Clouds of doubt over Cape Wrath, a gathering at Mistwood

The night fog over the Dornish Sea was salty and fishy, like a wet cloth soaked in cold water pressed against the surface of the sea at Cape Wrath.

As Daemon rode the Glutton and hovered high in the air, he could clearly see the cold light shimmering in the sea below. In that light, there were no shadows of warship wreckage, no bloodstains after fierce battles, only the soft sound of waves crashing against the reefs, and occasionally the wings of a few night birds flitting by. Even the wind lacked the scorching smell of gunpowder from the daytime.

This calm is so unusual.

The letter requesting help clearly stated:

Obaya Shad, the Sand Serpent of Dorne, led fifty large ships and three thousand mercenaries in a surprise attack on Windfury Horn. Boros Baratheon led his forces to intercept them, and both sides suffered casualties. Twenty-seven people were burned and killed in a frontier village.

But the Cape of Cape Wrath and Furies that appeared before him now seemed to have never experienced the ravages of war. Apart from a few reefs in the distance still covered with charred wood chips, probably remnants of the fierce battle mentioned in the letter a few days ago, there wasn't even a single tattered sail in sight.

"Where are those Dornish Sand Serpents' ships?" Damon muttered to himself, his fingertips unconsciously tracing the amulet in his pocket. It was pressed against his chest, but it couldn't dispel the doubts in his mind.

The battle at the Stepstones echoed in Daemon's mind: Redib Introkos, the vice-captain of the Triarchy Fleet, was killed in action; the commander-in-chief, Prince Myr "Crabfeeder" Crahas, was captured; even the reinforcements, "King of the Narrow Sea" Racallio, were imprisoned; more than half of the mercenaries hired by Tyrosh were lost; and nearly twenty of Myr's repeating crossbow ships were sunk—

Dorne and the Triarchy were originally allies who exploited each other. Now that the Triarchy has suffered a crushing defeat, Obara Sand has no reason to launch a "fierce attack on Cape Wrath" as stated in her letter of appeal.

Unless, of course, it's all just a smokescreen.

The Glutton suddenly let out a deep dragon roar, its wings flapping gently, the resulting wind dispersing the mist in front of it.

Daemon followed the Black Dragon's gaze and saw several faint lights suddenly appear on the western horizon, like a few floating stars, moving southward along the current of the Dornish Sea.

"Grey Ghost, go check it out," Daemon ordered softly. The light gray dragon immediately swooped down, its wings almost touching the sea surface. Occasionally, it would spew out a small burst of dragon breath, burning a brief bright streak in the mist—the same reconnaissance technique Meleys had taught it during training with the Joint Fleet, using the residual heat of its Dragonfire to mark the target's location.

Before long, the Grey Ghost flew back, carrying a piece of blood-stained linen in its mouth, embroidered with the House Martell family's Sun-piercing Spear emblem, with some dried seaweed still clinging to the edges.

It was clearly something from Dorne ship, but it wasn't the style of the main fleet. The fabric was thin, more like the coarse linen commonly used by raiding ships than the thick canvas of military vessels.

"It really was just a small-scale raid—" Daemon's suspicions deepened.

The cunning Obara Shad probably already knew about the collapse of the Triarchy. Her presence at Cape Wrath was merely a pretext to distract the Joint Fleet with the illusion of a "fierce attack," while also harassing Stormlands with small-scale raids, thus preventing Duke Boremund from attending to both ends.

"Your Highness! There seems to be a patrol ship from Stormlands ahead!" A shout from the House Velaryon silver ship below pierced the night fog, interrupting Daemon's thoughts.

He looked down and saw three longships flying the black crested barbarian stag banner of House Baratheon emerging from the fog. The rams on their prows gleamed coldly, and on the mast of the foremost ship, he could vaguely make out a familiar red figure.

"It's Roland Clinton!" Daemon recognized it as the banner of Griffin's Roost —a silver griffin on a red background, strikingly visible in the moonlight.

Below, Roland stood at the bow, gripping the longsword he had lost to Daemon in the tournament, directing his crew in pursuit of the three gray-painted fast boats ahead.

Those ships were long and narrow, the Dorne often used. The sun-piercing golden spear emblem on their sails was blurred by the night fog, but it still exuded a bit of arrogance.

"Glutton, stop them!" Daemon ordered. The Black Dragon spread its wings, and its jet-black Dragonfire landed on the sea around the Dorne raiding ship, boiling the seawater and emitting white steam, instantly blocking the raiding ship's retreat.

