The "Prisoners" of Bloodstone Island

The morning mist over Bloodstone Island had not yet dissipated when the sounds of hammering and clanging echoed from the rapidly rebuilding harbor beneath the red cliffs.

The mist, like a veil mixed with seawater, clung to the ship's deck, carrying a salty, fishy smell; even sunlight had to struggle to penetrate it.

Although the remnants of the Triarchy fleet had retreated last night, scattered broken masts and pieces of wood still floated on the sea, much like the remnants of this war.

The shipwrights that Corlys House Velaryon had recruited from Hull Tidehead Island, were busy working around the ram of the "Sea Snake".

The hammers in their hands were wrapped in non-slip burlap, and each strike carried a heavy force, chipping away at the precious steel that the Sea Snake had traded for from the Thousand Islands during its voyages, slowly driving it into the cracks of the ram.

Sparks from the hammering splashed onto the seawater-covered planks, instantly condensing into tiny droplets that slid down the wood grain and into the hull. This, combined with the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore, became the shipwrights' perfect rhythm.

The old shipwright Graham, his beard still glistening with dew, squinted as he examined the newly repaired ram. He tapped the steel joints with his knuckles, and only after hearing a solid "thud" did he wipe his face with satisfaction. "This material can probably withstand ten impacts," he said. "Next time we encounter those Triarchy's wrecked ships, we'll definitely let them taste the might of 'Lord Sea Snake '."

On the deck not far away, the archers of the Joint Fleet were lined up in neat rows, applying Dragonglass powder to their crossbow bolts under the command of Jarman Waters.

Jarman's left arm was still wrapped in bandages, a wound left from yesterday's shooting duel when he was grazed by an arrow from Racallio's men. But now he was holding a gleaming dagger, cutting a small opening in the leather bag containing Dragonglass powder, and sprinkling the powder evenly onto the arrow.

"Be careful, all of you!" His voice was hoarse from the sea breeze, and his gaze swept over every archer and marksman under his command from all over Westeros. "Yesterday, the Essos ' poisoned arrow cost us five brothers. Today, this Dragonglass arrow will teach those scum of the Triarchy what an eye for an eye means."

The archers responded in unison, the Dragonglass powder on their fingertips shimmering with tiny silver light in the morning glow. Countless crossbow bolts were packed into their quivers, like a row of silver spikes ready to be fired.

Daemon stood on the deck of the Blackfyre, watching Rayford Rosby take stock of his wounded men.

Rayford's list lay spread out on the makeshift wooden table. The ink in the ink bottle sloshed around as he ran his pen across the parchment, his brow furrowing more deeply with each name he wrote.

The seventeen wounded were newly recruited members of the Crab Claw Peninsula, three of whom were grazed by poisoned arrows. Fortunately, Corlys had arranged for the Joint Fleet to prepare ointment made from Myr gunpowder grass, and he was currently bandaged up and helping the sailors load and unload cannons.

Moreover, several of the followers who joined Daemon when he toured the Seven Kingdoms were killed or wounded, not to mention the casualties from the numerous fierce battles fought since the Joint Fleet set sail. Among them were many familiar faces to Daemon.

Even Rupert Crabb's arm, which had been slashed deeply by Racallio's men yesterday, was still forced to remain strong as he patrolled the ship's side with his longsword, humming a fishing song from Crab Claw Peninsula to relieve the pressure.

"Your Highness, there's some commotion over with the prisoners." Jarman Waters approached, his voice low. "Crahas is calling Racallio a mad, Tyrosh bastard in his cell. Racallio, after waking up, laughed and said Crahas is worse than a slave, only good for showing off with his ironclad ship."

Daemon raised an eyebrow and followed Jarman toward the cell.

Two prisoners behind the iron bars were hurling insults at each other through a wooden plank. Crahas ' black iron armor was still stained with blood, yet he still maintained the air of a "Prince of Myr."

Racallio lay sprawled on the straw, his purple and orange striped hair and beard disheveled, but he occasionally threw out a few sarcastic remarks, which angered Crahas so much that he banged his head against the iron bars.

"Move them to the island's cell first, we'll interrogate them tonight!" Daemon said helplessly, seeing the scene, and ordered Jarman to take men to transfer the two to the island, otherwise the cell wouldn't be able to withstand the two guys' antics.

As night fell, the salty fog of Bloodstone Island enveloped the sea, casting a cold, oppressive glow on its surface.

The ships of the Joint Fleet stood like arrayed steel behemoths, their anchor chains dangling in the water, the occasional splashes of water hitting the Dragonglass- reinforced decks, carrying with them a post-war silence.

Inside the prison, left behind by the Triarchy on the island, the iron bars gleamed coldly.

Racallio Rendon was chained to the stone wall, his purple and orange striped hair plastered messily to his face, and the burns on his left shoulder were still bleeding, yet he remained unsettled.

