King's Landing, the Red Keep, the Small Council Chamber.
The air around the long table was suffocating.
Lord Jon Arryn, the King's Hand, sat with his face like stone. His wrinkled hands pressed hard against the table as his eyes, sharp as blades, fixed on Varys, the Master of Whisperers.
"Varys. Explain yourself."
Only yesterday, the King's flagship had limped back to King's Landing like a beaten dog, bearing news that shook the Seven Kingdoms.
The mighty royal fleet had been ambushed off Bloodstone Isle and utterly destroyed.
Countless lords, knights, and soldiers were dead or missing.
King Robert had flown into a rage, swearing he would mount the Easterner's head on a spike above the city walls.
But when Lord Eddard Stark revealed that the Easterner commanded a dragon, silence fell over the chamber—even Robert's.
Varys's smile was a twisted thing, more painful than a grimace. He rubbed his soft fingers together, his voice thin and nervous. "My lord Hand, I beg your pardon for my failure. I did not confirm the truth of Ser Jorah's report. It now seems it was likely a carefully prepared deception..."
Renly Baratheon let out a bitter laugh. "A failure? 'Likely'? Lord Varys, do you even grasp what your 'failure' has cost us? Half the great houses of Westeros have lost their lords and heirs. Forty thousand soldiers, eighty thousand men and camp followers, drowned or taken in chains. And you think to dismiss such ruin with your dainty words—'failure,' 'likely'?"
Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, granted special leave by the King to attend, spoke gravely, his brow furrowed deep with concern. "My lords, it is too soon to lay blame. What matters now is finding a way to rescue those who have fallen into the enemy's hands."
Bitterness welled within him. The North had sent thousands to war, and scores of vassal lords were now captives.
Greatjon Umber and his heir. Lady Maege Mormont. Lord Rickard Karstark...
Each name weighed on him like a stone.
The thought of how the northern lords would react to the news made his head pound.
Heavy footsteps broke the silence as King Robert strode into the chamber.
Four Kingsguard in white cloaks followed at his back: Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Jaime Lannister, Ser Boros Blount, and Ser Arys Oakheart.
Ser Barristan entered with the King, while the other three closed the doors behind them and stood watch outside.
Robert's face was dark as storm clouds. He dropped heavily into the high seat, his gaze sweeping the council, his voice low and furious.
"Well? Speak! What do we do about that damned Eastern bastard—and his dragon?!"
Jon Arryn drew a deep breath and spoke plainly. "Your Grace, the losses from this defeat are beyond reckoning. The royal fleet and Lord Redwyne's ships are gone. We cannot mount another war on such a scale."
Robert slammed a fist on the table, sending cups and platters rattling. "So we sit idle, while the Easterner gathers strength on the Stepstones to invade Westeros?"
Lord Eddard said firmly, "Your Grace, matters are not so bleak. He may have a dragon, but Westeros has slain dragons before."
At once, Grand Maester Pycelle flipped open a heavy tome and added in his quavering voice. "In the tenth year of Aegon's reign, Queen Rhaenys Targaryen, consort to the Conqueror, rode Meraxes to assault the Dornish Hellholt. A great scorpion bolt pierced the dragon's eye, and both queen and beast perished."
A spark lit Robert's eyes. "Meraxes—how large was it? Compared to that golden beast?"
Pycelle adjusted his spectacles. "Meraxes was hatched on Dragonstone before the Conquest, near a hundred years old. By Lord Eddard's account, the golden dragon measures over two hundred feet in length. Their size should be much the same."
Renly pressed, "Then this golden dragon might also be a century old?"
Pycelle nodded carefully. "By all reason, it is possible."
"Seven hells..." Robert growled, his voice thick with fury. "The Targaryen dragons have been dead for over a hundred years. Where in the seven bloody kingdoms did this monster crawl from?"
Pycelle bowed his head slightly. "Your Grace, I consulted a maester in Oldtown who studies the East. He spoke of ancient tales, that in the Shadow Lands of the far east, dragons may still survive. That Yi Ti sorcerer may have tamed one there. And with his necromancy, raising corpses to serve him, it may be that he studied forbidden arts in Asshai."
Jon Arryn turned to Pycelle. "Maester Pycelle, I asked the Citadel to recommend scholars versed in necromancy and Eastern sorcery. Have we had any word?"
Pycelle's face tightened with embarrassment. "My lord Hand... the Citadel has yet to respond."
Robert brooded for a moment before slamming his palm on the table. "Then have the craftsmen copy those massive scorpions the Dornish use! I want the walls of King's Landing bristling with them! And Jon, our warships must be armed with heavy scorpions strong enough to kill a dragon!"
Jon let out a weary sigh and continued his report. "Your Grace, I have already sent Master of Coin Petyr to oversee the forging of a batch of giant scorpions, but their construction is highly specialized and enormously costly..."
Renly broke in. "I've read the histories. During the Faith Militant uprising, the walls of Oldtown bristled with crossbows, scorpions, fire lances, and catapults—all to resist Maegor the First and his dragon. Perhaps we should do the same..."
Pycelle's lips twitched. He wanted to remind Lord Renly that Maegor's mount was Balerion, the Black Dread... but he held his tongue.
Jon's brow furrowed deeply. "These weapons cost a fortune. Even if we pour every resource into them, they will only arm the defenses of King's Landing. As for the fleet... with respect, Your Grace, we can muster fewer than ten ships at present."
Robert roared, his patience snapping. "Then build them! And fetch me every longship the reavers on the Iron Islands can scrape together!"
Jon met the King's eyes, his voice heavy with resignation. "Your Grace, forgive my bluntness, but the royal treasury is empty. Not a single golden dragon remains to build even one new ship."
Robert's face flushed dark red. "No ships! No scorpions! No gold! Then what are we to do? Sit here waiting for that dragon to come roast us alive?!"
Lord Eddard spoke once more, his voice steady but urgent. "Your Grace, what matters most now is rescuing the captive lords. Only then can we steady the hearts of the realm."
Pycelle asked nervously, "And if the Eastern sorcerer refuses to release them?"
Jon Arryn cut in, his tone low but resolute. "Then we must attempt to negotiate. Make him see the Seven Kingdoms are not so easily conquered. To kill his ambition outright may be folly, but a truce—at least for a time—may be within reach. After that, we must ransom back the nobles of Westeros..."
At these words, every gaze in the chamber turned to him.