Chapter 107-Dragon Rations, the Fall of Tyrosh
The dragons were hungry.
That single truth weighed heavier upon Prince Daemon Targaryen than any battle plan or siege engine.
The Isle of Cedars lay scorched and stripped beneath dragon wings. Where once goats and sheep had grazed, there were now only trampled fields, blackened stone, and the lingering stench of smoke. Even the wild boars had vanished into the hills—or been devoured.
Caraxes coiled upon the high ridge above the ring-fort, wings half-spread, sinews twitching with restless irritation. Below him, Vermithor, Silverwing, Dreamfyre, Meleys, and Seasmoke prowled like living storms barely leashed.
A dragon denied meat was a catastrophe waiting to happen.
Hunger of Fire
Laena Velaryon stood beside Daemon beneath the open sky, her silver-gold hair bound against the wind. She watched Dreamfyre circle low, flame leaking from her jaws in short, frustrated bursts.
"The supply fleet is late," Laena said quietly. "Again."
Daemon's jaw tightened.
"Shipbreaker Bay," he replied. "The storm shattered half the transports. The rest limped back to Tarth."
Mysaria—wrapped in dark wool, her eyes sharp as ever—spoke softly.
"Tyrosh starves while we wait. Their granaries are full. Their slaughterhouses untouched."
Daemon gave a humorless smile.
"Then Tyrosh will feed the dragons."
Yet hunger was already taking its toll.
Vermithor had scorched a seaside shrine the night before, not from malice—but agitation. Seasmoke had snapped at Meleys over a carcass no larger than a horse. Even Dreamfyre's roars had grown low and thunderous, echoing like distant storms.
Dragons were weapons of fire and terror—but they were still beasts.
And beasts needed meat.
Counsel of Old Powers
That evening, Daemon climbed the rocky rise where the heart-tree substitute had been planted—an old lemon tree, its bark carved with crude faces by priests and woods-witches long dead.
Alys Rivers stood beneath it, pale eyes unfocused. Beside her lingered Terra of House Uller, her Dornish gaze alert and wary.
"The sea will answer," Alys murmured before Daemon spoke. "Wind carries more than storms."
Daemon studied her.
"If riddles fed dragons, I'd have conquered Essos already."
Alys smiled faintly.
"Then listen carefully."
Terra folded her arms.
"Tyrosh is not Westeros. Their gods are foreign. No weirwoods. No deep roots. Dragons bleed the same everywhere."
Daemon nodded.
"I know. Which is why Tyrosh falls fast—or not at all."
Meat from the Sea
Dawn brought the answer.
A fleet of squat, broad-beamed vessels limped into the harbor—Ibbenese whalers, their hulls scarred by storm and salt. Raven Greyjoy brought them in under truce, his grin wide as the sea.
"Prince Daemon," he said, "they're selling."
The whalers' holds were full.
Whales.
Enormous, slick-skinned carcasses were hauled onto the shore with iron hooks and chains thicker than a man's arm. The smell alone made the dragons stir.
Some doubted.
"Sea meat," muttered a dragonkeeper. "Dragons prefer land prey."
Daemon only laughed.
"Let them decide."
Caraxes struck first.
Dragonfire washed over the whale flesh, oil igniting in roaring sheets of flame. Dreamfyre joined him. Then Vermithor. Then Silverwing.
The smell of roasted fat rolled across the island like incense.
Moments later, the dragons fed.
Teeth tore. Claws rended. Bones cracked like kindling.
The thunder in the sky faded.
The dragons were sated.
The Night of Fire
That same night, the fleets sailed.
Velaryon warships. Ironborn reavers. Sistermen longships. The Blackwater fleet.
Above them, dragons flew.
Tyrosh saw them coming.
The city's outer walls erupted with alarm bells and torchlight. Ballistas were cranked. Scorpions loaded.
Too late.
Meleys struck first—fast, precise—burning siege engines before they fired. Dreamfyre swept the western quarter, setting armories ablaze. Seasmoke dove low, flames ripping through shipyards and docks.
Daemon rode Caraxes straight for the heart of the city.
The Alchemists' Guild vanished in emerald fire as wildfire stores ignited, screaming green flame devouring stone and flesh alike.
Then came the counterstroke.
A scorpion bolt struck Vermithor's wing.
The Bronze Fury roared—a sound that split stone.
He crashed onto the outer wall, collapsing towers beneath his bulk. For one terrible heartbeat, the defenders cheered.
Then Vermithor rose.
Dragonfire erased them.
Silverwing joined him, twin infernos turning the battlements into molten ruin. Panic spread. Order collapsed.
Inside the city, slaves revolted.
Chains broke. Gates were thrown open from within. The Triarchy's princes fled west under guard, abandoning Tyrosh to fire and chaos.
The Fall
By dawn, Tyrosh burned.
The dragons fed again—on cattle, on stores, on the dead.
Prince Daemon Targaryen rode through shattered streets atop Caraxes, smoke curling around him like a crown of ash.
The people knelt.
Not to a king.
But to a conqueror.
Tyrosh had fallen.
And the Narrow Sea belonged to dragons once more.
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