Chapter 147 – The Myrish Dragon Phobia
The sea breeze blew through the harbor of Tyrosh, blue waters rippling. On such a beautiful morning, the day should have begun with Tyrosh's usual clamor, yet the air was thick with the murderous intent of a looming war.
Just off the coast, fleets faced each other: the combined Tyrosh–Westeros Narrow Sea squadron and the Myrish armada staring across the waves.
The purple three-headed god banner, the black Three-Headed Silver Dragon Banner, the black Three-Headed Red Dragon Banner, and the Myrish telescope standard all snapped in the wind as the two lines of warships glared across the water. The Myrish had dragged out forty of their best hulls, along with plenty of Golden Company sellswords. Myr prides itself on craftsmanship and fine industry, but in a straight fight it isn't necessarily Tyrosh's equal—Myr prefers to hire soldiers. Tyrosh holds the high ground; its internal unrest has been crushed, and it can count on dragons and the Iron Throne fleet. Without Governor Dario's men as insiders, this intervention armada has already lost its teeth.
High above, dragon shrieks echoed from time to time as the three beasts wheeled and glided, echoing the warships far below. The dragons swept low, circling above the waters beside Tyrosh harbor, and as dawn broke every scale shimmered.
In the sunlight everyone could see the dragons entire: their hideous snouts and fangs, necks serpentine and sleek, scales dazzling bright, and horns, wing-bones, and crests colored in sharp contrast to their hides. Most dragons carry two or three hues, a blended riot of color. When they beat their wings it sounded like thunder from the sky. A dragon's roar can rout a hundred lions. They are the last splendid titans in the world, radiant as the sun. Silver Emperor's silver and gold, Balerion's purple and copper, are colors of majesty, while Balerion's black-red speaks of the primordial world's war-fire and fury.
Rhaegar guided Silver Emperor in high spirals, silver hair streaming, eyes keen as lightning, clad in black scale mail, the Old Valyrian steel sword Orphan-Maker belted at his side. He had stowed Shadow Cleaver, the double-curved dragonglass longbow, the true dragon spear, and other godly weapons inside the Dragon King Ring; for now he would get to know Orphan-Maker better. A great blade may be invincible, yet nothing handles like a longsword. Swords, spears, bows, axes, hammers—those are the common tools of war the world over, and none is more prized than the longsword; every prince and peer is proud to own a Valyrian blade. Only in parts of Essos do oddities like the arakh or great curved sabers flourish, for Essos has its share of nomads. Were Tywin to set eyes on this sword, he'd go green with envy.
Rhaegar gazed at the banners afloat below, surprised the Myrmen had paid top coin for the Golden Company. The priciest, largest brotherhood of sellswords, the Golden Company is Tyrosh's own recurring nightmare; years earlier the silver-tongued pretender Maelys Blackfyre—one of the Ninepenny Kings—seized the Tyroshi throne with Golden Company blades. Old grudges, new scores.
Aboard the Myrish Admiral's flagship stood lances crowned with gilded skulls, and Rhaegar could see every spearhead bore one. One skull was monstrously large and misshapen; beneath it hung another no bigger than a child's fist—the remains of the Monstrous Maelys Blackfyre and his nameless little brother, both slain in the Stepstones. The rest offered fewer clues, though one had been cracked by a hammer, another showed rows of sharp teeth. These skulls belonged to past Golden Company captains, all gazing westward, longing for a homeland they will never see again.
"Do you too dream of making new orphans?" Rhaegar murmured, spinning Orphan-Maker in his hand.
Along Tyrosh harbor a line of pikes now bore heads: starting with Dario, Governor Dario himself, his bodyguards, the traitor priests of Tyrosh's Three-Headed Temple, Lysene and Myrish merchant backers, sellswords, the giant heads of Meereenese pit fighters—all displayed in the open. That ghastly sight still recalled the night's butchery.
"Tyroshi brothers! The Myrish fleet has come to enslave our fair mother Tyrosh and has brought the Golden Company with them. This is our hour of peril; we must stand as one. Past grievances I will forgive, but any who traffic with foreign foes—look at their fate." Shireen Darry stood in mail, beautiful and unyielding. As acting Archon she addressed the crowds from a height above the harbor, pointing at Dario's severed head. Below her waited Tyrosh's garrison sellswords, Archon's guards, Temple slave-soldiers, even an improvised citizens' militia—serried ranks, spirits high.
With the arrival of the Myrish fleet and the Golden Company, Governor Dario was branded a traitor beyond doubt; House Dario was destroyed, and House Darry's ascendancy secured.
Rhaegar suspected the girl would not pardon the rebel governors, but the Myrmen had come too quickly. Once they were dealt with, the reckoning would resume. Young as she was, the girl was born for politics.
"The three-headed god guides our path; the three-headed god will guard the Archon and guard Tyrosh! Destroy the Myrish invaders!" the High Priest cried first, lending his blessing. Everyone took up the cry.
"Destroy the Myrish invaders! Destroy the Golden Company!"
"Destroy the Myrish invaders!"
"Destroy Tyrosh's traitors! Destroy the Golden Company!"
