The Realm's Alpha Chapter 25 (Blood on the Stepstones)

The sky stretched endless and blue above the Stepstones, marred only by wisps of cloud and the dark silhouettes of two dragons. Rhaenyra leaned low over Syrax's neck, the wind whistling past her ears as they soared above the scattered islands. Below, the fleet bearing the seahorse of Velaryon cut through the waves like knives.

This is it, Rhaenyra thought, her heart hammering against her ribs. My first true battle.

She had trained with Syrax since the dragon was barely larger than a horse, but they had never killed together. Never tasted blood and fire as one.

Across the expanse of sky, Daemon and Caraxes banked sharply, disappearing behind a rocky outcropping as planned. The Blood Wyrm's crimson scales flashed in the sunlight before vanishing into shadow. They would approach from the north while Rhaenyra struck from the south, catching the pirate fleet in a pincer movement of flame.

Beneath her, Syrax rumbled. The dragon sensed her rider's anticipation, shared her hunger.

"Soon, girl," Rhaenyra murmured, patting the golden scales. "Soon."

As they crested the largest of the outer islands, the Triarchy's fleet came into view. Dozens of ships flying the banners of Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh clustered around the islands, some anchored, others patrolling in loose formation. They looked like toys from this height, like the miniature ships Rhaenyra had played with as a child.

Only these toys are filled with men who will soon burn, she thought, a coldness settling in her stomach. Men with families, perhaps. Men who might have lived long lives if they hadn't chosen to prey on Westerosi shipping.

The thought gave her momentary pause. Was this how her uncle felt before battle? This strange mixture of determination and doubt?

No time for doubt now. Below, she spotted Laenor's decoy ship, its sails bearing the seahorse of Velaryon, apparently damaged and listing to one side. The deception was already working—two pirate vessels had broken from their patrol to investigate the vulnerable target.

Rhaenyra watched as the pirates drew alongside the decoy. Even from this height, she could see tiny figures swarming across planks between the vessels. The trap was set.

Syrax seemed to sense her hesitation. The dragon's head swiveled, one golden eye fixing on Rhaenyra questioningly.

"No more waiting," Rhaenyra said, as much to herself as to her mount. She tightened her grip on the saddle chains and leaned forward. "Dracarys."

Syrax needed no further encouragement. The dragon tucked her wings and plummeted toward the sea, gaining speed with each heartbeat. The wind tore at Rhaenyra's hair, pulling strands free from her tight braid to whip around her face. She squinted against the rush of air, her focus narrowing to their targets below.

The pirates noticed the shadow too late. As Syrax leveled out just above the waves, her massive jaws opened wide. For an instant, Rhaenyra saw the upturned faces of the men on deck—saw their expressions shift from confusion to terror.

"DRACARYS!" she shouted again, feeling the heat build beneath her as Syrax's throat glowed orange-red.

Fire erupted in a stream, engulfing the nearest pirate ship from stern to bow. Wood splintered and blackened instantly. Men became living torches, their screams barely heard over the roar of dragonflame. The stench of burning flesh and timber filled the air.

Rhaenyra's stomach lurched, but not with revulsion as she'd feared. Instead, she felt a surge of savage joy—a primal exhilaration that coursed through her veins like liquid fire. This was power in its purest form. This was what it meant to be a dragon.

Is this how Aegon felt? she wondered, guiding Syrax into a wide arc to avoid the worst of the smoke. Is this how Visenya felt as she burned her enemies to ash?

Across the water, she saw Caraxes burst from behind a rocky island, his sinuous body twisting as he unleashed a torrent of flame upon another group of ships. Daemon was a dark speck on the dragon's back, barely visible through the smoke and fire.

"Again," Rhaenyra commanded, directing Syrax toward another cluster of pirate vessels that were desperately trying to raise anchor and escape.

Too slow. Syrax descended upon them like golden doom, her shadow preceding her across the waves. This time, Rhaenyra didn't hesitate. "Dracarys."

