The Three Dragons

Chapter 66: The Three Dragons

298 AC - Smoking Sea

The fleet moved as one, cutting through the waves like a flight of silver-winged birds. Most of the ships were stolen transports from Astapor, unfit for battle but swift enough to carry Daenerys Targaryen and her army across the sea. Only her flagship, a grand swan ship with pale sails and a carved figurehead, could truly be called a warship. Upon its deck stood the Mother of Dragons, her violet eyes fixed on the horizon, where the Smoking Sea awaited.

She was not alone. Ser Jorah Mormont, ever her loyal knight, stood beside her, his eyes scanning the horizon for threats. Nearby, Missandei, the clever and gentle Naathi girl, sat cross-legged, teaching Daenerys words of High Valyrian and the tongues of Slaver's Bay. Though the Queen spoke fluently, she had a hunger for knowledge and wished to refine her speech, to command not only armies but the hearts of those who would follow her.

Missandei smiled as she corrected Daenerys's pronunciation of a difficult phrase.

"You learn quickly, Your Grace."

"I must," Daenerys replied. "A queen must speak so her people understand her, not only hear her." Daenerys had an Army and a Dragon, she was a Khaleese before, so now she will be a Queen. She was next in line after Viserys and he would never sit the Iron Throne.

Ser Jorah chuckled. "A queen must also fight, if she is to take back the Iron Throne."

At his words, Daenerys rose, brushing off her skirts. "Then let us see if I have learned more than words today." She reached for the training sword beside her, its weight familiar in her hands.

Jorah sighed but did not refuse. He took up a blunted blade of his own, stepping into a defensive stance.

She came at him fast, light on her feet. She was no knight, no battle-hardened warrior, but she was quick, and she had learned. Jorah parried easily at first, but she pressed him, forcing him to give ground. He allowed himself to be drawn into her rhythm, letting her grow more confident.

Then, without warning, there was a splash. Something heavy had dropped into the water.

Jorah turned his head for only a moment—long enough for Daenerys to strike, her wooden blade cracking against his shoulder. She laughed, stepping back in triumph.

"You're distracted, ser knight."

But Jorah's face had gone pale.

A figure was climbing onto the ship's deck. A man—no, not a man anymore. His flesh was grey and cracked, his eyes hollow. A stoneman.

Daenerys barely had time to react before Jorah lunged, shoving her aside. The creature's arms reached for her, fingers twisted and brittle as dried wood. Jorah drove his sword through its throat, the blade cutting through the petrified flesh. The creature fell, twitching, its body splashing back into the dark sea.

But more came. From the shadows of the Smoking Sea, half a dozen figures pulled themselves onto the deck. The Unsullied reacted instantly, forming a wall of spears between their queen and the attackers.

Hero, their commander, barked orders in crisp Valyrian. "Defend the queen! Burn the bodies!"

Daenerys snatched up her blade, her heart pounding as she watched her warriors strike down the stonemen one by one. Each death was swift, but not without danger. The creatures did not feel pain, did not slow until their bodies were broken beyond repair.

At last, it was done. The deck was slick with salt and the grey dust of shattered flesh. The Unsullied moved quickly to dispose of the bodies, casting them into the waves before the infection could spread.

Daenerys exhaled, turning to Jorah. "Are you—?"

Her words froze on her tongue.

Jorah was staring at his wrist. His hand trembled as he pulled back the sleeve of his tunic, revealing the mark upon his skin. A patch of grey, rough as stone.

Missandei gasped. Hero looked away.

Daenerys took a step toward him, then hesitated. She had seen the disease before. She knew what it meant.

Jorah met her gaze. He tried to speak, but there was no need.

He was infected.

A silence stretched between them, vast as the sea itself. Then, softly, Daenerys spoke.

"We will find a cure."

Jorah nodded, but in his eyes, she saw the truth.

No cure had ever been found.

And time was running out.

299 AC – Volantis

Aegon Blackfyre stood upon the grand balcony of the Maegyr Palace, overlooking the teeming streets of Volantis. Below him, the city pulsed with activity—merchants hawking their wares, slave masters parading their chattel, and the great temple of R'hllor burning with eternal flame. But none of it mattered to Aegon. He was not here to rule Volantis. He was here to take back his birthright.

At his side stood Morghul, his dragon, a beast of deep black scales that gleamed like polished obsidian. Though small, barely the size of a destrier, Morghul was fierce and aggressive. He snapped at the air, his crimson eyes darting toward movement below, his nostrils flaring with hunger. The Volantenes had never seen a dragon in centuries, and now, here one stood in the heart of their city, perched beside a king-to-be.

"Your dragon is impressive, my prince," said Malaquo Maegyr, one of the three Triarchs of Volantis. He was an aging man, his thick robes embroidered with the sigil of his house, his bejeweled fingers stroking his long, curled mustache. "A Blackfyre upon a black dragon—it is a sight to behold. The people of Volantis love power, and you have it in abundance."

Aegon smirked. "Power is nothing without purpose, Triarch. I did not return to the Free Cities to dazzle them with tricks. I came to reclaim what was stolen."

Malaquo laughed, the sound deep and guttural. "And reclaim it you shall. With the might of Volantis at your back, you will not only take Westeros, but you shall rule it as its greatest king."

The two turned and entered the grand hall of the Maegyr estate, where the other powerful families of Volantis had gathered. The air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and roasted meat, but Aegon hardly noticed. He had little patience for feasting when war loomed so near.

