The final meeting, the voyage home to King's Landing
The morning light in Tyrosh finally washed away the smoke of war, and in the council chamber within the the Black Wall, the final round of peace negotiations came to a close with the crackling of bronze candlesticks.
At either end of the long wooden table, the envoys of the Iron Throne of Westeros and the Free Cities of Essos finally relaxed their tense postures and pushed the signed parchment scrolls to the center of the table.
The parchment bore the crimson gold seal symbolizing the Triarchy Free Cities of Essos and the three-headed red Dragon Mark symbolizing the Targaryen Lineage of the Iron Throne in Westeros. Bathed in the morning light, it resembled a solidified oath, officially bringing to a close the long war between the two sides over the Stepstones.
Prince Baelon Targaryen, Hand of the King of the Iron Throne, Hand of the King, and Prince of Spring Dawn, sat in the main seat. His purple eyes swept over the final agreement, and his fingertips lightly tapped the clause "The Stepstones will permanently belong to the Iron Throne." His voice carried an unquestionable authority. "From this day forward, the Iron Throne will establish a temporary governorship on the Stepstones, currently headed by Earl Corlys House Velaryon, Earl of Tidehead Island. We, the Iron Throne of Westeros, will dispatch the Royal Joint Fleet to be permanently stationed on Bloodstone Island and other important islands, large and small, to be responsible for the security of the sea lanes."
Then there are the three kingdoms of Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh, which must pay 10% of their trade tax to the Iron Throne annually to compensate for the losses of the war, until it is fully repaid within five years: as for the slavery of your Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh— "
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the tense face of the Tyrosh noble representative. "Westeros and the Iron Throne have no right, nor will they, to interfere with your city-state traditions for the time being, but the final treaty will explicitly prohibit the enslavement of Westeros citizens, with violators to be punished by Dragonfire."
Corlys House Velaryon, holding a brass telescope, stood by the window and added, "And on the Narrow Sea trade route through the Stepstones, the Westeros Joint Fleet regularly issues safe passage permits to your merchant ships." Merchant ships with these permits are exempt from 30% of the toll—a concession to Lys and Myr merchants and their guilds, and also to facilitate the post-war buffer and reconstruction of your Tyrosh, since your silk and goods still need to be transported to Westeros via the Narrow Sea.
Taimond Lannister's gold ring finally stopped spinning. He gave his Westerlands entourage a wink, his tone carrying the pragmatic air characteristic of the Westerlands at this moment. "The Westerlands caravan will arrive in Tyrosh in half a month. House Lannister is willing to provide the new Highlord with a gold coin loan at a lower interest rate than the Iron Bank, but on the condition that the silver mining rights in Tyrosh be given priority to the Westerlands the Smith' Guild."
Otto Hightower adjusted the badge of the Master of Laws on his chest and added in a formulaic manner, "King's Landing will send three maesters to assist Tyrosh in revising the relevant post-war laws and ensuring the implementation of the new agreement; Lord Leonno Strong will have ten Royal Fleet of the Iron Throne left behind until High Overlord Erio stabilizes the city-state."
The Lys envoy's hand trembled slightly as he held the parchment scroll, while the Myr envoy quickly scanned the restrictive clauses such as "prohibition of large-scale hiring of mercenaries from Disputed Lands." The two exchanged a glance—the ambitions of the Three Cities Alliance had ultimately been defeated by the dragon's Dragonfire, and it was already a miracle that they could preserve the autonomy of their city-states.
In the presence of the other envoys from the Free Cities of Essos, Marcos Vance, the noble representative of Tyrosh, finally breathed a sigh of relief. He rose and bowed to Baelon: "Tyrosh will abide by the agreement. High Lord Erio is already preparing for his inauguration ceremony at his residence. We will do our utmost to assist him until he can govern Tyrosh independently. Of course, Tyrosh welcomes your presence again at any time."
At the port outside the Tyrosh, Racallio Rendon and his men were already waiting for the meeting to end.
He had changed into a new purple-green silk shirt today, and his purple-orange striped beard was tied with a silver cord. At his waist hung the pair of short knives engraved with roses and bones—the spoils that Daemon had officially returned to him yesterday.
His repaired fleet, the "King of the Narrow Sea," had its sails raised, and his old men stood on both sides of the ship, along with more than twenty slaves who had chosen to go with him to the Summer Isles.
The young slave girl was clinging to the Grey Ghost's claws. The light gray dragon, unusually, didn't flinch but instead nuzzled the girl's hand with its head. The little girl had figured out the cowardly dragon's tricks: it would touch the fish if given one, but of course, Daemon had to be there to watch over it.
"Your Highness Baelon, my ships and brothers are getting impatient!" Racallio shouted to the approaching core members of the Joint Fleet, his voice filled with his usual madness, "The coconuts and wine of the Summer Isles are waiting for me, or those savage islanders will drink up all the best wine!"
Baelon smiled and gestured for a servant behind him to hand him a parchment scroll, "This is a safe passage granted to you by the Iron Throne." The Royal Fleet along the way will not stop you. Remember your oath—never again to plunder Westeros merchant ships, or the Dragonfire of Vhagar will show no mercy the next time we meet."
Racallio took the pass, casually stuffed it into his pocket, and winked at Daemon: "Little Daemon, if there's any good business in the Narrow Sea next time—like clearing out pirates or escorting caravans—remember to send someone to call me! My men are much more reliable than the mercenaries the Triarchy hired before!"