The fire poured forth, somehow even hotter than before. A ship with the banner of Myr burst apart as its deck became an inferno, sending flaming debris arcing across the water to land on nearby vessels. Men jumped overboard, preferring the sea to fire—though Rhaenyra knew the heavy armor many wore would drag them to watery graves regardless.

"Princess!" a voice called from below. 

Rhaenyra looked below just in time to see a scorpion bolt slicing through the air toward her. She yanked hard on the saddle chains, and Syrax swerved with a roar of indignation. The massive projectile missed them by mere feet, its iron tip glinting in the sunlight as it passed.

Seven hells, Rhaenyra thought, heart racing. That was close.

She scanned the waters below, spotting the source—a larger ship with a scorpion mounted on its deck, already being reloaded for another shot. Before she could direct Syrax to destroy it, Caraxes appeared from the east, a stream of fire reducing the threat to floating cinders.

For the next hour, they unleashed devastation upon the Triarchy fleet. Ship after ship fell to dragonfire, until the sea itself seemed to burn, thick black smoke rising in pillars to stain the blue sky. The pirates fought back where they could—more scorpion bolts flew, along with countless arrows that bounced harmlessly off dragon scales—but they were hopelessly outmatched.

Rhaenyra noticed a group of faster ships breaking away from the destruction, making for the main island where the Crabfeeder was said to have his stronghold. Fleeing to their master, she thought. Perfect.

She and Syrax pursued, herding the escaping vessels toward the island's rocky shores where Velaryon ships waited to intercept them. It was like a gruesome game, she realized—the dragons as shepherds, the pirates as helpless sheep driven before them.

A new sound reached her ears—cheering. Through gaps in the smoke, she could see Velaryon soldiers on their ships, raising swords and spears in salute as Syrax passed overhead. They were chanting something, a word carried away by the wind before she could make it out.

No, she realized with a surge of pride. Not a word. A name. My name.

"Rhaenyra! Rhaenyra! Rhaenyra!"

The pirates were in full retreat now, those ships that could still sail making desperately for the main island and its network of caves. Just as they'd planned, the enemy was being driven right where they wanted them—back to their base, where the landing party would already be in position to smoke them out.

Rhaenyra guided Syrax higher, taking a moment to assess the battlefield from above. The sea around the smaller islands was a graveyard of burning and sinking ships. Patches of water burned where oil had spilled, creating eerie islands of flame across the waves. The Velaryon fleet had formed a blockade around the main island, just as she'd ordered, cutting off any hope of escape by sea.

A sense of giddy power washed over her. She had done this. She, Rhaenyra Targaryen, had brought fire and blood to her enemies and emerged victorious. This was what Kinvara had seen in her flames—a conqueror, an empress, a force of nature.

Syrax banked into a lazy circle, her massive wings catching an updraft that carried them higher still. From this vantage, Rhaenyra could see beyond the Stepstones to the misty coastline of Dorne in the west and the distant shores of Essos to the east. Lands that one day might bow to her, if she chose to take them.

"The flames showed you taking Dorne—the unconquered land—then looking east. I saw you in Volantis, in Lys, in Myr."

Kinvara's prophecy echoed in her mind, more compelling now than ever. She felt something stir inside her.

Is this what Kinvara meant? Rhaenyra wondered, placing a hand over her heart where she could feel it hammering against her ribs. This fire in my blood?

A screech from Caraxes drew her attention. The Blood Wyrm and his rider had spotted something on the main island—movement along the shoreline. The second phase of their attack was beginning. No time for philosophical musings now.

"Come, Syrax," Rhaenyra said, leaning forward in the saddle. "We will rest only on the ashes of our enemies."

