Days quickly passed, and the flames of war drew closer by the hour.
A fleet of dozens of ships set sail from the Stepstones, bypassing the disputed territory of Tyrosh, slicing through the waters of the Rhoyne like a sharp sword.
Lys, Port.
One hundred pirate warships departed from the harbor, assembling over ten thousand mercenaries to intercept the approaching enemy fleet.
The opposing sides stared each other down from a distance, with war on the brink of eruption.
A sharp, piercing screech suddenly rang out. A crimson dragon with expansive wings and a long, serpentine neck plunged through the clouds, diving toward the vast sea below.
Boom!
Scarlet dragonfire descended from the skies, engulfing the pirate ships of the Kingdom of the Three Daughters.
Woo woo woo—
The melancholic blast of horns echoed across the sea as dozens of ships, bearing banners of seahorses and red crabs, lined up in formation. On their decks, catapults were prepared, and flaming oil-soaked stones were set for launch.
"Counterattack! Surround them!"
The order was barked from the Kingdom of the Three Daughters' side. Scorpion ballistae on the decks were loaded with steel-tipped spears, aimed at both the enemy fleet and the massive dragon hovering in the sky.
"Dragonfire!!"
Daemon, his expression calm, maneuvered agilely atop Caraxes as they weaved through the air.
Clad in black dragon-scale armor with a crimson cape flowing behind him, Daemon commanded the forces in the Battle of the Rhoyne.
"Skreee—"
Caraxes let out a piercing cry, its slender body undulating as it soared through the sky, unleashing torrents of dragonfire onto the pirate ships below.
"Fire the ballistae!!"
A fierce, muscular man with red curly hair and olive-toned skin, wielding a curved blade, efficiently commanded the mercenaries in their counteroffensive.
This was Sharako Lohar, leader of a mercenary company from Myr and now Admiral of the Kingdom of the Three Daughters' navy.
Daemon's eyes filled with scorn as he issued another command: "Dragonfire!"
Caraxes continued its relentless assault, its massive crimson wings flapping as it spewed pillar-like streams of dragonfire over the pirate ships.
A seasoned combat dragon, Caraxes instinctively dodged ballistae bolts, skillfully protecting itself and its rider.
In contrast, the Kingdom of the Three Daughters' forces were clearly at a disadvantage, thrown into chaos by a single blood wyrm.
Though they had numerous mercenaries, they lacked experience in fighting dragons and were left scrambling in panic.
"Aim those ballistae at the dragon! If you're blind, shove those bolts up your ass!"
Sharako, his face fierce, kicked a panicked ballista operator off the deck and took control of the targeting wheel himself, aiming directly at the blood wyrm above.
Clack!
Seizing a moment when the dragon swooped down to unleash its fire, Sharako's eyes gleamed with determination as he pulled the trigger.
A steel-tipped spear shot out with a whoosh, hurtling straight toward the unsuspecting blood wyrm.
Daemon, in the midst of commanding his fleet to break through the Kingdom of the Three Daughters' formation, suddenly felt a chill run down his spine.
"Skreee—"
Sensing the danger, Caraxes whipped its tail, twisting its body upward into the clouds to evade enemy sightlines.
The steel spear narrowly missed, grazing the tip of the dragon's long tail without causing any harm.
Daemon glanced back at the pirate ship that had fired the bolt, his gaze icy and murderous.
"Fire!!"
In the next instant, more steel-tipped spears were launched, raining down like a deadly storm, forcing Caraxes to retreat once again.
"Damn fools!"
Daemon cursed under his breath, maneuvering the dragon to pull back.
Meanwhile, ships flying the banners of House Velaryon and House Celtigar lowered their rams and launched desperate collisions against the pirate ships.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Ships crashed into each other, wooden planks splintering and flying. Some men were crushed into pulp amidst the wreckage, while others lost their footing and fell into the sea.
Weapons were quickly drawn as bloody hand-to-hand combat broke out across the decks.
That Night
Lys, Temporary Dragon Pit
"Skreee—"
A low, guttural dragon roar echoed, accompanied by the clanking of chains. In the depths of the pit, Morgul roared in fury.
