Chapter 67 — Dragon Ravage, the Supreme Council
Tarth's harbor seethed with life.
Hundreds of war-galleys rocked against their moorings, and the silver seahorse of House Velaryon snapped proudly in the sea wind. The air smelled of pitch, salt, and the hot tang of steel.
Lord Vincent Tarth, called the Evening Star for the blue-white shimmer of his armor, came down to the quay to greet the arrivals — Prince Daemon Targaryen, Princess Rhaenys, and Lord Corlys Velaryon, the famed Sea Snake.
The old lord's white hair gleamed against his purple-gold enamel plate; tall and broad-shouldered even past sixty, he was every inch the ancestor of the warrior women that Tarth would one day produce.
Above them, Caraxes and Meleys, crimson and scarlet, wheeled like twin storms over the sea, their shadows racing along the surf.
Lord Vincent bowed deeply.
> "When pirates ruled the Stepstones," he said, voice rough as gravel, "they fought among themselves — ironborn against Lysene, Myrish against Summer Islesmen — and seldom troubled Tarth. But now the so-called Triarchy holds those isles, and their adventurers raid my coast with impunity. The Iron Throne's fleet and dragons are our salvation."
Corlys Velaryon, clad in a pale-blue fur cloak, smiled thinly.
> "Then we are of one purpose, my lord. Prince Daemon and I will scour the pirates from the Stepstones and break the Triarchy's grip. Keep your island fed and our supply lines open."
Rhaenys stood beside him in polished bronze, the Stormlands wind whipping her dark-red hair. She was niece to Lord Beaumont Baratheon, and her kin and friends among the Stormlords had already pledged gold and men for the cause. Knights hungry for glory, sellswords chasing coin, and hedge lords from half the realm had gathered here. By count, more than eight thousand blades awaited passage to war.
Corlys turned to Daemon with a practiced charm.
> "Your Grace, whatever quarrels lay between us, let them drown in the Narrow Sea. From this day, we are comrades-in-arms."
Daemon's face betrayed nothing.
> "There are no eternal friends or enemies," he said coolly. "Only eternal interests."
Corlys blinked — then barked a laugh.
> "By the Seven, that is wisdom fit for kings."
Yet behind his smile, Daemon's mind moved as swiftly as his dragon's wings.
He knew House Velaryon's fortune — its fleets, its spices and silks from the east — hung on the freedom of the Narrow Sea. The Triarchy's taxes bled Corlys's coffers white. Helping him now would bind Driftmark to House Targaryen … and perhaps, in time, to Daemon himself. Laena Velaryon was growing into a striking young woman, and her brother Laenor would never sire heirs. A marriage, someday, could weld sea and fire together.
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The Invasion of the Stepstones
Within days the Velaryon fleet loosed from Tarth. White sails filled the horizon, oars flashing like blades. After a swift voyage, the armada anchored off Brokenheart Isle, the northernmost of the Stepstones.
The moment Caraxes's shadow fell across its beaches, the Triarchy garrison broke and fled. Daemon watched from above as their banners vanished into the surf.
Corlys wasted no time. He ordered the hill fortified; soon tents and palisades sprouted like mushrooms after rain. The Stepstones might be barren, but whoever held them commanded the southern gate of the Narrow Sea — a dagger poised at both Essos and Dorne.
Daemon stood upon the black rocks and imagined a crown rising from the waves: a realm of his own, forged in flame.
That night the leaders gathered beneath a great striped pavilion. A map of the Narrow Sea lay pinned to the table, candles guttering at its corners.
Daemon traced a gloved finger along the coastline.
> "Craghas Drahar — the Crabfeeder — expects us to meet him here, ship against ship, dragon against fleet. Let him rot in that illusion. We shall strike where he feels safest — at the very hearts of his masters."
Corlys bent over the chart.
> "Myr, Lys, Tyrosh," he murmured. "Which city do we burn first?"
He knew them well from his nine great voyages.
Tyrosh, nearest to the Stepstones — an island fortress of purple stone and high arrow towers.
Lys, far south amid the Summer Sea, perfumed and decadent, its wealth built on pleasure and slaves.
Myr, a mainland city of artisans and glassblowers, ruled by sharp minds and sharper greed.
Rhaenys rested a bronze-clad hand on her sword-belt.
> "Craghas hails from Myr and commands their fleets. Burn his birthplace first — let him watch his home turn to ash."
Corlys's eyes glittered.
> "A fitting vengeance for our sailors, left to feed the crabs."
But Daemon shook his head.
> "No. Myr lies too far. We begin with Tyrosh and Lys — swift blows under cover of darkness. We leave behind tokens naming Craghas as the cause. Let the Three Daughters tear at one another while we cut their throats."
Understanding dawned. Rhaenys smiled faintly.
> "You think as a dragon does — burn, divide, devour."