Later

Sunset painted the sky in bruised purples and fiery oranges as Syrax descended toward the beach of Bloodmoon, the easternmost of the smaller Stepstones. The dragon's massive shadow rippled across the sand before her claws touched down, sending soldiers scrambling to clear a landing space. Exhaustion had settled into Rhaenyra's bones during the final hour of battle, but she kept her spine straight as she dismounted, refusing to show weakness.

The stench of smoke and blood clung to her hair and clothing. Soot streaked her face, and her thighs ached from gripping Syrax's saddle through countless dives and turns. Yet despite the discomfort, she felt more alive than she ever had.

Is this how the Conqueror felt after each victory? she wondered. This strange mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration?

"Princess Rhaenyra!" A cheer went up from the assembled soldiers as she strode toward the command tent erected near the tree line. 

Amazing what a little dragonfire can do for one's reputation, she thought wryly.

"The Princess of Dragonstone!" someone shouted. "The Pirate's Bane!"

Pirate's Bane? She nearly laughed. They're giving me titles already.

A weathered captain with the seahorse of Velaryon emblazoned on his salt-stained jerkin approached, bowing deeply. "Princess, Lord Corlys awaits you in the command tent."

"And what of our losses?" she asked, her voice raspier than usual from hours of shouting commands to Syrax above the wind.

"Minimal, Your Highness," the captain replied. "Three ships lost, perhaps two hundred men. The Triarchy lost more than thirty vessels and thrice that many men, at least."

Rhaenyra nodded, satisfied. Those were odds any commander would gladly accept. 

Inside the tent, a group of men clustered around a map table—Corlys Velaryon, Daemon, Ser Willem, and several ship captains. They looked up as she entered, conversations halting mid-sentence.

"The dragon descends to walk among us mere mortals," Daemon quipped. "Impressive work today, niece."

"Indeed," Corlys agreed, straightening to his full, imposing height. "The Crabfeeder's fleet is shattered. We've reports that he's holed up in the caves on Grey Gallows with his remaining forces."

"Precisely as we planned," Rhaenyra said, approaching the table. The map showed wooden markers representing their forces surrounding the main island. "Has Ser Willem's party made landfall?"

The grizzled master-at-arms nodded. "My men reached the western cliffs two hours past, Princess. They've established positions near three major cave entrances, ready to light the fires on your command."

"Excellent." Rhaenyra surveyed the map, noting the positions. "And the Crabfeeder? Do we know which cave system he occupies?"

"The central one, most likely," Corlys replied, tapping a spot on the map. "It's the largest and deepest network. Our spies report he's taken the most valuable hostages and treasures there."

Rhaenyra's gaze moved to Laenor, who stood quietly at his father's side. His fine features were smudged with soot, but he appeared unharmed. "The decoy ship performed its role perfectly," she acknowledged with a nod toward him. "Well done, Laenor."

"Thank you, Princess. Though the dragons did most of the work."

"Dragons and dragonriders," Corlys corrected, surprising Rhaenyra with the praise. "Your command of Syrax was... remarkable for one so young."

"Syrax and I understand each other well."

A servant brought wine, and Rhaenyra accepted a cup gratefully, using the moment to study the faces around her. These men had doubted her yesterday. Now they looked at her with respect.

Power. This is what real power feels like. The realization sent a pleasant shiver down her spine.

"The landing party is in position," Daemon said, bringing the discussion back to strategy. "We can begin the final assault at dawn."

"Why wait?" Rhaenyra asked, setting down her cup.

Corlys frowned. "The men need rest, Princess. As do the dragons."

"Our men, yes," she conceded. "But the Crabfeeder is regrouping as we speak. Each hour gives him time to fortify his position or plan an escape."

"Escape where?" Daemon countered. "We've destroyed his fleet."

"Not all of it," said a voice from the tent entrance.

They turned to see a messenger, a young sailor barely out of boyhood, standing nervously at the threshold. He bowed hastily before continuing, "Begging your pardons, but the lookouts have spotted movement on the far side of Grey Gallows. Small vessels—fishing boats and skiffs—being loaded in secret coves."

