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CaveLeather
After half a month of rough seas, the royal fleet sailed cleanly into Myr Bay.
"Your Grace, the Tyrell and Martell troops have landed."
Daeron slid down from Caraxes's tall back. Duke Mace, belly leading the way, hurried over.
"Any ships damaged?"
Daeron asked.
Mace thumped his chest. "None, Your Grace. The Seven smiled on us. We crossed the Narrow Sea without a single storm."
The Narrow Sea was always treacherous. Sharp currents and sudden swells swallowed ships whole. Lord Steffon Baratheon and his wife had gone down right off Storm's End. That was why trade between the two continents stayed thin despite how close they sat.
"Your Grace, we finally have you back," Kevan said, walking up with Tristan.
Daeron nodded and grabbed the more reserved Kevan by the arm. "The Iron Throne threw everything it had into this second eastern campaign. The West Essos Federation knows we're coming. What are the old Triarchy remnants doing?"
"They're restless," Kevan said, eyes sharpening the moment the talk turned military. "The moment your raven reached me, the bastards in the Disputed Lands started raiding harder. They hit farms and villages, grabbed whatever they could carry, and ran."
"They're spreading out in four directions now."
Daeron gave a short nod. "I figured as much."
The old Triarchy remnants were clever. They wouldn't stand and die against the Iron Throne. They'd use hit-and-run tactics to bleed the army dry.
"Your Grace, how many men did you bring?"
Kevan glanced at the troops still coming ashore, worried the numbers were either too big for supply lines or too small to finish the job.
"North and Vale included, roughly a hundred and fifty thousand."
Daeron said it like he was talking about the weather.
Kevan blinked hard. "A hundred and fifty thousand?"
The Seven Kingdoms had recovered under the young king, but the North was still poor and cold. Stark and Bolton together had only sent six and a half thousand men—nearly everything they had. The Vale had lost the Eyrie and wasn't rich either; Royce and Corbray brought nine thousand. Add the ten thousand Lannisters, thirty-five thousand Crownlands troops, and the total barely hit sixty thousand before the new arrivals.
Daeron continued. "The royal fleet is up to ten thousand. House Martell sent ten thousand. House Tyrell sent seventy thousand."
"The Reach really is wealthy," Kevan muttered, genuinely impressed.
Seventy thousand men fighting in Westeros was one thing. Seventy thousand crossing the sea to fight in Essos was something else entirely.
"All for House Targaryen and the king," Mace said, puffing up.
The Tyrells had deep pockets.
Kevan looked around. "My brother didn't come?"
He already knew from letters that Tywin had been stripped of the Hand's badge and Tyrion was filling in. He didn't mind. They were still family—left hand feeding the right.
Daeron looked at both men, voice steady. "Get the men fed. We march at first light."
Kevan and Tristan exchanged a glance.
Kevan spoke carefully. "Your Grace, isn't that too soon? The troops just crossed the sea. They need rest."
"We'll rest on the road. Time isn't waiting. We're not giving the enemy one extra hour."
Daeron's tone left no room for argument. The West Essos Federation knew the Iron Throne was coming. The old Triarchy remnants would scatter and try to drag the war out. Daeron refused to play that game. He wanted to hit them before they could spread out and disappear.
Kevan and the others looked at each other but didn't argue. Daeron's authority was absolute. They moved to obey.
Daeron caught Mace before he left. "Have a few sheep brought for the dragons. Then send for Randyll and Stannis."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Mace straightened and hurried off.
---
A few days later.
At the edge of the Disputed Lands, where the Valyrian Road ended, Governor Barwick sat with five thousand men and a fat haul of loot. He planned to swing south toward the Orange Coast and get out.
He had once been a governor of Tyrosh and one of the Triarchy's top admirals. Before that madman Kradara took over the fleet, Barwick had been the most experienced naval commander they had. After the Triarchy cities fell, he had taken his ships and men into the Disputed Lands and joined the so-called Tenth Free City—Elyria. With his record, he had been made one of its governors.