The massive dragon opened its jaws wide, releasing a surge of dark, smoky dragonfire, attempting to burn everything in sight.
It had grown weary of the endless pestering by the tiny creatures—there was only so much it could eat without getting bored.
In front of the bronze gate, a group of mercenaries watched the wild dragon's rage with indifference, having grown accustomed to it.
"Almost there. We'll tame it soon," Banroba said with barely contained excitement.
A frail, elderly man with white hair and a weathered face stood beside him, his cloudy eyes fixed intently on the dragon. His voice was raspy as he spoke: "After sacrificing hundreds of Valyrian descendants, the dragon's intelligence and endurance are gradually being worn down."
The old man wore a red-dyed robe and leaned on a staff, his pale skin as white as parchment.
Banroba, respectful, asked, "Priest Ross, should we send men to continue taming the dragon tonight?"
The old man, a blood mage who had crossed the vast Dothraki Sea to reach Lys, was temporarily in Banroba's service.
It was he who had proposed the "Scarlet Sowing" ritual and employed blood magic to weaken the dragon's will.
Ross shook his head and replied calmly, "Dragons possess intelligence equal to humans. Giving it time to relax will be more beneficial for its eventual taming."
After offering a few more pieces of advice, the elderly priest hobbled away with his staff.
Banroba, filled with anticipation, rubbed his hands eagerly.
A mercenary approached to report: "The Iron Throne fleet that attacked the waters was defeated. Daemon Targaryen, unwilling to accept this, launched a dragon strike and vowed a second engagement."
Banroba sneered and scoffed, "We've already occupied the Stepstones, and the Narrow Sea trade routes are sealed off. What are the Targaryens going to do—send a few dragons alone to attack Lys?"
Still, feeling a bit uneasy, he issued another order: "Keep an eye on Volantis; those bastards are eyeing Lys greedily."
"Yes, Governor."
"Send word to the Governor of Tyrosh. The Iron Throne might split its forces—have them reinforce their naval defenses."
Cunning as ever, Banroba recalled Johanna's warning about the Iron Throne dividing its forces and immediately suspected that another fleet would soon attack the island fortress of Tyrosh.
The Targaryen Crown Prince Used This Sinister Tactic
The last time a surprise attack was launched, it was Lys.
…
Just as Bambaro had expected, a naval battle broke out in the waters of Tyrosh.
Ten warships flying the seahorse banner launched a sudden assault on Tyroshi patrol ships, triggering a small-scale sea battle.
The Velaryon fleet emerged victorious, ambushing isolated patrol ships in the Disputed Lands.
The Archon of Tyrosh, Milov Strello, was furious. He personally led a fleet of thirty warships in pursuit.
After a prolonged chase across the sea, the Velaryon fleet was completely destroyed.
Thus, both Iron Throne fleets that had split from the Stepstones had been annihilated one after another.
…
Myr
A coastal city-state established on the Essos continent, possessing a strategic geographic advantage.
The Governor's Palace, Council Chamber
With Quenton Atar gone, the governor's council was left with only two members—one old, one young.
They weren't discussing how to tame dragons, nor were they concerned with how to face the Iron Throne's invasion.
Many Valyrian descendants of Myr had already been sent to Lys. Their fate depended on the whims of destiny.
The city itself stood firm on the mainland. If the Iron Throne's forces wanted to invade, they would first have to bypass Tyroshi resistance and traverse the entirety of the Disputed Lands.
A deep-skinned elder with purple-dyed hair spoke in a dull tone, "We need to elect a new governor to replace Quenton. The wealthy citizens of the city have their eyes on that position."
The black-haired young man agreed. "The Carlos family has offered us a large sum of gold to help cover our debt to the Iron Bank. Very generous of them."
At the mention of the Iron Bank, the elder's expression darkened further. Gritting his teeth, he muttered, "A shame about that batch of Unsullied… the Sealord of Braavos took them for himself."
That was an Unsullied legion of five hundred men, worth far more than hiring five thousand mercenaries.
The old and the young discussed matters openly, even calculating Quenton's estate among their spoils, plotting to sell off his wives and children to raise more funds.
Before long, a servant arrived with a letter, handing it to the elder.