The Grey Ghost nimbly circled to the bow, unleashing its dragon breath onto the sails, instantly setting the canvas ablaze. The ship lost power and spun in the waves.

Upon seeing this, Roland immediately ordered the longships to close in, and the Stormlands soldiers, armed with weapons, jumped onto the raiding ships and quickly subdued the Dorne sailors.

When he looked up and saw the Glutton high in the sky, he was first taken aback, then broke into a delighted smile and called out to Daemon, "Little Daemon! What brings you here!"

"Upon receiving the Duke of Boremund's plea for help, he has arrived with several silver ships to provide assistance."

Daemon, riding his Glutton, landed on the deck of Roland's longship. The scabbard of his Blackfyre struck the deck with a dull thud. "How's Borros? What's the situation at Cape Wrath?"

Roland's smile faded slightly as he wiped the seawater from his face. "Boros is injured. A few days ago, when we intercepted the main force of the Dornish Sand Serpents, one of their guards pierced his shoulder armor with a spear. He's currently recuperating in Mistywood. Strangely, however, since Boros was injured, the Dornish haven't launched any large-scale attacks. Only these small raiding ships occasionally harass us. When we chase them, they flee towards the Dornish Sea, and when we retreat, they come back—like a swarm of flies we can't shake off."

Daemon nodded; just as he had guessed.

He patted Roland on the shoulder. "Take the prisoners into custody first. I'll go with you to Mistwood— where are Duke Boremund and the main force of Stormlands?"

"Duke Beaumond, along with the older generation of lords, is confronting the main Dornish force on the frontier." Roland explained while directing the soldiers escorting the prisoners, "Stonehelm and Summerhall on the frontier have recently been frequently raided by Dornish mercenaries. The Duke fears they might flank and attack Windfury Cape, so he had to divide his forces to defend them. Those of us in the Allied Fleet, following your and Prince Belron's orders that day, went to see Boros return to Windfury Cape as soon as we left the Stone Steps Isles. We didn't expect that Boros would be injured just after encountering the main Dornish Sand Serpent force again. I could only gather all the younger generation of Stormlands to Mistwood City to await further reinforcements."

As the night fog thickened, Roland's longship led the way, followed closely by Daemon's fleet and the Glutton, heading towards Mistwood.

The Rainwood at Cape Wrath appears as a giant black shadow in the night, with the occasional call of an unknown bird mingling with the rustling of sails and the crashing of waves, creating a unique melody for night voyages.

About an hour later, the outline of Mistwood finally emerged from the fog.

This House Mertyns castle is located in the southern Rainwood. Its walls are built of dark gray stone, covered in dark green vines, and the owl tower atop the gate tower is particularly striking in the moonlight.

That was the coat of arms of the House Mertyns, a white owl with long horns on a gray background. At that moment, the torches on the spire were lit, like a pair of vigilant eyes watching the movement on the sea.

When Daemon landed at the docks of Glutton on his Mistwood, he was immediately surrounded by a group of familiar figures.

"Little Daemon Damon! You've finally arrived!" Lorent Grandson yawned as he walked over, the hem of his yellow robe with black lion patterns lightly brushing against the pebbles on the dock. "I've been chasing Dorne's raiding ships every day for the past few days, I'm almost exhausted. If you hadn't come soon, that fellow Borros might have dragged his injured shoulder out to sea himself."

"How's Borros?" Daemon asked, his gaze sweeping across the crowd before quickly spotting Borros sitting on a stone bench.

He was dressed in a loose-fitting black and green outfit, with a thick bandage wrapped around his left shoulder. His face was still somewhat pale, yet he still gripped the broadsword.

But when he saw Daemon looking over, he immediately grinned, revealing two rows of neat white teeth. "This little injury is nothing! Once I'm healed, I'll bring my brothers and burn that bitch Obama Dorne's ship to the ground!"

The people around him laughed, and no one corrected Borros for calling Obara by the wrong name, instantly lightening the atmosphere.

Daemon's gaze slowly swept over the crowd, and familiar faces came into view:

The brothers Theogood and Fell Willie of Felwood were leaning against the ship's railing, toying with daggers Fell had seized from the Dorne raiding ships;

Alaric Dondarrion of Blackhaven stood to one side, his squire Criston Cole gripping his sword hilt, his eyes warily fixed on the sea, the young man's face serious.

Jasper Will of Rain House, dressed in a blue outfit, was discussing something with Andrew Estermont of Estermont, both holding a map of Cape Wrath.

Byron Swann of Stonehelm, Johanna Swann's cousin, leaned against an oak tree, polishing a longsword whose black and white swan pattern gleamed coldly in the moonlight.

