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read lotsstory inpatre** : CaveLeather
290 AC
July 1, Monday. Clear skies.
King's Landing. The Dragonpit.
"Your Grace, are you sure you're not taking me with you?"
Tyrion hurried after the king, refusing to let it go. He was getting desperate.
The second eastern campaign was about to launch, and Daeron had no intention of bringing him along.
"I can be useful out there, Your Grace," Tyrion insisted, trying to sell himself.
Daeron stepped through the great doors of the Dragonpit. "Useful how, exactly?"
"Managing supplies. Commanding troops. Coming up with strategies—"
Tyrion ticked the points off on his fingers.
Daeron shook his head, amused. "You can stop right there."
If Tywin's military talent rated as average, Tyrion's rated as nonexistent. Compared to his father's well-rounded abilities, the dwarf was purely an administrator.
Running a war? Not happening.
"But I could still hold things down in Myr from the rear," Tyrion tried again.
"Stannis has Myr covered," Daeron said. He wasn't being cruel to his new Hand. "King's Landing needs you here more than the front lines do."
Lord Corlton had nearly worked himself to death covering for Tywin. The old lion was still in the city but couldn't be allowed to run things openly. That left Tyrion as the only real option.
"No room for discussion?"
Daeron gave his final instructions. "Keep an eye on Cersei. We're betrothed now. Don't let her cause trouble in court while I'm gone."
Tyrion went quiet for a second.
He was the Hand of the King… and his main job was babysitting one crazy woman.
Daeron emphasized, "This matters."
Even if Cersei was nothing like the one from the old stories, her head still wasn't right. She needed someone smart watching her.
"Fine," Tyrion said, throwing his hands up. He was out of arguments.
A deep rumble shook the Dragonpit. Stone groaned under heavy claws as something massive stirred in the dark.
Tyrion turned just in time to see a huge bronze-scaled dragon crawl out of one of the pits. Dragonkeepers shouted themselves hoarse as the beast spread thick brown wings, looking like a mountain of bronze and sand.
"Easy, Valar!"
Jaehaerys, already in armor, slapped the dragon's back and worked to calm the beast's bad temper. Valar had a short fuse and liked to breathe fire when annoyed.
"That is fucking impressive," Tyrion breathed.
A sudden, piercing roar echoed from deeper in the pit. A gust of wind slammed through the chamber as a green dragon burst out of another pit.
"Fly, Alex!"
Viserys sat in the saddle, whooping with pure excitement. Alex shot toward one of the big gates, body coiled like a spear. The dragon's hind legs shoved off the ground hard, wings snapping open as it launched into the sky.
Tyrion's legs went weak. "It's flying…"
He was starting to feel a little dragon-sick.
"Make sure the Hand doesn't pass out," Daeron told the nearest Dragonkeeper, then headed toward a smaller, less obvious pit.
---
Blackwater Bay.
High clouds hung low over the water. Salt wind cut across the waves.
Over a hundred ships moved in a wide inverted V, passing Tidehead Island and Dragonstone as they made for the channel that broke the Narrow Sea's seasonal winds.
Two young dragons wheeled beneath the clouds, racing each other.
Alex suddenly banked hard and pulled ahead of Valar, showing off the clean lines of its body.
Jaehaerys watched Viserys celebrate and shook his head.
Then the air changed.
Both dragons felt it. Valar let out a warning cry and craned his neck upward. Jaehaerys followed his gaze.
The clouds above them trembled. A massive, terrifying shadow ripped through the mist, followed by a high, piercing shriek that made Jaehaerys clap his hands over his ears. Even Valar jerked in alarm.
A streak of red flashed beneath the clouds.
Jaehaerys recognized it instantly. Caraxes.
"How the hell did he get that big?"
It had only been six months.
But it wasn't just the size.
Caraxes let out another roar and dropped lower, long serpentine body slicing through the clouds like red lightning. He overtook Alex with ridiculous ease, casting a shadow over the smaller green dragon for several long seconds.
He was enormous.
Over one hundred and seventy-five feet long, wingspan pushing three hundred feet. Even with that lean, snakelike build, his chest was thick with muscle. Every beat of those wings kicked up a storm. Speed and power both crushed everything else in the sky.
Two more shapes burst from the clouds behind him—one pitch black, one pale gray-white. The wild dragons. They beat their wings hard, chasing after the red monster.
Three dragonriders. Five dragons.
They crossed Blackwater Bay in the simplest, most arrogant way possible—flying point for the royal fleet below as it entered the Narrow Sea and headed straight for the eastern continent.
Fishermen and passing ships watched the formation pass overhead. They would remember it for the rest of their lives.
