Chapter 100: Dragonfire at Grey Gallows, The Supreme Council
Grey Gallows lay at the southern edge of the Stepstones, a jagged island of cliffs and ravines. Long ago, pirates had been hanged along its shore, their corpses left for the crabs. The gallows themselves had long since rotted away, replaced by rows of crude wooden stakes driven into the sand.
At dusk, Westerosi captives were dragged onto the beach and bound to those stakes with thick rope.
Triarchy soldiers stepped forward with iron nails and heavy hammers. The captives reacted in every way men could—some cursed, some begged, some wept, others whispered prayers to the Seven. The sea crawled with crabs. They swarmed over the bodies already nailed in place, black shells packed together so tightly that flesh beneath was no longer visible. Pincers tore at eyes, cheeks, and tongues.
A green-bearded Tyroshi soldier raised his hammer and drove a nail through the wrist of Ser Perlin Clinton, a knight of the Stormlands.
Blood sprayed across the sand.
Ser Perlin screamed, his body jerking violently against the ropes. Crimson soaked the griffin on his surcoat. Gritting his teeth through the agony, he glared at the man watching from the rocks above.
"Daemon Targaryen is coming," he rasped. "He will come with dragons and Dark Sister. You will die screaming, Craghas."
Craghas Drahar, the Crabfeeder, watched without expression. He wore dark armor crusted with salt, his neck and face ravaged by pale, scaly sores. His voice was cold.
"If Daemon comes," he said, "I will feed him—and his red wyrm—to the crabs."
Ser Perlin spat blood. "You will die childless. Your cities will burn. The Triarchy will kneel to dragons."
Craghas's lip twitched. He turned sharply to his men.
"Leave him alive. Let the crabs take him slowly."
At that moment, a horn blasted from the watchtower overlooking the sea.
"Dragons!"
Every head turned skyward.
The captives nailed to the stakes found new strength in their pain. Ser Perlin shouted hoarsely, "He is here! Dragons against crabs—what hope have you now?"
High above, Caraxes descended through the dying light, his long, blood-red body cutting across the darkening sky. From the shore, he was still only a shadow, but Craghas Drahar's sailor's eyes were sharp.
He knew this dragon.
In his cabin were sketches of every Targaryen beast—habits, temper, wounds. He watched long enough to be certain.
"Daemon," Craghas murmured. "Fool."
He barked orders.
"Ready the scorpions!"
Along the beach, atop ridges and towers, heavy scorpions were swung into position. Six-foot bolts were winched back, their iron heads gleaming faintly. Craghas himself seized the firing lever of one mounted above the valley mouth.
As Caraxes entered range, Craghas smiled and prepared to fire.
Then the night exploded.
Roars shook the sky behind him.
Fire bloomed across sea and stone as Vermithor, Silverwing, Seasmoke, and Dreamfyre descended from different directions, their flames washing over towers and cliffs. The water itself burned orange beneath dragonfire.
Vermithor seized a watchtower in his claws and wrenched it sideways. Stones tumbled. Men screamed. Before it could fall, Seasmoke and Dreamfyre struck together, their fire engulfing the tower in a storm of heat and color. The structure collapsed, scorpions and men vanishing into flame.
Panic consumed the Triarchy lines.
Craghas fled into the valley with his guards. The narrow paths became death traps. Soldiers trampled one another in blind terror—many who escaped fire died beneath their comrades' boots.
Above them all, Daemon Targaryen guided the assault, shifting his will from dragon to dragon. Scorpions burned. Bunkers melted. Towers collapsed. Hundreds died screaming.
Ironborn longships surged onto the beach. Their shallow hulls slid easily over reefs, boots crunching through crabs as they rushed to free the captives.
Caraxes landed in a spray of sand and broken shells.
Daemon dismounted and strode to Ser Perlin Clinton. With one brutal pull, he tore the nail free from the knight's wrist. Perlin screamed and nearly collapsed as a nurse rushed forward to bind the wound.
"You are alive," Daemon said. "But your wrist is ruined."
Perlin forced a smile through pain.
"Orys Baratheon lost his hand to the Dornish. He still had his vengeance. I can do the same."
An Ironborn chieftain stared at the crab-eaten corpses.
"They could have killed them cleanly."
Daemon's eyes were hard.
"Then show them no mercy."
The raid shattered Grey Gallows.
Over six hundred Triarchy soldiers died. Three hundred were taken alive. One-third were drowned as offerings to the Drowned God. The rest were sent to Bloodstone, where the weirwood waited.
Craghas Drahar escaped into the caves with a remnant of his force. Dragonfire could not break stone. Daemon left ships to blockade the coast and turned his dragons toward the remaining islands.
Far away, in Tyrosh, the Supreme Council of the Triarchy convened once more.
Thirty-three governors argued beneath painted ceilings. Grand Prince Draz of Tyrosh slammed his fist upon the table.
"Our fleets burn! Our scorpions fail! Dragonfire rules the Stepstones!"
Governor Borathi of Myr smiled thinly.
"Temporary. Dragons can die."
Trade Prince Manolas of Lys rose, purple eyes cold.
"Poison failed. Scorpions failed. Sorcery follows Daemon into battle. Our men swear he commands multiple dragons."
Borathi scoffed.
"No Dragonlord has ever ridden two."
"Yet the dragons obey him," Manolas replied. "That is fact."
Draz said darkly, "The Rhoynar slew dragons—and were annihilated for it."
Arguments flared.
Borathi finally said, "Then we force peace. Saera Targaryen is rumored near the war zone. A hostage—"
Draz cut him off.
"King Jaehaerys still rules. And Daemon will never bend."
Borathi leaned forward.
"Then we bleed the Narrow Sea. Disguised raids. Broken trade. Let the world blame Westeros."
Slow nods spread around the chamber.
War would widen.
And dragonfire would answer.
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