Chapter 36: The Dragon's Wake: Westeros Ablaze – The Landing at Stokeworth
The Phoenix Armada, a hundred sails dark against the bruised pre-dawn sky, cleaved the choppy waters of the Narrow Sea. Viserys Targaryen, Third of His Name, stood on the salt-sprayed quarterdeck of the Balerion, his obsidian-steel armor gleaming faintly in the nascent light, the wind whipping his silver-gold hair. Beside him, Daenerys, her face pale but resolute, her hand resting on the warm, scaled neck of Rhaegal who perched with Viserion on the reinforced deck, gazed westward with an intensity that mirrored his own. Around them, the fleet moved with a disciplined, predatory silence: the sleek Phoenix-class warships Meraxes and Vhagar, Kiera Redfin's motley but battle-hardened Corsair Wing, and the dozens of heavily laden transports carrying the ten thousand elite warriors of the Shadow Legion, Viserys's fist of obsidian and shadow. Dragon's Aerie was far behind them; before them lay Westeros, the land of their birth, their stolen birthright, and now, their designated crucible.
The voyage had been a masterpiece of logistical precision and calculated risk. Viserys, drawing on Alistair Finch's knowledge of historical naval campaigns and his own burgeoning mental "sensing" ability, had plotted a course that skirted the major shipping lanes, using seasonal fogs and moonless nights to mask their passage. He had pushed his mental faculties to their limits, extending his awareness like an invisible net around the fleet, "feeling" for distant patrols, for changes in weather patterns, for the subtle currents of the sea itself. On two occasions, his intuitive warnings had allowed Valerion Qo to alter course just in time to avoid encountering Lysene slaver fleets and a squadron of what looked suspiciously like Volantene reconnaissance galleys. The six young dragons, now formidable beasts the size of large destriers, their scales shimmering with nascent power, had accompanied them, sometimes soaring high above the fleet like dark omens, sometimes resting on the specially constructed, reinforced decks of the three flagships, their presence a constant, awe-inspiring reminder of the power Viserys now wielded. Daenerys had spent hours with them, her bond deepening with each passing day, her voice, when she sang to them in High Valyrian, carrying a strange, resonant quality that seemed to soothe both the beasts and the often-uneasy human crews.
The mood among the diverse forces of the Phoenix Company was a potent cocktail of anticipation, fear, and a fierce, almost fanatical, loyalty to their young king. The Shadow Legion, quartered in disciplined silence aboard their transports, were like coiled springs, their obsidian weapons kept meticulously sharp, their eyes burning with the indoctrinated zeal of true believers. Draq and Morrec had forged them into an instrument of pure, unthinking obedience, ready to unleash their silent fury upon the Usurper's lands. Kiera Redfin's Corsairs, a wilder, more volatile element, were kept in check by Kiera's own iron will (now firmly aligned with Viserys's ambitions, if only for the promise of plunder and power) and the ever-present, disciplined threat of the Phoenix Guard marines aboard their ships. The Braavosi and Essosi veterans of the Phoenix Company, men and women who had sworn the Blood-Bound Vow, looked to Viserys with a mixture of awe and trepidation; they had witnessed his strategic genius, his ruthless efficiency, and now, they were about to witness the full, terrifying extent of his power.
As they neared the coast of the Crownlands, a final, swift cutter, dispatched weeks earlier by Shadowfoot, rendezvoused with the fleet. It carried Kipp's latest, most critical intelligence: Lord Gregor Stokeworth, a man known for his indecisiveness and his terror of Tywin Lannister, was indeed at Castle Stokeworth, his garrison depleted, most of his household knights having been summoned to join the Lannister armies fighting Robb Stark in the Riverlands. The castle's defenses were antiquated, its stores low. Daenerys's vision, Viserys noted with a cold satisfaction, had once again proven uncannily accurate. Stokeworth was ripe for the taking.
"Operation First Light," Viserys announced to his assembled commanders in the Balerion's grand cabin, the map of Stokeworth and its environs spread before them, "will commence at moonset, three hours before dawn. The Shadow Legion, under Marshal Draq and Commander Morrec, will make a silent amphibious landing on the northern beaches, here," his finger traced a secluded cove. "Your objective: secure the approaches to the town and castle, neutralize any outlying pickets, and prepare to assault the main gates on my signal."
"Commodore Kiera," he turned to the Corsair Queen, her eyes glittering, "your wing will maintain a loose blockade of Stokeworth's harbor, intercept any vessels attempting to flee or enter, and be prepared to land your Corsairs to support the Shadow Legion in the town if resistance is heavier than anticipated. No indiscriminate looting until the castle falls, and even then, restraint. We need Stokeworth as a functioning port, not a pile of ashes." Kiera grunted her assent, though her eyes promised mayhem.
"High Admiral Valerion," Viserys continued, addressing the stoic commander of his fleet, "the Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar will take up positions just beyond arrow range of the castle's sea-facing walls. Your ballistae and fire-throwers will provide covering fire if needed, but your primary role is to project overwhelming naval power, to ensure no relief force can approach by sea."
"And the dragons?" Daenerys asked softly, her hand resting on Viserys's arm.
