Book 2 Ch 37 (Patreon)

- Landing!

Trumpets blared all along the coast as the landing boats scraped against the sand. Shield-bearers went first, followed by spearmen and then swordsmen. Under a scattered hail of arrows, the Velaryon men swiftly formed their battle formations.

- Forward!

Corlys Velaryon strode among the first, not out of obligation, but because men followed him.

Daemon landed nearby, having already overseen the dragon's devastating barrage, eager to claim Craghas Drahar's life in a fair fight.

He wore no ornate princely armor, but simple battle plate and a dark, unadorned helmet. His Valyrian steel blade, Dark Sister, was already drawn.

He smiled; today, finally, this war could be ended, and glory achieved.

Eivor reached the shore almost simultaneously with the other commanders. His men were not heavy knights; they moved with a different purpose. In small squads, each knew its own area.

- The first ten are the left passage.

- The second one is behind me.

- Archers, higher up.

- Shields forward.

There was no milling crowd, no general chaos; everyone understood the mission. These were experienced troops who had been operating here for two years and had become hardened veterans.

When one detachment halted, a second was already flanking through the rocky terrain.

When the pirates tried to hold the passage, the crossbowmen loosed several volleys, after which the spearmen immediately surged forward.

This was a war of small, cohesive units, not of individual heroes. It was a lesson Eivor had instilled in them over the past few months.

The first line of caves was defended especially fiercely. Dozens of pirates burst from the narrow passage in a desperate counter-charge.

"For the Crabfeeder!" These were his most loyal and daring troops.

They struck with their entire mass; shields collided with a deafening crash.

Metal screeched. But instead of engaging the full thrust of their charge, Eivor gave a sharp cry:

- Make way!

The front rank suddenly shifted to the side. The pirates, hoping to push through the line, rushed forward, blind with fury.

- Now!

Halberds met them from both sides, and the narrow passage became a bloody abattoir. None even had time to swing a sword. As the foremost fell to the stones, those behind them, pressed by their own numbers, were unable to halt.

Within seconds, the entire onslaught died down.

- Finish him off!

The swordsmen finished the job, dispatching the enemy with cold, methodical precision. Objectively speaking, thanks to Eivor's meticulous planning, the Westerosi were far better supplied than the pirates, proving decisively that logistics wins wars. While the pirates suffered from disease and food shortages, the Westerosi possessed a robust system.

Deeper in the caves, the battle became completely different; it was dark. The damp air hung heavy with the reek of salt, blood, and spent smoke. Here, the dragons were no longer useful.

Steel was the deciding factor. An axe suddenly flew from a side tunnel.

It struck one of the Velaryon warriors in the shoulder, and the pirate, roaring, rushed forward. Eivor stepped forward to meet him.

Not seeking glory, Eivor calmly parried the blow with his shield. The pirate's blade slashed briefly across his thigh. As his opponent lost balance, Eivor struck him square in the face with his sword's pommel.

Crunch.

The pirate collapsed; the next pirate received a spear thrust from one of Eivor's men.

- Check the branching tunnels!

- Don't leave anyone behind!

- If anyone surrenders, tie them up!

Several people actually dropped their weapons.

- We surrender!

- Don't kill!

Eivor didn't even look at them.

- Ropes. Send the prisoners back.

He understood perfectly that these were the very men who would later spread word throughout the Free Cities that the Velaryons' promises were indeed being kept. Every living prisoner was now more useful than another dead pirate.

The deeper they went into the caves, the more desperate the resistance became.

Craghas's men understood that there was no way back, no ships, no hope of aid.

The Triarchy had abandoned them; even gold had become worthless. And ahead, slowly but inexorably, the people of Westeros advanced.

Step by agonizing step, cave by cave, passage by passage, they advanced like an unstoppable tide.

And somewhere ahead, in the very heart of the stone labyrinth, the man for whom Daemon had come to this war was already waiting.

Craghas Drahar.

The last Prince-Admiral of the Stepstones stood in the middle of a wide cavern where plundered treasures had once been stored. Now, only shattered chests, overturned barrels, and the bodies of his fallen men lay scattered about him.

He slowly raised his curved Tyroshi blade. Daemon Targaryen stood before him, his dark armor streaked with soot and blood.

Dark Sister lay calmly in his hand, and for a moment the fighting around them died down. Guards closed ranks, ensuring no one would interfere.

Craghas grinned, revealing blackened teeth.

- What, Prince? Did you decide to come yourself?

Daemon only inclined his head slightly.

- The last Prince-Admiral of the Stepstones deserves a fitting end.

A crooked smile appeared on Craghas's face.

"Crabfeeder..." He took a step forward. "It's time you fed the crabs yourself."

With these words, he rushed into the attack. Fast, unnaturally so for a man his age. The curved blade described a wide arc, aiming for the neck.

Daemon met his blow with Dark Sister, Valyrian steel clashing with Tyroshi steel. Sparks showered the stone floor.

Craghas did not stop.

Second strike.

Third.

Fourth.

He struck without pause, as if trying to overwhelm the prince with his fury. Daemon retreated only half a step, parrying each attack. The blade in Daemon's hand moved almost lazily, without unnecessary movement, without fuss. At one point, Craghas abruptly changed the direction of his attack and struck from below with a short dagger.

Daemon barely had time to turn aside.

The blade slid across the armor plate, leaving a long, shallow scratch.

Several Velaryons involuntarily exhaled.

Craghas laughed.

- You're not that fast!

