Prince Aegon Targaryen
The first battle of the war in the Stepstones proved impossibly prosaic, even tedious. Aegon and Daemon spotted the squadron under motley Tyroshi sails from afar and, by tacit agreement, ascended ever higher into the heavens upon their dragons, that they might swoop down from above, unleashing fiery wrath upon the foe.
Naturally, the Triarchy, having warred with the Velaryons—who also did not hesitate to employ dragons—for some months, had managed to draw certain conclusions from experience gained. Scarce had the Bronze Fury and the Blood Wyrm drawn near when projectiles from shipboard scorpions flew in their direction; Aegon managed to note that the firing was not chaotic, as in the case of the Ibbenese fleet he had burned in Lorath Bay—here they were clearly prepared for the appearance of winged beasts in the sky. However, if the oversized bolts posed a danger, it was perhaps only to the young Seasmoke and Meleys—they could hardly harm the thick-hided Vermithor and Caraxes. Of course, there was a chance that among the marksmen might be found one akin to that Dornishman who managed to strike the eye of Meraxes herself, but, having reflected upon it in his time, Aegon decided that the motion of flight and incinerating flame would shield them from the fate of Queen Rhaenys and her she-dragon.
A stream of Vermithor's flame struck the hull of the nearest ship with yellow-and-green sails; in the blink of an eye, fire engulfed the deck, climbed the mast, and raced through the rigging; Tyroshi sailors and their engines flared like kindled splinters, and flashed past the Prince. Aegon did not see, but felt, the Bronze Fury lash the hull with his tail, and felt how from this blow its frame cracked like a nutshell. But in that moment, another vessel was already before them; from it, they managed to loose a scorpion once more, but the bolts merely bounced off the dragon's stout scales; nevertheless, the desperate marksmen paid for their insolence, vanishing into a blazing maw.
While the dragon occupied himself with the destruction of the wretched Tyroshi, his rider attempted to locate Caraxes. The Blood Wyrm demonstrated wonders of flexibility and agility in the sky: his serpentine body nigh coiled into loops, dodging the bolts loosed at him; streams of bright fire burst from his maw, as long and powerful as himself. For a fraction of a heartbeat, Aegon feared Daemon might be thrown from the saddle with such pirouettes, but there was no time to fear for his brother—having finished breaking the ship, Vermithor switched to its neighbor.
Hooking a carrack by the stern with his claws, the dragon lifted it above the water not without effort, forcing the vessel to pitch forward onto its prow; barrels, men, and everything not secured flew from the deck into the sea. Emitting a spirited roar, full of martial fervor and mirth, Vermithor began to nudge the vessel toward the nearest ship; gradually the stern rose higher and higher, and when the carrack stood nigh vertical, the dragon gave it a shove. Hanging for a couple of moments, the vessel crashed down upon its neighbor, snapping masts and crushing men. The air was filled with the triumphant shrieks of dragons, the crack of breaking timber and tearing canvas, the screams of burning and drowning men, the whistle of bolts, and the roar of flame.
Suddenly, a scorpion bolt flashed directly over Aegon's head, and almost immediately after it another, but from a different angle. Neither did him any harm, but they forced him to recollect himself. Vermithor, as experience had shown, easily fell into a frenzy in naval battles and, toying with one opponent, could easily forget about others, and this added risk.
"Sōpnenka," (Curse it) the Prince swore and pulled back on the saddle handles, tightening the chain reins.
The Bronze Fury barked in displeasure, snapping his jaws, but obeyed and, with a couple of beats of his wings, gained altitude, only to immediately set fire to a ship that had happened by, whose captain evidently decided he could save himself by passing those who had already taken the brunt of the dragon's fury. His hopes were in vain—golden flame engulfed golden sails, and soon the entire vessel was consumed by fire.
Vermithor and Caraxes banked for new passes thrice more to descend like whirlwinds of fire. The ships ran out quickly; the Prince had no time to gather his wits before only their smoldering hulks remained around, debris rapidly going to the bottom, planks, barrels, other shipboard gear, charred bodies of sailors floating amidst them, at times (to their misfortune) still alive, and survivors miraculously spared, clinging to anything that could still stay afloat.