Daemon smiled and nodded, pointing to the slaves on his ship. "Take good care of them. Life in the Summer Isles probably isn't as comfortable as the silk of Tyrosh.
"Don't worry!" Racallio patted his chest and shouted to his men, "Brothers! Set sail! To the Summer Isles for some coconut wine!"
As the speedboat slowly pulled away from the dock, the slaves waved to the Joint Fleet. The girl clung to Grey Ghost's paws, refusing to let go, until Racallio laughed and picked her up. Only then did the little dragon reluctantly fly back to Daemon's side, still carrying the seashell the girl had given it in its mouth.
The "bone and sword" emblem on the sail gradually shrank in the morning light, eventually disappearing into the horizon of the Narrow Sea —this mad "King of the Narrow Sea," with his obsession and followers, finally sailed towards a new distant place.
No sooner had Racallio's ship disappeared than the Joint Fleet's camp became bustling with activity.
The sailors began packing up their tents and moving supplies, while the knights checked their armor and weapons, preparing to embark on their voyage back to King's Landing.
Vhagar spread his enormous, turquoise wings and circled once above the port, as if bidding farewell to the newly pacified city-state;
Caraxes soared above the "Golden Lion," occasionally spewing out small bursts of crimson Dragonfire, eliciting cheers from the Westerlands soldiers.
Daemon Targaryen stood at the bow of the ship, waving goodbye to the young nobles of Tyrosh. Elio, still holding the Caraxes- style badge Erio had given him, looked at the overly familiar fellow with obvious reluctance.
When Daemon returned to the Blackfyre, Rayford Rosby was carrying a stack of letters from home. The top one, embroidered with the Dreamfyre pattern, was from Gael.
He eagerly opened the package, and familiar, delicate handwriting came into view. "New flowers have bloomed again in the Red Keep Gardens. A few days ago, I rode Dreamfyre to Dragonstone to embroider a new amulet for you. I also told Mother that when you return, we'll choose an auspicious day for our engagement, and then have the wedding on Dragonstone —how is Grey Ghost? Has it forgotten the honey cakes I fed it? And Little Mei and Hannah, they miss you very much too. Oh, and Larys, he's been coming to me crying these past few days, complaining about the hardships of handling intelligence all by himself."
Daemon touched the old dragon scale amulet in his pocket, then looked at the Grey Ghost gnawing on a seashell at his feet, and couldn't help but smile slightly.
The Glutton descended from the sky, its dark dragon wings brushing lightly across the deck, as if urging it on— the Black Dragon probably missed its old lair on Dragonstone.
"Little Daemon! What are you dawdling for?" Daemon Targaryen's voice came from the gangway, carrying a flask filled with Tyrosh liqueur. "That old bastard Taimond rarely says he's going to throw a victory party on the way back to King's Landing, so don't be late!"
Daemon put away the letter and followed him onto the deck.
The sails of the Joint Fleet were being raised one after another. The silver ships of the House Velaryon swam like silver fish, the longships of the Stormlands flew the Black Stag flag, the longships of the the North were adorned with the stripes of the Direwolf, and the golden lion flag of the Westerlands fluttered in the wind. The dense array of sails stretched out like a rainbow across the Narrow Sea.
Baelon stood at the bow of the "Royal Standard," gazing at the scene before him, and whispered to Corlys beside him, "We can finally return to King's Landing."
Corlys nodded, his gaze sweeping over the distant Tyrosh: "That Erio seems to be a smart man after all. With him and those anti-war Tyrosh nobles around, Tyrosh won't cause any more trouble; the Stepstones also have a fixed fleet stationed there, so they can hold out. Now, it's time for the Seven Kingdoms to recuperate."
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.
He looked up, and though he couldn't see King's Landing's Landing, he could imagine the bells of the Red Keep, Gael's smile, and that belated Old Valyria wedding.
He recalled his arrival at Dragonstone prison a century in the past, his travels through the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, and the aftermath of the war with the Three Cities. Suddenly, he felt that these past three years had been a long but worthwhile journey.
He not only defended the Stepstones and the brief peace of the Narrow Sea, but also found people worth protecting. When the horn of the "Royal Standard" sounded, the Joint Fleet slowly sailed away from the port of Tyrosh.
Vhagar, Glutton, Caraxes took to the air simultaneously, their roars intertwining and causing ripples to spread across the sea, as if playing the most exciting prelude to their victorious return journey.
The Black Wall of Tyrosh gradually shrank, the lights of the harbor gleamed faintly in the morning light, and Daemon gripped the Blackfyre, the dragon patterns on the scabbard gleaming coldly in the sunlight.
He knew the road back to King's King's Landing was long, but this time, he was no longer alone. He had dragons, brothers, loved ones, and the peace of Westeros to protect.
The wind from the Narrow Sea carried warmth, billowing his black cloak and the sails of the Joint Fleet.
Daemon touched the letter in his pocket, with only one thought in his mind: to return to King's Landing as soon as possible, to return to Gael's side, and to fulfill the promise about Dragonfire and the oath.
On the distant horizon, a red sun is slowly rising, like a newborn flame, illuminating the journey back to King's Landing and the Narrow Sea that has just ushered in peace.
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