The Tyroshi pirates fell into total chaos. They yanked bows and loosed arrows at the red dragon wheeling overhead, but Caraxes was already gone by the time the shafts reached empty sky.
A royal warship roared in, bronze ram smashing straight into a pirate galley's midsection. Wood exploded. The ship heeled hard.
Beneath the seahorse banner, Lord Lucerys Velaryon bellowed, "Board them!" Royal sailors poured across the ram and hacked into the stumbling pirates. Steel rang everywhere.
More royal ships slammed home. The sea battle turned savage.
"Uncle Tygett, when do we go in?" Tyrion asked from the deck of a flat-bottomed supply cog. His small face was flushed with excitement as he watched the fighting.
Tygett's expression stayed grim. The dragons and the royal fleet were carving the pirates apart. "We don't. We guard the supplies."
"We're not fighting?" Tyrion blinked, then looked at the cog under his feet. It really was just a cargo hauler. A handful of other flat-bottomed ships flew the Lannister lion, packed with provisions for the expedition.
"I bet we could help if we went in," Tyrion muttered, disappointed but obedient.
Tygett started to reply when the click of boots on deck made him turn.
Melisandre stepped out of the cabin in her flowing red robes. She stopped beside uncle and nephew and said quietly, "With a dragon in the fight, any mortal effort is just decoration."
"Red witch, keep your distance," Tygett snapped, pulling Tyrion behind him.
Melisandre's smile never wavered. "Foolish mortals never recognize the servants of the true god."
Tygett snorted and moved away. Tyrion stayed, studying her with sharp, curious eyes. There was something… powerful about the woman.
He'd heard she had volunteered to sail with the army and that Prince Daeron had placed her on the supply ships.
---
High above, Daeron and Caraxes tore through the arrow storm like it wasn't even there. Caraxes's savage nature shone on the open sea. He roared and poured endless streams of crimson flame, sinking ship after ship.
"Catapults! Now!" the Tyroshi admiral screamed after his men dragged him from the water. Crews frantically wound the winches and loaded burning logs.
The admiral squinted upward, trying to lead the dragon. It was impossible. The angle was wrong, the target too fast.
A jet of red flame slammed down at a forty-five-degree angle, shattering a thick mast. Splinters rained across the deck.
The admiral's eyes widened. He spotted the low pass and bellowed, "Fire! Fire now!"
The trigger man slashed the rope. The catapult arm whipped forward. A blazing log shot skyward.
"Hit! Hit!" the admiral screamed, eyes bloodshot.
Daeron and Caraxes glanced sideways at the same moment. Without a word, rider and dragon banked in a smooth half-circle. The burning log splashed harmlessly into the sea ten yards away.
"Dracarys," Daeron said coldly, locking onto the catapult ship.
Caraxes shrieked and dove. The admiral's face went slack.
A pillar of red flame engulfed the catapult, the admiral, and the entire galley in one roaring blast. When Caraxes pulled up, only a burning wreck and a blackened smear remained.
The nearby pirates froze. A chill crawled up their spines.
Why? How could one dragon be this strong? They didn't even want to fight anymore.
One dragon? No.
A second shadow appeared overhead—black as coal.
Toothless let out an eager roar and circled the chaos.
"Dracarys!" Daeron called.
Caraxes bathed a fleeing galley in flame.
Toothless's green eyes sparkled with excitement. He dropped behind his father and older brother, then sprayed a misty green flame over the pirates leaping into the sea like dumplings.
"AAAAHHH!"
"It won't go out!"
Dozens of men thrashed in the water. The green fire clung, spreading even under the waves. One by one they screamed and sank.
Daeron glanced down, unmoved, and kept burning ships.
On the other side of the battle the royal fleet—only three big sailships and ten galleys—had already shattered the fifty-ship pirate armada. The Tyroshi crews panicked. Their admiral was dead. They abandoned the burning wrecks, piled into the faster longships, and tried to run.
"You're not going anywhere," Daeron muttered.
Caraxes and Toothless worked in perfect sync—one for single-target devastation, the other for wide-area slaughter. They chased the fleeing ships for miles, setting every last vessel ablaze until the sea swallowed them all.
Daeron gave a satisfied nod. "Not one left alive."
He patted Caraxes's scales and turned back toward the battlefield.
---
"Seven hells," Tyrion breathed, staring at the smoking water. The ten-year-old sounded like a grown man.
In barely two hours an entire fifty-ship Tyroshi fleet had been wiped out.
"Dragons are terrifying," Tygett whispered, wiping cold sweat from his brow. He had never realized sea battles could be so much crueler than land ones. On land, soldiers could run. Out here there was nowhere to hide.