Edwyn Tarth of Tarth stood a little further away. He was the younger brother of Budimir and Brienne, and wore a light silver-white armor. When he saw Daemon looking over, he immediately bowed and bowed, his eyes full of admiration.

There were also some unfamiliar faces, but with Roland's introduction, Daemon recognized them one by one:

Michael Maeterlin, the eldest son of the Earl Mertyns, whom we hadn't seen during the previous tour, was wearing a grey robe with white owl patterns and carrying a copy of "The A General History of Westeros," clearly a book-loving nobleman.

Robin Bizbury of Honeyholt was tall, wielding a longsword, and possessed handsome features with fair skin like a young woman;

Bryce Caron of Nightsong, the younger brother of Elena Caron, Borros's fiancée, wears a bright yellow outfit, with a black nightingale on his sword sheath, and his handsome appearance perfectly embodies their family motto, "Sweet as a Song."

Astan Selmi of the Harvest Hall, holding a silver wine jug, was pouring wine for everyone, a gentle smile on his face;

Other young noble scions from Stormlands were also included in the list.

"They're all part of the younger generation from our Stormlands," Roland, walking up to Daemon with a hint of pride in his voice. "After Borros was injured, everyone rushed to his aid. Some came from Tarth, some from the Harvest Hall, and others from Blackhaven. We gathered in less than three days—though there aren't many of us, they're all brothers willing to risk their lives for Stormlands."

Daemon looked at the people in front of him and felt a surge of warmth in his heart.

He recalled the scene from last year's hunt at Griffin's Roost, where Borros, Roland, and Lorent roasted meat around the campfire;

He vividly recalled the scene during the tour when, in Stonehelm, Byron Swin's father, Lord Swann, Swann a lavish banquet for him. Although there were ulterior motives, the scene of the Earl's youngest daughter secretly slipping him some snacks was still fresh in his mind.

Remembering on the Tarth, Brienne, Budimir, and Edwyn's father Earl Cameron, said, "The sword of House Tarth is always drawn for a friend."

These memories, like pearls strung together, appear especially precious in the night of Mistwood.

"Where is Obara Shad now?" Daemon turned to Roland, his tone turning serious. "How many men are left in her main fleet? How is the Dornish defense at Cape of the Broken Arm?"

The mention of the Dornish Sand Serpents caused everyone's faces to darken.

Lorent's joking expression vanished as he pointed towards the Dornish Sea: "Obara has led the main force back to Grey Gallows —the House Martell family's prison castle, built on a rocky reef, easy to defend and difficult to attack. She left about thirty ships there, along with around two thousand mercenaries, sending only three to five raiding ships to harass us each day. If we press too hard, she retreats her ships back to Grey Gallows, defending it with ballistae and Scorpion; we can't get close at all."

"And she's very cunning," Bryce Caron added. "She always targets our weakest villages, grabs our food and livestock, and runs away without ever lingering. We've tried ambushes, but her scouts are too agile; they always detect us in advance, leaving us empty-handed."

Daemon stroked his chin, his deduction becoming clearer. "It's not that she doesn't want to attack, it's that she dares not. The Triarchy suffered a crushing defeat at the Stepstones, she lost her ally to restrain the Joint Fleet, and she's afraid we'll send reinforcements from the Narrow Sea. So she can only use small-scale raids to buy time, hoping to wait for more reinforcements from Dorne —or, she's simply waiting for an opportunity to retreat."

Everyone was taken aback for a moment, then nodded in agreement.

Michael Metaling closed the book in his hands, his eyes full of agreement. "Your Highness is right! My father sent people to Dorne to scout ahead, and they said that the main force of House Martell was still near the Red Mountains and had not moved towards Cape Wrath at all— Obara probably already knew that the Triarchy had lost, but was unwilling to retreat just like that, so she used raiding to put on a show."

"What do we do then?" Robin Beasbury asked, his voice tinged with urgency. "We can't let her keep harassing us like this; the villages on the Dornish Marches have already suffered heavy losses."

Daemon looked at Borros, whose eyes remained sharp despite his injury. "Borros, what do you think?"

Borros stood up, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, and walked to the center of the group. "I think Little Daemon is right! That Obara is just bluffing! We can't stay on the defensive anymore; we have to take the initiative! Although Grey Gallows is easy to defend and difficult to attack, its supply line is on the Dornish Sea. As long as we cut off its supplies, it will retreat sooner or later!"

