CHAPTER 98-"The Dance of Dragons and the Price of Poison"
Night fell hard upon Bloodstone.
The hills lay drowned in darkness, broken only by the echoing roars of dragons. Scattered remnants of the Triarchy — sellswords who had fled into the mountains — clustered together in fear, knowing that once the dragons came, no stone wall or shadowed ravine would save them.
On the remains of an old watchtower, a Tyroshi archer scanned the slopes below. Moonlight gleamed faintly on his lacquered helm.
A shadow passed over him.
He looked up.
Vermithor descended like a falling star.
The Bronze Fury opened his jaws, and fire blossomed from his throat. The watchtower vanished in flame. The archer screamed only once before fire took him, his body tumbling from the stone as burning wreckage followed.
Silverwing glided in from the east, pale and radiant.
Dreamfyre cut through the clouds like a blade of moonlight.
Seasmoke wheeled low, swift and silent.
From the west came Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, long and terrible, his scream slicing through the valley.
At the mouth of a narrow ravine, the Triarchy survivors had raised a final defense — an ancient ringwall of the First Men, half-buried in stone and moss. Thirty archers manned the wall, stones stacked high to crush any assault from below.
They never saw the Westerosi host.
Their camp behind them erupted in dragonfire.
Horses screamed. Men ran burning through the dark. Smoke rolled thick and choking.
As the defenders turned in panic, Caraxes dropped from the sky.
The Blood Wyrm landed atop the ringwall with crushing force. Stone shattered. Two archers died instantly beneath his weight.
Caraxes did not breathe fire at first. He lowered his head and snapped a fleeing man from the wall, swallowing him whole. His saliva hissed where it struck armor, blistering flesh.
Daemon drove him forward.
Dragonfire followed.
The oak gate burned and collapsed inward. Lord Roderick Dustin, the Wolf of the Barrows, charged through the flames with his Northmen, wool cloaks whipping as they howled and hacked their way inside.
Behind them surged knights of the Vale, the Riverlands, the Crownlands — steel and fury flooding the ravine.
It was not a battle.
It was a slaughter.
Some of the Triarchy men knelt and begged. Others loosed their last bolts in desperation.
Poisoned arrows streaked skyward.
The Triarchy had long prepared for dragons. Their arrowheads were smeared with a thick green venom brewed by Lysene alchemists — a foul mixture of snake venom, scorpion poison, and stranger substances meant to kill beasts far larger than men.
Several arrows struck Caraxes' wing. Dragonblood spilled, hissing where it touched flame. The Blood Wyrm roared in pain but did not fall.
Dragons were not invincible.
Daemon knew this well.
Prince Aemon Targaryen, rider of Caraxes before him, had died to a Myrish crossbow bolt on Tarth — not mounted, not armored, merely unlucky. Dragons grew nigh-impervious with age, but their riders remained mortal.
Even dragons had weaknesses.
Eyes. Wings. The thin membranes beneath their scales.
Daemon kept Caraxes moving, never lingering, while Princess Rhaenys on Meleys sealed the far end of the valley in fire, cutting off all escape.
By dawn, it was over.
More than three hundred Triarchy soldiers lay dead. Fewer than a hundred were taken alive.
The dragons fed.
Caraxes tore bodies apart with wet, crunching sounds. Vermithor and Silverwing consumed the fallen, smoke curling from their jaws. Dreamfyre circled once before settling to feed.
Maesters, septons, and nurses moved among the wounded.
Daemon walked the camp with Lord Corlys Velaryon, Princess Rhaenys, and Lord Dustin.
They came upon Ser Hyde Smallwood, a tough Riverlands knight, now pale and shaking. A poisoned arrow had lodged deep in his shoulder.
Maester Michiel worked carefully.
"Bite," he urged.
"Just pull it," Smallwood growled weakly. "Gods curse these Lyseni bastards."
The arrowhead came free.
The stench was immediate — green venom mixed with blackened blood. Princess Rhaenys turned away. Even the Sea Snake grimaced.
The wound was washed, ointment applied, bandaged.
It was not enough.
Within the hour, Ser Hyde screamed as blood ran from his eyes, nose, and mouth. Milk of the poppy eased his pain — nothing more.
By nightfall, he was dead.
Thirty more followed.
Every man struck by poison died.
The Silent Sisters worked without rest.
Daemon stood over the mass graves, fury burning in his chest.
That night, the captives were brought before him.
Daemon held a single poisoned arrow.
"Which city brewed this?" he asked calmly. "Myr? Lys? Or Tyrosh?"
A silver-haired Lysene sneered.
"Lys. You dragonlords believed yourselves untouchable."
Daemon pressed the arrow to the man's thigh.
The scream was immediate.
"If you wish to live," Daemon said, voice cold, "you will tell me how to counter it."
Fear broke them.
Three alchemists were dragged forward — old men, young men, all stinking of lies.
One wept. One bargained. One promised wildfire, poisons, antidotes — anything.
Daemon listened.
At last, he said quietly,
"You will give me the antidote. You will teach my people how to make it. Or you will die screaming beneath the weirwood."
The alchemists nodded frantically.
The Dance of Dragons had begun.
And poison had shown its price.
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