Mornings over Dragonstone were perpetually shrouded in salt mist.
The ancient sorceries of the Freehold had long bound the fiery temper of the Dragonmont, preventing the great caldera from burying the slopes in fresh ash, yet the damp coastal chill remained inescapable.
Even at daybreak, the gray haze left a lingering weight in the air.
Darchu, however, was in exceptionally fine spirits.
He silently thanked the scholars of the Citadel.
The Westerosi order had trained its black-feathered couriers well; without their ravens carrying dispatches across open water with swift precision, coordinating a multi-front campaign would have been impossible.
Though the folk of Braavos lacked the painted vanity of the Lyseni or Tyroshi, they took quiet pride in their appearance.
Darchu was no swaggering water dancer draped in scented powders, yet waxing his long, cascading goatee each morning remained one of his few cherished routines.
This morning, his routine met an unexpected halt.
The mirror was gone.
Before retiring the previous evening, a full-length silvered glass framed in enameled Braavosi lilies had stood beside his washbasin.
Now, the corner sat bare.
A light chime rang from the doorway as a serving maid entered, carrying a covered tray with fresh linen and morning fare.
The maid arranged the breakfast upon the table: thick crusts of honeyed white bread, eggs fried golden on one side, rashers of crisp bacon, boiled greens, tender peas, and a flagon of spiced red vintage bearing the earthen hue of Septon Balbon’s cellars.
“Pardon me, girl…”
Anticipating the diplomat’s question, the maid offered a modest curtsy.
“A traveling mirror-wright made port in the harbor this dawn.
Such artisans are rare on the island, so the castellan ordered every looking-glass in the keep gathered for polishing.
If my lord requires a glass to trim his beard, I may show you to the garden pool.”
Darchu raised an eyebrow.
The pretext was transparently hollow, yet he had little care to argue.
A stray whisker was nothing compared to the naval clash approaching their shores.
“There is no need,” he said, waving her away.
The moment the maid stepped past the threshold, Assistant Maester Gremenson appeared at the door, rapping lightly on the oak.
“Enter, gray scholar.
You require no herald in my solar.”
“My lord envoy, the raven has returned from the flagship,” Gremenson reported in a low voice.
“The bird carried no parchment.”
A sharp grin spread across Darchu’s weathered face.
The empty clasp was the prearranged signal from Admiral Spyro: the operation was proceeding without delay.
The Braavosi vanguard would reach the narrow straits between Massey’s Hook, Dragonstone, and Driftmark before dusk.
“Release a fresh bird to the Hundred-Eyed Giant,” Darchu instructed, handing across a sealed missive from his sleeve.
“Ensure it reaches the assistant maester assigned to the admiral’s deck.”
The scholars’ mastery of ravenry had long drawn the envy of the eastern magisters, though even the archmaesters could not fully articulate how the dark-feathered birds tracked distant vessels across open salt water.
Gremenson bowed, taking the parchment before hurrying toward the rookery tower.
High upon the jagged slopes of the Dragonmont, Raegor let out a long, rumbling yawn.
Five years of steady heat had brought the ancient sovereign back to his prime.
He would grow no larger, yet his golden scales possessed the hardness of folded steel, his talons could shear timber like parchment, and his throat burned with blinding heat.
Beside the cavern mouth, Balerion the Black Dread lay sprawled across a ridge of jagged volcanic stone.
His dark, slit pupils tracked Raegon, who was hauling a wooden frame loaded with four roasted sheep up the crag.
The thick dewlap beneath the black beast’s crocodile-like jaws vibrated with a deep, impatient growl.
“Patience, you great lizard,” Raegon grunted, using his Valyrian steel blade to sever the hemp cords binding the meat.
“You and Raegor have a long flight ahead.”
Aegon climbed up the path behind his brother, adjusting his riding leathers.
“We wait for the signal.
Once the Volantene fleet enters the Gullet, Admiral Spyro will light three columns of smoke.
We launch the moment the black smoke rises.”
“I leave the fleet to you, brother,” Raegon said with a laugh.
“Tactics in open water belong to your mind.
My thoughts remain fixed on the south.”
Aegon shook his head with a faint smile.
“Visenya told me of your plans for Gogossos.
Do you require more steel?
I can order Daemon to assign five war galleys to escort your mounts.”
“That would serve well,” Raegon admitted.
Extra decks meant more eyes and hands along the fever coast.
He braced his boots and shoved the first sheep over the ledge.
Raegor was already waiting, snapping his massive jaws shut around the carcass before it even hit the stone floor, swallowing the offering in a single gulp.
Behind them, Balerion surged forward with an eager hiss, his heavy skull lunging toward the remaining meat beside Aegon.
