The morning light over Tyrosh had finally burned away the last traces of gunpowder and smoke. Inside the Black Wall, the final round of peace negotiations drew to a close beneath the crackle of bronze candelabras.
At opposite ends of the long oak table, the envoys of the Iron Throne and the Free Cities pushed the signed parchment to the center.
The scroll bore two heavy seals: the tri-colored gold of the Triarchy on one side, and the three-headed red dragon of House Targaryen on the other. In the dawn light they looked like a single, frozen vow—ending the long war that had been fought over the Stepstones.
Prince Baelon Targaryen, Hand of the King and heir to the Iron Throne, sat at the head of the table. His violet eyes moved slowly across the final terms. One finger tapped the clause that read "The Stepstones shall belong in perpetuity to the Iron Throne."
"From this day forward," he said, voice carrying the weight of royal command, "the Iron Throne will establish a provisional governor's seat in the Stepstones. For now, Lord Corlys Velaryon of Driftmark will serve in that role. The royal fleet will maintain a permanent presence on Bloodstone and the other major islands to keep the sea lanes safe.
"Additionally, Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh will each pay one-tenth of their trade revenue to the Iron Throne as war reparations—until the debt is cleared in five years. As for your continued practice of slavery—"
He paused, letting his gaze rest on the tense Tyroshi nobles. "Westeros has no right to interfere in the internal traditions of the Free Cities. However, the treaty will explicitly forbid the enslavement of any Westerosi citizen. Violations will be answered with dragonfire."
Corlys Velaryon stood by the window, brass spyglass in hand, and added smoothly, "On the matter of trade routes through the Stepstones, the royal fleet will issue safe-conduct papers. Any merchant vessel holding one will pay only seven-tenths of the usual toll—a concession to the merchants of Lys and Myr, and a measure to help Tyrosh rebuild after the war. After all, your silks and wares still need to reach Westeros."
Tymond Lannister finally stopped twisting the golden lion ring on his finger. He gave a subtle nod to his western retainers and spoke with the practical tone the West was known for. "In half a month, Lannister trading fleets will arrive in Tyrosh. House Lannister is prepared to extend gold loans at lower interest than the Iron Bank—on the condition that Tyrosh grants first rights to the silver mines to the western smiths' guilds."
Otto Hightower adjusted the Hand's brooch at his breast and added in his measured, legal voice, "King's Landing will send three maesters to assist with revising Tyrosh's post-war laws and ensuring the treaty is upheld. Lord Lyonel Strong will leave ten royal warships stationed here until the new Archon, Alequo, has firmly stabilized the city."
The Lyseni envoy's hand trembled slightly as he held the parchment. The Myrish envoy quickly scanned the clauses forbidding large-scale hiring of Disputed Lands mercenaries. The two men exchanged a single glance. The Triarchy's ambitions had been broken by true dragonfire; keeping their cities' autonomy was already a mercy.
Under the watchful eyes of the other Essosi envoys, the Tyroshi noble representative, Marqos Vance, finally exhaled in relief. He rose and bowed deeply to Baelon.
"Tyrosh will honor every clause. Archon Alequo is already preparing his inauguration at the manse. We will support him until he can govern independently. Of course, Tyrosh will always welcome the return of any of your lordships."
Outside the city, at the harbor, Racallio Ryndoon waited with his crew for the talks to end.
He had traded his garish silks for a fresh purple-and-green tunic. His purple-and-orange striped beard and hair were neatly bound with a silver cord, and at his waist hung the twin short swords carved with roses and bones—the very weapons Daemon had formally returned to him the day before.
His repaired fleet, the "King of the Narrow Sea" squadron, had already raised sail. On either side of the ships stood his old followers and more than twenty former slaves who had chosen to sail south with him.
One small slave girl still clung to Grey Ghost's claw. The little pale dragon, unusually bold today, let her pet him, purring softly. She had quickly learned the timid dragon's weakness: fish bought affection.
"Prince Baelon!" Racallio shouted as the delegation approached, his voice carrying its familiar mad energy. "My ships and brothers are itching to leave! The coconut wine of the Summer Isles won't wait forever—any later and those wild islanders will drink it all!"
Baelon smiled and had a servant hand him a rolled parchment. "This is a royal safe-conduct pass from the Iron Throne. No fleet of ours will bar your way. Remember your oath: you will never again raid Westerosi ships. Break it, and next time Vhagar's fire will not be so merciful."
Racallio tucked the pass carelessly into his tunic and winked at Daemon. "Little Prince, if the Narrow Sea ever needs honest work—clearing pirates, escorting merchants—send word! My brothers are far more reliable than the sellswords the Triarchy hired."
Daemon smiled and pointed at the former slaves aboard the ships. "Take good care of them. Life in the Summer Isles won't be as soft as Tyroshi silk."
