"Raise the white flag!"
"Lower the scorpions! Do not aim at the dragons or the rider!"
"Stow the grappling hooks! Do you want us all to burn?"
The Admiral commanding the Myrish fleet barked a rapid succession of orders. His voice cracked under the strain. He looked up at the massive winged shadows circling overhead, then at the war galleys enclosing his formation. The bitter taste of absolute defeat coated his tongue. Forced to choose between a gruesome, fiery end and a humiliating surrender, he chose to bend the knee. He would rather stand trial before the magisters of Myr than watch forty fine warships turn into floating pyres.
Seeing the white flags unfurl in the wind, the Silver Emperor hovered directly above the Myrish flagship. Rhaegar did not give the command to unleash fire. He merely watched the Myrish Admiral, noting the man's drooping shoulders and defeated posture.
"We choose peace!" the Admiral called out, his words thick with resignation. A hastily launched invasion had bought them nothing but a degrading capitulation.
The Myrish Admiral refused to step foot on Tyroshi soil, knowing the enraged mob would tear him limb from limb. The negotiations would have to take place on the deck of his own flagship, the last scrap of dignity he possessed. The Tyroshi and Westerosi fleets squeezed the Myrish vessel so tightly from both sides that sailors could simply step over the railings from one deck to another.
Rhaegar, Lord Corlys Velaryon, and Bronze Yohn Royce led the Westerosi delegation. Shireen Dary and the Tyroshi Admiral led the other. Together, they boarded the Myrish flagship.
Beneath the grim shadows of spears adorned with gilded skulls, Rhaegar's sharp violet eyes swept over the senior captains of the Golden Company. The seasoned sellswords shifted uncomfortably, avoiding the Dragon Prince's gaze. Most of these men carried Westerosi blood in their veins. They were the remnants of lost wars, failed causes, and crushed rebellions. They formed a brotherhood of exiles, each bearing a tarnished name and no true home. Yet they remained the iron legacy of Bittersteel, commanding the most formidable mercenary force in the Disputed Lands. Rhaegar's spies had counted nearly nine thousand swords and several war elephants among their ranks. They had fully recovered their strength since the War of the Ninepenny Kings.
The supposed negotiation quickly devolved into a one-sided extortion. Myr would pay a heavy ransom in gold and surrender three warships to the Iron Throne, along with three more to Tyrosh. The Golden Company soldiers stood perfectly still in the background, guarding their skull-tipped standards and their employer.
The dragons roared continuously from the clouds. The Myrish Admiral's hand shook violently as he reached for the quill to sign the treaty.
A heartbeat before the inked tip grazed the parchment, the air shifted. Pride makes men blind and desperate. Rhaegar's eyes flicked upward. Behind the Myrish commander stood a grizzled vice-admiral. The man's hand whipped out from beneath his cloak, leveling a concealed hand-crossbow directly at the Prince. At such a close distance, a lethal strike seemed inevitable.
"Die, dragonspawn!" the gray-haired officer bellowed. The bowstring twanged, sending a black iron bolt whistling straight for Rhaegar's throat.
"Vice-Admiral Kraken, drop your weapon! Stop him!" The Myrish Admiral shrieked, the blood draining completely from his face. He scrambled backward, knocking over his chair. A mutiny during peace talks meant total annihilation. The flagship sat completely surrounded. To assassinate the Warden of the Narrow Sea, the legal heir to the Iron Throne, and a dragonrider would condemn all forty Myrish ships to the dragonfire circling above.
"With the heart of a beast, I strike the heart of the dragon! For lasting peace! Rise, brothers!" Kraken shouted, his hands blurring as he loaded a second bolt.
A sharp gasp tore from Shireen's throat. She stumbled back, her eyes fixed on the lethal projectile darting forward like a striking viper.
Ser Salladhor Saan lunged to shield the Prince. Ser Barristan Selmy cursed his own positioning, his blade only half-drawn.