"Volantis has prospered greatly from your conquest of Slaver's Bay," Malaquo continued, raising his goblet in a toast. "With the Unsullied gone, the slave masters fell like wheat before the scythe. The tiger faction now controls the entire bay, and trade flows freely once more. For that, we owe you our gratitude."

Aegon inclined his head but did not respond. He knew the gratitude of Volantis was worth only as much as the gold they could gain from it.

Malaquo smirked at his silence before continuing. "To honor our alliance, I have a proposal. A union between our houses. My daughter, Talisa, is young, beautiful, and well-versed in the arts of diplomacy and courtly intrigue. She would make a fine queen. And in return, Volantis will commit fully to your cause. We will fund your war, provide ships, and ensure that Westeros bows before the Blackfyre banner."

Aegon studied the Triarch, his violet eyes cold and calculating. He did not know much of Talisa, but he knew this was the price for Volantis' unwavering loyalty. With the Golden Company at his command, now 37,000 strong with freed slaves reinforcing their ranks, and Volantis' war elephants at his disposal, his forces were greater than ever before.

"I accept," Aegon said finally, his voice steady. "Let the Blackfyre and Maegyr lines be united."

Malaquo grinned, pleased. "Then it is done. Soon, Westeros shall hear of your coming, and they will tremble. I will grant you our Elephants and 15 thousand of our newest Soldiers"

The Triarch leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You know, I nearly killed your rival once. That wretched Aerion Targaryen. He was a mere boy when I sought to cut his life short, but fate is fickle. He escaped my grasp, and now he fancies himself the true dragon reborn." He chuckled, shaking his head. "But no matter. The Red God has already chosen his champion. And it is not him."

Aegon said nothing, only watching the flickering flames of the braziers that lined the hall. The time for words was ending. The time for war was drawing near.

299 AC – The Dornish Marches

The Dornish host stretched across the dusty expanse of the Marches, banners fluttering in the hot wind. The golden sun of House Martell, the spears of the Ullers, the scorpions of the Qorgyles—twenty thousand spears had answered Prince Doran's call, a great force to reclaim what had been stolen from their ancestors. Yet, one banner was missing.

Viserys Targaryen, clad in light silken armor lined with gold, reined in his horse beside Gerold Dayne. The Darkstar sat atop a sleek black destrier, his sharp violet eyes fixed on the road ahead.

"The Daynes did not come," Viserys said, his voice edged with frustration.

Gerold scoffed, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer. "Of course, they did not. The cowards at Starfall have lost their fire. They kneel to the Usurper's kingdom like beaten dogs." He turned to Viserys, his expression dark. "My family are traitors, and I will see them answer for it."

Viserys narrowed his eyes. "Lord Edric Dayne is but a boy, barely twelve, last I heard."

"He is lost somewhere in the Riverlands, running with the outlaws of Dondarrion," Gerold said, his tone dismissive. "That leaves his feeble regent, Alyria. She is weak, unfit to hold Starfall. The Daynes need a true warrior, a Sword of the Morning." His hand went to his hip, where no sword of legend rested. "Dawn should be wielded by one worthy of it."

Viserys studied him. Gerold Dayne was dangerous, but dangerous men had their uses.

"You want to take Starfall?" Viserys asked.

"I will take it," Gerold said, his voice cold with certainty. "Give me two thousand men, and I will put an end to their treachery."

Viserys considered it. Starfall was an ancient seat of power, and while it was not the most strategically important stronghold, having the Daynes truly aligned with his cause would strengthen his position. If Gerold succeeded, he would owe his claim to Viserys.

"Very well," Viserys said. "Two thousand men are yours."

Darkstar's smirk widened. "You will not regret this, my prince."

The Fleet at the Sea of Dorne

Midas Drahar stood aboard the deck of his flagship, the Sapphire Fang, the golden sun of Dorne emblazoned on its sails. The sea around him churned as hundreds of warships and troop carriers cut through the waves, their prows slicing the water like swords.

17 thousand soldiers filled his ships—myrish and tyroshi warriors, sellswords, and free men eager for conquest. Another 12 thousand waited across the sea in Pentos, gathered by Illyrio Mopatis. Unsullied, mercenaries, and exiles, all waiting for the order to cross. The army was vast, but the path to Westeros was not clear.

Prince Oberyn Martell, standing beside him, squinted at the horizon. The Viper had spent the last few weeks scouting the Stormlands, searching for weaknesses.

"The Marcher Lords are prepared," Oberyn said. "The Swanns, Estermonts, and Tarths are waiting for us. The Sea of Dorne is too well-defended."

Viserys stood behind them, his green dragon Myrion perched on a wooden railing, flicking his tail lazily. The little beast was barely the size of a cat, more interested in snapping at passing gulls than in the conversation. Viserys scowled at him.

"Why won't you listen?" Viserys muttered. Myrion simply yawned, unimpressed by his master's frustration.

Oberyn smirked. "It seems even dragons have their own minds."

Viserys ignored him. "If we cannot strike by sea, what of the Reach?"

"The Redwyne fleet is still at the Arbor," Oberyn said. "They have not taken a side, but they are too strong for us to risk a naval assault."

Viserys exhaled sharply, frustration gnawing at him. He had thousands of men ready for war, yet nowhere to land them.

"The only way," Oberyn continued, "is the old way—through the passes."

The Prince of Dorne's gaze turned north, toward the treacherous mountain paths that led into the Stormlands. It would be a hard march, one filled with danger. But it was their only choice.

Viserys clenched his fists. "Then we take the old way."

The war was coming, and Viserys Targaryen would not be denied his throne especially not by a usurper like his bastard half brother.