Chapter 105: King of the Narrow Sea, Game of All Parties
After the death of Craghas Drahar—the Crabfeeder—the Triarchy's grip on the Stepstones collapsed completely.
Prince Daemon Targaryen rode Caraxes through the skies above Tyrosh, a long rope wound around his gauntlet. At its end dangled Craghas's tar-blackened head, swaying like a grotesque banner.
On the walls of Tyrosh, the defenders went pale.
They had awaited reinforcements from Bloodstone.
Instead, they were greeted by their admiral's severed head.
Lord Draz of Tyrosh stood upon the battlements, flanked by Governor Borathi of Myr and Trade Prince Manolos of Lys. Below them, the harbor was choked with idle ships, their crews watching the sky in silence.
Across the strait, the Isle of Cedars already burned under Westerosi banners. The war had come to Tyrosh's doorstep.
Many members of the Triarchy's Supreme Council had already fled to Myr and Lys, but Borathi and Manolos had turned back halfway—after Lord Draz made it clear that if Tyrosh stood alone, it would withdraw from the Triarchy entirely.
All three men stared upward as Caraxes circled.
Against the vast red dragon, Craghas's head looked pitifully small.
Craghas had been Admiral of Myr, a hero to its people—and kin to Governor Borathi. Rage twisted Borathi's face.
"Whoever shoots down that dragon," Borathi roared, "or slays Daemon Targaryen—whoever becomes a dragonslayer—I will give him my daughter and a lordship!"
Ballistae creaked. Scorpions were cranked into place. Archers nocked arrows by the hundreds.
Daemon only laughed.
Caraxes climbed sharply, wings beating thunder into the sky. Arrows passed harmlessly beneath him. Even Craghas's head escaped the storm of missiles as dragon and rider vanished westward, over open sea.
Lord Draz stroked his dark green beard grimly.
"Unless by miracle," he said, "no bolt forged by man can fell a dragon. With Craghas dead, it is only a matter of time before Daemon takes every island. We must seek peace."
Borathi sneered.
"Peace? Daemon believes we murdered Prince Baelon. He holds the advantage and knows it. Why would he accept our pleas?"
Trade Prince Manolos sighed.
"Then our hope lies with Prince Viserys."
With King Jaehaerys bedridden, Viserys—Prince of Dragonstone—now ruled in all but name. The Triarchy had already sent envoys to King's Landing, hoping mediation by Pentos, Braavos, and Volantis might restrain Daemon.
Lord Draz shook his head.
"No one resists dragons forever."
Borathi's eyes gleamed.
"Prince Baelon is dead—and Vhagar has no rider. Fishermen have seen her in the Myrish Sea and the Disputed Lands. Seven days ago she burned pastureland and slaughtered shepherds."
"Vhagar's lair lies somewhere within our territory. I have sent men to find it. Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh are daughters of Valyria. Many of our nobles carry dragonlord blood. Perhaps—"
Lord Draz cut him off sharply.
"Foolishness. Since the Doom, House Targaryen alone rides dragons. Craghas dreamed of dragon eggs on Bloodstone—and paid for it with his life."
Manolos nodded.
"Daemon's mastery of dragons is… unnatural. He rides Caraxes, Vermithor, Silverwing, Seasmoke—every dragon obeys him. Some whisper he commands them like a pack alpha."
Borathi scoffed.
"I've heard worse. That Daemon resurrected Balerion. That he will awaken Valyria's doom itself. These are children's fears."
Manolos was unconvinced.
"Fear or not, we cannot defeat him."
Borathi's voice turned cold.
"Then we bleed him. I have sent gold to Volantis and Slaver's Bay. Khalasars gather in the Disputed Lands. If Daemon marches inland, he will pay dearly."
The Lysene pirate Tonali Thorn limped back to Grey Gallows with what remained of the Triarchy fleet.
Three days later, the Ironborn, Sistermen, and Valyrian fleets descended upon him.
The result was slaughter.
Tonali Thorn fled to Lys. The Stepstones fell, island by island, beneath overwhelming force.
With Dorne withdrawing its garrisons under pressure from the Reach and Stormlands, resistance ended.
For the first time in generations, the Stepstones were firmly in Westerosi hands.
Daemon sent letters to his brother, Prince Viserys, and to King Jaehaerys, announcing victory.
That night, in the caverns of Pirate Mountain, Daemon hosted a feast. Present were Lord Corlys Velaryon, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, Qyle Massey, and Raven Greyjoy—called Son of the Wind.
"Prince Daemon," Raven said, raising his cup, "why not take the crown? King of the Narrow Sea."
Qyle Massey agreed eagerly.
"The Stepstones will make you rich beyond measure."
The Sea Snake and Princess Rhaenys remained silent.
Daemon set his cup aside.
"Not yet. The conquest has only begun."
The Stepstones were valuable—but barren. Daemon's gaze lay eastward: Lys, Myr, Tyrosh—and the fertile lands between them.
In the Throne Room of the Red Keep, Prince Viserys sat upon the Iron Throne as regent, Blackfyre resting across his knees.
The Small Council assembled.
Grand Maester Runciter stood grave.
Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, watched keenly.
Ser Otto Hightower—now acting Hand—smiled thinly.
Envoys entered.
Rungel of Lys presented a massive three-headed dragon statue of red gold, yellow gold, and black gold.
"Prince Viserys," Rungel said smoothly, "the Triarchy seeks peace."
Viserys's voice was cold.
"You broke the last truce. You murdered my father and nailed Westerosi soldiers to stakes."
Rungel spread his hands.
"Craghas acted alone. He is dead. We offer sincerity—and the Stepstones."
Otto interjected mildly.
"You offer what we already possess."
Negotiations dragged on. Mediation followed.
At last, Viserys dismissed them.
When the doors closed, Otto leaned forward.
"Accept the peace, Your Highness. Press further, and Pentos, Braavos, and Volantis may unite against us."
Viserys said nothing—only stared at the Iron Throne, weighing crowns yet unworn.
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