The islands of the Stepstones were ugly things—barren rocks jutting from the sea like the broken teeth of a giant, scoured by wind and salt. They were places where even seabirds hesitated to nest.
Yet, because they sat astride the throat of the Narrow Sea, binding Westeros to Essos, men had died for them for thousands of years.
On the newly captured southern island, the smoke was beginning to clear. The combined fleet of the Reach and Dorne anchored in the natural harbor, their masts a forest of wood against the grey sky.
Soldiers in green and gold tabards were busy setting up camp. They dug latrines, leveled ground for tents, and raised palisades. The pirates in the nearby coves, demoralized by the dragon attack, stayed hidden in their holes.
Rhaegar walked through the camp with Mace Tyrell and Prince Lewyn Martell. The contrast between their forces was stark.
The men of the Reach were heavy infantry, clad in plate and mail, sweating profusely in the humid sea air. They looked like moving fortresses. The Dornishmen, by contrast, wore scales of copper and iron over boiled leather, loose robes to deflect the sun, and carried round shields and long spears. They moved with a fluid economy of motion that spoke of a life spent in harsh deserts.
"Courage wins battles," Rhaegar mused to himself, "but logistics wins wars."
The Reach brought the hammer—mass, armor, supplies. Dorne brought the knife—speed, adaptability, local knowledge.
"We shall call this rock 'Victory Isle'!" Mace Tyrell declared, sweeping his arm across the bleak landscape. "Where the Dragon, the Rose, and the Spear first triumphed together!"
The Lord of Highgarden was practically vibrating with excitement. He looked like an inflated wineskin in his velvet doublet.
"A bit... on the nose, don't you think?" Prince Lewyn remarked dryly. "Perhaps 'Prince's Isle,' in honor of the man who actually burned the enemy fleet?"
"Prince's Isle!" Mace clapped his hands. "Splendid! It has a regal ring to it."
Rhaegar smiled. "Prince's Isle it is."
That evening, the Reach cooks prepared a feast that seemed impossibly lavish for a war zone. Capons stuffed with onions and mushrooms, salt-fried fish, blackberry tarts, and lemon cakes. Ale and wine flowed freely, though Rhaegar ensured the sentries remained sober.
The Dornish soldiers looked at the spread with bemusement. They ate their own rations of spicy peppers, flatbread, and dried snake meat, preferring the fire in their bellies to the heavy cream of the Reach.
"I leave this position in your hands," Rhaegar told his commanders as the meal wound down. "Hold this island. Blockade the southern channels. Do not engage the main pirate fleet at Bloodstone until I give the signal."
"You can count on us, my Prince!" Mace promised, wiping grease from his chin.
"We will be the anvil," Lewyn agreed, his dark eyes serious.
Rhaegar nodded. He had forged a hammer and an anvil. Now it was time to heat the metal.
He walked to the dragons, who were finishing their own meal of sheep and oxen.
"One more flight," he whispered to the Silver Emperor.
The great dragon grumbled but allowed Rhaegar to mount. With a rush of wings, they launched into the twilight sky, leaving the fires of Prince's Isle behind.
Flying north, Rhaegar felt the exhaustion settling into his bones. He had fought two battles today—one in the east against the Myrish, one in the south against the pirates. His muscles ached, and his mind felt frayed.
A general cannot be tired.
He summoned the [Tree Rune].
In his palm, a blue flame flickered, taking the shape of a weirwood. Emerald energy flowed from the rune, washing over him like cool water. The fatigue evaporated. His mind cleared. He felt the vitality of the earth itself pumping through his veins.
He extended the energy to the dragons. The Silver Emperor's wingbeats grew stronger, his scales shining with renewed luster.
Alys Rivers used this to stay young, Rhaegar thought. I use it to fight forever.
Below him, the northern islands of the Stepstones appeared. The blockade around Bloodstone was tightening.
He spotted the main encampment of the Royal Army on a large island north of Bloodstone. The banners of House Targaryen, Lannister, and Baratheon snapped in the wind.
As the three dragons descended, a cheer went up from the camp that rivaled the roar of the surf.
Rhaegar landed in the center of the command compound. He slid from the saddle, removing his helm to reveal his silver hair. He looked every inch the warrior-prince—tall, armored in black steel, with the violet eyes of Old Valyria.
Ser Barristan, Ser Brynden, and the other lords he had sent ahead were waiting. But they stood back to let the royal commanders approach.
Crown Prince Aerys stood on a raised platform, flanked by Tywin Lannister and Steffon Baratheon.
"My son!" Aerys shouted, his voice high and excited. "The hero of the Stepstones! They say you burned a hundred ships today!"
Aerys looked manic, his silver hair unkempt, his eyes bright with a feverish energy. He was proud, yes, but there was an edge to it—a jealousy that he wasn't the one on the dragon.
"Only twenty, Father," Rhaegar corrected gently, ascending the platform. "But enough to secure the south."
"We need a new chair for him!" Aerys proclaimed to the gathered lords. "And a better sword! If only we had Dark Sister... Bloodraven took it to the Wall, the old crow. A curse on him!"
Tywin Lannister watched Rhaegar with cool, calculating green eyes. "The southern channel is closed?"
"Sealed tight," Rhaegar confirmed. "Mace Tyrell and Prince Lewyn hold Prince's Isle. The pirates are trapped in the center."
"Good," Tywin said. "Then we squeeze."
They gathered around the map table in the command tent. The dynamic was palpable. Aerys was the nominal commander, flighty and prone to grand, impractical gestures. Tywin was the true mind, cold and ruthless. Steffon was the heart, steady and loyal.
And Rhaegar... Rhaegar was the weapon.
"The pirates are dug in on Bloodstone," Tywin explained, pointing to the large central island. "Caves, tunnels, stone forts. A direct assault will be costly."
"I have a plan for the forts," Rhaegar said. "But first, we must stop their reinforcements. My [Fire Sight] tells me the Lysene exiles aren't done yet."
He looked at the map, his finger tracing a line from the east.
"I will patrol the perimeter. Keep the blockade tight. If anything tries to slip through, I will burn it."
The war council lasted until nightfall. When Rhaegar finally retired to his tent, the camp was quiet.
But he couldn't sleep. A prickling sensation at the back of his neck warned him.
He sat up and pulled the [Fire Sight] ruby from his tunic. He stared into the flame of a candle.
Dark water. Silent oars. A fleet of longships moving under the cover of darkness, approaching from the northeast.
"Reinforcements," Rhaegar whispered. "Or a counter-attack."
He stood up and grabbed his helm.
"Wake the dragons," he told the guard at the door.
"But my Prince," the guard stammered. "You've fought two battles today."
Rhaegar smiled, a dangerous glint in his eyes.
"Then let us make it three."
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