Chapter 144 – The Deterrent Power of the Dragon Group
In the deep of night, the Dragon Group streaked across the sky above Tyrosh.
Three dragons, each over forty-four feet long; the lead Silver Dragon had already grown to forty-six feet.
The largest and most magnificent beast was the Silver Emperor, its silver scales gleaming, wing membranes, horns, and crest all pale gold. Its molten-gold eyes looked down on Tyrosh's Black Wall, smoke of war curling everywhere, and it was almost eager for action. The remnant Purple Dragon Vhagar of House Baelarys was purple all over, only its claws, crest, and belly scales shining like copper foil—a proud Purple Dragon never before seen in Westeros. The black dragon honoring the Black Dread Balerion was like a shadow of the blazing sun, only its eyes, horns, and dorsal scales red; its lava-red gaze recalled the terror of a hundred years past. Dragons generally boast two or more colors, never drab monochrome but resplendent.
Rhaegar Targaryen, astride the Silver Emperor, felt the joy of the three dragons. Dragons ache in confinement, crave freedom and sky, and are war-beasts born. Three dragons, all bearing the mightiest Old Valyrian blood, tempered by fire and runes—their glory would not fall short of House Baelarys's beasts, reviving the ancient majesty of dragons.
"Let me scale the perilous peak and rise higher than the heavens!" Rhaegar looked down on Tyrosh's vast city. The Dragonlord had long been silent; the Valyrian Dragonlords should revive from this moment.
"Comrades! Tell the Tyroshi we have arrived!" The three dragons shrieked in delight; the roar of the Dragon Group shook the skies of Tyrosh, drowning every human cry and crashing wave. All clamor ceased—ten thousand voices fell silent, ten thousand eyes turned skyward. From a hundred yards up the dragons spat fireballs: silver, black-red, purple, each brighter than the last, as if many suns had risen above Tyrosh.
The three dragons were the most gorgeous war-beasts alive, all from Old Valyria—feral, fierce, and keen. When they breathed flame, their very scales flashed.
Governor Dario, besieging the Archon's palace, saw those blazing fires; his face went ashen. He had heard the High Priest's worshippers roaring, and now, against the dark sky, sun-bright flames crowned Tyrosh. Fate's death knell tolled for him. All was lost—utter defeat. The High Priest still lived, the Archon's Targaryen ally had arrived upon a dragon; the City Watch Commander and the Admiral, fence-sitters at best, would turn their blades on him at once.
"Seize the Archon's palace, kill everyone, and I remain Archon of Tyrosh! Charge! The High Priest will understand!" Dario babbled, stamping at the palace's battered violet gates. Rubble lay everywhere; the outer citadel had fallen, blood and fire whirling. Yet the Archon's loyalists held the inner keep, resisting stubbornly—like an unbreachable volcano and desert amid the flames.
"We are defeated, Governor!" The Myrish merchant beside him was equally pale—this dangerous game of thrones, and luck had forsaken them.
"Protect the Governor! Find a ship—fall back to Myr or Lys!" Dario's Watch captain shouted, rallying men.
But worse news followed: the City Watch slew their envoys and swore fealty to the elected Archon, while the Admiral had sealed the harbor—no ship might sail.
"Hurry, Governor—fall back to your mansion, concentrate our forces, await the Myrish fleet. Otherwise, when the Targaryen devil comes, all is lost. The boy is barely twenty, but twice as mad and fierce—the butcher of the Narrow Sea."
"So this is heaven's will? Great three-headed god, why do you not shield me?" Governor Dario collapsed, then was carried back to his mansion; the siege of the Archon's palace was over.
Dario's faction had launched a lightning strike: gladiators bought dear from Meereen, the Watch and Admiral bribed to stay neutral, the Archon assassinated during parley, then assault on palace and High Priest. Yet the plan unraveled. Fortune mocked them: first, the wounded Archon was snatched away; his daughter led guards in defiant stand—steel in a girl's frame. Second, the High Priest still had experts beside him though his strongest guards had been lured off by traitors.
Amid the rout's desolation, three dragons beat leathery wings, slicing the sky to circle above the Archon's palace. Their shrieks mounted; the inner keep's gates slowly opened.
Rhaegar on dragonback arrived far faster than the High Priest, who insisted on walking to vent his wrath.
Rhaegar surveyed the outer ward's devastation, his hair already silver again under runes—his true visage restored. Corpses and rubble lay everywhere; once-lovely fountains, blooming gardens, marble columns were now defiled by blood and fire. Fountains held corpses, gardens were ash, walls blackened.
Rhaegar leapt from the dragon and waited at the inner gate, rubble and corpses his only companions.
