The dragon banners point toward the Stepstones
The morning mist draped the waves of Blackwater Bay in a silvery veil, and the Glutton's black flames burned a faint trail high in the sky, making the sails of the House Velaryon silver ship shine.
The Joint Fleet's anchors were lowered last night, and now, hundreds of sails, like giant beasts awakened by the wind, unfurl one by one in the morning light.
The mermaid patterns on the White Harbor of Manderly in the the North were glistening with morning dew, the bronze rune armor of the House Royce in the Vale was covered in sea mist, and rose petals from the Reach were blown onto the deck by the east wind, mingling with the frost on the armor of the heavy infantry of the Westerlands, forming the somber prelude to the declaration of war.
Daemon stood at the bow of the Blackfyre, the hilt of the Blackfyre burning hot from his grip.
Gael, riding her Dreamfyre, stopped beside him. Her light purple skirt brushed against the dragon carvings on the ship's hull. She pointed towards the high platform. "Father, they've arrived."
The royal barges of the Red Keep were passing through the fleet formation. King Jaehaerys ' black robes billowed in the wind, his long silver hair bound by a golden crown, and today the ruby on his scepter reflected the rising sun like a burning flame.
Queen Alysanne held his arm as the shadow of Silverwing dragon hovered above the barge, its breath falling on the water's surface. The rising white mist, carrying the scent of lavender, overpowered the salty smell of the Narrow Sea.
Baelon walked behind, the hem of his crimson robe sweeping across the ramp, his hand resting on the dragon-patterned scabbard at his waist—a scabbard that had just been engraved with new patterns last week, the outline of Vhagar. Last night, he had told Daemon that he wanted this sword to accompany the Joint Fleet to dismantle the Triarchy's ballistae into scrap metal.
Daemon Targaryen was unusually quiet, with the crimson dragon shadow of Caraxes hovering above his head. He clutched a bag of fine wine brought from Arbor by Redwyne's fleet, but instead of putting it in his mouth as usual, he stared intently at the direction of the Stepstones, his eyes flashing with an unusual sharpness.
Corlys House Velaryon was already standing on the Watchtower of the "Sea Snake," his brass telescope gripped so tightly it felt cold.
He gazed at the eastern horizon, a sea area once frequented by the pirates of the Triarchy. Last year, a House Velaryon merchant ship was burned to a skeleton in that sea, and the remains of its crew have yet to be recovered.
When the royal barge anchored on the open sea between the "Blackfyre" and the "Sea Snake," Jaehaerys pushed away his servant's hand and walked alone onto the makeshift oak platform.
The platform was pieced together from ship planks from the Seven Kingdoms: oak from the the North, bronze nails from the Vale, and rosewood from the Reach. Each plank was engraved with the coat of arms of its respective family, and the dull thud it made when stepped on was like the resonating heartbeat of the Seven Kingdoms.
"My vassals, my warriors, my family." The old king's voice, though without the aid of horns, pierced through the morning mist and landed on the decks of every ship.
Vermithor suddenly let out a low growl, and its massive bronze dragon wings unfurled, casting shadows over the platform, which ironically made the king's figure even more conspicuous in the morning light.
He stood there, like a black stone that had withstood fifty years of wind and rain, yet more powerful than ever before.
"Do you remember what was engraved on the prow of Aegon the Conqueror's ship when it first sailed through Blackwater Bay towards Westeros?"
Jaehaerys raised his scepter, pointing southeast to the Stepstones. "It is our royal three-headed dragon, the land that will one day be the Iron Throne of Westeros, the land our ancestors defended with Dragonfire and spears! And the Stepstones, since Aegon's conquest, have been the gateway to this land—protecting our merchant ships to and from the Summer Isles, protecting our fishermen casting their nets in the Narrow Sea, and ensuring our children never hear the pirate horns in the night!"
His voice suddenly rose, and his scepter slammed heavily on the high platform, his blood seeping into the cracks of the oak. "But now! The silk weavers of the Triarchy are feeding pirates with gold coins; the brothel owners of Lys are gambling with the bones of our fishermen; the governor of Tyrosh is watching our Ironborn, Lannisport he colludes with, burn to ashes, and is still drinking our Reach wines at banquets! Last spring, when the docks of Seagard burned, a twelve-year-old boy was cleaved in two by a pirate's axe while protecting his father's fishing nets; in the summer fires of Lannisport, the youngest daughter of the House Farman, before she could even wear the velvet dress her mother had knitted, became a shadow in the flames!"
Suppressed gasps came from the crowd.
Lymond Lemon Mallister gripped the hilt of Earl silver eagle-patterned sword tightly, his knuckles turning white;
Count Farman turned his face away, but you could see the veins throbbing behind his ear.
Daemon Targaryen suddenly threw the honey cake onto the deck, Caraxes, as if sensing his anger, let out a dragon roar that shook the waves. Crimson Dragonfire burned an arc in the sky, illuminating the direction where the Triarchy might be entrenched.
"They say our dragons are old, our Royal Fleet is scattered, and we Westeros men dare not wield our swords anymore!" Jaehaerys's voice carried a cold laugh, yet it was more powerful than a roar. "But today I will tell them that a Targaryen dragon never bows to the passage of time; the Westeros fleet is gathered at Blackwater Bay, a the Wall of Steel; and the men of Westeros will never forget how to defend their homeland with their swords!"
He turned, his gaze sweeping over Baelon, the Daemon brothers, and Corlys, each word like a nail driven into their hearts. "I hereby declare Baelon Targaryen, the Hand of the King, Prince of Dragonstone, and Iron Throne, to be Commander-in-Chief of the Seven Kingdoms Joint Fleet! He will carry the Dragonfire of Vhagar, and the trust of all of us, to cleave through the Triarchy's ballistae!"