With his unchained right hand, he picked at the seaweed in the cracks of the stone wall, humming lewd songs by Tyrosh, the tune completely off-key, yet revealing a crazy stubbornness.

Crahas Hal was chained to the opposite side, the crab claw patterns on his black iron armor stained with dried blood. He had his eyes closed, as if he were playing dead, but when he heard Racallio's singing, he suddenly opened his eyes and spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva. "You madman!"

They're already prisoners, and they're still singing these vulgar tunes!

"It's better than you, you Crabfeeder." Racallio suddenly stopped humming, tilting his head and laughing. "At least I have people willing to die for me. What about you? Your Myr personal guards, didn't they surrender as soon as you were captured? Our 'Prince Myr '?"

Crahas's face flushed crimson instantly as he struggled to grab the iron bars, the chains rattling loudly. "I was ambushed by a Targaryen dragon! If that Black Dragon hadn't burned my rudder with its flames, I would have fed them all to the crabs!"

The cell door creaked open, Daemon walked in, holding an oil lamp. The light cast swaying shadows on the stone wall.

Grey Ghost followed at his feet, while the small, light gray dragon warily watched the two prisoners, occasionally letting out a low "snoring" sound.

"Stop arguing." Daemon placed the oil lamp on the stone platform outside the iron bars, and the scabbard of his Blackfyre gently tapped against the bars. "The Sand Snakes of Dorne are gathering at Cape of the Broken Arm. Can either of you tell me exactly how many of House Martell's Sand Snakes have sent? And when will the reinforcements from the Triarchy arrive?"

Crahas turned his face away, stubbornly saying, "I am the naval commander of the Triarchy, and I would never leak military intelligence!"

Racallio suddenly laughed, his shoulders shaking with laughter, his burned wounds reopening, blood seeping from his ghastly smile, "I can say no, but you have to agree to one condition."

Daemon looked at him helplessly, raising an eyebrow, and said, "You say it."

"Give me back my twin swords." Racallio's eyes suddenly lit up, a hint of seriousness shining through his madness. "Those are the swords I used when I killed my first slave owner. I must take them with me to the gods."

Daemon paused for a moment, then nodded to Jarman and the others who were following behind him as guards.

Jarman quickly brought out the pair of short blades engraved with roses and bones and passed them through the gap in the iron bars.

Racallio gripped the sword, stroking the orange leather hilt, a strange smile playing on his lips. "Dorne sent five thousand men, led by that bastard daughter of some mad prince, Obara Shad. The ships are fast boats built by Tyrosh, painted a near-shore grey, which should be enough to avoid the morning fog. The Council of Myr, the Triarchy, also sent ten ships equipped with new ballistae to support them. The bolts are coated with a mixture of ' Tears of Lys ' and 'The Strangler ' poison; one touch and you're dead."

He paused, then suddenly leaned closer to the iron bars, his voice low, a strange clarity lurking beneath his madness. "Don't think you've won just because you've captured me and Crahas —the Highlord of Tyrosh has already sent men to Essos to find a mercenary group. They're said to be descendants of Valyria runaway slaves, and they'll probably treat you dragonborn even worse than the Sand Snakes of Dorne."

Daemon's fingertips tightened slightly, and his grip on the Blackfyre felt heavier.

He remembered seeing this mercenary group in the Red Keep's library; it had a long history and was quite rampant across the Narrow Sea. If this group of mercenaries were to be won over by the Triarchy, the pressure on the Joint Fleet would be even greater.

"How do you know so much?" Daemon stared into his eyes.

Racallio brandished his short blade, his smile maniacal, "I am the King of the Narrow Sea. I know everything the winds of the Narrow Sea carry. The Highlord of Tyrosh wants to use me and my brothers to fend off your Targaryen dragons, but fearing I might actually take the Stepstones, he has long since planted spies around me. I am merely going with the flow, to see just how many tricks they have up their sleeves."

Just then, Colin Celtigar's voice came from outside the cell. "Your Highness, there's movement from the Westerlands Fleet."

Daemon turned and walked out of the cell. Colin was standing on the deck of the Triarchy warship wrecked outside the cell, clutching a message he had just received from the Westerlands sailors. "Duke Taimond Lannister dispatched Ser Lancel Lannister with three ships to patrol the west. They just intercepted a Dorne scout ship. There was a secret letter on board saying that Obara Shad will circle around to Grey Gallows in three days under the morning fog to meet the remnants of the Triarchy there."

"Grey Gallows— " Daemon recalled that when he cleared Grey Gallows before, there were still many secret passages in the pirate's lair. If the Dornish and the remaining forces were to join forces, it would likely become a future problem.