Slightly above the Bronze Fury, Daemon hovered over the sea on his dragon; even without Myrish glass, Aegon saw a bloodthirsty, triumphant smile of a victor blossom on his brother's face. Casting a glance at the horizon, the Prince saw that their own fleet, which they had outstripped in their haste to deal with the enemy, had grown but slightly against the backdrop of the sky—the ships were no longer a narrow black strip, but the red dragons on their sails were not yet discernible. To wait for it to crawl to the site of the battle would take long, and the aimless circling over burning wreckage soon bored Daemon. Shouting something about "looking around," he spurred Caraxes and flew whence the Triarchy flotilla had come, and Aegon released the saddle handles and allowed Vermithor to fly freely.
They circled over the smoking hulks of ships plunging beneath the water until the approaching squadron fished out the few survivors. The Prince pondered what the captives might tell them, but he could not dismount from a dragon onto a ship in the middle of the sea, so he had to restrain his curiosity, and for his maester half, there was no torture worse.
. . . . .
Ser Jaegaer Ilileon
The last time Jaegaer had been in a real—and until now, only—battle was a lifetime ago. Strictly speaking, it could hardly be called a battle, and hardly could it be said that he had actively participated in it. Back then, in the outskirts of Mantarys, they were ambushed, but instead, Cousin Aegon gave the attackers a bloodbath; Jaegaer himself killed only a couple of men then, and that with the help of Ser Dennis, but none of them managed to save Maerys. In Volantis there were arena fights, which he and his friends arranged for amusement; in King's Landing there were tourneys, in which he participated to become "one of their own" for the Andal nobility, but neither the one nor the other could compare with real combat in a real war. Agility on the sandy arenas behind the Black Walls or skillful handling of a tourney lance at the barrier beneath the walls of the Westerosi capital meant nothing in the assault on Bloodstone.
Four dragons incinerated the piers, turned the Triarchy's ships into smoking firebrands; the pebbles on the shore melted and solidified in uneven waves, with the remains of enemy warriors fused into them. Their main citadel on the island rose above a round bay; Tyroshi, known engineers, had built it, so there was no thought of simply taking it by storm, therefore it too was given over to all-consuming dragonfire. According to Aegon, none of the living dragons surpassed Balerion, who turned the towers of Harrenhal into melted candles, but the combined efforts of four dragons sufficed to achieve the same result. However, to defeat the garrison, this was not enough.
As it turned out, beneath the fortress lay a branching system of caves with many exits, to the depths of which dragonfire did not reach. When the stone cooled, an advance detachment of Westerosi, a couple of hundred men, calmly entered the ruins, raised the banner with the three-headed dragon over them, and set up camp slightly to the side to prepare for the arrival of the main forces. When ships under the command of Vaemond Velaryon entered the bay the next day, the tricolor banner of the Triarchy fluttered over the melted castle again; arrows and burning stones began to rain down on the squadron from nowhere, and the Lord Admiral's younger brother preferred to withdraw. When Princess Rhaenys flew over the bay during the next low tide, the knights left on the island were found: they had been nailed to the charred hulks of ships, and crabs were now feeding on their bloated bodies.
For a week, the island was subjected to dragon raids, setting fire to everything that might seem like an enemy shelter; smoke from fires engulfing the forests growing on its stony slopes shrouded Bloodstone. Caraxes and Vermithor, Meleys and Seasmoke had to dodge scorpions more than once, and they did not always succeed: the Bronze Fury and the Blood Wyrm were too thick-skinned, the Red Queen too agile and lucky, unlike Ser Laenor's dragon. Seasmoke only by some miracle missed one of the bolts, earning "merely" a long scratch along his entire flank, fortunately not deep. Aegon then gave his future brother-in-law a fine dressing down, although both were frightened by the dragon's injury more than the dragon himself. The Lord of the Tides' heir was returned from the heavens to the earth, or rather to the water, and the beast was fed a bull and a sheep daily.
This injury influenced the war as well: dragonriders became more cautious, limiting themselves only to supporting the island's blockade, and the main burden of conquest fell on the army. Bloodstone was large, and the citadel in the bay was not the Triarchy's only fortification on it. Almost all of them burned, but swordsmen, spearmen, and archers would have to pick the scoundrels out of the melted ruins—knightly cavalry could not gain speed on the island, only break horses' legs.