Surrounded by guards, a beautiful girl with teal hair and eyes stepped forward. Shireen looked at Rhaegar. She had changed into purple armor and held a longsword in her hand. She had shed her pretty ribbons and dress, replacing them with a warrior's steel. The guards watched her with admiration; the girl was true steel.
"Sorry, I must look a mess right now. Had the intruder been an enemy instead of a prince, I'd have had to kill myself. I'd never want to live as some silver-tongue's trophy, spending my life in humiliation." Miss Shireen smiled at Rhaegar, a smile that could melt snow and ice. Dust still streaked her lovely face, but the war-zone rose remained poised and breathtaking.
"You still have the heart to joke—things can't be too dire. And right now, you look even better than in a gown!" Rhaegar praised sincerely. War and upheaval are deadly enough for men, let alone women.
"How is the Archon?" Shireen stood with Rhaegar at the doorway while he asked softly. They were still waiting for the High Priest to arrive.
"He was badly hurt and remains unconscious. Dario's men used poison, but Father didn't drink it; then assassins struck. Without the guards fighting to the death, he'd be gone." Shireen spoke quietly, worry in her eyes. She didn't mention her younger brother; Rhaegar guessed that good-for-nothing wastrel had long since gone into hiding.
At last the High Priest's retinue arrived. He chose to walk rather than ride in a palanquin, a display of his anger. A vast crowd escorted the High Priest to the Archon's palace.
Merchants, sellswords, and slaves formed a surging river; slave-soldiers and mercenaries kept close guard around the High Priest.
When they reached the Archon's residence, all they saw was devastation—blood, corpses, scorch-marks—and overhead the tri-colored demon dragon soared. Its flames would tear through anything. Fear gripped them, yet they also felt a fierce deterrence against their foes. If the dragon stood with the Archon of Tyrosh, the outcome was no longer in doubt.
"Have no fear; Prince Rhaegar is our friend. The dragon will not destroy Tyrosh." Noticing their terror, the High Priest waved a hand to quiet the crowd.
Looking at the ruin of the palace, the High Priest seethed with rage.
"You've suffered, good child." The High Priest stepped forward and laid a hand on Shireen Darry's head, signifying the blessing of the three-headed god.
"I've come late, Preceptor!" A tall, gaunt middle-aged man pushed through the crowd. Carrying a box, he reached the High Priest's side. He looked like a drawn blade—hair the color of rust, reeking of blood, the three-headed god's sigil on his chest. Everyone made way; the emblem marked a servant of the three-headed god.
The man opened the box: inside lay several bloody, twisted heads—high priests of the three-headed god.
"Well done, Captain Gael." The High Priest nodded at the severed heads. "They wanted too much and loved too little. Tired of an old man clinging to life, they grew impatient. I once loved them as my own children, the future of the temple."
Rhaegar studied Gael—clearly one of the elite of the Three-Headed God Guard, powerful and sure-footed. It would have been absurd for the High Priest to lack such champions; clearly he'd misjudged before. The captain noticed Rhaegar's gaze but gave no response; a temple guard, he had given body and soul to the deity.
"Impale these traitors' heads on pikes. Now they are blasphemers and apostates. Whoever is absent next will join them." The High Priest spoke coldly; Captain Gael departed to carry out the order.
Rhaegar and Shireen said nothing; ecclesiastical power was part of Tyrosh.
As expected, another group came hurrying in.
"Forgive me, High Priest, Miss Shireen—I arrived late!" Tyrosh's garrison Commander said in shame.
"My apologies!" The Admiral of the Tyroshi fleet was equally abashed.
Both knelt, kissed the High Priest's robe, and begged Shireen's pardon.
These two military pillars of Tyrosh had chosen to sit on the fence at the crucial hour—not only because events moved too fast but because each hoped to wait and see. Undeniably, they had heard the dragon's roar overhead, seen the High Priest's fury, and noticed Shireen's icy face and her armed followers.
"Is this Prince Rhaegar?" the Admiral asked hesitantly. The silver glint in the lamplight—shining silver hair, violet eyes flashing like lightning, beauty almost unearthly—screamed Targaryen. And that famous Valyrian great-arched dragonbone-hilted blade. He had recognized him at once and only sought confirmation.
Rhaegar nodded. "So the Admiral knows me. When I heard my ally was attacked and someone meant to wreck the friendship between the Archon, Tyrosh, and myself, I knew I could not let it pass."
The demon dragon shrieked overhead, its roar like crashing waves.
Both the Admiral and the garrison Commander understood the threat. These warlords had little faith, but seeing the dragons before them, they knew this was the greatest deterrent of all.
"We swear to defend to the death the honor of the Archon and the High Priest, and to safeguard the friendship between Tyrosh and the Iron Throne!" the garrison Commander and the Admiral declared.
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