The golden-red afterglow of the sunset spilled across the Narrow Sea, dyeing the silhouette of the Stepstones the color of molten gold.
The dark red reefs of Bloodstone and the jagged cliffs of Grey Gallows faced each other across the water like two colossal beasts slumbering in the sea, silently recounting the dangerous history of this pirate haven.
The blue and white sails of the Redwyne fleet unfurled in the twilight, the grape sigils gilded with warm light. The Cannibal and Dreamfyre circled above, the black shadow and pale glow intertwining like two moving clouds of protection. Any Ironborn longships or Dornish patrol vessels that dared to approach steered well clear—after all, no faction was foolish enough to pick a fight under the shadow of two dragons.
"Prince, look to the northwest!" Alyn Redwyne's voice rang out from the crow's nest of the Arbor Queen. The orange-haired boy pointed toward several ship silhouettes on the distant horizon. "Those Lysene merchant ships... something's wrong!"
Daemon walked to the prow and followed Alyn's finger. Three ships flying the silk banners of Lys were hugging the edge of Grey Gallows. They appeared fully laden, yet sat strangely high in the water. Moreover, despite clearly seeing the dragons over the Redwyne fleet, they didn't stop to signal peaceful intent like other merchant vessels. Instead, they were trying to skirt around the fleet's path, veering toward Essos.
Ser Horace the Elder gripped the helm, frowning deeply. "Something's off. Lysene merchants usually approach our fleet proactively, hoping to hitch a ride for protection against pirates. These ones look like they're dodging us."
Beside him, Lyonel Strong nodded, the hem of his black robe brushing the sawdust on the deck. "Those are Lysene sails, alright, but they're moving too fast. Ordinary merchant ships don't have that kind of speed. And their crew is hiding below deck—not even a lookout. It's too suspicious."
Corwyn Celtigar leaned in, the blue crabs on his silver armor gleaming dully in the dusk. "I saw Lysene merchant ships with my uncle at High Tide. Their cargo holds always vent the scent of spices. These ships... I don't smell any spice. Instead, there's a faint smell of mold."
Daemon's gaze darkened, and the three-headed dragon brand on his right shoulder warmed slightly—a warning of approaching danger. He raised a hand and shouted to Alyn, "Signal the fleet to slow down. Approach slowly. Don't spook them."
The sails of the Redwyne fleet lowered slightly, the blue and white fabric fluttering gently. They seemed to be adjusting course leisurely, but in reality, they were quietly closing the distance on the "merchant ships."
However, the closer they got, the more suspicious the other ships' reactions became. Their previously steady speed suddenly increased, and sails were hoisted rapidly. They were trying to run.
"Definitely hiding something!" Daemon growled low, turning toward the gunwale. The Cannibal seemed to sense his master's intent and swooped down low. His massive claws landed on the edge of the deck, kicking up splinters. Daemon stepped onto the claw and vaulted onto the dragon's back. With a deep roar, the black dragon's wings beat powerfully, carrying them toward the fleeing ships.
"Corwyn, signal everyone! Weapons ready, prepare to board!" Daemon's voice carried on the wind back to the Arbor Queen.
Corwyn Celtigar responded immediately, scrambling up the mast to coordinate signals with Alyn and Ser Horace. He signaled each ship's captain with clear gestures—unsheathed silver swords. The crews reacted instantly, grabbing spears, swords, and even harpoons, their eyes filled with vigilance.
The Cannibal was incredibly fast, catching up to the "merchant ships" in the blink of an eye.
Daemon patted the dragon's neck. The Cannibal pulled up sharply, then unleashed a burst of pitch-black dragonfire. The flames didn't hit the ships directly but slammed into the sea just ahead of them, raising a wall of steam and water several stories high—a black barrier blocking their path.
"Heave to! Or I burn your fleet to ash!" Daemon's roar echoed over the sea, amplified by the dragon's cry.