The new landing began yesterday at dawn, and now three hundred Gold Cloaks, Prince Daemon's personal detachment, were to form the core of the army that was to cleanse the island. The cousin reckoned that their experience in fighting the scum of Flea Bottom would prove useful in the new conditions, where an enemy could jump out from behind every stone. His men received the order with enthusiasm, although with the same enthusiasm they would have gone to the very Seven Hells at his word. Jaegaer himself cared not whom he fought, but Harwin burned with a thirst for vengeance: following him to war went all his cousins, uncles, and nephews, and already three of them were no longer among the living—two the Three Whores' bastards fed to crabs, and the third received a crossbow bolt in the gut and died in the arms of the Heir to Harrenhal in terrible agony.
The galley Brave Mouse leaned on its oars on the approach to Bloodstone; the sailors were collected and businesslike, the Gold Cloaks silent, but, as it seemed to Jaegaer, ready for the worst. Exchanging a few words with several sergeants, he patted a couple of soldiers with the most sour looks on the shoulder, though he fully shared their mood. Reaching the prow of the ship, he came upon Harwin, intently peering at the island growing on the horizon, and stood beside him; his friend said nothing, did not even turn, only gave a barely perceptible nod in greeting. After remaining silent for a time, Jaegaer confessed:
"I am afraid."
"They say it is normal."
"Yes... And you?"
Ser Breakbones only shrugged and asked only after a pause:
"Do you know what you will do if you meet their leader?"
"The Crabfeeder? Kill him, of course."
"And I cannot," Harwin cast out predatorily. "I want that bastard to feed the crabs with himself. Only I'll break all his bones first."
"I do not think he will be taken alive."
"I confess, neither do I. But Daemon promised me vengeance, and his words do not diverge from deeds, you know that."
"Yes," Jaegaer agreed again. The Prince Hand was indeed true to his word, although the same could be said of other cousins. "So, it is your cousin who will meet us?"
"Osmund is my uncle," his friend corrected him.
"Forgive me, too many Strongs for one army—I get confused in the kinship."
"Said the Targaryen bastard."
The captains laughed briefly; jokes about tangled kinship in the royal family had long become customary for a narrow circle of friends. Daemon was always bewildered, saying what could be simpler when a brother takes a sister to wife, but he reacted reservedly to Andal teasing, and Aegon himself sometimes came out with such things that everyone doubled over with laughter. Simple humor relieved the tension a little, and both captains went to check their men once more—it was never superfluous.
On the hill above the bay, the re-hoisted banner of the Targaryens still fluttered, although it could be a trap—any baseness could be expected from treacherous whoresons. Nevertheless, a signal was given from the shore, and the captain directed the Brave Mouse toward the somehow restored pier. Scarce had the sailors thrown ropes and lowered the gangplank when the anxious atmosphere dissipated: the time for action replaced the time of fear, and the Gold Cloaks disembarked quite briskly.
As expected, they were met by Ser Osmund Strong. The uncle was as large a man as the nephew, and was considered one of the most skilled knights of the Riverlands. Considering that he and his men managed to re-establish a foothold on the island in such a hostile environment, this proved no empty boast, although in Westeros knights were expected to possess personal valor and bravery rather than the skill to command an army—in this, Ser Osmund reminded Jaegaer of the Volantene commanders whom his mother periodically invited.
It took three days to settle on a scrap of shore the size of King's Landing's port, that is, to make sure that a whoreson with a poisoned dagger would not crawl out of a random hole. Although Ser Osmund kept his ear to the ground, he overlooked many traps and passages, from which he raged and endlessly mentioned the Seven Hells, threatening to escort every scoundrel straight to the hottest cauldron; he could be understood: among those fed to crabs was his only son, and now the knight lived only by the desire for revenge.
The Gold Cloaks, as Daemon assumed, quite quickly adapted to searching for ambushes and short, but no less fierce skirmishes with the smoked-out enemy. At first, Jaegaer was perplexed how a fight in the slums of the capital could be similar to a fight on a rocky island, but then, stepping into one of the small stone ravines, where there was a cliff on the left and a pile of boulders the size of a dragon's head on the right, when three of the Three Whores' men fell on his head at once, he acted exactly as if three cutthroats had jumped out of another viper's nest.
