The Stepstones stank of blood and brine.
War had settled into a grinding stalemate. Ships smoldered on black beaches. The Sea Snake's fleet, for all its glory, was tethered like hounds on a chain. And Prince Daemon Targaryen, mounted atop Caraxes, watched the Crabfeeder's harrying tactics with growing fury.
He stood now in the command tent, damp with sweat and salt, surrounded by sour-faced captains and bloodstained maps.
Then came the raven.
A lean squire entered, holding a sealed letter.
Daemon, shirtless and soaked in battle grit, broke the Arryn seal.
He read in silence. Then again, slower.
Corlys Velaryon stood at the far end, arms crossed, his silver beard damp.
"What is it?" Corlys asked.
Daemon looked up, a dangerous grin forming.
"Lord Rodrik Arryn," Daemon said, "is sending us men. Gold. Supplies."
Corlys' eyes narrowed. "Why?"
Daemon smirked. "Because he wants the Crabfeeder dead as much as we do. And he's devised a plan to do it."
He handed the letter to Corlys, who read it slowly. Inside were fine diagrams — a network of attack formations, feint routes, and troop timings. Maritime maneuvers that accounted for tide and wind with uncanny accuracy. It was cleaner than anything they had proposed thus far.
Corlys whistled. "Precise. Surgical. Almost… too clever."
Daemon leaned back, amused.
"He also asks something in return," he said.
Corlys looked up sharply. "Of course he does. What does he want?"
Daemon's grin widened, not with scorn, but with respect. "One favor. One day, he'll ask me to stand with him against an enemy. No name. No condition."
Corlys's brow furrowed. "That is vague. Dangerous."
"It's exciting," Daemon muttered. "I have met him, he is not someone to instigate a war. Now I am curious which type of enemy is he planning to face that he needs my help."
He looked toward the tent flap, where the wind battered the canvas.
"You trust him?"
"No," Daemon said. "But as I said it's fun."
He turned to the map, now suddenly more alive than it had ever looked in weeks. "We ride this plan. And when the time comes, we will see."
"Just like that?" Corlys asked.
Daemon's eyes glittered with amusement and anticipation. "Let's see what kind of storm a falcon brings when it flies at the sea."
Rodrik's raven had come bearing a plan — and with it, three thousand disciplined Vale spearmen, five hundred heavy horse, engineers, sappers, siege gear, and most importantly: clarity.
At dawn, Corlys' fleet fanned out to the south as decoy.
Aboard one of the ships, a scroll sealed with blue wax passed between commanders:
> "Phase One: Distraction. Let them see us scatter like fools. Let them laugh, even. They must feel safe to make a mistake."
By midday, smoke rose from decoy ships set ablaze in mock retreat. Drahar, confident the Sea Snake was beaten, left his caves — just as Rodrik predicted. He sent his skirmishers to mop up.
But the shores were already crawling with Vale scouts in camouflaged gear, their armor dulled with ash and earth, their weapons glinting only when blood kissed them.
> "Phase Two: Isolation. Cut the spine."
A hidden causeway built over the week before — masked in darkness by engineers under moonlight — allowed three Vale companies to flank the ridges and encircle the back entrance of the Crabfeeder's tunnels.
Ravens took flight. Fire arrows marked the time.
Then, everything moved like clockwork.
The main assault charged through the center, but it was no suicide run. It was a layered attack — staggered infantry, heavy shield lines, then mobile cavalry faking retreat, only to encircle.
In the skies, Caraxes screamed.
Daemon was fighting in the land where ceraxys was covering him from sky.
Clad in his black-and-red armor, his blade Dark Sister a blur, he landed amidst the chaos and carved a path straight toward the caves. He didn't need an army. He was the storm.
> "Phase Three: Suffocation. No retreat. No mercy."
Smoke choked the tunnels. Men tried to flee. Some surfaced only to find Vale archers waiting atop the cliffs — a rain of steel met them.
Corlys, watching from the western cove, muttered, "That boy fights wars like a smith forges blades."
Hours passed. Then silence.
Daemon emerged, dragging the maimed corpse of the Crabfeeder behind him — half burnt, half cleaved. His armor steamed with blood and heat. His hair was plastered to his face.
He dropped the body at Corlys' feet, said nothing, and sat in the sand.
Corlys looked around the beach: Vale banners flapping in victory. The Stepstones finally theirs.