Valar's amber eyes locked onto the jagged rocks where Jaehaerys hid. The bronze dragon lifted its head and opened its jaws, fire building in its throat.
Jaehaerys froze, then stepped out with his hand raised.
"Easy, Valar. Easy."
The dragon paused. The fire died down.
Jaehaerys let out a shaky breath and kept walking forward.
---
Tyrosh waters
Storm clouds rolled in thick and low. Thunder grumbled overhead. Two hundred Tyroshi ships waited in the choppy sea, scorpion crossbows mounted on eighteen of the lead vessels.
The red-bearded Tyroshi commander barked orders. "Hold position. Let the Iron Throne come to us."
Daario Naharis leaned against the rail of a longship, blue eyes scanning the sky. "So the great plan is to fight in the rain? That's the best your Archon could come up with?"
Thoros of Myr, fat and red-robed, let out a wine-soaked belch. "I hate fighting in the rain too. My sword gets all moody."
Daario gave him a cold smile. "Open your mouth near me again and I'll cut your tongue out, red priest."
Thoros wisely shut up.
---
Midday
The royal fleet entered the strait. Storm clouds thickened, but the rain held off.
Melisandre stood under the cabin awning, red robes whipping in the wind. "The rain will not come."
Stannis gave her a hard look. "It better not."
She didn't answer. Her eyes stayed on the sky.
Lightning flashed.
A massive shadow passed through the clouds.
The Tyroshi commander stared upward, blood draining from his face.
Then Caraxes burst through the storm like a crimson spear and opened his jaws.
"Dragon!" someone screamed.
Dragonfire slammed into the lead ship. The scorpion crossbow exploded. Men turned to torches. The mast snapped and the vessel broke apart in seconds.
Caraxes climbed back into the clouds, leaving chaos below.
---
Daeron rode low over the burning wrecks, eyes cold.
The Tyroshi fleet was big. It didn't matter. More targets meant faster kills.
He gave the signal.
Toothless dropped out of the clouds on the opposite flank, green fire pouring from his jaws in long, sweeping lines. Ships caught fire one after another.
The two dragons worked in tandem—Caraxes hitting the center, Toothless flanking—while the royal fleet closed in with catapults and boarding parties.
The Tyroshi commander swung his scorpion crossbow skyward and fired. Eighteen steel spears lanced upward.
Caraxes twisted aside. Every spear fell short.
Daeron smiled coldly. "Again."
The red dragon dove. This time he came in low, tail whipping across the commander's ship. The mast cracked and toppled like a tree.
It crushed the commander into a red smear across the deck.
---
By late afternoon the sea was red.
Blood and burning oil mixed on the waves. Half the Tyroshi fleet was gone—either sunk or turned into floating pyres. The survivors scattered in panic.
Daeron pulled Caraxes and Toothless back. No need to chase. The Tyroshi were broken.
He looked down at the crimson water and felt nothing but satisfaction.
One dragonrider had been enough.
Two had made it a slaughter.
The Stepstones were his.
Tyrosh would be next.
And after that, the rest of the Free Cities would learn the same lesson.
Targaryens didn't share the sky.