An edge yet uncooled on the Narrow Sea

As soon as Daemon led Crahas Hal out of the dungeon's iron gates, the sea breeze from Dragonstone rushed in, whipping up fine salt crystals that stung their faces.

Crahas instinctively raised his hand to block, but Ziguang greedily scanned everything in front of him:

In the distance, the volcanic rocks of Dragonmont gleamed dark in the sunlight, tender green grass sprouted from the cracks in the stone bricks of the square, and the roar of the Glutton dragon fell from the sky, causing the air to tremble slightly.

He stood there, stunned for several breaths, before slowly following Daemon's footsteps. His tattered prison clothes fluttered in the wind, but his straight back seemed to be wearing the armor that once belonged only to him, Prince Myr.

"This way, please." Daemon took the lead and walked towards the square outside the castle.

In the square, several idle guards were chatting together. When they saw Daemon approaching, they quickly stood up straight and were about to go up and make friends with him, but when they saw Crahas behind Daemon, the smile on their faces instantly froze, and their mouths opened wide enough to fit a fist.

Just as one of the younger guards was about to speak up to warn him, the older guard beside him quietly pulled him back.

The old guard had gray hair and a face full of wrinkles, clearly having spent many years on Dragonstone and possessing extensive knowledge.

He bowed respectfully to Daemon, a deferential smile on his face, "Greetings, Your Prince Blackfyre. This—I presume to be Lord Crahas, the former Prince of Myr? Your Highness has come specifically to see Lord Crahas today; it must be of great importance."

Daemon nodded, offering no further explanation.

The old guard, quick-witted as ever, immediately gave the other guards a wink. "What are you all standing there for? Make way for His Highness and Crahas!"

The other guards then realized what was happening and quickly stepped aside to make way, their eyes filled with curiosity and awe as they watched Crahas follow Daemon step by step out of the plaza.

The young guard leaned close to the older guard and whispered, "Chief guard, are we just going to let him go like this? What if he causes trouble?"

The old guard glared at him. "Your Highness knows what you're doing. Do you think Prince Blackfyre is an ordinary person? He's a 'warrior descended to earth.' Let alone a mere Crahas, even ten or eight of them wouldn't be a match for His Highness."

Besides, although Crahas is a prisoner today, he is still a formidable warrior. We should all maintain a degree of respect for him.

The young guard nodded as if he understood, watching the two figures disappear into the distance, his mind filled with doubt.

Daemon led Crahas along the coast of Dragonstone. Black rocks stretched slowly beneath their feet, and waves crashed against them, splashing white spray and making a "whoosh" sound.

As the sun rose higher, it shone on Crahas's face again. He squinted slightly, feeling the warmth of the sunlight, the stubble on his face gleaming with a pale yellow sheen in the light.

Months of life in the dungeon had made his skin pale and his body emaciated, but his eyes remained sharp as ever, revealing the indomitable spirit of a warrior.

He looked down at his hands, hands that once held command of the Triarchy's fleet and once wielded longswords to sweep across enemy lines. Now, however, they bore deep marks from being bound by chains for so long, and his knuckles were stiff.

"Do you know?" Crahas suddenly spoke, his voice much calmer than before, "The first time I saw a true dragon was after I led my fleet to sweep away the pirates of the Stepstones. At that time, the nobles of Tyrosh invited me to accompany them on a mission to King's Landing's Landing."

Back then, I was sailing my fleet past your "Sea Snake" lord's Tidehead Island, and I saw... that must be your older sister, right? Princess Rhaenys was riding her "Red Queen" Meleys—

At the time, I only thought that dragons were just huge beasts, ultimately no match for the massive and sophisticated ballistae of us Myr people on the fleet.

It wasn't until the battle with the Joint Fleet at the Stepstones that I realized the power of the dragon 'Dragonfire was ultimately beyond the capabilities of mortal weapons to withstand.

He turned to Daemon, a hint of inquiry in his eyes. "How did you tame your Gluttonous King of the Wild Dragons? I've heard it's the most Glutton of all dragons; before you, no Targaryen dared approach it alone to try and tame it."

"It's not taming, it's resonance," Daemon said. "Dragons are sentient beings. They recognize their masters not because of chains and whips, but because of power and dignity. Glutton admire the strong, and I gave it respect."

