The Narrow Sea had grown deceptively calm that morning, the winds gentle, the waters quiet as glass between the jagged teeth of the Stepstones. Westerosi sails crept carefully through the straits, hoping to pass unnoticed.

They were not.

Triarchy sailed ships emerged from behind the rocks like predators, silent and deliberate. Grappling hooks bit into wood. Boots followed.

Craghae Drahar stepped aboard last.

Her armor gleamed dully in the salt light, her gaze sweeping the deck, weighing cargo, crew, and fear in equal measure. No rush. No wasted motion. The kind of calm that meant the outcome was already decided.

She rested her curved blade lightly against her shoulder, speaking in rough, broken Common Tongue:

“You sail my waters.”

A slow step forward.

“You pay toll… you live.”

“Simple. Right?”