"How many?" Rhaenyra demanded.

"A dozen, perhaps more. Too small for our blockade to intercept easily in the darkness."

"They're running," Daemon said, disgusted. "Abandoning their own men to save their skins."

"The Crabfeeder?" Corlys asked sharply.

The messenger shook his head. "Can't say, my lord. But the boats appear to be heading southeast. Toward Tyrosh."

"We can't allow them to reach Tyrosh," Rhaenyra said firmly. "If even one ship gets through with news of our attack, the Archon could send a larger fleet before we've secured our position."

Corlys stroked his beard thoughtfully. "The boy's right—our larger ships can't navigate those shallow coves, especially not at night. And we can't risk the dragons in darkness."

A tense silence fell over the tent as the commanders considered their limited options. Rhaenyra frowned, frustrated by the constraints of nightfall and unfamiliar waters.

"Rowboats," Laenor said suddenly, stepping forward from his father's side. "We could launch rowboats before full dark."

All eyes turned to the young knight. 

"How many?" she asked.

"Twenty, perhaps thirty," Laenor replied, moving to the map and pointing to a series of small inlets. "I've charted these waters myself. Our men could approach quietly using the island as cover, striking from behind while the pirates are focused on loading their treasures."

One of the Velaryon captains frowned. "But they'd be outnumbered if the pirates have armed those skiffs."

"They won't be expecting an attack from behind," Laenor countered. "And they'll be overloaded with men and whatever valuables they're trying to salvage. Most will have their weapons stowed to make room for plunder."

Rhaenyra studied Laenor with new appreciation. The young man clearly had his father's tactical mind for naval matters—something she, despite her talents on dragonback, could not claim.

Corlys looked at his son with a mixture of pride and concern. "It's dangerous work, Laenor."

"No more dangerous than playing decoy for pirates," Laenor replied with a confident smile. "I'll select our best men. We'll approach quietly, strike fast, and leave none alive to tell tales in Tyrosh."

Rhaenyra nodded her approval. "Make it so."

"And the main assault?" Daemon asked.

"Proceeds at dawn, as planned," Rhaenyra confirmed. "Ser Willem's men will light their fires at first light. When the pirates flee the smoke, they'll find dragons waiting."

The meeting continued as they refined the details of the following day's attack. Rhaenyra listened and contributed, but part of her mind was already on the aftermath. On what would come next after the Stepstones were secured.

This victory will silence the whispers at court, she thought. None will question my right to rule when I return with the Crabfeeder's head.

As the meeting concluded, the commanders filed out to prepare their forces for tomorrow's final push. Rhaenyra lingered, studying the map with its wooden markers and painted islands.

"A copper for your thoughts, Princess?" Corlys asked, remaining behind.

"I was just thinking that these islands are a modest prize," she replied honestly. "Strategically important, yes, but hardly glorious."

The Sea Snake's weathered face creased in a small smile. "Not all conquests can be as spectacular as Aegon's, Princess."

"No," she agreed. "But some could be more so."

Corlys studied her curiously. "You speak as though this is merely a beginning."

Rhaenyra traced her finger across the map, from the Stepstones to Dorne, then eastward to the Free Cities. "Perhaps it is."

Before Corlys could respond, she straightened and headed for the tent flap. "I need air. You and Laenor see to the rowboats."

Outside, the last light of day was fading, leaving only a crimson smear on the western horizon. To the east, where Grey Gallows hulked like a dark beast against the deepening blue, pinpricks of orange light marked burning ships and campfires.

Rhaenyra walked away from the camp, needing solitude. Her mind was too full. She found a rocky outcropping overlooking the narrow strait between islands and seated herself, watching as Velaryon rowboats were quietly launched under Laenor's direction, their oars muffled with cloth to silence their approach.

More killing tonight, she thought. More burning tomorrow.