Crahas was silent for a moment, seemingly agreeing with his statement, "Perhaps. Ultimately, it's strength that matters between warriors. When I swept across the Stepstones, it wasn't because of the Triarchy's power, but because of the trust of my soldiers and the prestige I built up with every victory."

The two walked slowly along the coastline, the sea breeze ruffling their robes. In the distance, the Glutton let out a low dragon roar, as if echoing the sound of the surrounding waves.

Crahas's gaze fell on the Narrow Sea in the distance, his eyes filled with nostalgia and resentment. That was once his battlefield, the place where he had shed his blood and glory.

"You won that war," Crahas said softly, "But I don't regret it. I initially fought for the Triarchy not for the interests of those nobles, but for the independence and glory of Myr, for the order of the Narrow Sea."

Unfortunately, the Triarchy was ultimately a disorganized mess, with each city harboring its own agenda; otherwise, the outcome might have been far from certain.

"There are no 'what ifs' in war," Daemon said. "You are a respectable opponent, and your record is worthy of being recorded in history."

But times are changing. From this day forward, the Dragonfire of the Targaryen will forever protect the peace of Westeros, and the order of the Narrow Sea should no longer be defined by the ambitions of the Triarchy.

Crahas did not refute, but simply gazed in the direction of the Narrow Sea, remaining silent for a long time.

The sunlight gently fell on his face, casting a long shadow that intertwined with the rocks beneath his feet and the distant waves, creating a desolate yet tragic scene.

Daemon stopped and turned to look at Crahas behind him. "The beach of Dragonstone is just ahead. It's wide and flat, perfect for a duel. How long do you need to rest? I'll have someone send you armor and weapons commensurate with your strength."

Crahas raised his head, the confusion and longing in his eyes gradually fading, replaced by a resolute flame.

He took a deep breath, the sea breeze filling his chest, bringing him a long-lost sense of comfort.

No need to rest.

He said in a deep voice, "I have waited for this day for countless days and nights. Now, I am ready."

Daemon looked at him and nodded. He knew that for a warrior like Crahas, delay and waiting were both a desecration of dignity.

This duel was not only to satisfy Crahas's obsession, but also to pay tribute to a former rival, and to the warrior's spirit that did not cool down even in the face of adversity.

On the beach of Dragonstone, waves lapped against the sand, leaving trails of dampness. Sunlight shone warmly on the golden sand. Crahas stood in the middle of the beach, his thin frame ramrod straight, like a tenacious pine tree. He gazed at the distant horizon, his eyes filled with determination, as if he were ready to face anything.

Daemon stood not far from him, his Blackfyre still sheathed, but he could feel the tension gradually building in the air. This duel was not about hatred, not about profit, but only about the dignity and honor of warriors.

He knew that after this day, regardless of victory or defeat, Crahas would be able to fulfill his wish, and he himself would once again prove that the sharpness of the Blackfyre was enough to illuminate any dark corner.

The Glutton hovered above the beach, its deep, majestic roar seemingly witnessing this extraordinary duel. Grey Ghost landed on Daemon's shoulder, and the small, light grey dragon let out a low roar at Crahas, but without any hostility, only pure curiosity.

The sunlight gradually rose overhead, bathing the two men in its glow and shrinking their shadows into tiny clumps. Daemon slowly drew his Blackfyre; the Valyrian steel sword gleamed with a cold, sharp light in the sunlight, the dark gold patterns flowing across its blade appearing as if flames were leaping within them.

Crahas's self-glow fell on the Blackfyre, a hint of envy and awe flashing in his eyes, which was then replaced by determination. He clenched his fist, and although he did not yet have a weapon, his aura was not diminished in the slightest, as if he had already grasped the sharp blade that had once swept across the Narrow Sea.

A duel spanning months of grudges and concerning the honor of warriors is about to begin on the beaches of Dragonstone. This land, which witnessed the rise of Targaryen Lineage, will once again etch a legend of honor and obsession.

The sun was high in the sky over Dragonstone, its golden rays shining down and warming the beach. The waves of the Narrow Sea lapped against the shore, their spray shimmering like shattered silver in the sunlight.

Crahas Hal stood in the middle of the beach on Dragonstone, already dressed in the dark, fitted outfit Daemon had sent him. The fabric was dry and breathable, fitting his body without restricting his movements.

On a stone platform to the side lay a set of polished steel armor, but he only glanced at it before resolutely turning his head and reaching for the longsword prepared for him.