His short, thick neck forced his colossal shoulders to scrape against the basalt crags, sending a shower of loose rock tumbling down the slope.
The black snout bumped Aegon off balance as the beast inhaled the second sheep, whole and unchewed, before fixing his yellow eyes on the third.
Raegor took offense instantly.
Having devoured his share, the golden sovereign snaked his long neck out of the cavern, his antlers and bone ridges gleaming bright under the gray daylight.
His neck was nearly twice the length of the younger beast’s, allowing him to plant his jaws directly over the carcass.
Balerion dropped into a low crouch, baring rows of black, dagger-like fangs with a deafening roar.
In sheer bulk and jaw width, the Black Dread was massive, but Raegor’s ancient length and wingspan gave him an imposing reach.
The elder dragon snapped back with a blinding flash of golden heat, his front talons slamming into the bedrock until the mountain trembled beneath them.
“Hold!” Raegon shouted, stepping between the giants.
“Save your fury for the ships below!”
Both dragons blinked, turning their enormous heads toward the boy.
A series of deep roars and clicks vibrated between them, shifting into a rapid exchange of draconic posture that even Raegon struggled to follow.
After several tense heartbeats, Balerion snapped up the final sheep with a low, sullen rumble, turning his back to chew against the rock.
“What was that about?” Aegon asked, staring at the brooding black beast.
“A bargain,” Raegon said with a wry grin.
“Raegor yielded the mutton on the condition that he takes the vanguard over the straits.”
Aegon let out an easy breath.
“A fair trade.”
The sun drifted across the overcast sky, burning away the low fog before dipping toward the western horizon.
Across the choppy gray waters of the Narrow Sea, a formation of war galleys cut through the swell in tight order.
Directly behind them, a larger, denser armada followed in hot pursuit like wolves closing on a wounded deer.
“Report our losses,” Admiral Spyro ordered from the quarterdeck.
The one-eyed Braavosi sea captain kept his lone eye fixed upon the charts.
Born an outlaw before taking service under the Sealord, his grandfather had once claimed a piece of a fallen dragonlord, a tale Spyro never tired of telling over flagons of spiced rum.
“As commanded, Admiral,” his first mate called out. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
“The crippled hulks of the Solitary Maiden, the Master Thief, and The Siren were abandoned to Lysander’s vanguard.”
“Good.
Ensure their line follows us directly into the mouth of the straits.”
“Aye, Admiral!”
A league behind the fleeing Braavosi, Admiral Lysander paced the gilded forecastle of his three-hundred-oared flagship, the Pride of Volantis.
A foul scent caught the wind.
“Our position?”
“Off the northern horn of Massey’s Hook, Admiral,” his mate answered, extending a parchment chart.
The chase had yielded four sunken Braavosi galleys and three captured prizes.
Though they were only light scout ships, the crews were singing victory chants across the decks.
“Massey’s Hook…”
Lysander grabbed the map, his violet eyes narrowing as he looked toward the horizon.
A dark, volcanic peak rose through the salt spray.
Dragonstone.
A trap.
The realization struck him like cold water.
“Admiral!
The Braavosi are striking their canvas!” the mate cried with sudden glee.
Lysander felt his stomach drop.
The enemy galleys were not breaking formation; they were wheeling their rudders, turning inward to block the channel.
“All oars back!” Lysander screamed, his voice turning shrill against the wind.
“Signal the fleet!
Reverse course!
Retreat!”
Aboard the Hundred-Eyed Giant, Spyro spat into the sea with a savage grin.
“Too late, you slave-driving dog.”
The admiral raised his arm.
Pitch-soaked timber flared on the forward deck.
From the Hundred-Eyed Giant, the Maiden’s Kiss, and the Titan’s Wrath, three thick pillars of greasy black smoke rose straight into the overcast sky.
High on the slopes of the Dragonmont, two immense silhouettes stepped to the edge of the cliffs.
Aegon and Raegon locked their riding boots into the heavy saddles.
“Fly, grandfather,” Raegon whispered.
Raegor broke into a pounding sprint.
His serpentine frame bowed like an archer’s stave before his golden tail slammed into the bedrock, shattering centuries-old basalt into dust.
The spread of his wings sounded like a hundred war drums beating in unison as the air caught his leather sails, hurling the golden giant into the sky.
A heartbeat later, the Black Dread followed, blotting out the clouds behind him.
Miles below, the sailors of the Braavosi fleet pointed upward in stunned terror as two shadows swallowed the daylight.
“Look to the sky!” a deckhand screamed.
Admiral Spyro gripped the ship’s rail, his knuckles white as his jaw set in a hard, feral grin.
“Dragons,” the admiral whispered.
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