The crew of the "merchant ships" finally panicked. Some tried to jump overboard, others ran around the deck in chaos. Only on the flagship did a man in silk robes try to maintain composure. He waved toward Daemon, shouting, "Misunderstanding! It's all a misunderstanding! Great Prince, we are merchants from Lys! We were just afraid of pirates and wanted to leave quickly!"
Daemon sneered and guided the Cannibal to land on the deck of the flagship. Even without fully settling his weight, the dragon's grip caused the ship to list dangerously. Dragon breath washed over the deck, making the wood hiss from the heat.
The man in silk robes hurried forward, holding a silver goblet filled with pale red fruit wine, a fawning smile plastered on his face. "Prince, please quell your anger. I am Pero, the leader of this fleet. This is the finest fruit wine of Lys. Please, have a taste as my apology."
The surrounding crew chimed in, offering fruit or bringing chairs, trying to create the illusion of "hospitable merchants."
Daemon saw the flash of calculation in Pero's eyes and deliberately reached for the cup. Pero's face lit up with relief. But just as Daemon's fingertips were about to touch the cup, he suddenly twisted his wrist and dashed the wine violently into Pero's face!
"Ah!" Pero screamed, his silk robes soaked and stained.
At that exact moment, several crossbow bolts shot out from the rear of the deck, aiming straight for Daemon's back—incredibly fast!
Clang!
Blackfyre was already drawn. The Valyrian steel blade sliced precisely through the first bolt, cutting it in two. With a fluid flourish, Daemon knocked the other stray arrows out of the air.
Daemon stepped forward, his left hand clamping around Pero's throat. The tip of Blackfyre pressed against the man's chest, his voice cold as the Narrow Sea ice. "Still pretending? Speak! Who are you really? What's hidden in the hold?"
Pero's face turned purple. He struggled to call for help, but Daemon's grip choked off his words.
Seeing this, the Cannibal puffed a small burst of fire at the edge of the deck, singing the hem of a crewman trying to draw a blade. The man screamed, dropped his weapon, and collapsed in terror.
By now, Corwyn Celtigar and Alyn Redwyne had boarded the flagship, leading Rayford Rosby, Rupert Crabb, and others.
Rayford's sword was at the throat of another man who looked like the second-in-command. Myles River wasted no time, using his battle-axe to smash open the door to the suspicious cargo hold.
As soon as the door opened, the sound of suppressed weeping drifted out.
Everyone peered inside. The hold was packed with people—elderly men, women, and several half-grown children. All were bound with rough hemp ropes and gagged with cloth strips, terror in their eyes. Below them lay injured men who looked like sailors or crew members.
Some of the children shrank back into the corners at the sudden light, while the women began to whimper excitedly, struggling against their bonds.
"Damn you all! You—you're slavers!" Alyn Redwyne's face went red with rage, his orange hair practically standing on end. "Seven Hells! The Iron Throne and all the laws of Westeros strictly forbid the trade of human beings! You Lysene animals!"
Pero was still trying to argue. "No! We were just—just transporting 'cargo' for someone! They were all willing!"
"Willing?" A clear but trembling voice rang out.
From the crowd, a dark-haired girl walked out slowly. She looked about fourteen or fifteen, wearing a tattered but once-luxurious blue dress stained with seawater and grime. Tear tracks marked her cheeks, but they couldn't hide her refined features—especially her eyes, red and swollen but shining with stubborn defiance.
She walked up to Daemon and curtsied respectfully. "Prince Daemon Blackfyre. I am Johanna Swann, niece of the Lord of Stonehelm. I was traveling by ship to visit kin at Cape Wrath when these slavers captured me in the Stepstones. My uncle, the Lord of Stonehelm, refused to pay the ransom, so these slavers decided to sell me to a pillow house in Lys! They are nothing but demons!"
Johanna's voice choked up, but she didn't cry. "They kept me in the deepest part of the hold. I heard Pero tell his men that once we passed the Stepstones, they would sell us in batches to the brothels of Lys—if the Prince hadn't saved me, I—"
Other captives began to speak up.