The elder squinted as he read, then scoffed dismissively. "Bambaro is just a peasant. If Myr were so easy to conquer, the War of the Three Daughters wouldn't have left only us standing in the end."
The black-haired young man took the letter, sneering. "The port is hosting dozens of warships. So what if the Iron Throne's fleet arrives?"
Their only real concern was the dragons.
If the Iron Throne's king lost his mind and sent seven or eight dragons to burn their city to the ground, the losses would be catastrophic.
However, the city's scorpion ballistae were not just for show.
They believed that, given the king's weak nature, he wouldn't dare risk losing one—let alone several—dragons just to seize a city that would be reduced to ashes.
As the two men sat convinced of their security, a terrifying dragon's roar shattered the sky.
"Screeeech!"
A massive dragon, black as coal, soared above Lys. Its colossal form cast a shadow over the city, and its roar echoed for miles.
Myr, Northern City Wall
Rhaegar's gaze was cold as ice. Clad in a black cloak, he stood atop the dragon's back, his face expressionless as he uttered a single command:
"Dracarys."
"Screeeech!"
The dragon, Devourer, let out a piercing roar, its enormous black wings beating as it dove toward the city walls. With a deep inhalation, it unleashed a torrent of emerald-green dragonfire.
"Aahhh!"
"Run!"
The ghostly green flames poured down like a flood, engulfing everything in their path. Soldiers on the walls screamed in terror, scattering like ants, only to be instantly consumed by the inferno.
Devourer didn't spare a glance at these insignificant insects. Hovering low, it continued spewing dragonfire, methodically reducing the stone wall to molten slag.
Sizzle…
The heat of the dragonfire surpassed that of molten lava, melting steel and stone with ease.
With a sickening hiss, the once-impenetrable city wall twisted and sagged, dripping molten rock like candle wax.
Outside the City Walls
Swish, swish…
Five hundred Unsullied warriors stood ready, flanked by two thousand Unsullied elites clad in black armor, marching in unison toward the collapsing wall.
Behind them, Robb led eight hundred Second Sons mercenaries, each armored and mounted on warhorses.
To their side, two thousand knights from the Vale, banners emblazoned with the crescent moon and eagle, steadied their steeds, their warhorses neighing with anticipation.
At the rear, a chaotic army of five thousand mercenaries, foreign soldiers, and Dothraki screamers from Pentos waited anxiously, their eyes locked on the black dragon circling above.
Never before had they witnessed such an assault on a city.
It was as if time had warped—an instant, or perhaps an eternity—before the stone walls fully collapsed. The screams of the dying filled the air.
"Screeeech!"
The black dragon banked and returned, and upon its back stood a silver-haired youth. In the golden light of the sun, he appeared as a god descending upon the battlefield.
All eyes were upon him as Rhaegar's piercing violet gaze swept over the field. Raising his arm, he roared:
"Advance! Take Myr!"
"Ohhlolo!"
Over a thousand Dothraki warriors were the first to respond, howling as they unsheathed their curved blades and charged forward on horseback.
The rest of the army followed, cavalry leading the charge while infantry surged in their wake.
"Screeeech!"
Devourer roared once more, its massive black form diving toward the heart of Myr, releasing another devastating torrent of dragonfire.
"Screeeech!"
"Screeeech!"
As if answering a call, more dragon cries echoed through the clouds. Shadows plunged downward—dragons descending upon the city.
The Red Queen, Meraxes. The Blood Wyrm, Caraxes. The pale silver Sea Smoke. The gray-hued Grey Ghost…
Devourer led the charge, blanketing the city in emerald flames.
"Dracarys!"
Multiple voices called out in High Valyrian as four dragons dived into the city, raining fire upon its streets.
The Three Daughters' naval forces were formidable, with the three city-states supporting one another.
But if an army landed from the port of Pentos and advanced inland, the city's defenses were as fragile as paper.
One strike, and they would crumble.
Splitting forces into three groups—two as decoys, one in ambush—had finally paved the way for the cavalry and infantry to breach the walls.
Now, the dragons danced in the skies, converging upon Myr.
The city was doomed.
(End of Chapter)