She should have felt disturbed by the thought. A proper lady would surely be troubled by the deaths she had caused today—men burned alive, others drowned in armor too heavy to swim in. Yet all she felt was a calm certainty that this was her path.

"You were born for more than to rule after your father. You were born to change the world."

Kinvara's words returned to her, more compelling now than ever. The Red Priestess had seen this moment in her flames—had seen Rhaenyra victorious, had known the taste of conquest would awaken something primal within her.

On the horizon, flames from burning ships reflected off low clouds, painting the night sky with an eerie glow that reminded her of dragon fire. Of Kinvara's eyes as they'd made love.

Setting the world aflame, she thought, recalling the priestess's parting words that morning. Perhaps that's truly what I was born to do.

She remained there until full darkness settled, watching the silent dance of Velaryon rowboats as they closed in on the escaping pirates. No alarm was raised, no shouts carried across the water. Just the occasional flash of steel catching moonlight, then darkness again. Laenor's plan was working perfectly.

The Stepstones today, Rhaenyra thought, rising finally to return to camp. Dorne tomorrow. And after that... the world.

Tomorrow

Dawn broke over Grey Gallows like a wound opening across the sky—all crimson and gold against the dark silhouette of the island's central peak. Rhaenyra stood atop the command ship's forecastle, watching as first light revealed the devastation of yesterday's battle. The waters around the island were a graveyard of ships, blackened husks still smoldering in the shallows.

"Your Grace," Ser Willem Hull reported, approaching with a bow. "The landing party is in position. The oil has been placed at all major cave entrances as you commanded."

Rhaenyra nodded, her gaze fixed on the rocky shoreline where the Crabfeeder's remaining forces had retreated. "And Laenor's night raid?"

"Successful beyond expectation," the knight replied with admiration. "Twenty-three boats intercepted, not a single pirate escaped to Tyrosh."

Good, she thought. We have them trapped.

Syrax stirred behind her, sensing her rider's anticipation. The dragon had been restless since dawn, eager to complete what they had begun yesterday. Nearby, Caraxes curled around the ship's mainmast like some enormous crimson serpent, his long neck stretched toward the island, nostrils flaring at the scent of prey.

Daemon approached, already dressed in light battle armor. "Are you ready, niece?" he asked, his hand resting casually on Dark Sister's hilt.

"I've been ready my entire life, uncle," she replied, not taking her eyes from the shore. "Signal Ser Willem's men. It's time to smoke the rats from their holes."

Daemon nodded to a signalman, who raised a red flag and waved it three times. Across the water, on the western side of the island, answering flags rose in acknowledgment.

"How long before the smoke drives them out?" Rhaenyra asked, mentally reviewing the plan one final time.

"Depends on the cave system," Daemon replied. "The smaller ones will fill quickly. The main network where the Crabfeeder likely hides could take longer."

"I don't intend to wait," Rhaenyra said, turning toward Syrax. "We'll give them a reason to run that's more immediate than smoke."

She climbed onto her dragon's back, settling into the familiar saddle. The leather was still stained with yesterday's soot, but she found she didn't mind. Battle markings seemed appropriate now.

Daemon mounted Caraxes with practiced ease. "Remember," he called as the Blood Wyrm's wings unfurled, "the Crabfeeder himself belongs to you, as commander of this assault. But save some pirates for the rest of us."

Rhaenyra smiled thinly. "I make no promises, uncle."

With a powerful leap, Syrax launched from the ship's deck, golden wings catching the morning air. Rhaenyra's stomach lurched at the sudden ascent, but she leaned into it. Below, the fleet repositioned, forming a tight blockade around the island's eastern shore.

As they climbed higher, Rhaenyra could see small figures on the western cliffs—Ser Willem's men setting fire to oil-soaked brush piled at cave entrances. Already, dark smoke billowed from several openings, staining the morning sky.

