Perfumed Garden
The tranquility of the night was abruptly shattered by the roar of a restless dragon, jolting the rich and powerful from their revelry into a state of high alert.
Security personnel quickly mobilized, weaving through the crowds to restore calm amidst the sudden turmoil.
Surrounding the lush gardens were opulent penthouses, their balconies connected by an elegantly crafted open-air promenade.
Dressed in sheer, flowing gowns, Johanna leaned against the railing, her gaze calm yet distant as she watched the chaos unfold below. Slowly, as the commotion died down, the atmosphere began to calm.
A petite maid approached, her steps hesitant, and stood demurely on the promenade, her head bowed in deference.
Johanna's eyes flickered with curiosity, her voice soft as she asked, "What news from Dragonstone Island?"
The handmaiden, clearly nervous, murmured, "A delegation will be disembarking tonight, My Lady."
"Well done," Johanna replied with a nod, her posture changing to one of regal authority as she turned. With a graceful turn of her waist, she instructed, "The usual protocol, then - a sack of gold. And guard the manor for me."
The maid's face brightened with gratitude as she thanked Johanna and withdrew.
Alone now, Johanna took a roll of white paper and a quill from her robes and considered her next move. "Dorne... Lys, what shall I write?" she mused quietly.
Having secured a powerful new ally, she was aware of the delicate balance of power at play. Johanna knew she had to tread carefully, crafting her words to secure her position without revealing too much - always leaving herself a way out, a necessary precaution when dealing with forces that might prove too formidable.
...
Lys, Deserted Beach
Under the cover of a dimly lit night, several small boats glided silently toward the shore, propelled by a gentle sea breeze.
Plop...
A dozen figures dressed in black jumped into the shallow water. They quickly dragged their boats ashore and hid them among the jumble of rocks and reefs that dotted the shoreline.
The leader of the group pulled back his hood to reveal unruly curls of brown hair. With a conspiratorial grin, he whispered, "Valar morghulis (All men must die)."
The rest of the group responded in a hushed, unified murmur, "Valar dohaeris (All men must serve)."
...
Lys, Deserted Beach
Three days had passed in the blink of an eye.
A fleet of a dozen warships had gathered on a remote island off the coast of Lys, forming a formidable temporary station. Thousands of well-equipped soldiers secured the coastline, their presence a stark contrast to the tranquil surroundings of palm trees and lush vegetation that dotted the island's small hill.
At the top of the hill, a group of soldiers dressed in seahorn-emblazoned armor had erected a simple tent. Inside, the Sea Snake, clad in his distinctive silver and gray armor, gathered around a sand table. He was joined by several commanders whose armor bore the insignia of various noble houses: white towers topped with flames, red crabs, and roaring lions.
"My lords, we have secured the nearby seas, so a full assault can now be considered."
The Sea Snake's voice was deep as he picked up a dragon figurine and positioned it on the Lys spot on the sand table.
"Lord Corlys, Prince Daemon is still engaged with the Archon of Tyrosh, so we might need to delay our plans."
A blue-eyed young man with platinum blonde curly hair and a resolute expression spoke up. His chest armor bore the Red Crab emblem of House Celtigar from Claw Isle.
The Sea Snake glanced at him and responded indifferently, "Daemon will not succeed, Lord Clement."
Clement Celtigar, the new Lord of Claw Isle, was taken aback by his comment.
With Bartimos imprisoned in the dungeon of the Red Keep, the eldest son of House Celtigar was the commander of the Celtigar forces in the Narrow Sea War.
Clement hesitated before replying, "Indeed, Prince Daemon seems to be delaying the battle.
Daemon, in conjunction with Pentos and Myr, had encircled the Tyrosh Sea on three fronts, causing delays in the transmission of news.
It was known that Daemon intended to take Tyrosh without bloodshed and move directly into the free-trade city-state.
"Roar—"
"Roar…"
In the middle of the discussion, dragon roars echoed from afar, and several massive dragons soared through the skies.
A pair of broad wings, black as charcoal, enveloped the island as the immense body of the dragon Cannibal landed gracefully.