He still thought of himself as Tyroshi, not some Elyrian.
Barwick listened to the weeping of the women and children his men had dragged along and spat on the ground. "War fortress. West Essos Federation. All of it's horseshit."
"The moment things get hot, every last one of them runs."
He had eyes inside the War Fortress. He knew Graven was a coward who had let the other powers' representatives slip away. Elyria was about to become the new front line against the Iron Throne, just like the old Triarchy cities.
"You want to be cannon fodder, fine. I'm keeping my skin."
Barwick had already decided this would be his last raid. After this he would sail for Volantis, buy twenty good ships, and go back to what he knew—smuggling and piracy. Once he had enough coin he would head to Pentos, buy property, and try to buy his way into a governor's seat.
Why not Braavos or Volantis? Braavos was too stiff—no governors, no slaves, everything run by that "fairly elected" Sealord. Volantis only respected Black Wall blood. Anyone else got shoved into the crumbling west side of the city. Barwick had no interest in being looked down on.
"Governor, there are still a few plantations inside the old Tyroshi territory. We could grab more grain, iron, and special crops."
One of his pirate captains pushed, greedy.
Barwick shut him down. "No. The Iron Throne's army is here. That Dragon King Daeron brought over a hundred thousand men. We run into them, we're finished."
He had a bad case of Targaryen-phobia.
The captain wasn't ready to give up. "A hundred thousand? Even if it's true, they move like snails. By the time they catch us we'll already be at sea."
Barwick's brow furrowed. He was tempted. His current funds would only buy twenty ships and basic supplies. He glanced at the hard-faced pirates around him and his expression darkened. These men had tasted easy loot. Their appetites were up. Once they reached Volantis he would need to thin their ranks and hire fresh sailors.
"Governor, I'm Tyroshi. I know exactly what those plantations are worth."
The captain pressed harder, sensing weakness.
Barwick hesitated, then started to speak. "Then—"
The ground shook. Dust rose along the black stone of the Valyrian Road like a cavalry charge was coming.
Barwick's head snapped around.
A large force of riders was moving along the road and the dirt beside it. Black-armored knights rode at the front, carrying banners with the three-headed red dragon on a black field.
Stannis and the Dragon Tongue Knights.
"Shit. That's the Iron Throne's cavalry!"
Barwick recognized the Targaryen colors instantly. His face went white. He swung onto his horse and kicked it into a gallop.
"Governor, they don't have many men!"
The captain shouted after him. "Two thousand at most. We've got five thousand!"
Barwick snarled over his shoulder. "Infantry against heavy cavalry, you idiot?"
Most of his men were pirates forced ashore. A few had horses. The rest were foot soldiers with curved blades.
The captain was desperate. "We can't outrun warhorses on foot!"
Barwick's jaw worked. He hated being right.
"Form the wagons into a line. Push the captured slaves out front as a screen. We'll make a stand."
He made the call through gritted teeth.
"Yes, Governor!"
The captain ran to spread the order.
The pirates saw the black-armored riders coming and quickly shoved wagons and slaves forward, then took cover behind them and nocked arrows.
"Loose!"
Barwick still had the instincts of an old admiral. He gave the order without panic.
Arrows rained down in a dark cloud.
"Blindfold the horses!"
Stannis's eyes were cold. He yanked a strip of cloth over his mount's eyes and kept charging. The Dragon Tongue Knights followed without hesitation, trusting their training and their armor.
The arrows clattered harmlessly off black plate and barding. The Dragon Tongue horses were the best the crown could buy, protected where it mattered.
"These bastards aren't normal!"
Barwick felt his stomach drop as the black tide kept coming. He kept shouting for his men to hold the line.
"Charge!"
Stannis lowered his lance and spurred his horse harder.
At the same moment a piercing shriek split the sky. A streak of burning red tore through the clouds and dropped toward them like a falling spear.
Daeron's silver hair whipped in the wind. His purple eyes were flat. He spoke the binding spell through the dragonbone whistle.
"Dragonfire, Caraxes."