The purple-and-orange-haired "King of the Narrow Sea," a mad battle song amid the clatter of divining bones

The crimson rocks of Bloodstone Island, still chilled by the morning mist, with seawater from the previous night clinging to the crevices of the reefs, were once again pierced by the Watchtower's alarm bell, tearing through the grey sky Stepstones.

This time, it was no longer the previous three short and one long "enemy ship attack" signal with pauses in between, but a rapid "powerful enemy approaching" alarm that was almost continuous, like being choked.

The wind, carrying mist, swept across the red rocks, startling even the seagulls perched on the reefs. They flapped their wings and fled towards the hidden reefs to the west, as if they had already sensed the approaching death.

Daemon had just finished inspecting the winches of the ballistae on the deck of the "Blackfyre," his fingertips still smeared with the metallic-smelling lubricant of the springs, his fingertips tracing the grooves worn into the winches—marks left from last night's fierce battle with the Crahas fleet.

As he was wiping his fingers with a silk handkerchief, he saw Rayford Rosby stumble towards him, carrying a roll of bloodstained lookout uniform. Dark red bloodstains were still dripping from the hem of the uniform, leaving a small damp patch on the deck.

Rayford's face was as white as paper. His usually composed voice trembled so badly it was almost incoherent. "Your Highness! The Tyrosh fleet—at least forty ships! The flagship at the head, its sails adorned with the emblem of bones and swords, and standing atop it—standing a hunchback with purple-orange striped hair! The color of that hair, in the fog, looked like burnt orange peel!"

"It should be Racallio Reinden," Corlys's voice came from behind, carrying an unquestionable calm.

The brass binoculars in his hand were polished to a shine by the sea breeze, the lenses gleaming coldly, his gaze fixed on the eastern sea, unwilling to even blink.

The wind lifted a corner of Corlys's cloak, revealing a shirt embroidered with the silver seahorse pattern of the House Velaryon. His fingertips brushed against the edge of his binoculars, his voice low. "The Triarchy's true ace, sent from Tyrosh, known as Queen Racallio. Don't be fooled by the name; he's a man, just so mad he doesn't care about his gender. He proclaims himself King of the Narrow Sea." For years, he's been robbing merchant ships and ransoming slaves on the Stepstones, doing things more insane than pirates, yet somehow he has a group of people who follow him with unwavering loyalty."

Daemon peered through the binoculars Corlys handed him; the sails of the Tyrosh fleet gleamed in the morning mist like a pack of lurking, blood-stained sea monsters.

The flagship at the very front was a deep purple sail, embroidered with crossed swords in silver thread. Between the blades lay a pile of animal bones, and the silver thread gleamed coldly in the mist, like phosphorescence just peeled from a corpse.

At the highest point of the ship's deck beneath the sail, a hunched figure leaned against the carved railing, toying with two oily animal bones in his hands, his knuckles white from the force.

Though his back was hunched, the figure exuded an inexplicable sense of intimidation; even the morning breeze that ruffled his purple and orange beard seemed to carry a defiant arc.

Her orange-red hair flowed in front, while purple strands trailed behind, making her look from a distance like a half-burnt flame.

"This guy—is his hair dyed?" Daemon Targaryen landed on the deck on his crimson dragon Caraxes, the dragon's claws making the Dragonglass plates tremble slightly. He stared at the figure, his tone full of surprise. "Are all the Tyrosh people this flashy? I've never seen anything so flamboyant. He dresses up more than the prostitutes of Silk Street."

"Not just flashy, but utterly insane." Baelon rode Vhagar up from the stern, and as his turquoise dragon wings swept across the deck, the wind he created whipped up Daemon's cloak, even knocking over the quivers piled on the deck, scattering arrows all over the floor.

Baelon's voice came through the gaps in the dragon's roar, tinged with a hint of solemnity. "According to intelligence, his shoulders are uneven, and his back was broken when he was a child by a slave owner and never fully healed, yet he can wield a sword with both hands, shooting with both hands faster than an average person using one hand; he's a heavy drinker, always downing half a jug of Tyrosh before each battle, yet he's outrageously generous, keeping only the smallest share for himself when distributing spoils. Whatever his men want, just ask, and he'll give them gold coins, silk, or weapons without batting an eye. But he's also terrifyingly mad. A couple of years ago, a subordinate praised his wife's hair, and he immediately gave his wife to that subordinate, laughing and saying that good things should be given to those who appreciate them." Even stranger, he despises slavery. Last year in Port Lys, to redeem a slave girl, he spent three days haggling with the slave owner with three chests of gold coins, and when he finally released the girl, he even gave her a small merchant ship.

He's a madman, and a difficult one at that.

As they spoke, the Tyrosh fleet had already approached the waters off Bloodstone Island. Racallio's flagship was the first to stop a short distance away, and the hunched figure finally straightened up, revealing his six-and-a-half-foot height.