Baelon stepped forward, his crimson robes fluttering in the wind. He bowed to the platform, his voice as steady as a mountain. "Baelon will not fail in his mission."
Vhagar let out a long dragon roar above him, and the turquoise Dragonfire fell on the sea around the high platform, the splashing water forming a barrier that completely dispelled the morning mist.
"Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen!" Jaehaerys's gaze fell upon Daemon, his scepter pointing towards the Glutton. "You will lead the left flank, with your Black Dragon Glutton, to tear open their flank! I know you've witnessed the bloodiest battlefields in the Vale, and I know you've twice patrolled beneath the Ironborn longships, protecting even the most ordinary fishermen—now, I want you to protect the entire seas of Westeros!"
Daemon gripped the Blackfyre tightly, then flipped and leaped onto the Glutton's back.
The Black Dragon's claws lightly touched the water's surface, creating ripples that reflected the black three-headed dragon tattoo on his shoulder beneath his clothes, now shimmering with a faint red glow. "Daemon Blackfyre obeys!"
The Grey Ghost followed closely behind, its light gray dragon scales gleaming coldly in the morning light, nimbly circling around the Glutton, like a moving warning line.
"Daemon Targaryen!" The old king's voice turned to the other Daemon, a hint of helplessness in his eyes, but even more so, expectation. "You led the right flank fleet, using Caraxes's Dragonfire to cover the fire-resistant ships' surprise attack! I know you're mischievous, but today, I want you to remember—you are Targaryen prince, and your Dragonfire should burn on the enemy's sails, not in the brothels of Silk Street!"
Daemon Targaryen's nonchalant expression vanished instantly. He leaped onto the Caraxes, the crimson dragon's wings sweeping across the deck of the Golden Lion, the wind whipping up Taimond Lannister's golden lion banner. "Grandfather, rest assured! This time I will show the Triarchy that the flames of the Caraxes are hotter than their silk!"
Finally, Jaehaerys looked at Corlys, his eyes filled with unparalleled trust. "Corlys House Velaryon, my grandson-in-law, you are the most knowledgeable about ships in the Seven Seas. You are perfectly suited to be the fleet's vice commander, responsible for guiding the route and dismantling their ironclad behemoths! Your fleet once carried you across the seven seas and around the world; now, it's time to carry our men and reclaim the Stepstones!"
Corlys leaped from the Watchtower, landing on the deck of the "Sea Snake," the seahorse patterns on the silver sails unfurling in the wind. "Your Majesty, rest assured, every undercurrent and every shallow shoal in the Narrow Sea is in my heart. The giant ships of the Triarchy are nothing but useless pieces of iron in my seas!"
Meleys, the wife of Rhaenys, hovered above him, her crimson Dragonfire gently brushing the sails of the silver ship, as if blessing the voyage to come.
"Now!" Jaehaerys raised his scepter, his voice echoing throughout Blackwater Bay, "I, Jaehaerys Targaryen I, in the name of the Iron Throne, in the name of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, formally declare war on the Alliance of the Three Cities! We will reclaim the Stepstones, and the Narrow Sea will be free of pirate blades; our children will hear only the low growls of dragons at night, not the screams of battle!"
The sound of horns suddenly ripped through the morning mist, and the sails of the Seven Kingdoms simultaneously filled with the east wind.
The House Velaryon silver ships were the first to move, like streaks of silver lightning;
Redwyne's green sails followed closely behind, and the archers nocked their arrows, their green feathers gleaming coldly in the morning light;
The Lannister golden lion banner swept across the crests of the waves, and the heavy infantry raised their shields, forming an impenetrable wall;
The longships of White Harbor in the the North carried the chill of the icy plains, and the Manderly mermaid pattern fluttered in the wind.
Daemon rode the Glutton, taking to the skies with Gael's Dreamfyre, Daemon Targaryen's Caraxes, Rhaenys's Meleys, Baelon's Vhagar, Vormisor, Vermithor, and Silverwing Grey Ghost. The roars of the eight dragons echoed high above, shaking the waves and filling the sails of the Joint Fleet even fuller.
Jaehaerys stood on the high platform, watching thousands of sails head towards the Narrow Sea. Queen Alysanne held his hand, feeling the warmth of his palm through her fingertips—a warmth that carried the weight of fifty years of rule, expectations for her descendants, and the protection of this land.
"They will win," Alysanne whispered, the shadow of Silverwing dragon circling above her, its breath falling on the water, the rising white mist carrying the scent of lavender, intertwining with the Dragonfire in the distance.
Jaehaerys nodded, looking in the direction of his children and grandchildren, his gaze fixed on the sail that spanned the Narrow Sea, like an unyielding banner. "Yes, they will. For they are the true dragons of the Targaryen, the warriors of the Seven Kingdoms today, and the protectors of this land in the future."
The morning mist completely dissipated, and the rising sun shone on Blackwater Bay, turning the sails of the Joint Fleet golden red.
The Glutton's black flames burned a path ahead, followed by countless flags of the Seven Kingdoms, like a flowing rainbow, heading towards the Stepstones.
There are the ballistae of the Triarchy, the scimitars of pirates, but also the land the Westeros people want to reclaim and the peace they want to protect.
Meanwhile, the bells of the Red Keep were carried by the east wind, mingling with the roars of dragons, the fluttering of sails, and the shouts of soldiers, creating a war song for Westeros that echoed for a long time over the Narrow Sea.
Unconsciously, on the day before his official departure, Daemon recalled the scene half a month earlier when the Joint Fleet had fully assembled.
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