The year was 271 AC, and the War of the Stepstones had evolved from a series of skirmishes into a systematic strangulation.
Rhaegar rode the Silver Emperor in wide, lazy circles over the archipelago. Below him, the sea was dotted with the wreckage of pirate ambition. The "Shipburner" strategy had been ruthlessly effective. Every cove, every inlet, every hidden harbor had been visited by dragonfire. The pirates were no longer raiders; they were refugees, trapped on the barren rocks of Bloodstone and Gallows Grey.
The Royal Fleet, led by Ser Lucerys Velaryon and the converted Tyroshi "boar" ships, formed a ring of steel around the islands. They had constructed a floating boom of chained logs and sunken hulks, a physical barrier that blocked escape and prevented resupply.
From the air, Bloodstone and Gallows Grey looked like two jagged towers rising from the sea, isolated and doomed.
But time was not entirely on Rhaegar's side.
Ravens from Essos brought worrying news. Malaho Maegyr in Volantis and Lysandro Rogare in Lys reported that the mood in the Free Cities was shifting.
"The Magisters of Lys and Myr are growing restless," Malaho wrote. "They hate the pirates, yes, but they fear a Stepstones controlled by the Iron Throne even more. They worry about tolls. They worry about a Westerosi chokehold on their trade. There is talk of an intervention fleet."
Rhaegar crumbled the parchment in his hand.
If Lys and Myr entered the war openly, the equation would change. Their combined fleets could challenge even the Redwyne navy. And if Tyrosh was forced to choose sides in a wider conflict, they might abandon their profitable neutrality.
"We need to finish this," Rhaegar decided. "Before the politicians in Essos find their courage."
He flew to the flagship of the blockade fleet. Ser Lucerys and Ser Brynden Tully were waiting.
"The noose is tight, my Prince," Brynden said, pointing to the map. "They are eating rats on Gallows Grey. We've seen them fighting over seagulls."
"Good," Rhaegar said. "Then we take Gallows Grey today. It will be the final nail in their coffin. And a warning to Bloodstone."
The attack began at dawn.
War drums thunder rolled across the water, a low, rhythmic booming that struck fear into the hearts of the starving defenders.
The Royal Fleet advanced, their catapults hurling stones and pots of burning pitch at the pirate fortifications on Gallows Grey.
But the real terror came from the sky.
Rhaegar and his dragons descended. They didn't just burn; they herded.
"Dracarys!"
Dragonfire swept along the beaches, clearing the way for the landing boats. The Silver Emperor, Balerion, and Belaerys worked in concert, creating walls of flame that funneled the pirates away from their defenses and toward the center of the island.
The defenders of Gallows Grey were gaunt, hollow-eyed men who had long since lost the will to fight. When the first Westerosi boots hit the sand—Bronze Yohn Royce leading a phalanx of heavy infantry—resistance crumbled.
White flags fluttered from the ruined towers. Men threw down their swords and fell to their knees, begging for bread rather than mercy.
"Secure the prisoners," Rhaegar ordered from the air. "Feed them, but keep them under guard. We don't want a riot."
Gallows Grey had fallen in less than an hour.
Now, only Bloodstone remained.
The Pirate King, Klarl Rhaen, was trapped in his fortress of caves and stone on the largest island. He had watched his outer defenses crumble, his fleet burn, and his allies surrender. He was alone.
But a cornered rat is dangerous.
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows over the smoking ruins of Gallows Grey, a commotion erupted on the northern beach of Bloodstone.
Desperate, starving, and terrified of the inevitable end, the remaining pirates on Bloodstone launched a suicidal breakout attempt.
They didn't have ships. They had rafts made of driftwood, barrels lashed together, even doors ripped from hinges. It was a pathetic, chaotic swarm of humanity trying to paddle across the channel to the open sea.
"They're trying to swim for it!" a lookout shouted.
Rhaegar watched from the sky. It was a tragedy, a waste of life driven by the madness of a few leaders.
But war did not allow for pity. If these men escaped, they would regroup. They would become bandits, raiders, a thorn in the side of the realm for years to come.
"Hold the line," Rhaegar commanded the fleet. "Let none pass."
He turned the Silver Emperor toward the desperate flotilla.
The sea would turn red before the night was over.