"I'm a tenant farmer from near Mistwood. My lord owed money to the Lyseni, so he sold me and several others!"
"I'm a sailor from Estermont. They seized our ship and took us!"
"They killed anyone who resisted and threw the bodies to the fish!"
Voices filled with righteous indignation echoed in the hold. Daemon's followers gripped their weapons tighter, their eyes blazing with fury as they looked at Pero and his men.
Daemon looked down at Pero. He pushed the tip of Blackfyre forward slightly, piercing the silk robe. "Any more excuses?"
Pero shook uncontrollably, his teeth chattering. "Prince, spare me! It was orders from the Triarchy! Craghas Drahar ordered us to capture slaves as supplies for their army—"
Daemon didn't listen to any more nonsense. He turned to Rayford. "Secure the rest of the Lyseni. Kill anyone who resists."
He then looked at Lyonel. "Ser Lyonel, please have someone count the hostages, register their identities and stolen property. I will have the Redwyne fleet take them home later. The remaining loot and usable ships will go to the Redwyne fleet as payment—but first, we must divert to Stonehelm."
"To Stonehelm?" Gael walked over, confusion in her pale violet eyes.
"Of course." Daemon's gaze rested on Johanna, then swept over the hostages who had accused their lords. "Since some dare sell their own people to slavers, I need to go ask the lords of the Stormlands if they've forgotten their oaths to protect their subjects."
Hearing "Stonehelm," Johanna trembled slightly but lifted her head to look at Daemon firmly. "Prince, I'll go with you! I want to ask my uncle myself why he would rather see me sold to a brothel than pay a single copper in ransom!"
Daemon nodded, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Alright, I'll take you. But first, tell me, how did you know I was Prince Daemon Blackfyre, my fair lady?"
Faced with the beautiful young man leaning close in the sunset, Johanna blushed. "There are only two young dragonriders in the Seven Kingdoms, Prince Daemon. One rides a red dragon, the other a black one."
---
The sun sank completely below the horizon, and night gradually enveloped the Stepstones.
The lights of the Redwyne fleet came on, scattering like stars across the sea.
The captured Lysene slave ships were tethered to the rear of the fleet. The hostages were given food and water; the fear on their faces slowly faded, replaced by gratitude as they looked at Daemon.
Johanna sat on the deck of the Arbor Queen. Gael was helping comb her tangled black hair. Mysaria, perhaps sensing a shared history, handed her a freshly baked oatcake. The girl took it and ate in small bites, but her gaze remained fixed in the direction of Stonehelm, filled with complicated emotions.
Daemon stood at the prow, staring into the darkness ahead. The Cannibal and Dreamfyre circled above, their breath condensing into white mist in the night sky.
He knew the questioning in the Stormlands would not be easy. The Stormlords were notoriously proud. But he knew even better that if he allowed this "selling subjects into slavery" to continue, only more people would become cargo for slavers in the future.
"We change course at first light," Daemon ordered Alyn, his voice carrying an unquestionable resolve.
Alyn nodded vigorously and turned to adjust the fleet's course.
Lyonel walked up to Daemon, speaking in a low voice. "The Stormlords won't admit fault easily. And to judge them, you might need the consent of the Iron Throne and Storm's End. Be prepared."
"I know." Daemon tightened his grip on Blackfyre, the Valyrian steel ripples glinting coldly in the lamplight. "But if it makes them remember that the subjects of the Iron Throne aren't goods to be bought and sold, then any difficulty is worth it."
The Stepstones fell silent in the night, save for the sound of waves hitting the reefs and the churning of the fleet's wake.
Johanna watched Daemon's back, then looked up at the two dragons in the sky. A sliver of hope rose in her heart. Perhaps this prince with the dragonfire could truly win justice for her, and ensure that people like her would no longer fall prey to slavers.
Far away in Stonehelm, the Lord of House Swann had no idea that a storm he had ignited was slowly approaching his lands, carried by the Redwyne fleet, ready to sweep across the lords of the Stormlands coast.