Dont forget to Vote and Review if you like story...
your comment make me motivate posting here
read full story in patreon : CaveLeather
Myr.
Tristan stormed back to his mansion after the council meeting, his face tight with worry. He didn't even pause to catch his breath before heading straight upstairs to the library.
He shoved the door open and found a golden-haired dwarf sitting there, calmly flipping through a thick book.
"Looks like your meeting went to hell, my friend," Tyrion said without looking up.
"Graven's lost his damn mind," Tristan snapped. "He wants to launch a counterattack on Tyrosh and drive the Seven Kingdoms forces out."
Tyrosh wasn't some weak little port you could just snatch back. Even if they somehow broke through the defenses and reclaimed the city, what the hell were they supposed to do when King Daeron came flying back on his dragon?
Tristan had argued against it in the meeting and gotten shouted down by Graven's faction. They called him a coward. A traitor. A man ready to roll over and surrender.
Surrender? He'd already surrendered. What was the point of pretending otherwise?
Tyrion kept reading, completely unfazed.
Tristan stared at him, exasperated. "The city's about to burn down around our ears and you're still buried in a book?"
"Of course I am," Tyrion replied, finally glancing up with a small smile. "Books are the collected wisdom of mankind." He turned the page and held the book out so Tristan could see the detailed map. "Look at this. It shows the old Valyrian peninsula and how it lines up with the Smoking Sea today."
The book had already cleared up several things Tyrion had misunderstood about the region. Before the Doom, the Valyrian peninsula had been split into two main areas. One was the ancient heartland where the Valyrians first rose—the so-called Lands of the Long Summer. The other was the peninsula where the Freehold's strongholds had stood, now the broken islands and waters of the Smoking Sea.
After the Doom shattered everything, the middle section became the Smoking Sea. The northern and southern fragments remained. The northern part still had solid land and volcanic terrain. The southern fragments were a mess of broken islands scattered across the sea, almost like a smaller, bloodier version of the Stepstones.
Gerion Lannister had almost certainly been exploring one of those southern fragments.
"One day," Tyrion murmured, half to himself, "I'd like to see what's left of the Valyrian peninsula with my own eyes."
Tristan blinked, genuinely impressed. "You actually read that whole thing?"
In Myr, knowledge was power and power was wealth. Tyrion closed the book with a soft thump and hopped down from his chair.
"My legs are too short and my head's too big," he said cheerfully. "At least the head works. It's my real weapon." He tapped his temple. "Jaime has his sword. King Daeron has Dark Sister and that red dragon of his. I have this." He paused, then added with a wry little smile, "Though a man has to keep sharpening his mind the same way a knight keeps his blade keen… or the way a dragon needs a skilled rider."
Tristan listened quietly. He had the distinct feeling the last part was aimed at someone specific.
That morning, at half past eight, Tyrion had been eating breakfast when he heard that Prince Viserys—the lazy, spoiled one—had finally tamed a dragon and become a dragonrider. The envy had been sharp enough to sting.
"You're full of surprises, Lannister," Tristan said at last. "After hearing all that, I feel like I'm standing in front of a giant."
"Don't flatter me. I'll get a big head." Tyrion grinned, then grew serious. "Now tell me what happened in the meeting. That's what I'm here for—strategy."
He still had ambitions. A seat on the Small Council one day. If he couldn't even handle Myr, how was he supposed to make his father regret underestimating him?
Tristan trusted the dwarf enough to lay out everything that had been said.
When he finished, Tyrion's expression turned thoughtful. After a moment he nodded. "This is actually good news."
Tristan frowned. "Good?"
Tyrion leaned forward. "If Myr stays quiet and peaceful, how does King Daeron justify marching in? How does he claim the moral high ground? But if Myr attacks first, the Iron Throne has every right to strike back hard. It makes the whole thing look justified instead of naked conquest."
He spread his hands. "The Iron Throne doesn't lack military strength. What it needs is a clean reason to conquer. Let Graven's faction charge in and bleed themselves. We stay back, keep our heads down, and wait for the royal army to arrive and clean up."