"But we don't have enough ships," Andrew Estermont frowned. "We only have twenty longships now, Obara has thirty, and Grey Gallows's ballistae and Scorpion are very powerful. We'll definitely suffer losses if we try to attack head-on."

Daemon smiled slightly and pointed to the House Velaryon silver ships behind him, "I also brought three House Velaryon silver ships, all of which were personally modified by Lord Corlys House Velaryon. They are fast and equipped with specially made Dragonglass ballistae, which should be able to penetrate the defenses of Dorne ships. Add to that your two thousand longships, and that's enough to cut off her supply lines."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, his tone resolute. "Moreover, we also have the Glutton and the Dragonfire of the Grey Ghost Shadow Dragon that can burn down her ballista positions. As long as you can hold back her raiding ships at sea, I can lead the dragons directly into Grey Gallows and force that Obara to retreat."

Everyone's eyes lit up instantly. With the dragons' support, plus the House Velaryon's silver ships, cutting off the Dornish supply lines no longer seemed like a difficult task.

Lorent slapped his thigh and laughed, "Great! We'll do it your way! Tomorrow I'll take some men to the Dornish Sea to scout and find out her supply ship routes!"

"Me too!" said the brothers Theogood and Fell Willie at the same time, their short knives gleaming coldly in Fell moonlight.

"Me too!" Alaric Dondarrion stepped forward, and Criston Cole nodded in agreement, clearly intending to accompany his young master.

Looking at the scene before him, Borros smiled with satisfaction, "Good! We'll move out first thing tomorrow morning! Everyone get a good rest tonight, and make sure you're all in top form. Let that Dorne Sand Snakes bitch know that the younger generation of Stormlands isn't someone to be trifled with!"

As night deepened, bonfires were lit at the docks of Mistwood. Servants of the House Mertyns brought roasted meat and ale, and everyone sat around the bonfire, eating and drinking while discussing plans for the next day.

Daemon leaned against the Glutton, Grey Ghost curled up at his feet, and a small, light grey dragon occasionally nuzzled the back of his hand, as if it were being affectionate.

Looking at the lively scene before him, listening to the laughter and discussions of the crowd, he suddenly thought of Gael. If she were here, she would surely smile and hand him a piece of honey cake, and remind him to be careful of the Dornish crossbows.

He quietly touched the amulet in his pocket, feeling the familiar warmth on his fingertips, and couldn't help but smile slightly.

"What are you thinking about now?" Borros walked over, holding a glass of ale, and handed it to Daemon. "Thinking about Princess Gael?"

Daemon took the glass, took a sip, and the rich aroma of the ale spread across his tongue. "I was thinking that once I've dealt with Obara, I can return to King's Landing."

Borros laughed and patted him on the shoulder, "Don't worry, it won't be long! Once we drive the Dornish back to their homeland, I'll bring everyone back to King's King's Landing with you. Then we'll invite Big Daemon along, and maybe even Brandon for a drink on Silk Street —this time it's on me!"

Daemon shook his head helplessly, but did not refute it.

He knew that although Borros was reckless, he was a man of great loyalty. If it weren't for Cape Wrath's desperate efforts to intercept the enemy when he returned to help, the consequences would have been unimaginable if the news of the Triarchy's crushing defeat at the Stepstones had been delayed even a little.

The firelight shone on everyone's faces, and the young men's eyes were filled with fighting spirit, making even the air seem to heat up.

Daemon looked up toward the direction of the Dornish Sea. In the moonlight, the outline of Grey Gallows was faintly visible, like a wild beast lurking on a rocky reef.

He knew that tomorrow's battle would not be easy; since Obara Shad could become the Sand Snakes of House Martell, she must have extraordinary abilities.

But he was not afraid.

Surrounded by Glutton, Grey Ghost, and his followers, along with his young brothers from Stormlands and the distant Stepstones and King's Landing's Landing, these are the driving forces that propel him forward.

"Tomorrow, we'll show those Dorne serpents that the young Storm of the Stormlands, and our Targaryen dragons, are not to be trifled with!" Daemon raised his glass and declared loudly to the crowd.

"Bravo!" Everyone raised their glasses, the clinking of the glasses echoing in the night, mingling with the low growls of the dragon and the crashing of the waves, becoming the most stirring battle song in the night sky Cape Wrath.

On the Owl Tower in Mistwood, torches still burned, as if illuminating the path ahead for the upcoming battle.

Daemon, holding his wine glass, had only one thought in his mind—to deal with Obara Shad as soon as possible, return to King's Landing to see Gael, and fulfill his promise of that ancient Old Valyria- style wedding.