"Leave it to me!" Racallio thumped his chest, then turned and bellowed to his crew, "Brothers! Raise sail! We're off to the Summer Isles for coconut wine!"
As the fast ships slowly pulled away from the quay, the former slaves waved toward the united fleet. The little girl refused to let go of Grey Ghost's claw until Racallio laughingly lifted her into his arms. Only then did the pale dragon reluctantly fly back to Daemon, a seashell still clutched in his jaws.
The "bones and swords" emblem on the sails grew smaller and smaller, finally vanishing into the horizon of the Narrow Sea. The mad "King of the Narrow Sea" had set off with his obsessions and his followers toward a new horizon.
The moment Racallio's ships disappeared, the united fleet camp burst into cheerful activity.
Sailors struck tents and loaded supplies. Knights checked armor and blades, preparing for the long voyage home to King's Landing.
Vhagar spread her bronze-green wings and circled the harbor once, as if bidding farewell to the city they had just pacified.
Caraxes swept low over the Golden Lion, a small burst of scarlet flame drawing delighted cheers from the western soldiers.
Daemon Targaryen stood at the prow, waving goodbye to the young Tyroshi nobles. Alequo clutched the little Caraxes badge Daemon had given him, eyes full of reluctant farewell.
When Daemon returned to the Blackfyre, Rayford Rosby approached with an armful of letters. The top one bore the familiar Dreamfyre embroidery—Gael's.
He tore it open at once. Her elegant handwriting filled the page:
"The gardens at the Red Keep are blooming again. A few days ago I flew Dreamfyre to Dragonstone and finished your new charm. Mother and I have already chosen a good day for the betrothal once you return, and then the Valyrian wedding on Dragonstone… Is Grey Ghost doing well? Has he forgotten the honey cakes I fed him? Little May and Hannah miss you too. Oh, and Larys keeps complaining to me that he's buried under intelligence reports all alone."
Daemon ran his thumb over the old dragon-scale charm at his chest, then looked down at Grey Ghost happily gnawing on a seashell. A soft smile curved his lips.
The Cannibal descended from the sky, black wings brushing the deck as if urging him onward. The great beast clearly missed the familiar lair on Dragonstone.
"Little Daemon! What are you dawdling for?" Daemon Targaryen's voice rang from the gangplank. He carried a wineskin of Tyroshi sweetwine. "That old fox Tymond finally agreed to throw a victory feast on the way back to King's Landing. Don't be late!"
Daemon tucked the letter away and followed him up the deck.
The united fleet's sails were already rising one by one. Velaryon silver ships looked like silver fish in the current. Stormlands longships flew crowned-stag banners. Northern ships carried the ice-wolf shields of House Stark. Westerlands golden lions snapped proudly in the wind. A thousand sails formed a living rainbow across Blackwater Bay.
Baelon stood at the prow of the King's Banner and spoke softly to Corlys beside him. "We can finally sail home to King's Landing."
Corlys nodded, eyes on the distant city. "Alequo seems a sensible man. With him and the anti-war Tyroshi nobles in charge, the city should stay quiet. The Stepstones now have a permanent fleet stationed on Bloodstone. The realm can finally rest and heal."
Daemon leaned against The Cannibal's warm scales. Grey Ghost curled at his feet, occasionally nudging his hand.
He looked toward the invisible horizon where King's Landing lay. In his mind he could already hear the bells of the Red Keep, see Gael's smile, and feel the warmth of the long-delayed Valyrian wedding.
He remembered waking alone in the Dragonstone dungeons three years earlier. He remembered touring the Seven Kingdoms, making friends and followers who swore their swords to him. He remembered the bloody battles against the Triarchy and the Dornish.
Now, three years later, those promises had become a thousand sails stretched across the Narrow Sea.
The east wind filled every canvas. Dragon roars rolled across the waves.
As the King's Banner sounded its horn, the united fleet began the long voyage home.
Vhagar, The Cannibal, and Caraxes rose together. Their three roars wove into one, shaking the sea and sounding the triumphant overture of their return.
The black walls of Tyrosh grew smaller. The harbor lanterns twinkled in the dawn light.
Daemon gripped Blackfyre. The dragon on the scabbard caught the rising sun.
He knew the road back to King's Landing was still long, but this time he was not alone.
He had his dragons, his brothers, his followers, and the woman waiting for him.
The Narrow Sea wind carried a new warmth. It lifted his black cloak and filled every sail of the united fleet.
Daemon touched the letter against his chest. Only one thought burned in his heart:
Hurry home to King's Landing.
Hurry home to Gael.
Fulfill the promise sealed in dragonfire and ancient vows.
On the far horizon, a new red sun rose slowly, like a fresh spark of hope—lighting the homeward voyage and the Narrow Sea that had finally found peace.