Jump back, put the shield with his own silver-azure sigil forward, take the first blow on it and immediately lean into it to push the opponent away and break the distance. This gave him a whole moment to assess the situation, count enemies, bark at his own, and take a stance. Then followed a quick lunge and immediately another to probe the opponent's defense; in this short series of feints, Jaegaer always changed techniques of fencing schools: in Volantis, the mentor who taught him to hold a sword taught him one thing, but in Westeros they fought differently, and the former Exarch had to relearn. Now in the Stepstones, this gave him a small advantage: Tyroshi, Myrish, and other scum learned how Andals wielded a sword, knew how Volantenes fought, but combining one with the other was beyond their understanding, which the knight shamelessly used—several times it saved his life.
The further from the shore the Westerosi went, the more viciously the remnants of the Triarchy's army snapped back, and, of course, it did not go without injuries. Jaegaer had already acquired a slash from a foreign sword on his cheekbone (another half-inch and his whole face would have been taken off), a hole in his shoulder from an arrow (fortunately, the armor did its job, and the wound proved shallow), and a foot twisted in the heat of one of the skirmishes (that time the damned Westerosi armor nearly killed him). Many were less lucky: ten days later on the island, five were missing from his hundred, three from Harwin's, and the losses of Ser Osmund's entire detachment approached the third dozen. On the one hand, not many, on the other—it was a rather high price, if measured against the cleared part of the island.
"The sons of bitches don't want to come out into the field!" Ser Osmund raged. "Damned cowards!"
"Of course they don't want to," one of his comrades on the war council agreed phlegmatically. "They know that in a real battle we'll gut them like a fisherman guts your fish, so they shit from around the corner."
And they truly shat. Pettily, basely, viciously, desperately—because with some fourteenth sense they understood that sooner or later (Jaegaer was beginning to think rather later) it would end. The forests burned down—only charcoal-black palisades remained instead; fields and valleys turned gray from ash raised from the fires; almost all animals that lived here perished. Help from the sea would not come to those continuing resistance—at sea scorpions are powerless against the rolling, and ships are powerless against dragons. The Three Whores' men themselves are trapped on the island and will all be crushed.
From what the Volantene Exarch knew, it followed that the mercenary scum recruited into the armies of the Three Younger Sisters should immediately surrender to the mercy of a stronger opponent as soon as they encountered the first difficulties. However, what the Westerosi knight saw diverged from his expectations. The mercenaries worked for their money so diligently that he even began to doubt whether they were mercenaries at all. Judging by the dialect in which they gave each other orders, they were Myrish; their weapons and clothing also spoke in favor of Myr.
With every day, there were more and more Westerosi on the island: Velaryon ships landed them in the bay under the melted ruins, Tarth ships, as far as Jaegaer heard, found a harbor further south, Estermont ships—further north. The royal fleet guarded the straits between the islands, and, as the sailors said, slowly crushed the surrounding rocks under itself, crushing the Myrish just as they crushed them here. Slowly, but consistently. From time to time, one of the knights kicked up and began to express indignation, saying it is not a knightly business to climb rocks smeared with soot, striving to catch a bolt in the side or a crooked sword on the helmet. More experienced comrades were immediately found for the noble sufferer, and Jaegaer himself only smirked, listening to someone else's fastidiousness.
With every day they advanced further, the bastards jumped out of their shelters less often, and one day, when the detachment commanded by the knight climbed another rocky ridge, Ser Jaegaer saw the sea before him. Somewhat disbelievingly, he looked back at the ravines and valleys left behind; mountains, small and crumbled with time, stretched still to the right and left, but before him, he saw the remaining half of the island and the sea, gray and gloomy under the overcast sky. Never before had Jaegaer Ilileon, a bastard of dragon blood and a knight serving his cousin-King, felt such a fiery sense of belonging to a common cause.
Now this is their land. Let it be black and unsightly now, but roots only strengthen under ash, and in a couple of months, this rocky land will delight its new masters, who this time have come forever, with fresh greenery.
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