He rushed forward again, but this was exactly what Daemon had been waiting for. The prince stopped retreating, stepping forward himself. Dark Sister flared like silver lightning.

Once.

Craghas managed to parry the blow.

Two.

Valyrian steel sheared away the guard of Craghas's blade.

Three.

The Prince-Admiral's left forearm was stained with blood. Craghas hissed, slamming his shoulder down, trying to knock Daemon off his feet. Both men dropped to one knee, their swords locking together in a desperate clash.

Their faces were inches apart.

"You think... you won?" Craghas croaked.

“No.” Daemon looked him straight in the eyes. “I just ended the war.”

With a sharp movement, he tossed Craghas's blade aside. Craghas reached for his dagger, but it was too late. Dark Sister described a short arc.

One.

Without unnecessary flourish.

The Prince-Admiral's head rolled across the stone floor, his body remained kneeling for a few moments more, then slowly toppled forward.

A heavy silence fell in the cavern as, one by one, the pirates began to lower their weapons.

Someone threw a sword.

Then a second.

Then a third.

Soon the sound of falling steel became louder than the battle that had just raged. Daemon lifted the bloodied Dark Sister.

- Craghas Drahar is dead!

His voice echoed through the stone vaults.

- The Stepstones are clear!

A roar from thousands of Westerosi answered him, a triumphant sound that burst from the caves and carried far across the sea. Thus ended the Triarchy's reign over the Stepstones, which had endured for twelve long years.

***

One of the pirate commanders fought like a wild beast and had already slain five warriors before Eivor and his men arrived and quickly parried his blow. The pirate commander wielded a curved saber, which, incidentally, was wrought of Valyrian steel. The distinctive wavy patterns on the blade revealed this, though Eivor felt it more acutely from the deep notch that remained on his own sword.

The pirate held an arakh. Apparently, the Valyrians had even forged blades for the Dothraki, leaving Eivor to wonder how such a weapon found its way to the Stepstones. Though Eivor found himself with a far more pressing question: how to survive this encounter?

- Damn it...

The pirate bared his teeth. He was a huge man with a face marred by old scars.

"Another lord," the pirate croaked. "Good... Your head will fetch a finer price than the rest."

He moved with terrifying speed, almost instantly, and Eivor barely had time to raise his sword in defense.

A hit.

Another blow.

Third.

The arakh moved unlike any normal sword; it did not chop or thrust. It seemed to flow around Eivor's defense, constantly shifting its angle of attack.

Eivor retreated.

One more step.

And then another.

Each block left new marks on his sword.

"Don't be a hero!" he shouted.

The Freys instantly reformed, three men stepping forward with shields. Two with spears remained behind them.

The pirate laughed.

- Do you think this will help?

He struck from above, shattering the foremost shield. A second blow ripped open a spearman's throat; a third severed the hand of another. It seemed the man fighting before them was not a man at all, but a cornered beast.

But Eivor watched closely. Each time, after each wide, arcing strike, the pirate shifted his weight slightly more onto his right leg.

Just for a fleeting moment, a fractional shift. That was enough.

- Now!

The shield-bearer rushed forward, not to vanquish, but to die. The pirate's blade cut through his shield and the man behind it. But this was exactly what Eivor had been waiting for. He stepped inside the blade's range, moving directly toward the falling body.

He struck the pirate in the face with the hilt of his sword, and he staggered. Then one of Eivor's Freys plunged his halberd into the pirate's thigh.

Another struck the pirate's knee with the shaft of his sword, causing a crunching sound.

The pirate fell to one knee.

But even as he fell, he managed to slash another warrior across the stomach. Eivor kicked him in the chest, preventing him from rising. Then, with both hands, he pressed his sword against his opponent's neck. The steel only penetrated halfway; the chainmail beneath was too strong.

The pirate roared and tried to pick up the arakh, but Eivor dropped his own damaged sword and seized his opponent's wrist with both hands.

They rolled across the bloody stone, the arakh between them. The pirate was far stronger, massively so. The blade slowly approached Eivor's face.

Just a little more...

And it will all end.

At that critical moment, one of the remaining Freys, without hesitation, leaped from an outcrop above and clamped his hands around the pirate's neck.

The pirate instantly hammered the Frey with his elbow.

Once.

Another.

Third.

Bones cracked, but the Frey's grip did not weaken; that crucial moment was enough. Eivor tore the arakh from his opponent's hand.

Valyrian steel flashed with a cold gleam.

- For my people!

With one short, precise movement, the curved blade passed through the pirate's neck as easily as if it had met no resistance.

The pirate's head rolled across the stones, and silence fell. Eivor rose heavily, wincing from his thigh wound. His own sword, now hopelessly damaged, lay nearby. He looked at the arakh. Familiar wavy patterns ran across the dark steel—undeniably true Valyrian steel.

He slowly wiped the blade on the dead pirate's cloak.

"You accomplished a great feat by killing that bastard," he addressed the remaining Freys. "Those fallen will be honored."

He pointed to the bodies of his men. Moving their bodies would be a logistical nightmare, but it was a debt of honor, for they had saved his life. They would be embalmed, no matter the cost.

Then he looked at the arakh.

- Now I have a legendary blade for my son, a testament that my life was not lived in vain.

Valyrian steel was a weapon of prestige, especially when earned in battle. First, though, the pirate's body would need to be searched. The pirates' bodies would be burned anyway, perhaps even with the help of dragons. Overall, this had proven a profitable expedition for the Freys, in more ways than one. But the heirs would now have to learn to fight with a curved blade.

A small price to pay, perhaps, for such a prize.