhaegar ordered, his voice carrying over the deck. "Fresh meat. And bring me the prisoners. I want to know who paid for these ships."
He didn't need to micromanage. He had Ser Brynden "Blackfish" Tully to handle discipline and Ser Barristan Selmy to handle security. Rhaegar's role was to be the icon, the god of war that they could rally around.
A group of Myrish mercenaries was dragged forward. They were wet, shivering, and terrified. They had expected to fight sailors, not monsters out of a history book.
"Who are you?" Rhaegar asked, leaning on his spear. Behind him, the Silver Emperor tore into a roasted ox carcass, bones crunching with a sound like snapping branches.
"The Longbows of Myr," the mercenary captain stammered, eyeing the dragon. "We were hired by the Lysene exiles. Triple pay."
"Triple pay for a watery grave," Rhaegar noted coldly. "And did your employers mention the dragons?"
"They said... they said they were hatchlings. No bigger than dogs."
Rhaegar laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. "A dog does not melt a galley."
He signaled to Ser Brynden. "Lock them in the hold. They might be useful for a ransom exchange later. Or as a warning."
He turned back to his commanders. Ser Barristan, Bronze Yohn Royce, Lord Jason Mallister. They raised their cups in a toast.
"To the Prince of Dragonstone!"
"To the Breaker of Spears!"
Rhaegar drank, the wine tasting of victory. But his mind was already moving to the next piece on the board.
The dragon has three heads. The crab has two claws.
He had struck the eastern flank of the Stepstones, shattering the Myrish reinforcements. Now, the western flank was exposed.
"Ser Lucerys, Ser Barristan," Rhaegar commanded. "Take the fleet and rendezvous with my father's main force near Bloodstone. Do not engage the Pirate King directly yet. Consolidate your strength. Wait for the signal."
"And you, my Prince?" Barristan asked, concern etching his brow.
"I have a date with a Flower and a Spear," Rhaegar said, swinging back into the saddle.
The Silver Emperor roared, sensing his rider's intent.
"Fly!"
The three dragons launched into the air, water spraying from their wings. Rhaegar pushed them hard, flying west toward the setting sun.
He pulled the [Fire Sight] ruby from his tunic. The flame within showed him a chaotic scene.
The Redwyne Fleet, a massive armada of heavy galleys flying the golden rose of Tyrosh and the grape cluster of the Arbor, was smashing into a pirate blockade. Prince Lewyn Martell's pilots were guiding them through the treacherous reefs, but the pirates were fighting back with desperation.
Catapults flung pots of wildfire. Scorpions snapped.
Rhaegar urged the Silver Emperor faster.
Below him, the battle was a confused melee of boarding actions and burning ships. Mace Tyrell's flagship, the Kingmaker, was surrounded by three pirate vessels.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over the combatants.
The pirates looked up, their blood freezing.
"Dracarys!"
Rhaegar dove out of the sun. The Silver Emperor unleashed a torrent of fire that cut a pirate ship in half. Balerion and Belaerys strafed the decks of the other two, turning men into torches.
The pirate line broke. Panic spread like a contagion.
From the deck of the Kingmaker, Mace Tyrell looked up, his face a mask of joyous disbelief.
"He came!" Mace shouted, waving his sword. "The Dragon is here! Push forward! For Highgarden and the Throne!"
The pincer had closed. And in the jaws of the dragon, there would be no mercy.