"Let's give them a proper greeting," she murmured to Syrax. "Dracarys."

The dragon needed no further encouragement. They dove toward the largest cave entrance, where smoke had just begun to billow outward. Syrax's jaws opened wide, and with a sound like a windstorm catching fire, dragonflame poured forth, turning the cave mouth into a roaring inferno.

The effect was immediate. Figures burst from smaller caves along the shoreline, pirates choking and stumbling as they fled the smoke and fire. Some dove into the water, only to find Velaryon ships waiting. Others ran along the beach, seeking escape that didn't exist.

Across the island, Caraxes unleashed his own stream of fire, cutting off retreat in the other direction. The pirates were being herded exactly where Rhaenyra wanted them—toward the central beach where her forces waited.

"Again," she commanded, guiding Syrax toward another large cave entrance. "Dracarys!"

More flame, more screaming men. The acrid stench of burning flesh rose on the hot air, but Rhaenyra found it no longer bothered her. Fire was a dragon's weapon.

For nearly an hour, they continued this grim work, systematically sealing cave entrances with flame or driving pirates into the waiting swords of Velaryon forces. Rhaenyra kept careful watch for any sign of the Crabfeeder himself—a man said to be half-monster, his flesh rotting from greyscale.

"Princess!" came a shout from below. Laenor Velaryon stood on a rocky outcropping, waving frantically to get her attention. "The main cave system! Movement at the southern entrance!"

Rhaenyra wheeled Syrax around, eyes scanning the shoreline where Laenor pointed. There—a group of figures emerging from a cave half-hidden by an overhanging cliff. They moved with purpose, not panic, and at their center was a figure taller than the rest, surrounded by guards in formation.

The Crabfeeder, she thought with sudden certainty. Making a run for it.

She urged Syrax downward, but the dragon had already spotted the prey, diving with such speed that Rhaenyra's vision blurred at the edges. Wind rushed past her ears, drowning out all sound except her own heartbeat.

The pirates saw them coming. The formation tightened around the central figure, shields raising in a protective dome. Scorpion bolts launched upward, forcing Syrax to swerve mid-dive.

"Clever," Rhaenyra muttered. "But not clever enough."

Instead of attacking directly, she guided Syrax in a wide arc, circling until she was behind them. The pirate group was making for a narrow ravine that cut through the island's central ridge—likely hoping to reach boats hidden on the far shore.

"Cut them off," she commanded, and Syrax responded instantly, unleashing a wall of flame that blocked the ravine entrance.

Trapped between fire and the advancing Velaryon forces, the pirate group split. Most turned to face the oncoming soldiers, preparing for a last stand. But three figures—including the tall one Rhaenyra had marked as the Crabfeeder—broke away, sprinting toward a narrow sea cave partially submerged at high tide.

"Oh no you don't," Rhaenyra growled, directing Syrax into another dive.

The dragon landed with bone-jarring force directly in front of the fleeing pirates, her massive claws gouging deep furrows in the sand. She roared, the sound so deafening that even Rhaenyra winced despite her familiarity with it.

The two guards raised curved blades, placing themselves between Syrax and their master. Behind them stood the Crabfeeder himself, and Rhaenyra's first clear look at him sent a chill down her spine despite the morning heat.

He was tall and gaunt, dressed in ornate armor that might once have been magnificent but now appeared corroded by sea air and neglect. His face was the true horror—what visible skin showed the gray, cracked appearance of advancing greyscale, giving him an inhuman, stone-like countenance. One eye was milky white, the other a piercing dark that fixed on Rhaenyra with cold hatred.

"Surrender," Rhaenyra called down from Syrax's back, "and you may yet live to face the king's justice."

The Crabfeeder laughed, a sound like rocks grinding together. "I am justice in these waters, dragon-bitch," he replied in heavily accented Common Tongue. "The justice of the Triarchy against Westerosi arrogance."