Rhaegar, with his silver hair and black robes, dismounted from the dragon's back and ascended the hill.
Sunfyre and Sea Smoke, ridden by Aegon and Laenor respectively, landed shortly after, their armored riders following close behind.
"Prince…"
The group of commanders greeted him with respect.
The Sea Snake, unsmiling, calmly acknowledged, "Prince."
"Thank you for your efforts, my lords," Rhaegar responded with a nod.
His gaze swept over the sand table, and pointing at the representation of Lys, he stated firmly, "I've already instructed Daemon to prepare for a general attack. We'll join forces with Volantis and march tomorrow to besiege the city. Tonight, we reorganize our armaments."
Sea Snake, maintaining his serious demeanor, added, "Lys has been sending out a steady stream of ravens, mostly towards Braavos and Sunspear."
War involved more than just swords and spears; it also entailed ravens and intelligence.
Braavos had remained silent for a while, making it uncertain when they might intervene.
Dorne had yet to make a move and was surely plotting.
Rhaegar's eyes narrowed as he considered the map, "For now, Braavos poses no threat; there's been no movement of troops."
He then shifted his finger to Dorne's territory around Sunspear, murmuring, "I suspect Qoren has already positioned his forces, waiting for us to besiege the city-state before circling the Summer Sea to strike us from behind."
Alternatively, they might target the layered defenses of the Stormlands.
Sea Snake analyzed, "If that's the case, our garrison on the Stepstones Islands must be vigilant against a potential attack from behind."
Rhaegar smiled confidently, "I've already issued orders that if the Dornish fleet dares approach, we shall repeat the War of the Hundred Candles."
In the Fourth Dornish War, House Martell sent a hundred warships across the Cape Wrath aiming to land and infiltrate the Stormlands covertly.
But Jaehaerys I, mounted on his dragon alongside his sons Aemon and Baelon. Vermithor, Caraxes and Vhagar, led the attack.
From dawn till dusk, they set ablaze all hundred ships, lighting them up like a hundred candles in the night.
...
Tyrosh Sea
Connected by several neighboring islands, dozens of battleships formed a dense line of defense.
On the beach of one such island, Daemon's expression was frosty, a letter clenched in his hand.
At that moment, this Rogue Prince was clad in pitch-black dragon scale armor and a crimson cloak, standing against the briny sea breeze.
Several mercenary group leaders, hired by Pentos, lingered at the edge, reluctant to approach the formidable Daemon.
They knew of his temperamental nature and preferred not to provoke his wrath or be used to vent his anger.
"Heh, uneducated scum."
With a sneer, Daemon tore the letter into shreds.
Tyrosh had refused to surrender, and the letter contained insults, mocking him as a "homeless" Targaryen.
Daemon, holding his helmet under his arm and ignoring the mercenary leaders, declared arrogantly, "I'm going to patrol on my dragon. Reorganize your armaments."
With those words, he strode off into the distance, his presence exuding a palpable sense of authority.
"Roar..."
A huge scarlet dragon swooped across the sky, its broad wings beating slowly as it landed on the beach.
By the time the mercenary leaders gathered their wits, Daemon was already mounted on the dragon's back, soaring into the pale expanse of the sea.
...
"Roar…"
Caraxes's voice was shrill, his serpentine body soaring towards the western edge of Tyrosh.
Daemon's expression was grim, the taunt "homeless" reverberating incessantly in his mind.
Following the deaths of his father, Baelon, and his grandfather, Jaehaerys, King's Landing had fallen into the hands of his brother, Viserys.
From that moment, Daemon felt marginalized, an outsider.
Now, King's Landing belonged to his brother Viserys, to his niece Rhaenyra, to his nephew Rhaegar...
Even to the unborn child in Rhaenyra's womb.
There was nothing that really belonged to him.
With a solemn gaze, Daemon murmured, "Brother, I will carve out a realm of my own."
King's Landing, his former wife's Runestone, the itinerant Pentos, the transient Driftmark Island...
