"We march to victory, or we march to defeat. But we go forward. Only forward."
―Stannis Baratheon
…
Daemon leaned against the battlements, hands resting on the cool, damp stone. The salt-laden wind tugged at his cloak, stirred the silver of his hair as he gazed out over the endless stretch of water. The waves rolled and heaved beneath a sky the color of old iron, their white crests breaking against the hulls of a thousand ships. Never had he seen such a fleet—not even during his wars in the Stepstones. He chewed the inside of his cheek, considering the scene, considering his options.
The Narrow Sea stretched out before him, a great heaving mass of gray, darker where the clouds pressed low, lighter where the sun broke through in half-hearted streaks. Of the hulls bobbing on the restless waters, the Braavosi vessels stood out among them, their purple sails still bold despite the grime of salt and spray. The Sealord's own, bought and paid for by the Iron Bank to see Rhaenyra's claim secured and that drunk fool Aegon and his warhound brother's bank stamped out.
Others lurked among them—many plain-sailed, sharp-keeled. Pentoshi, maybe. Or Lyseni. Hard to tell with privateers. They fought for gold, not flags, and gold had a way of changing hands. Today they were his. Tomorrow? He'd seen the way the wind blew.
Not that it mattered much.
Ships didn't seem to win wars these days. Men did. Dragons did. And while the fleet was vast, it had been useless in breaking the Greens' hold on the Stepstones. Three times they'd tried, three times they'd failed. The warships of the enemy—less than two hundred of them—had made a fortress of the islands, turning every narrow pass into a slaughterhouse. Aemond's men had laid scorpions and trebuchets along the cliffs, sending ship after ship to the bottom.
The one time their fleet had tried for King's Landing, at the behest of some fool commander, Vhagar had come screaming out of the black. The plan had been sound—from the fool's perspective perhaps. A swift, brutal strike before the enemy could react.
One did not need a report to know how that turned out.
By dawn, Blackwater Bay had become a funeral pyre, two hundred ships lost before the survivors could scatter into open water.
Daemon flexed his fingers. The ache in his knuckles had been a constant thing of late, though whether it came from his age or the weight of his sword, he could not say. He had spent half his life in war, yet never had he felt so hemmed in, so powerless. The Essosi captains would not dare another fool's venture against the Stepstones, nor would they risk another charge upon the capital. They had been tempered by fire and learned well that dragons were not mere beasts to be trifled with.
So they lingered here, anchored in the churning waters between Rook's Rest and Dragonstone, waiting, waiting. Daemon had ordered it so. He had seen enough folly for one war. Better to hold firm than squander more lives in futile engagements. Let the enemy come to them, for once.
And come, they had.
Daemon turned his gaze westward, towards the rolling fields beyond the keep. The Greens were out there, somewhere, crawling in like a sickness. Soldiers spilling across the hills, setting up camp, planting their banners deep into the mud.
And the dragons.
He'd known they were coming. He'd known for days. Vhagar, Seasmoke, Tessarion, and Sheepstealer. Four dragons lurking on the edges, the creatures proving a far greater blow to morale than Daemon would've liked.
He had watched them arrive. And now, they waited in a perpetual state of tension.
The echoing hallway carried the sound of hurried footsteps, boots upon stone.
Daemon didn't turn. Didn't need to. He knew the sound of a boy hurrying when he'd rather be anywhere else.
"My prince," the squire said, breathless from the stairs. "A messenger's come from the Greens. They seek parley."
Daemon let out a slow breath. Took his time turning, studying the boy. Couldn't have been more than fifteen. The lad stood straight, like he thought it might help, like delivering the words with enough stiffness in his back might make them less unpleasant.
It didn't.
Daemon rolled his shoulders. The tension in them never left these days, no matter how many hours he spent flying Caraxes, no matter how many swords he broke in the training yard.
"Parley," Daemon murmured.
The Greens had Aemond, and Aemond had no need for words. He had fire, he had steel, and his enemies had seen the proof of his wrath from the Stormlands to the Iron Islands.
And yet, here was a messenger.
Which meant someone else was speaking now. Otto, most like. The old man still clinging to his schemes, trying to play the game with words when his grandson had already moved to swords.
Or maybe it was Aemond himself, playing at diplomacy. If so, that meant he wanted something that force alone would not win him.
Interesting.
Daemon turned back to the sea, tapping his fingers against the stone. Parley meant talking. Talking meant a delay. A delay meant time. Time could mean a great many things. More entrenchments to break the enemy's charge. More tunnels to hide from dragons haunting the skies.
He gave a small nod. "I'll hear them."
The squire nearly sagged in relief. Not that Daemon blamed him. He'd seen grown men piss themselves bringing milder news.
"Fetch Prince Lucerys," Daemon added. "Tell him we have words to hear."
The squire hesitated.
Daemon arched a brow.
"Now," he said, voice quiet.
The boy scurried off, leaving only the wind and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs.
Daemon lingered a moment longer, watching the sea. Watching the fleet. Watching the fires in the enemy's camp to the west, their banners rising against the dark.
So, it begins.
He sighed, turned, and strode off the battlements to meet whatever came next.