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CaveLeather
Inside the grand council chamber beneath Tyrosh's blue dome, the shouting had reached a fever pitch.
Magisters were on their feet, red-faced, jabbing fingers at one another like dockside brawlers.
"This disaster is yours!" an elderly magister bellowed at the green-bearded Archon. "You dragged us into this military adventure for slaves—"
"It's my fault," the Archon snapped back, "but don't pretend you didn't all vote for it. You wanted those Rhoynar and Andal slaves just as badly as I did. I had every right to hire the companies."
"We wanted slaves, not this! You risked everything and lost. We can buy slaves. We don't have to steal them at the cost of our city."
"Easy to say now. Are you willing to free every slave in Andalos and along the Rhoyne?"
"Your adventure failed, Archon. We need peace—now."
"Peace?" The Archon laughed bitterly. "The Dragon King wants our heads on spikes."
A white-haired magister who had been sitting with his eyes closed finally spoke. "He has a dragon. He has Andalos, the Golden Company, and thousands of Dothraki screamers. How exactly do we negotiate with that?"
One younger magister with bright blue hair actually started to cry, imagining what would happen to Tyrosh once the walls came down.
The Archon let the despair settle, then raised his voice again, passionate and steady. "If my death can buy peace for Tyrosh, I will gladly die. Walk over my corpse if you must. But remember—the dragon comes for destruction. Choose me once more. Trust me once more."
The chamber fell quiet. No one had a better answer.
One magister cleared his throat. "Gentlemen… we are completely alone."
The Archon's eyes narrowed. "What about Myr?"
"Myr's magisters are still debating. They say we made this mess ourselves. Myr remains neutral and refuses to fight."
"Lys?"
"Lys is still arguing. They haven't forgotten our old grudges. Some of their magisters are too afraid to send ships."
"Volantis?"
"The Elephant party refuses any aid, refuses any war."
"King's Landing?"
"King Robert still hasn't gathered an army. They cannot sail yet."
Silence.
The Archon stared at the blue dome overhead. For the first time the full weight of isolation settled on him. Tyrosh stood utterly alone.
No allies. No fleet coming to save them.
Only the dragon on the horizon.
---
Far away in King's Landing, a far more luxurious council chamber was also in chaos.
The small council room in the Red Keep was as opulent as ever—Myrish carpets instead of rushes, a priceless Summer Isles wooden screen carved with a hundred exotic birds and beasts, and walls hung with fine tapestries from Norvos, Qohor, and Lys. On either side of the doors stood two Valyrian sphinxes, their smooth black-marble faces and glowing garnet eyes staring down at the men seated around the long table.
Today the king himself had shown up—something that almost never happened anymore.
Robert Baratheon had once been a tall, broad-shouldered warrior with laughing blue eyes and a mane of black hair. Now the years of feasting and easy living had turned him into a thick, barrel-chested block of a man. He still looked like he could break a man in half, but the fire in his eyes had been replaced by a permanent scowl.
Beside him sat Hand of the King Jon Arryn, Lord Stannis Baratheon, Master of Coin Petyr Baelish, Grand Maester Pycelle, Lord Commander Barristan Selmy, and—newly added at Robert's insistence—his youngest brother Renly, who was still a few years from manhood but already carried himself like he belonged at the table.
"Where the fuck is Varys?" Robert growled, slamming a meaty fist on the table. "The idiot's supposed to be my Master of Whisperers. We've got reports of a goddamn dragon and he's nowhere to be found?"
Littlefinger cleared his throat with practiced smoothness. "Lord Varys appears to have… vanished, Your Grace. My men went to summon him this morning and found his chambers empty."
"A dragon," Robert spat. "That sniveling little beggar Viserys walks out of Valyria's ruins with a living dragon and my spymaster disappears? Seven hells!"
Littlefinger leaned forward, fingers steepled. "There is more, Your Grace. Fresh word from Pentoshi sailors. A rather shocking accusation."
"Out with it, then. Stop dancing around like a damn mummer."
Littlefinger gave a small, elegant bow of his head. "It seems our eunuch friend is not quite what he appeared. Varys is of Blackfyre blood—distant, but real. His sister was Illyrio Mopatis's wife. The two of them have spent years grooming a more… suitable candidate for the throne. A boy they call Young Griff. The Griffin—Jon Connington—was the boy's protector."
Robert's face went purple. "Blackfyre blood? In my own council? That slimy little spider has been sitting here the whole time while they plotted to put another false dragon on my throne?"
Jon Arryn's voice was calm but firm. "Killing children is not an honorable path, Your Grace."
"My good Jon, you're right in principle," Robert roared, "but that Targaryen whelp has ten thousand men, sellswords, Dothraki screamers, and a fucking dragon now! He's not some frightened boy anymore. Your mercy has helped birth a monster!"
Renly shrugged. "Viserys and his niece and sister should have been put to the sword years ago. Jon, your soft heart is going to get us all killed."
Robert actually grinned for the first time. "See? Even my little brother is smarter than half this table. Renly, you stay in King's Landing for now. I'm making you Master of Laws. You'll sit in that seat until we sort this mess out."
Stannis's jaw tightened. The unfairness burned, but he said nothing.
Robert turned back to the table, voice like thunder. "I will not wait for that dragon to grow big enough to burn my city. We are taking the fight to him. How long until we can assemble the fleet I need?"
Stannis answered at once, voice flat. "The royal fleet has ships, but not enough. We will need more vessels and far more men. Dragonstone can supply one hundred and sixty warships, including eighty galleys. King's Landing can add fifty. The lords of the Narrow Sea will have to be called."
Robert nodded, eyes hard. "Then call them. Every banner, every oar. I want that little bastard roasted on his own dragon before the year is out."
The small council sat in heavy silence as the weight of the words settled over them. Across the Narrow Sea, a dragon had risen again—and the stag was finally ready to hunt.