Despite his hunchback, he was still taller than the average Tyrosh. He wore a dark purple silk coat embroidered with roses and lavender, but two strangely shaped short blades were clipped to his cuffs, with orange-dyed leather wrapped around their hilts.

He bent down, took out a bone pot from his pocket, poured out three sheep bones, shook them in his palm, and then threw them onto the wooden planks of the ship's deck with a "clatter".

The moment the bone fragment hit the ground, he suddenly threw his head back and burst into laughter, his voice shrill like a seagull's cry, his purple and orange striped beard trembling with the sound, "Ha! The gods say, today the Targaryen dragons should taste the bitterness of shattered bones!"

"The mysterious Daemon Blackfyre Targaryen? And that libertine Daemon Targaryen?" Racallio's voice came through a brass megaphone handed to him by his men, thick with Tyrosh accents mixed with a few words of Braavos dialect. "I heard you captured that fool Crahas? Hand him over, and I'll give you a quick death. After all, my ship, the ' King of the Narrow Sea,' is still missing a crab feeder."

Upon hearing this, Daemon Targaryen, gripping the Dark Sister, stepped forward, brandishing his sword tip at them. "A mere self-proclaimed king dares to negotiate with us? I wonder how the Highlords of Tyrosh tolerated you? But you brought so many ships here, are you here to collect Crahas's corpse?"

Upon hearing this, Racallio suddenly bent down and pulled a woman dressed in the attire of a brothel in Tyrosh from the ship's deck. The woman's skirt was short, reaching only to her thighs, and her hair was dyed bright purple. Upon closer inspection, one could see that "her" Adam's apple and rough hands revealed her to be a Tyrosh mercenary dressed as a woman!

"See that?" Racallio pinched the "woman's" chin, laughing inexplicably, his laughter maniacal as if he had gone mad. "My little brats can even dress up as prostitutes better than your Westeros noble ladies! Your fleet just finished a war, 30% of your ballistae are broken, and you only have enough fresh water for three days, yet you dare to challenge me?"

He was absolutely right – the Joint Fleet had just fought a fierce battle with Crahas alone. Half of the freshwater barrels were overturned during the retreat, and the reserves on Bloodstone Island were probably only enough for the entire crew for two days.

Corlys frowned and whispered to Daemon, "He's investigated thoroughly; there must be a mole, or a previous prisoner let slip the secret."

Just then, Racallio suddenly kicked aside the mercenary dressed as a woman and drew two swords from his waist—the scabbards of the two swords were engraved with roses and bones respectively, and the blades gleamed coldly when they were drawn.

He tossed the sheep bone in his hand, the fragments landing on the deck and pointing to the western reef of Bloodstone Island: "The gods say the western reef can hide ships. Your Targaryen House Velaryon ships are swift, but the stones in the reef are harder than your dragon scales!"

No sooner had the words left his mouth than several fast ships suddenly emerged from the flank of the Tyrosh fleet. Their hulls were painted dark gray, and they spun around the reef toward the west side of Bloodstone Island —clearly intending to ambush the Joint Fleet's supply ships.

"Glutton, burn their speedboat!" Daemon ordered immediately. The Black Dragon spread its wings, and jet-black Dragonfire swept across the reef, instantly setting the speedboat's sails ablaze. The ship crashed into the rocks, and flying splinters of wood mingled with screams of agony.

Racallio, however, was not annoyed. Instead, he clapped his hands and laughed, pulling a flask from his pocket and taking a large gulp, the liquid flowing down his chin and into his silk coat. "Good! Good Dragonfire! More potent than the whips of my wives!"

He suddenly changed the subject, his eyes sharpening, "But how many ships can your little dragons burn? How long can they fight? Every man I brought is willing to die for me because I give them gold, I give them freedom, and I give them—women!"

Daemon squinted at the deck of the Tyrosh fleet. Sure enough, many sailors still had the marks of shackles on their wrists. Some marks were shallow, while others were so deep that raised scars could be seen. They were clearly marks left by years of enslavement.

But when these people waved their weapons and shouted "Long live Queen Racallio," there was no fear in their eyes, only an almost fanatical light, as if they regarded Racallio as a savior.

Corlys added in a low voice, his tone tinged with complexity. "According to the intelligence I gathered in Tyrosh, he was a slave from childhood, later killed his slave owner and escaped, so he hates slavery more than anything in his life. Over the years he's robbed merchant ships..."

He would rob noble fleets, using half of the money to recruit soldiers and the other half to redeem slaves. He never forced those he redeemed to stay, yet many were willing to follow him, saying that following him would allow them to live like human beings.

"Willing to serve a madman?" Daemon Targaryen scoffed, tightening his grip on the Dark Sister ' hands before leaping onto Caraxes and hurtling towards a Tyrosh speedboat.