None of these were his. He was determined to conquer a land previously unclaimed by the Targaryens, for the sake of his future heir.
Sensing his rider's emotions, Caraxes's broad scarlet wings flapped fiercely, accelerating their flight.
Their mission was clear: to make an example of Tyrosh.
Unnoticed, the azure sky began to fill with clouds, and the warm sea breeze grew moist.
Tick!
A raindrop fell onto Daemon's hand. He frowned, "Is it raining?"
The Disputed Lands, near the sweltering Summer Sea, often experienced sudden winds and rain.
Locally known as "passing rain". These were rapid downpours brought by passing cumulonimbus clouds.
"Roar!"
Suddenly, Caraxes tensed, its amber eyes alert, a warning roar escaping its throat.
Daemon's expression shifted as his hand instinctively reached for the sword at his waist, his eyes scanning the surroundings.
Caraxes's cries signaled imminent danger, reminiscent of the time they were ambushed by his six-year-old nephew, in the rainy day, nearly resulting in fatal consequences for both dragon and rider.
"Roar!"
In an instant, a vast silver and black dragon shadow darted through the thinning clouds, its huge scarlet mouth lunging at them.
Daemon snapped his head back as a fishy-smelling gust hit his face.
For a moment, he was unnerved by the size of the attacking dragon's maw—easily three times larger than Caraxes's.
"Roar…"
With a defiant shriek, Caraxes dodged nimbly, unable to restrain a burst of scarlet dragonfire.
Boom—
The two dragons clashed mid-air, Caraxes's dragonfire striking the side of the adversary's neck directly.
"Roar…"
The silver and black dragon roared in pain, its misty gray wings flapping powerfully as it ascended sharply into the sky.
It was only then that Daemon recognized the dragon, saying calmly, "Morghul!"
This was the Smoking Sea Wild Dragon he had heard of, with its silver and black scales and gray wing membranes, topped by an unusually large head...
At first glance, the dragon's head seemed to belong to an old dragon comparable to Vhagar.
Upon closer inspection, however, the wild dragon measured just over 50 meters, slightly smaller than Caraxes in his prime.
"Morghul, Dracarys!" a voice commanded in High Valyrian, unfamiliar and authoritative.
"Roar…"
Morghul, now high among the clouds, turned once more. Its vertical pupils gleamed blood-red as it dove toward Caraxes, spewing a torrent of grayish dragonfire from its gaping maw.
"Roar…"
Caraxes, exuding hostility, sharply ascended, stretching his long neck to spit a stream of dragonfire.
Dodging Morghul's attack, Caraxes gained the upper hand, and his scarlet dragonfire struck his opponent's flank.
Caraxes's dragonfire blazed as red as blood, streaming fiercely.
Daemon's face remained expressionless, but the pent-up rage within him churned.
His gaze then caught sight of a red-robed priest in Morghul's back.
"So, it has indeed been tamed," Daemon noted grimly, a wry smile forming on his lips.
"Fly higher!"
At his command, Caraxes ceased his fire attack, curled up, and darted into the clouds.
The rain...
It drizzled lightly over the sea, clearing the skies.
"Morghul, fly!"
The priest, his indigo eyes peeking from beneath his hood, looked anxious as he urged the dragon upward.
Morghul roared dully and, with a violent shake of his burly body, flapped his wings and soared higher.
The priest, lacking a saddle, clutched at the dragon's scales with both hands, struggling to maintain his grip.
Pfft...
Morghul burst through the clouds, scattering the fine raindrops.
"Kill it!"
An explosion followed, marked by the Blood Wyrm's piercing roar and a swirling gust of wind.
The priest turned his head just in time to see a scarlet dragon shadow looming.
"Roar!"
Caraxes charged swiftly, his broad scarlet wings spread wide like blades, his fearsome maw open wide to clamp down on Morghul's neck.
"Roar…"
Morghul roared, its body convulsing as he turned and unleashed a blast of dragonfire.
Unyielding, Caraxes clung close, its serpentine body entwined with its foe's, like a bloodthirsty blood wyrm.
(Word count: 2,065)