One of his guards lunged forward suddenly, hurling a spear toward Syrax's eye. The dragon jerked her head aside with serpentine quickness, the spear glancing harmlessly off her armored neck. Her tail lashed in response, catching the guard and sending him flying into the rocks with bone-crushing force.

The second guard hesitated, looking to his master for direction. The Crabfeeder drew his own weapon—a wicked, curved blade with a crab claw hilt.

"I have fed hundreds to my pets," he called up to Rhaenyra. "What is one more dragon?"

He gestured toward the water, and for the first time, Rhaenyra noticed the movement along the shoreline—hundreds of crabs emerging from the shallows, drawn by the blood and death that saturated the beach.

"Your reign ends today," Rhaenyra replied coldly. "Dracarys."

Syrax's flame caught the remaining guard first, turning him into a brief, screaming torch before he collapsed into ash. The Crabfeeder was quicker, diving behind a boulder as fire washed over the spot where he'd stood.

The Valyrian steel dagger her mother had given her secure at her hip. She had no illusions about her skill with a blade. Unlike her uncle Daemon, she had never been trained for close combat. Her weapons were her mind, her dragon, and the fire they shared.

"Surrender," she called from Syrax's back, her voice carrying over the crackling flames that blocked the Crabfeeder's escape. "Face the king's justice for your crimes."

The Crabfeeder emerged from behind the boulder, his diseased face twisting into what might have been a smile. 

"Come down from your beast, dragon-bitch," he called back, his voice grating like stones grinding together. "Or are you only brave when mounted on living fire?"

"I am not so easily provoked," she replied coldly. "A true ruler knows when to fight personally and when to use the weapons at her disposal."

The Crabfeeder laughed, a hollow sound that echoed off the rocks. "A ruler? You're nothing but a girl playing at conquest."

Syrax dragon lunged forward with unexpected speed for something so massive, jaws snapping at the pirate lord. The Crabfeeder was quick, but not quick enough. Syrax's teeth closed around his midsection, not quite piercing his ornate armor but crushing it inward with terrible force.

The pirate's scream was high and thin as Syrax lifted him from the ground, shaking him violently like a dog with a rat. Rhaenyra heard the crack of breaking bones even over the ongoing battle sounds around them, then Syrax threw him away, the Crabfeeder fell to the sand in a broken heap, blood leaking from his mouth and from beneath his crushed armor.

He wasn't dead—not yet. His chest still rose and fell in shallow, pained gasps. His good eye fixed on Rhaenyra with undimmed hatred despite his ruined body.

"You've lost," Rhaenyra said, guiding Syrax to move closer so she could look down upon her defeated enemy. "Your fleet is destroyed, your men either dead or captured. The Stepstones belong to the Iron Throne now."

"They will... come for you," the Crabfeeder wheezed, blood bubbling on his lips. "Tyrosh... Myr... Lys... They will not... forget."

"Good," Rhaenyra replied, a cold smile playing across her lips. "Let them remember what happens to those who challenge the dragon."

She noticed movement along the shoreline—hundreds of crabs emerging from the shallows, drawn by the blood and death that saturated the beach. 

"You fed so many to your pets," Rhaenyra said, watching as the first of the crabs reached the edge of the bloodstained sand around the Crabfeeder. "It seems only fitting they should have their master at the last."

The pirate lord's good eye widened as he realized what was happening. He tried to drag himself away from the approaching crustaceans, leaving a smear of blood that only attracted them faster.

"Mercy," he gasped, his former arrogance dissolved by terror. "A clean death... I beg you..."

"Mercy is for those who have shown mercy," she said at last. "Justice demands a fitting end."

She guided Syrax backward, giving the crabs clear access to their prey. The first ones reached him, pincers testing his flesh, drawn by the scent of blood. The Crabfeeder's scream was weak but filled with terror as more crabs swarmed over him, their sharp claws finding gaps in his ruined armor.