The red dragon's claws gripped the ship's edge, and Daemon Targaryen leaped down. The Dark Sister drew their swords, and with a flash of light, the sails were cleaved in two, the canvas hanging like rags from the mast.

He stepped over the fallen sailors, his voice full of disdain. "I'd like to see if your queen can protect you mad dogs!"

Seeing this, Racallio suddenly leaped from the ship's deck, his movements surprisingly agile for a hunchback. He flipped in mid-air, landing on the deck of a fast ship with his sword in both hands, making only a slight sound when he landed.

Despite his hunched back, it did not hinder his movements at all. The two swords in his hands were like two bolts of lightning. His left sword accurately parried the axe that the sailor swung at him, causing the axe to fly out of his hand. His right sword pierced the man's throat directly, and blood splattered on his purple coat, like a dark red flower blooming.

Even during the fierce battle, he didn't forget to sing the lewd songs of Tyrosh, his voice high-pitched and bright. "Oh~ the waves of the Narrow Sea ~ softer than the girls in the brothel~ oh~ the blood of the enemy~ sweeter than the wine of Tyrosh ~"

His men joined in the chant, their voices filled with madness. Even the sailors of the Joint Fleet were chilled by the eerie atmosphere. They had seen people charging into battle shouting slogans, but they had never seen anyone fight while singing obscene lyrics. These Tyrosh were indeed as insane as their leader.

Baelon, riding Vhagar, swooped down, his turquoise Dragonfire forming a barrier as they burned toward Racallio's speedboat. The Dragonfire swept across the sea, even causing the water to steam.

But Racallio was exceptionally agile. He shouted orders for the speedboat to turn, and the hull skimmed along the edge of the Dragonfire, narrowly avoiding being engulfed by the fire.

Even more terrifying, he led the speedboat around to the bottom of the Glutton —a blind spot for the dragon. Several Tyrosh sailors immediately raised their crossbows and aimed them at the Black Dragon's belly, the arrowheads coated with black venom.

"Watch out!" Daemon shouted a warning immediately. As if it understood the command, the Glutton suddenly took to the air, its dragon claws tearing apart the mast of the speedboat. The mast crashed down, crushing several sailors who were setting up their crossbows.

The black Dragonfire fell again, this time burning straight through the hull. Seawater rushed into the cabin, the speedboat began to tilt, and the sailors screamed as they jumped into the sea.

Racallio stood on the tilting deck, laughing, his twin swords dripping blood, his purple and orange striped beard whipping wildly in the wind. "So even you Targaryen dragons fear arrows from the shadows? So even true dragons aren't invincible!"

He paused, his eyes growing increasingly venomous, his voice filled with sarcasm, "That's right. Back then, your ancestor Rhaenys Targaryen and her dragon Meraxes, didn't they die from Dornish crossbow bolts? I heard that when Meraxes's scales were pierced, her blood splattered Dornish faces—I wonder if it's true that Dorne captured their queen? I'm rather envious of the Dornish. I wonder what your Targaryen queen tastes like? Is she more alluring than the prostitutes of Tyrosh?"

Racallio continued to spout wild and outrageous remarks, attempting to disturb Daemon and the others with his most absurd, vicious, and arrogant words.

He knew that the noble families across the Narrow Sea valued honor above all else, and mentioning the shame of their ancestors enraged them more than if they were directly struck by a sword, let alone the Targaryen, those high and mighty dragon kings.

"Aegon, and the queen's brother and husband, your ancestor, the the Conqueror —wasn't the Field of Fire won by ambushing and burning the House Gardener to death? Don't tell me about divine mandate from dragons," I think they're just a bunch of cowards who only know how to hide on a dragon's back and launch sneak attacks!

As he spoke, Racallio looked at Daemon, who had already rushed onto his speedboat. Daemon's swordplay became increasingly fierce, and the light of the sword almost enveloped his entire body.

Racallio, however, burst into laughter, wielding his twin swords even more frantically. He even deliberately created an opening to lure Daemon into attacking. He loved the thrill of life-or-death situations; the more dangerous it was, the more excited he became.

And his plan succeeded.

Just then, a commotion arose on the north side of Bloodstone Island, in the direction of the cell where Crahas was being held!

There were originally ten guards there, but now screams and explosions were heard, and thick smoke billowed from the windows of the cells, condensing into a gray-black cloud in the fog.

Daemon looked back and saw several Tyrosh mercenaries taking advantage of the chaos to blast open the cell door with Wildfire. Sparks from the Wildfire landed on the wooden planks and ignited the haystacks outside the cell.

The Grey Ghost immediately swooped down from the sail of the "Blackfyre," its light gray dragon breath burning towards the mercenaries. The mercenaries screamed and rolled on the ground, their clothes quickly burned away, revealing their scarred skin.