Jaws went slack, and eyes widened in sudden, breathless panic. Westerosi knights, Tyroshi guards, and even the hardened veterans of the Golden Company froze in shock. Kraken intended to ignite a war that would consume them all. The Admiral's loyal adjutants lunged toward the assassin, but they were too far away. Kraken had already loosed his second shot. At ten paces, a crossbow bolt cared nothing for a warrior's legendary skill. The Prince was dead.
The corner of Rhaegar's mouth twitched upward.
Instead of diving for cover, he stepped directly into the path of the black bolts. His body twisted with fluid, unnatural grace. Orphan-Maker cleared its scabbard with a sharp, metallic hiss. Dark Valyrian steel flashed in the sunlight, swatting the first bolt aside in a shower of splinters. The second bolt arrived an instant later, but Rhaegar moved faster than mortal eyes could track. Before the second projectile could even strike the deck planks, the rippling black blade cleaved through the air. A sickening crunch echoed across the deck as Rhaegar sheared Vice-Admiral Kraken cleanly in half.
Bronze Yohn Royce slammed his heavy broadsword against the Myrish Admiral's neck, his face contorted with fury.
"My sword makes widows as well as orphans," Rhaegar noted coolly, staring down at the bisected corpse bleeding onto the wooden planks. He casually wiped the dark steel and turned back toward the table. "Sheathe your sword, Yohn. I trust the sight of blood does not offend you, Admiral."
The Myrish Admiral remained entirely mute, his lips trembling. His own second-in-command had just attempted an assassination. No words could possibly excuse the betrayal.
"A prince must protect himself. Allow me to stand in front of you next time, Your Grace," Ser Salladhor said, his hand still gripping his hilt.
"You terrified me, Prince Rhaegar," Shireen whispered, her hands clutching the fabric of her dress.
"Fear not, Archon. Like you, I have a destiny to fulfill. Common insects cannot harm me." Rhaegar offered her a reassuring smile. She stood before him like a blooming rose, and he fully intended to see her thrive. Warriors could die anywhere in the world; that was exactly why magic existed.
"That blade. Is it Orphan-Maker?" Bronze Yohn asked, his gaze locked on the razor-sharp, smoke-darkened edge.
"An excellent eye, Lord Yohn. It is indeed the legendary blade," Rhaegar replied. He slid the sword back into its sheath amid the deeply envious stares of every martial man on the deck. The metallic tang of fresh blood hung heavily in the air. Princes truly acted as lodestones, effortlessly attracting the greatest weapons in the world.
The Valyrian steel of Orphan-Maker rippled like dark water. The only mystery lay in the black gemstone embedded in the pommel. Rhaegar could not identify the jewel, but his mind immediately turned to the possibility of extracting runic power from it. The sword boasted a long history but had never found a truly worthy master, passing entirely through the hands of scoundrels and schemers. Thus, its fame paled in comparison to Blackfyre or Ice. A similar tragic fate had befallen Vigilance, the proud sword of House Hightower and the Greens, lost after the death of Lord Ormund during the Dance of the Dragons.
"You now owe me three additional warships, Admiral. You have offended the victor, the Butcher of the Narrow Sea, the Warden of the Stepstones, and a Prince of House Targaryen," Rhaegar stated, his violet eyes pinning the Myrish commander to the deck.
"Yes! Yes! Your Grace, I swear on my life I had no part in Kraken's madness. Please believe me!"
Rhaegar calculated the angles. Kraken had acted as a suicidal zealot. He had likely been bought by the Admiral's political rivals in Myr, or perhaps agents from Lys or Braavos hoping to spark chaos.
"I assure you, Your Grace, I will investigate this treason to the very root and deliver you an answer," the Admiral promised, his teeth grinding together. That bastard Kraken tried to get me killed.
The treaty was quickly amended and signed. Myr surrendered a massive chest of gold and nine total warships. The Myrish Admiral slumped in his seat, exhaling a shuddering breath. It was a crippling, humiliating surrender, but no one else had to feed the fishes today. Putting his name to the parchment felt like signing his own torture warrant.
"A most delightful agreement," Rhaegar murmured, tapping the signed parchment. Not a single Myrish officer dared to meet his eye.