The sword gleamed with a cold, sharp light. Although it couldn't compare to the incredibly precious Valyrian steel sword or his former admiral's scimitar, it was still a finely crafted piece.

"Armor is just a burden to us sea warriors."

At this moment, Crahas's voice, though hoarse, carried a firm resolve as his fingertips lightly traced the simple anti-slip patterns on the hilt of his sword, "A warrior's dignity should never lie in the thickness of his armor, but in the sharpness of his blade and the unwavering resolve of his heart."

Daemon looked at the last flame burning in his eyes, a hint of approval flashing in his own.

He raised his hand and removed the black dragon scale armor from his body. The armor struck the ground with a dull thud, revealing the black tight-fitting clothes underneath, creating a strange echo with Crahas.

"You're right," he said slowly. "This competition is only about the warriors, not about status or armor."

The two stood facing each other, a few steps apart. The sea breeze, carrying a salty, damp scent, swept past, ruffling their robes, while the sound of the Narrow Sea waves became the only background noise.

The Glutton circled high in the sky, their dragon roars deep and resonant, as if witnessing this extraordinary duel.

The Grey Ghost curled up on a rock not far away, while the light gray dragon stared intently, holding its breath, even its soft snoring stopped.

"Let's begin." Crahas spoke first, and before his words had even finished, he had already pounced out like an arrow.

The longsword whistled through the air as it pierced straight into Daemon's heart. The move was ruthless and decisive, without the slightest probing, as if this strike was the entirety of his life's devotion.

Daemon dodged to the side, the blade grazing his clothes before embedding itself in the sand, sending up a spray of fine grains.

He could clearly sense the deathly intent contained in Crahas's swordplay.

Every slash was carried with a desperate madness, every thrust left no way out, as if he wasn't competing, but burning his last breath, seeking only a magnificent end.

"Do you want to die?" Daemon blocked another vicious slash, the sound of blades clashing crisp and piercing. "To die on the battlefield is a warrior's honor, but to die in a contest unrelated to hatred is to betray one's entire life!"

Crahas did not respond, but his offensive intensified.

His movements carried the stiffness left by his dungeon confinement, but he compensated for his physical limitations with years of battlefield experience and instinct.

The longsword danced in his hand, drawing sharp arcs. Sunlight shone on the blade, reflecting a dazzling light. Each move was aimed directly at a vital point, yet it carried an almost tragic grandeur.

Daemon gradually figured out his current rhythm: just defend, occasionally launch counterattacks, but always leave room for maneuver.

He could see the red veins at the corners of Crahas's eyes, feel the violent rise and fall of his chest with each swing of his sword, and read the dying intent burning within his eyes—

This former Prince of Myr, forgotten by his homeland and abandoned by fate, had long been prepared to die, only wishing to perform his final dance before a worthy opponent.

"Your opponent is the betrayer of the former Triarchy, the storms of the Narrow Sea, not me! Crahas Hal!" Daemon shouted in a deep voice, his wrist slightly twisting to parry Crahas's sword, the force of which made the opponent's hand go numb.

Crahas seemed not to hear him. He took a step forward, leaned his body forward, and swung his longsword at an incredible angle. At the same time, he clenched his fist and swung it out, as if he was about to launch a final attack in a suicidal manner.

This sword strike embodied all his strength and will, carrying the sound of the wind, his longing for his hometown of Myr, the forgotten grievances, the warrior's last pride, and the resolute determination that had struck his "dying" heart by Daemon's words, and it was aimed straight at Daemon's neck.

At this critical moment, Daemon moved first. Instead of retreating, he advanced, dodging the sword's edge while gripping the hilt of the Blackfyre with his right hand. With a slight flick of his wrist, the Valyrian steel sword sword sprang out like a serpent, striking precisely the spine of the longsword in Crahas's hand.

"Clang!"

A deafening collision resounded, Crahas felt an overwhelming force surge through the blade. His wrist throbbed with pain, and he could no longer hold the sword. It flew out of his hand, arcing through the air before trembling and embedding itself deep in the sand, the tip still quivering slightly.

At the same time, Daemon's other hand gently pressed on his shoulder, the force not strong, but with an irresistible steadiness, forcefully stopping his forward momentum.

Crahas, utterly exhausted, stumbled and fell backward. Resigned, he closed his eyes, awaiting the expected stinging pain, awaiting the brilliant, magnificent, and tragic end befitting a warrior.