Tristan hesitated. "I'm supposed to be Myr's fleet commander. Staying out of the fighting doesn't feel right."
"Trust me," Tyrion said with quiet confidence. "They'll be relieved if you do."
After the Battle of Tyrosh, Tristan had kept his fleet out of the real fighting and made a fortune picking off rich refugees. That had already pushed the other governors to their limit. If war came again, they would pick someone else to lead the fleet—someone willing to fight and die.
Tristan let out a long breath. "Fine. I'll quietly reach out to a few governors and wait for the Iron Throne's army."
"I won't go with you," Tyrion added. "No point drawing extra attention to myself."
Both sides moved fast. War came quicker than anyone expected.
Tywin, holding Tyrosh, had already received Daeron's warning and prepared for a Myr counterattack.
"My lord, the orders have been passed down," Ser Steffon reported.
Tywin sat straight-backed behind his desk, radiating quiet authority. "Lock down every street. Watch for anyone trying to stir up trouble from the inside."
"Yes, my lord."
Steffon hesitated. "Lord Lucerys and Ser Davos are away. Are we stretched too thin here?"
Tywin's pale green eyes were steady. "Davos holds the Stepstones. House Velaryon watches Lys. We only have the Lannister host and the Crownlands levies, but that's more than enough to handle Myr." He tapped the desk once. "The real battle right now is keeping our own men steady. Panic is the enemy."
Steffon nodded, reassured by the old lion's calm. "House Frey will hold the harbor. They'll be on the front line."
He left. Tywin watched him go, then pulled a sheet of paper from his drawer and stared at it with clear displeasure.
"That boy," he muttered. "He's using me as bait. He wants the Myrish to come straight at us."
He saw Daeron's game clearly. The king knew Myr would strike back, yet instead of rushing reinforcements he had simply told Tywin to prepare. Classic fishing.
"With Myr taken, Lys will be next," Tywin said to the empty room.
He looked up at the large map of the Disputed Lands hanging on his wall. Tyrosh and the Stepstones were marked in red—already claimed. Myr had a bold red X drawn over it.
"Myr is the key that wakes the blood of the Seven Kingdoms," he said quietly.
Tywin knew he wasn't the best battlefield commander, but his political instincts were sharp. Taking Myr would link the Seven Kingdoms, the Stepstones, and the eastern continent into one continuous power bloc. Lys, sitting out on the edge of the Narrow Sea and the Summer Sea, mattered far less by comparison.
He smiled coldly. "Let's see what the Myrish are truly made of."
The Lannisters would not be underestimated.
The next morning, just before dawn, the Myr fleet appeared off Tyrosh and launched a sudden, savage attack.
"Ready the catapults!" Kevan shouted from the harbor defenses.
He and the Freys held the port with Lannister troops and Crownlands levies. After two previous attacks on the city, Tywin had strengthened every weak point. Arrow towers, chevaux-de-frise, and a massive iron chain that could be raised across the harbor mouth to trap enemy ships.
"Forward! Don't fall back!" the Myr admiral, Kradara Andal, snarled from the deck of his flagship.
He was lean, pale-skinned, with burn scars covering half his face and neck. His eyes burned with raw hatred. Years ago he had been caught in dragonfire during one of Daeron's raids on the Stepstones. He had survived by jumping into the sea, but the burns and infection had nearly killed him. A sorcerer had saved his life, and the experience had twisted him into something crueler and more vicious than before.
He loved nothing more than skinning enemies alive and listening to them scream.
When he spotted the golden lion banners of House Lannister flying over the harbor, his scarred face lit up with savage excitement.
Tywin Lannister himself was in Tyrosh.
If he could capture the old lion and peel the skin from his body…
Kradara grabbed his second-in-command by the collar and yanked him close, his expression feral. "We have people inside the city. Full attack. No hesitation."
At the same moment, fires erupted inside Tyrosh. Riots broke out across several districts.
"My lord, you should take cover while we put this down," Tygett said, hand on his sword.
Tywin rose in full armor and crimson cloak, eyes cold. "Lannisters do not hide."
He strode toward the door. "Come. Kevan holds the harbor. We'll clean up the filth inside."