"Returning to Myr may prove fatal for you," Rhaegar added smoothly, leaning closer to the Admiral. "If necessary, I can offer protection for your family. As the architect of this treaty, if you find yourself backed into a corner, seek me out."
The Admiral weighed the words carefully, then gave a slow, deliberate nod. A powerful friend served as a final lifeline. If the magisters of Myr came for his head, he would know where to run.
"Since the Admiral has chosen peace, we consider our contract fulfilled. The gold already paid serves as our severance," a commanding voice suddenly echoed across the deck.
The Captain-General of the Golden Company stepped forward. He stood tall and heavily muscled, with a square jaw and a greying beard. Heavy golden rings lined his forearms, each band representing a year of service to the mercenary brotherhood.
"Did the Golden Company truly believe they could simply walk away?" Rhaegar asked, his tone dropping to a lethal whisper. The air on the deck instantly froze.
The Myrish officers wanted to weep. How could they have forgotten the blood feud between the Iron Throne and the Golden Company? Was the war about to ignite anyway?
The Golden Company officers tensed, their hands dropping to their weapon belts. The Westerosi knights, Barristan, Corlys, and Bronze Yohn, immediately drew their steel. Crossbows were leveled on both sides. Five Blackfyre Rebellions had torn the Seven Kingdoms apart. The blood soaked deep into the earth. With the mercenary leadership trapped on this deck, it looked like the perfect opportunity to decapitate the organization once and for all.
"We are aboard Myrish decks, Prince," the Captain-General said, his eyes narrowing. "Do you intend to break the peace and keep us here? The Golden Company fields no black dragon today. We are only exiles."
"A sword was stolen from my family," Rhaegar said, planting the tip of his scabbard against the deck. He stared directly into the captain's eyes. "I believe the Golden Company knows exactly where Blackfyre is hidden."
The captain's jaw tightened. "We do not have the sword. If we did, a Blackfyre would be wielding it. No man has seen it since Maelys fell. We number nine thousand strong, Prince. Kill us here, and you buy yourself nine thousand blood enemies."
"I have dragons," Rhaegar replied softly.
As if summoned by his words, the Silver Emperor landed heavily on the adjacent deck, the impact shuddering through the wood. The beast unleashed an ear-splitting roar that rattled the bones of every man present. Compared to this monster, the famed elephants of the Golden Company looked like fragile children's toys.
"I will thank you to keep your distance," the captain said, his voice straining against the dragon's roar. "My House suffered greatly. I have no desire to see it suffer more. But we possess neither the sword nor a Blackfyre heir."
Yet you resemble your ancestors so closely, the captain thought bitterly, studying the silver-haired prince. The Conqueror. The Conciliator. With the return of the dragons, the red faction had birthed a terrifying new champion. The stars of the black dragon were fading into absolute darkness. Any hope of a restoration seemed doomed.
Rhaegar raised a hand, signaling his knights to lower their blades. The time for a full-scale assault had not yet arrived. Only a fraction of the Golden Company stood before him. Slaying these officers would only invite a chaotic, drawn-out guerrilla war across the Disputed Lands. The Company's morale was clearly fractured, the Blackfyre lineage seemingly extinguished.
The Golden Company would not march on Westeros lightly. Only another massive civil war could create the vacuum needed to lure them across the Narrow Sea, but their former Westerosi lands had long been redistributed. A return would threaten the stability of every major House.
"We will meet again, Prince Rhaegar. Remember my name. Lymond Peake. Thanks to the Iron Throne, House Peake is a shadow of its former glory. That Valyrian sword you hold once belonged to my kin."
"If you ever dare step foot in Westeros, Captain Peake, I will welcome you by taking your head," Rhaegar promised, his voice devoid of warmth.
Rhaegar turned and vaulted into the saddle of his dragon, taking to the skies. Below him, the battered, humiliated Myrish fleet slowly began to limp away from Tyrosh, its decks packed with defeated men.
Countless Myrish sailors had survived the day, but the Dragon Prince's new blade had still tasted blood.