The Grey Ghost didn't forget to pick up a piece of wood that had been blown away and fling it towards Racallio. The wood grazed Racallio's cheek, lifting a strand of his purple and orange hair, as if making a defiant declaration.

Racallio touched his cheek where the wood had grazed him, feeling a cool sensation on his fingertips—the little dragon had actually scratched his skin.

But instead of being annoyed, his eyes shone like fire as he stared intently at the Grey Ghost circling in the air, his voice filled with fervent admiration. "What a tiny dragon! It looks about the same size as my horse, its scales are so shiny they look like they've been sprinkled with silver powder, it's even cuter than my little cat!"

He suddenly shouted at Daemon, who was still wielding his sword incessantly, his voice even drowning out the roar of the waves around them, "Give me this little dragon, and release that Crahas guy, and I'll withdraw! What? Handsome Targaryen, I can also give you my three most beautiful wives. Not only are they beautiful, but their whips are incredibly sharp, I guarantee you'll get a taste of something new!"

"Are you crazy? You lunatic!" Daemon Targaryen roared as he flew in from the side. Caraxes's crimson Dragonfire grazed the edge of Racallio's speedboat, instantly igniting the ropes on the deck, which curled up in a cloud of black smoke.

Looking at Racallio's crazed face, he felt a wave of nausea wash over him. "Who wants your crazy woman! You pervert, don't corrupt my brother! Grey Ghost is my brother's dragon, if you dare touch a single scale, I'll tear your bones off and feed them to the dragon!"

Racallio, however, was not angry. Instead, he took out a silk pouch embroidered with gold thread from his pocket and threw it into the air—the gold coins landed on the deck with a "clatter," making a crisp sound. The sunlight shone on the gold coins, making them gleam with an alluring golden light.

"Look! I have plenty of money! Isn't that what you Westeros love?" He paced back and forth on the gold coins, the clanging of metal mingling with his laughter, creating a particularly jarring sound.

He paused, his fanatical gaze towards Daemon suddenly turning icy. "But if you don't give it to me, I'll seize all the slave girls from Bloodstone Island —oh wait, I know you Westeros don't have slaves, but don't worry, I abhor slavery too. I'll give them their freedom, let them follow me, it's better than them following you hypocritical nobles! Don't you Westeros nobles also use girls as bargaining chips for marriage? Compared to me, who's more shameless?"

Daemon gripped Blackfyre, recalling Gael's words at the King's Landing's Landing docks and the fishermen plundered by the Triarchy. His resolve hardened. "What you want, I will not give; what you want to destroy, I will protect. The Narrow Sea is not your kingdom, nor are the Stepstones your playground. Today, it's either you retreat, or you die. There is no third way."

Upon hearing this, Racallio suddenly stopped laughing, bent down to pick up the sheep bones from the ground, and threw them again.

This time, the bone fragment pointed towards the center of the Joint Fleet, his eyes turning fanatical. "The gods say that blood must be shed today! Then I will grant their wish! All-out attack! Whoever wounds their Targaryen dragon first, I'll give him ten chests of gold, and when we get back, I'll send him all the best courtesans from our Tyrosh!"

The sails of the Tyrosh fleet instantly filled, and a rain of arrows rained down. The whooshing sound of Myr's crossbows clashing mingled with Racallio's lewd songs, creating the most insane war song in the Bloodstone Island waters.

The Glutton let out a deep dragon roar, and jet-black Dragonfire burned towards the enemy ship, with the Grey Ghost following closely behind, nimbly dodging the rain of arrows;

Daemon Targaryen rode Caraxes toward Racallio's flagship, the Dark Sister' swords flashing.

Baelon directed the central fleet to adjust its formation, while Vhagar, like a turquoise Dragonfire against the sky, drew a barrier high above;

Corlys, leading the House Velaryon silver ships and several fast ships of the Joint Fleet, circled around to the rear of the Tyrosh fleet, preparing to cut off their retreat.

Racallio stood on the deck of the clipper, his twin swords whirling like a whirlwind, each strike carrying a frenzied force. He threw his head back and laughed, his purple and orange striped beard and hair whipping wildly in the wind. "Come on! Targaryen little dragons! Let me see if your Dragonfire can burn my bones!"

Daemon grabbed the Glutton's claws and swooped down, the blade of his Blackfyre gleaming coldly, only one thought in his mind—

This mad "King of the Narrow Sea" must remain on Bloodstone Island today, or the Narrow Sea will only become more chaotic in the future. He must protect this sea, protect the road back to King's Landing, and protect his promise to Gael.

The crimson rocks of Bloodstone Island were dyed golden-red by Dragonfire, and the sea waves carried the scent of blood and sulfur. A duel between a madman and a true dragon officially began in the morning mist of the Narrow Sea.