The dragons were coming.
---
Elyria. The War Fortress.
Graven's face was dark as he walked into the black-walled military stronghold built specifically to survive dragonfire. He'd brought in Qohor's best stonemasons and blacksmiths for the job. The outer walls were thirty feet thick—thick enough to laugh at the fiercest flames and siege engines. Even a dragon would struggle to do real damage.
"My lord."
"My lord—"
The moment he entered the main hall, over twenty governors stood and bowed to the lifelong First Governor of Elyria.
"Sit," Graven said. His already lean frame looked even more skeletal with that cold expression.
A few people didn't look intimidated.
A Qohorik war stonemason. A Volantis noble representative. A Great Master from Meereen. And Myles Toyne, captain-general of the Golden Company, wearing the title "Blackheart."
"Word is the Iron Throne's army has already marched," the war stonemason said first. "They're heading straight for Elyria."
In Qohor, skilled craftsmen held real status. With Olyvar the Dragon King in power, the old nobility had been reined in and the craftsmen's influence had only grown. They'd formed the War Stonemasons—an organization that handled intelligence and diplomacy as much as stonework.
The old man speaking had a white beard and cloudy eyes, but nobody in the room dared dismiss him.
Graven's voice was hard. "If Daeron Targaryen wants to come here, he'd better be ready to pay the price."
The others exchanged glances. Their thoughts were clearly not aligned.
Myles Toyne spoke up. Half his body was covered in old burn scars. He wore bright bronze-and-gold armor and his voice was rough. "I came here to be Prince of Elyria. I didn't come here to die for you."
That had been the deal. The Golden Company joined Elyria. Senior officers got noble titles. The captain-general became prince. In return, Myles Toyne had pulled out his trump card—the Valyrian steel sword Blackfyre—and used it to claim Blackfyre blood, giving himself legitimacy.
Fun fact: with fake dragon kings popping up all over Essos, the long-extinct Blackfyre line suddenly looked like the purest option left.
Graven's eyes went cold. "You'll get the title. But the Golden Company fights with Elyria. Don't tell me those elephants of yours can't even manage a decent water spray."
"Give me what I was promised and the Golden Company keeps its word," Myles Toyne said flatly.
He wanted money and status. He also hated House Targaryen.
Graven silently sneered at the sellsword. Blackfyre blood, my ass. Anyone with real connections knew the actual questionable Blackfyre heir was still sitting in Pentos. The Golden Company was just Pentos's convenient shield.
The Volantis noble and the Meereen Great Master looked at each other.
"We should leave," the noble said. "Now."
Graven's expression darkened. "You're running?"
"The Dragon King is coming," the noble replied.
The Meereen rep nodded. One of the few things everyone in Essos agreed on these days: don't poke the Targaryen Dragon King when he's on the warpath. The stories made Daeron sound like the old Valyrian dragonlords reborn. War and conquest were his favorite hobbies.
"I already spoke with the governors in Qohor," the war stonemason added. "I'm heading back as well."
Graven was furious, but he still needed their support. He forced the anger down.
"If you all leave, how the hell is Elyria supposed to hold off the Iron Throne's army by itself?"
The noble's eyes flashed with irritation. "Volantis has already given you more than enough gold. Fighting the Dragon King's army is your job. Don't drag Volantis into it."
"I don't have time for this. My carriage is waiting."
The Meereen rep was even more direct—he just stood up and walked out.
Graven couldn't stop any of them. He could only seethe.
The so-called West Essos Federation was just a loose collection of city-states trying to protect themselves. Elyria sat right on the front line, taking the place the old Triarchy cities used to hold. It was the shield against the Iron Throne.
"Fine," Graven spat. "I don't need any of you. Elyria can still stop the Dragon King's army."
"My lord, what do we do then?" one of the Elyria governors asked, sounding panicked.
"Stop panicking," Graven snapped. He forced himself to think clearly. "We don't concentrate our forces. We use the same hit-and-run tactics they used in the Stepstones. Sell-swords spread out across the Disputed Lands. Pirates hit their supply lines from the Orange Coast. Let's see how long the Iron Throne's army lasts when their food and arrows stop arriving."
The Disputed Lands were huge. How long could the Iron Throne keep a hundred-thousand-man army supplied?
Myles Toyne cut in. "I don't care about any of that. I want to be Prince of Elyria."
He commanded the Golden Company. On land he wasn't afraid of Targaryen dragons. He just wanted what he'd been promised.
Graven forced a smile. "The governors' council will confirm your title soon enough."
Out loud he sounded agreeable. In his head he was calling the sellsword a greedy bastard who wanted payment without risk.