The roar from Tyrosh harbor carried on the wind; the Myrmen heard every word. The Myrish Admiral went white—dragons were terror enough, yet the Tyroshi had already raised a new leader. Was the game lost? Governor Dario had bragged so grandly, yet proved so useless. Lys and Myr had poured gold and men into him, those sellswords and Meereenese gladiators costing a fortune. Ostensibly merchant-funded, the venture had in truth needed governors' approval. Overnight, Dario had failed and died.
"What are we to do?" The Myrish Admiral's face was bloodless; overnight the situation had turned worse. Fearing dragon strikes, they had planned a decapitation, even bought top gladiators from Meereen as a trump card—but Dario had ruined everything. The Tyroshi Archon was only wounded, his daughter and the High Priest still lived, and the three Targaryen dragons had returned.
A total rout. The Admiral felt a wave of helplessness. He feared more for his own fate; as one of Myr's great magnates he commanded the navy, while his family ran slave caravans, so control of the Narrow Sea lanes was vital. He had led the war party in the Council of Governors that pushed to back Governor Dario's coup. Now, with the situation so dire, he might lose his head when he returned—political rivals were already hurling abuse, and plenty of governors coveted his chair. The Free Cities' land forces were mostly feeble, hiring mercenaries whenever trouble stirred, but their navies were formidable, and the Admiral was one of its pre-eminent giants.
"My lord, shall we attack?" one of his vice admirals asked hesitantly. Caught between advance and retreat, perhaps the fleet could risk a desperate sortie.
"Charge my arse! Tyrosh can field at least forty or fifty war galleys, plus the Narrow Sea guard fleet the Westerosi sent, and three dragons. We're finished!" the Admiral said in anguish.
"This won't count as a breach of contract. The Golden Company always keeps its word; we've taken your coin and won't return it. We signed—if you choose not to fight, that's not our default," the Company's commander told the Admiral, twisting the knife. Hearing it, Myr's Admiral felt even worse. The money—my money! After much persuasion the Golden Company captain agreed to stay with him to the end, waiting for peace.
Rhaegar brought his dragon down onto Corlys's flagship. "Beat the drums—make for the Myr fleet." He studied the Myr line; perhaps he should stoke the fire and force a quick surrender.
"Aye, Prince!" Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Admiral, passed the order, and the Narrow Sea fleet surged toward the Myr ships.
Seeing the Westerosi Narrow Sea fleet move, Tyrosh's Admiral clenched his teeth and signalled his own galleys forward.
The two fleets shot like loosed arrows at the Myr line, forming a rough C that half-enveloped it. High above, the three dragons soared once more.
They began to circle over the Myr ships, spiralling ever higher, each striving to out-climb the others, roaring thunderously. Ten thousand eyes on the Myr decks lifted to the sky, watching the splendid dragons and hearing their storm-like cries.
Sweat trickled down the Myr Admiral's face; he knew what the circling meant—a prelude to attack. Dragons loved diving from height. When they reached a point between foe and sun they would fold their wings, scream, and plummet, breathing sheets of flame and bringing Death's Greeting.
The moment had come that would decide the Myr fleet's life or death. In the Admiral's hand lay a letter from Lord Corlys Velaryon, Commander of the Westerosi Narrow Sea fleet, a taunt: "Westeros has awakened and walks the road of independence. We hope the Myr will open their eyes to the world—times have changed. Years ago you slew a Velaryon at Howling Strait; since we can never repay such kindness, let us settle it on the sea."
"My lord, give the word! At Howling Strait we once shot down a dragon—today we can do it again!" His deputies urged him: only boldness could wrest life from certain death. Every scorpion was cocked skyward, awaiting his command.
Golden Company captains stayed silent; they could not make their employer's choice—they obeyed it. Words were as precious as gold.
The three dragons settled on the sea near the Myr flagship, shrieking and spitting fireballs that sent up great clouds of steam. It was naked provocation; to the Admiral and captains the steam seemed to rise from their own hides.
"Admiral, order the shot! This Targaryen whelp humiliates us—he's within range. If we kill him the rest will lose heart." A young vice admiral could bear the helplessness no longer; the dragon was boasting barely a hundred yards away—scorpions and grappling hooks could reach it.
"Have these three dragons ever been wounded? Has that Targaryen brat? I know more than you. If you anger rather than kill a dragon, this fleet is doomed." He remembered the old terror: fireballs bursting ships, sailors burning or drowning, mere morsels for the sea.
"Hoist the white flag—surrender!" the Admiral barked, feeling the burden of command heavy as a mountain. Surrender was shame for any Admiral.
"Sir, we've shot down dragons before—we killed an heir to the Iron Throne. We won at Howling Strait! The foe gives us the chance; this Prince courts death." A vice admiral still struggled.
"Yes, Admiral—the Westerosi boy is a hundred yards off. A bolt from the great scorpion can take him. Even if we die, I'll drag him with me. Kneeling now is cowardice born of dragon-fear." Another captain spat.
"If Howling Strait counts as victory, I pray we never win again. Call me craven if you will—Myr has bled too much fighting dragons. Look: our surprise strike has failed, we're surrounded, unlike at Howling Strait. See these forty ships? I could die to prove my courage, but I won't drag these green boys and sailors to the deep. If the Council wants a scapegoat, let them hang me—I brought them out of Myr, and I'll bring them home."
At that moment the defeated Admiral stood like a giant.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If you like the story please give it some power stones and reviews. And if you want to read 40+ advance chapters or just want to support me please join my patreon at [email protected]/Translatingfanfics