The southern approach to the Stepstones was a maze of razor-sharp reefs and treacherous currents, a graveyard for the unwary. But Prince Lewyn Martell's pilots navigated it with the ease of men walking through their own gardens.
The allied fleet emerged from the mist like a forest of spears.
The banners snapped in the salt wind: the golden rose of Tyrell, the purple grape of Redwyne, the sun-and-spear of Martell, and the green apple of Fossoway. It was a display of martial splendor that only the Reach could afford.
Mace Tyrell stood on the deck of the Kingmaker, chest puffed out, looking every inch the conqueror. In reality, the fleet was being commanded by a grizzled Redwyne captain at his side, a man placed there by Mace's mother to ensure her son didn't accidentally invade the wrong continent.
Prince Lewyn commanded the Dornish contingent—a squadron of fast, shallow-draft galleys packed with spearmen. They were the skirmishers, the wolves nipping at the heels of the pirate prey.
Ahead lay a nameless island, a jagged rock that the pirates had fortified with timber palisades and sunken hulks. It was the gateway to Bloodstone, the heart of the Pirate King's domain.
"Draw them out," Rhaegar had instructed. "Use the size of your ships to intimidate them. Make them think it's a conventional assault."
Mace signaled the advance. The heavy Redwyne galleys moved forward, their catapults hurling stones at the pirate fortifications.
The pirates took the bait. Seeing a fleet of heavy, slow-moving merchant-lords, they swarmed out of their coves in their swift corsair ships, eager for plunder. They thought they could outmaneuver the lumbering giants of the Reach.
They were wrong.
High above, hidden in the glare of the sun, Rhaegar waited.
He watched the pirate fleet commit to the attack, engaging the Redwyne line. He waited until they were locked in combat, until their retreat was cut off.
Then, he tipped the Silver Emperor into a dive.
The sound came first—a shrieking roar that tore through the noise of battle.
The pirates looked up, shading their eyes against the sun.
"What is that?"
"A bird? A cloud?"
"Dragon! Dive!"
Three shadows fell upon the fleet. The Silver Emperor, wings spread to thirty-two feet, descended like a falling star. Balerion and Belaerys flanked him, a triad of death.
Rhaegar did not target the ships at random. He used his [Fire Sight] to identify the command vessel, a stolen Lysene galley bristling with archers.
"Dracarys!"
The three dragons fired in unison.
Silver, purple, and black fire merged into a single column of destruction.
The pirate flagship didn't just burn; it exploded. The heat ignited the stores of pitch and oil on deck, turning the vessel into a fireball that showered the surrounding ships with burning debris.
The psychological impact was devastating. The pirates had heard rumors of dragons, but they had expected runts, hatchlings the size of dogs. They were not prepared for these armored beasts that melted heavy timber like wax.
"They lied!" a pirate screamed, throwing down his sword. "They said they were small!"
Panic spread. The pirate formation broke. Ships collided as helmsmen tried to flee in terror.
But there was nowhere to go. The Redwyne fleet pressed forward, their scorpions and archers picking off the stragglers. The Dornish galleys darted in, their spearmen boarding the crippled vessels and cutting down the survivors with ruthless efficiency.
Rhaegar circled back, strafing the pirate lines. He saw scorpions tracking him, but the crews were shaking, their shots going wide. The few bolts that found their mark glanced harmlessly off the dragons' armored bellies or shattered against the [Shield Rune] barriers.
The Silver Emperor roared his dominance, banking low over the water to snatch a pirate from a crow's nest, tossing the screaming man into the sea.
It was a massacre.
The pirate fleet was annihilated. The few survivors beached their ships on the island, fleeing into the hills, where the Dornish light infantry hunted them down.
Rhaegar landed on the island's main beach, the dragons settling onto the sand amidst the wreckage of the pirate fort.
He dismounted, the [True Dragon] spear in his hand. The air smelled of ozone and roasted meat.
[System Notification: Achievement Unlocked - Tyrant of the Narrow Sea.]
[Description: You have instilled absolute terror in the pirates of the Stepstones. Morale of enemy naval units reduced by 20%.]
"Tyrant," Rhaegar mused. "A harsh word. But effective."
Mace Tyrell and Prince Lewyn came ashore in a longboat. Mace was beaming, his face flushed with triumph. Lewyn looked calm, but his eyes assessed Rhaegar with a new respect—and perhaps a hint of fear.
"A magnificent victory!" Mace shouted, stumbling slightly in the sand as he rushed to shake Rhaegar's hand. "We crushed them! The Reach and the Dragon, unbeatable!"
"And Dorne," Rhaegar added, nodding to Lewyn. "Your pilots saved us a dozen ships on the reefs, Prince."
Lewyn bowed. "We do what we must."
They stood amidst the smoking ruins. The southern gate to the Stepstones was open.
"We have a foothold," Rhaegar said, pointing north toward the horizon where the dark shape of Bloodstone loomed. "Now we squeeze."
"We will starve them out," Lewyn agreed. "Blockade the islands. Let them eat their own dead."
"And when they are weak," Rhaegar said, his violet eyes cold, "we will finish it."
He looked at the new banners being raised over the pirate fort. The Dragon, the Rose, the Sun, the Grape.
"Congratulations, my lords," Rhaegar announced, his voice carrying to the soldiers gathering on the beach. "Today, you have made history."
Cheers erupted, chanting the names of the victors.
Mace the Magnificent!
Lewyn the Spear!
Rhaegar the Tyrant!
Rhaegar smiled. Let them call him what they wanted. As long as they knelt.