A torrent of blinding golden fury broke across the darkened roadstead.
The captains of the blockade, deep in their cups aboard the flagship, never noticed the winged silhouette rising above the high ridge behind Tyrosh.
The city watch atop the outer towers had spotted the golden titan first as it glided past the Archon’s palace.
Though Raegor’s bulk dwarfed the palace terraces, making any notion of stealth absurd, the terrified yet jubilant Tyroshi quickly sprang to action.
Torchbearers climbed the parapets, lighting harbor beacons to illuminate the anchored enemy line.
Under ordinary circumstances, the flare of shore lanterns should have warned the Volantene pickets of an imminent sally.
Yet weeks of unbroken success had bred a fatal complacency.
Even as the signal braziers blazed across four harbor bastions and confusion rippled through the Tyroshi inner basins, the blockading fleet made no move to clear their decks.
The commanders were drinking; the few junior officers left on watch lacked the authority to beat to quarters without orders.
The price of that arrogance arrived on wings of flame.
Raegor descended upon the Tiger of Selhorys without mercy.
A continuous stream of golden fire washed along the anchorage, turning war galleys into screaming pyres.
One after another, vessels bearing proud names melted like tallow candles from Wickenden, burning down to the waterline before hissing into the dark swell.
A few hundred-oared scouts cut their anchor cables, trying desperately to slip past the golden terror, only to run headlong into a deeper nightmare.
The Black Dread fell from the stars.
The boy leaves too many loose threads, Aegon thought, shaking his head with a wry grimace as he adjusted his grip on the saddle pommel.
Though this was his first formal battle in the sky, his tactical mind worked with cold precision.
Raegon had done well to strike the flagship and the heavy dreadnoughts first, severing the enemy’s command in a single stroke.
Yet complete annihilation demanded the destruction of the lighter galleys before they could scatter into the open sea.
Black fire fell from Balerion’s maw, sealing the gaps in the perimeter.
By the time the moon reached its apex, the engagement was over.
Seventy-nine warships of the Volantene Narrow Sea fleet were reduced to smoking timber and charred wreckage.
Inside the walls of Tyrosh, the streets flared with long-dormant torchlight.
While Balerion circled the upper clouds to maintain watch, Raegor banked toward the city.
Raegon scanned the dense layout in vain, searching for an open square large enough to accommodate the beast.
Finding none, he guided the golden elder toward the massive coliseum at the center of the district.
The stone arena, built to seat tens of thousands of spectators, barely held the dragon.
Raegor folded his iridescent wings, digging his front talons into the outer parapet while his hind legs braced against the stone tiers.
His long, sinuous tail spilled over the rim, draping across the tiled roofs of neighboring manors.
A trembling crowd had already gathered in the plaza below, waiting in breathless silence for the dragonrider to speak. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
Raegon reached into his saddle pouch and unlatched a curved brass speaking horn.
He had no intention of dismounting into that press.
“I am Raegon Targaryen of Dragonstone,” his voice echoed down through the brass tube.
“We require intelligence on the movements of King Argilac Durrandon.”
A man with a beard dyed bright azure and a wide-brimmed hat pinned with ostrich plumes pushed past the guards, his squire rushing forward with a matching brass horn.
“Honored, handsome, and supreme dragonlord,” the Archon’s herald called back, his voice trembling despite his grand diction.
“By wind and current, His Grace King Argilac was expected to make landfall near Ryk-Lacron at the Hour of the Nightingale.”
Raegon calculated the hours in his head.
The storm fleet had likely completed its disembarkation and formed its lines along the coast.
“My thanks,” Raegon replied.
Raegor pushed off the stone rim with a mighty thrust of his hind legs.
The downdraft from his wings swept through the plaza like a gale, knocking the azure-bearded herald and several retainers flat onto the cobblestones.
Watching the golden titan climb into the night, the Archon of Tyrosh released a long, shuddering breath.
The terror of the old world had returned.
A century ago, dragonlords had rested their mounts upon these very spires, worshiped as living sovereigns.
Following the Doom, the Tyroshi had discovered that the only dragonlord lingering in their city was a frail youth whose beast was barely larger than a courser.
They had poisoned the hatchling, butchered the boy, and celebrated their independence.
Yet seeing Raegor’s colossal majesty, that ancient dread crushed their pride once more.
In the span of a single watch, the blockade that had choked their harbor for moons had been wiped from the water.
Through the shared resonance of their bloodline, Raegon passed the word to Aegon.
Argilac had landed.
Ryk-Lacron was an unfortified port city with neither walls nor moats; the forty-five thousand Tiger cloaks garrisoned there would be forced to march into the open fields to contest the Storm King.
Their fate was sealed.
While the Narrow Sea fleet burned outside Tyrosh, the northern front of Volantis collapsed into total ruin.
Under the pale moonlight, the battlefield along Dagger Lake lay choked with shattered spears and headless corpses.
Braided Dothraki warriors laughed through bloodied teeth as they severed the heads of tiger-tattooed legionaries, stacking the trophies into grim pyramids across the grass.
Amidst the dying screams of Field Marshal Arius, the allied host of Dothraki, Braavosi, Norvoshi, and Qohorik completed the double encirclement of the seven northern legions.
A fatal gap had opened between the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Legions due to a misjudged maneuver by Legate Caius.
Khal Mengo and Khal Enzo had driven their armored cavalry straight into the breach alongside the Black Goat heavy horse of Qohor, cleaving the Volantene center in two.
Thirty thousand isolated legionaries formed desperate squares against swarms of horse-archers and the furious charges of the Norvoshi axe-brothers.
When the heavy lances wheeled for a final flank attack, the lines broke.
The remaining forty thousand troops turned to face the victorious allied vanguard, only to be outmaneuvered by the swiftest light cavalry in the world.
Dothraki arrows ripped through the spear formations before the bearded priests smashed into their center with two-handed axes.
It became an unbroken slaughter.
After a day and a night of fighting, seventy thousand Tiger cloaks lay dead upon the field.
The alliance gave no quarter.
The horselords claimed two-thirds of the spoils, parading the golden tiger standards of the legions across the plains.
The northern gate of Volantis had ceased to exist.
In the Disputed Lands, the rebellion was equally absolute.
The moment black smoke rose over the western horizon, the Myrish underground struck.
Infiltrators fired the Volantene ships berthed in the harbor, while armed citizens took to the streets with butcher knives and short blades.
Within hours, the occupying garrison was eradicated, and Myr declared itself free.
With their fleet ash at the bottom of the sea, the Triarchs held no means of retaliation.
Outside the sprawling tents of Ryk-Lacron, the army of the Stormlands prepared their battle lines in the predawn mist.
“Your Grace, the enemy has begun their deployment,” Lord Dondarrion of Blackhaven reported, riding his warhorse to the king’s standard.
He tipped his conical helm, offering a slight bow from the saddle toward the broad-shouldered monarch.
“Two legions have seized the eastern and western ridges.
Our scouts were unable to contest the high ground in the dark.”
“It matters not,” Argilac replied, his deep voice remarkably calm.
“Continue.”
“Their main host, five-and-twenty thousand foot, advances toward our center to seize the wind and sun.
They field eight thousand horse and four war elephants on their flanks.
It represents the entirety of their mounted strength.”
“Very good,” Argilac nodded.
The Volantene commander was an experienced veteran.
Facing the crushing weight of Westerosi heavy plate, the Tiger cloaks were using their disciplined core to fix the storm army in place while holding fresh reserves on the high ground.
Yet the enemy commander knew nothing of the wings descending through the dawn.
Targaryen, the old king thought, a cold grin touching his lips beneath his gray beard.
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