Melisandre's eyes gleamed. The Lord of Light has guided me true, she thought. This is the prince of prophecy—king's blood, dragon blood, rider of dragons.
She turned, red robes swirling, and disappeared back into the cabin. She needed to read the flames for more useful visions. Only by proving her worth could she win the heart of the prince.
---
Daeron landed Caraxes on the beach and ordered Lord Lucerys to sweep the wreckage for loot and special gems. He had already spotted at least a dozen full gem-sequence knights among the dead pirates. Their ships had to be carrying serious treasure.
"Prince, you arrived just in time," Lord Selwyn Tarth said, hurrying up. Gratitude poured off him.
Daeron kept his voice steady. "Don't thank me yet. As long as I am Prince of Storm's End, every Stormlands lord is my sworn vassal. Call and I will come."
Lord Selwyn was speechless. The words he had prepared died in his throat.
Daeron gave him a few more reassuring words and told him to spread the alert to every Stormlands house. He would check on Estermont Island himself.
In truth he just wanted the story to travel fast. Nothing bound vassals tighter than a dragon lord appearing when they needed him most.
"Prince, I will make sure every lord in the Stormlands hears of your mercy," Selwyn swore.
Daeron waved him off.
"Prince, a letter from Maester Aemon," Stannis Baratheon said, striding up in blood-spattered leather. The new Constable Knight had thrown himself into the boarding actions.
Daeron cracked the seal. Pentos and Myr were still begging for an alliance and offering to help crush the Tyroshi pirates first.
"Nice try," he muttered. "But I don't need you."
---
Myr.
The three archons had just gathered a fleet when word arrived: the fifty-ship Tyroshi pirate force had been annihilated in a single afternoon.
In the archons' palace the banker's eyes bulged. "Fifty ships—gone in less than a day?!"
"Three thousand men," the sea trader said grimly. "Even slaughtering three thousand pigs would take longer."
The estate lord's dry arms trembled. "What did the Iron Throne say? Are they open to alliance?"
The banker shook his head. "The pirates died too fast. No reply yet."
Silence fell. They had planned to meet the Iron Throne together, help beat the pirates, then push for a grand alliance to seize the Stepstones.
The banker scratched his head. "Something feels off."
The sea trader drew a slow breath. "All the more reason we must ally with them."
They had never seen dragons. But they knew exactly how vicious Tyroshi pirates were. If the Iron Throne could erase an entire fleet that quickly, its power was beyond imagination.
A neutral giant across the Narrow Sea with no stake in Essosi politics was the perfect partner.
"If Myr allies with the Iron Throne, Lys and Tyrosh can go to hell," the banker said, excited.
The estate lord nodded. "Prince Daeron is on Tarth right now. We send envoys immediately and invite him to Myr. And we loop in Prince Rhaeton—he can speak to the prince."
The three archons agreed at once. They would offer whatever it took. With dragons on their side they could carve through the Stepstones like a hot knife.
---
Lys.
Inside the Perfumed Garden the five archons met in private. The topic was the same: one Targaryen prince and two dragons had destroyed a fifty-ship Tyroshi fleet in half a day.
It was terrifying.
Before today the Lyseni had only heard vague stories of Westerosi civil war and the Iron Throne putting down rebels. Dragons? Dragonriders? House Targaryen? They had no frame of reference.
A rich merchant archon spoke first. "I still say we keep the silver prince. He is the eldest son of the Mad King, the rightful heir, Prince of Dragonstone."
Natalya jumped in. "Exactly. Even if we set aside the throne, his blood is pure dragonlord—worth ten thousand of those so-called Valyrian bastards in Volantis."
Valarr Syzmoq frowned but said nothing.
"We've had him here for weeks," he replied coolly. "We should try making contact."
The others nodded, hungry for dragon blood.
They had no dragons of their own—yet. If Daeron could hatch eggs and bring dragons back, so could they. All they needed were good eggs. Most had been lost in the Tragedy at Summerhall, but surely some remained.
"I have the perfect candidate," Trystane Orlos said with a sly smile. "An old Valyrian family with a daughter of marriageable age. We'll send her to warm the silver prince's bed."
The others exchanged glances. Rhaegar's reputation for romantic foolishness was well known. It could work.
Trystane grinned. "Leave the arrangements to me."
---
Seven days later.
Daeron rode Caraxes across the calm, enormous Myr bay. The natural harbor was massive—still water, no waves, perfect for trade.
No wonder the old Valyrian dragonlords colonized these cities, he thought. This place is wasted on them.
Caraxes beat his huge wings and dropped onto the black-stone avenue of ancient Valyria.
The crowd gasped.
Three magnificently dressed Myrish archons stepped forward, faces glowing with welcome.
"Most noble prince," the banker said, spreading his arms wide, "we have waited so long for you."