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Fire over Tyrosh
Three nights later, clouds smothered the moon. Tyrosh's harbor lay loud with song and wine; sailors drank away their fear of dragons they no longer believed would come.
High above, two vast shapes glided unseen.
Caraxes gave a low growl, thunder muffled in his chest. A watch-captain on the dock looked up uneasily.
> "Did you hear—"
He never finished.
A torrent of orange fire burst from the heavens, turning men to cinders where they stood. The night exploded in flame.
Caraxes and Meleys swooped again and again, their fire painting the sky gold and violet. Sails shriveled, ropes melted, ships cracked apart as molten pitch ran down their decks. Screams echoed across the water; the sea itself boiled crimson.
When the fleets were ash and bone, Daemon turned his dragon eastward. Together with Rhaenys, he swept down upon Tyrosh's shipyards — where slaves and carpenters fled like ants before the storm. Timber, masts, barrels, whole warehouses vanished in gouts of dragonfire.
Then came the dye-works and breweries; the air stank of burning indigo and yeast. By dawn, half the island smoked.
From Caraxes's saddle, Daemon dropped iron plaques engraved in Valyrian:
> "Craghas Drahar of Myr has roused the wrath of dragons. This is his due."
---
The Fire Spreads to Lys
Within a fortnight, Lys felt the same doom. Under a moonless sky the Red Queen descended, her flame pale-blue against the waves. Pleasure-houses, gardens, and vineyards burned together; palm trees burst like torches. Only the Lysene fleet, warned by Tyrosh's ruin, escaped by sailing into open sea.
When morning came, the survivors found more of Daemon's iron tablets among the ashes.
> "The vengeance of House Targaryen falls upon those who serve Craghas of Myr."
Fear rippled across the Three Daughters. Myr braced for attack — but no dragon came. Weeks passed, and still the skies were empty. Unease curdled into panic.
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The Supreme Council of the Triarchy
At last the rulers of the alliance convened in Tyrosh.
Thirty-three governors filled the Supreme Council Hall — eleven each from Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh. Colored glass windows cast jeweled light on the marble floor, where statues of their gods — the Three-Headed Beast, the Lysene Goddess of Pleasure, the Myrish Smith Lord — leered down upon them.
At the center sat Prince Dellas of Tyrosh, a short man with a beard dyed scarlet and emerald; beside him, Trade Prince Manolas of Lys, once handsome, now gray and hollow-eyed; and Governor Borathi of Myr, thin-necked and trembling.
Borathi's voice quavered.
> "We gather all our leaders in one hall — if the dragons strike now, we are finished!"
Prince Dellas snorted.
> "Tyrosh's inner wall is Valyrian stone. Dragonfire will not breach it. What it cannot burn, it fears."
Manolas sighed.
> "Walls cannot save our ships or our wealth. For barren rocks like the Stepstones we have invited ruin. Craghas Drahar brought this curse — let us make peace before we are all ash."
The door burst open. Craghas Drahar, the Crabfeeder, strode in clad in sea-blue mail and a red-gold helm shaped like his sigil. His face, mottled with a disease caught in the swamps of Sothoryos, gleamed with sweat. Soldiers flanked him.
The council fell silent.
> "While you prattle of peace," Craghas said, voice cold and sharp, "the dragons scorch our harbors. Shall we crawl to them? No — we strike back. The beasts bleed like any man."
Dellas slammed his fist on the table.
> "You fool! You roused the dragons, and Tyrosh pays the price. A crab cannot fight a dragon. Seek your vengeance alone."
Manolas added wearily,
> "Lys desires peace. Your arrogance turned the Narrow Sea into a funeral pyre. Here—"
He thrust one of Daemon's iron plaques toward him.
"Read your name in fire, Myrman. This is your doing."
Craghas studied the plate, then laughed — a dry, rasping sound.
> "Targaryen cunning. They drop these to sow distrust. You quarrel while they divide us. You are dancing to the dragons' tune."
"Even so," said Manolas, "what can you offer but more death? Withdraw from the Stepstones, and we might yet live."
Craghas's eyes blazed.
> "If we yield, the Iron Throne will never stop. They will bring Braavos and Pentos upon us. Together they will crush our trade, outlaw slavery, and strip us of everything we built. Your sons will beg in chains; your daughters will fill the brothels they once owned."
The hall murmured uneasily. Even Dellas faltered.
> "Then how do we fight them?" he demanded.
Craghas pointed to the map.
> "By finding allies. Volantis still dreams of empire. Dorne remembers how the Rhoynar slew dragons. They will join us if we make the offer. One dragon brought down will shatter Targaryen pride. Poisoned arrows, scorpion bolts — it can be done."
Silence spread like smoke. The governors looked from one to another, seeing fear and greed mirrored in every face.
The Triarchy would not break — not yet.
Not until dragonfire found them again.
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