Baelon, riding Vhagar, landed on a giant rock beside the deck. The dragon's turquoise scales were glistening with night dew. Looking at Corlys, who had also arrived upon hearing the news, he slowly spoke, "I've already sent Big Daemon on Caraxes to scout Grey Gallows. He said there are indeed lights on the island, as if they're fortifying their defenses. Corlys, your House Velaryon silvership is familiar with the fog of the Narrow Sea. Could you circle around to the east side of Grey Gallows in the morning fog three days from now and block the Dornish retreat?"

Corlys nodded, his fingers tracing the seahorse-patterned belt around his waist. "No problem. But Dorne's fast ships are agile, so we'll have to use the the North longships and Westerlands heavyships to hold them off head-on. Their rams and heavy armor can shatter the hulls of Dorne ships."

Daemon looked to the west, where the sails of the "Golden Lion" of the Taimond gleamed faintly in the night.

The Westerlands Fleet's proactive patrol was unexpected. It seemed that the mercenary group Racallio had mentioned might have already been mobilized. Coupled with the continuous movements of the Triarchy and the Dornish, the cunning and greedy Duke "Golden Lion" Taimond realized that the threat from the Triarchy was not limited to the Narrow Sea, but could also affect the trade of the Westerlands.

"I can also take the Glutton and the Grey Ghost to the north side of Grey Gallows and burn their Triarchy ' fortifications with Dragonfire." Daemon gripped his Blackfyre. "Big Daemon will take charge of the south side; Caraxes's flames will force them to retreat towards the center. Uncle Baelon, you lead the central fleet. After we burn the fortifications, we'll land and clear out the rest."

As night deepened, ravens took flight from the mast of the Baelon Targaryen's "Royal Standard," their wings slicing through the night mist as they flew toward King's Landing Storm's End.

One letter was addressed to King Jaehaerys, informing him of the Dornish plot to Triarchy; another was addressed to Duke Boremund Baratheon, instructing him to strengthen defenses along the Stormlands coast to prevent Dorne attack.

Daemon leaned against the ship's railing, touching the amulet Gael had given him; the texture of the dragon scales was clearly visible.

He recalled Gael's words of advice at King's Landing docks, and her pale purple eyes, and a warm feeling welled up in his heart. He still had the same thought: once this war was over, he must return as soon as possible to fulfill his promise of that ancient Old Valyria wedding.

The Grey Ghost rubbed against the back of his hand, a colorful silk thread dangling from the Racallio ship in its mouth—the same thread from the previous piece of Lys silk.

Daemon smiled and took the silk thread, gently wrapping it around his finger. "When we get back, I'll have Little Mei and Hannah embroider a new cushion for you, and they can also embroider a silk handkerchief for Gael, depicting you and the Glutton flying together."

In the distant night sky, the crimson shadow of Caraxes swept across, and Daemon Targaryen's laughter faintly drifted over, carrying his usual frivolous tone. "Little Daemon! Stop wasting your time with this cowardly dragon! We're burning Grey Gallows tomorrow!"

Daemon smiled and waved. The Glutton descended from the sky and landed beside him. Its dark dragon wings swept lightly across the deck, and the resulting wind ruffled his cloak.

He flipped and leaped onto the Glutton's dragon back, with the Grey Ghost close behind. The two dragons disappeared into the night mist and flew towards Grey Gallows.

The bonfire on Bloodstone Island was still burning, and the sailors of the Joint Fleet were still repairing their ships. The sounds of ballista winches, hammering, and dragons' low growls mingled together, forming the final prelude to the battle.

Daemon rode the Glutton, overlooking the Narrow Sea through the night fog. In the distance, towards Cape of the Broken Arm, the silhouettes of Dorne scout ships could be faintly seen, like venomous snakes in the dark, silently approaching.

He knew that three days later, in the morning mist, a new bloody battle might break out in the waters of Grey Gallows, and he had to win, for the peace of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, and even more so, to return to Gael's side as soon as possible.

Moonlight continued to fall on the red rocks of Bloodstone Island, and although the sails of the Joint Fleet were somewhat disheveled, they remained neatly positioned in the harbor.

On the back of the aerial Glutton Daemon touched the amulet in his pocket, and Gael's light purple eyes seemed to be right in front of him.

He knew that the threat from Dorne was just the beginning; the battle for Grey Gallows, the remnants of the Triarchy, and the undercurrents across the Narrow Sea all awaited him.

But as long as the Dragonfire continue and the fleet remains united, he can protect this sea and the road back to King's Landing.

As for the prison on the island, Racallio watched the dragon's silhouette disappear into the distance from the dome and suddenly said to Crahas beside him, "Look, these Targaryen dragons look much tougher than your Triarchy's fancy ironclad ships. Perhaps this time, they really can hold the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea."

Crahas turned his face away but did not refute again. As night deepened, the campfire on Bloodstone Island lit up, and the soldiers polished their weapons around it. The roars of dragons and the sound of the waves mingled together, as if playing a heavy prelude to the tough battle to come.