A predatory smile touched Viserys's lips. "The dragons, sister, are our masterstroke. As the first light touches the eastern sky, we ride. Balerion, Rhaegal, and Viserion will be our heralds, our instruments of terror and precision. Terrax, Tempest, and Obsidian will support the Shadow Legion's advance, their elemental fury sowing chaos among any who dare to resist. We will not burn Stokeworth to the ground, not unless Lord Stokeworth proves exceptionally foolish. Our goal is to shatter their will to fight, to force a swift surrender, to secure our first foothold in Westeros with minimal losses to our own forces, and to send an unmistakable message to King's Landing and beyond: the dragons have returned, and their rightful king with them."
The final hours before the assault were a blur of disciplined activity. The Shadow Legion, their faces impassive beneath their dark grey helms, boarded Xaro Xhandar's specialized shallow-draft landing barges, their obsidian blades gleaming faintly in the starlight. Viserys and Daenerys, clad in their Targaryen-black armor (Viserys's of obsidian-steel, Daenerys's of lighter, articulated boiled leather reinforced with dragonscale-like obsidian plates Xaro had designed for her), ascended to the Balerion's deck where their three largest dragons waited, their immense forms casting long, terrifying shadows, their jewel-like eyes burning with intelligent anticipation.
The landing was a masterpiece of silent, deadly efficiency. Draq's Shadow Legionnaires, moving like ghosts in the pre-dawn gloom, secured the beaches and melted into the darkened countryside, neutralizing Stokeworth's few sleepy sentries with swift, obsidian-inflicted finality. They surrounded the small port town and the brooding mass of Castle Stokeworth before the first cock crowed.
Then, as the eastern horizon began to bleed with the pale grey light of dawn, Viserys gave the signal.
"Dracarys!"
The command was not a shout, but a low, resonant word that seemed to vibrate with primal power. Astride Balerion, who launched himself from the Balerion's deck with a beat of his colossal black wings that sent lesser men stumbling, Viserys soared into the sky. Daenerys, a vision of silver and crimson on the green Rhaegal, with Viserion a golden echo beside her, followed. High above, the three chthonic Firewyrms, released from the Nyx where Morrec had kept them under tight control, joined the aerial assault, their strange, grinding roars a terrifying counterpoint to the Valyrian dragons' piercing screeches.
Their first targets were the castle's main gatehouse and its tallest watchtower. Balerion's black fire, hotter than any forge, engulfed the ancient stone structures, turning them into instant infernos. Rhaegal and Viserion unleashed torrents of green and gold flame upon the barracks and stables, their roars mingling with the screams of terrified men and horses. The Firewyrms descended upon the town's small contingent of militia, who had belatedly stumbled from their beds at the sound of the first explosions. Terrax's ground-shaking roars sent men sprawling, Tempest's miniature localized whirlwinds tore at rooftops and banners, and Obsidian, his rock-hard hide deflecting panicked arrows, plowed through their disorganized ranks like a living siege engine.
The psychological impact on the defenders of Stokeworth was absolute, unimaginable. They had heard tales of dragons, of course, ancient legends from a bygone era. But to see these monstrous, fire-breathing beasts materialize from the dawn sky, to feel the searing heat of their breath, the earth-shattering impact of their presence – it was a terror that broke minds as easily as dragonfire broke stone. Men threw down their weapons and fled, screaming. Others simply fell to their knees, paralyzed by a primordial fear.
Into this maelstrom of fire and terror marched the Shadow Legion. Their disciplined, silent ranks, clad in their dark, obsidian-laced armor, moving with a terrifying, synchronized precision, seemed like demons summoned from the very hell the dragons had unleashed. They met little organized resistance. The castle gates, already shattered by Balerion's fire, were stormed with ease. The town guard melted away before their relentless advance. Kiera Redfin's Corsairs, landing in the harbor, found their primary task was rounding up terrified, surrendering soldiers, their bloodlust somewhat dampened by the overwhelming display of draconic power they had just witnessed – even Kiera looked unnerved, though a new, avaricious gleam had entered her eyes at the thought of serving such a master.
Viserys, circling high above on Balerion, watched the swift, brutal subjugation of Stokeworth with a cold, detached satisfaction. This was power. This was how kingdoms were won. Alistair Finch's academic understanding of conquest was now being written in fire and blood, by his own hand. He guided Balerion towards the central courtyard of Castle Stokeworth, where the remnants of Lord Gregor Stokeworth's household guard were making a last, desperate stand around their trembling, portly lord.
Balerion landed with a ground-shaking impact, his roar scattering the last vestiges of their courage. Viserys, dismounting with a warrior's grace, his Valyrian steel sword in hand, his violet eyes burning with an icy fire, strode towards the terrified Stokeworth. Draq and a phalanx of Shadow Legionnaires, their obsidian blades dripping, formed a silent, menacing cordon around them.
Lord Gregor Stokeworth, a man whose primary battles had been fought at the feasting table, sank to his knees, his face the color of curdled milk. "Mercy, Your Grace! Mercy!" he blubbered, unknowingly echoing Illyrio Mopatis's last pleas.
"Lord Stokeworth," Viserys's voice was calm, almost gentle, yet it brooked no dissent. "You have a choice. Swear fealty to me, Viserys of House Targaryen, Third of His Name, your rightful King, and your life, your lands, and your people will be spared, provided your loyalty remains absolute. Your castle will serve as my forward base. Your resources will supply my army. Refuse," his voice hardened, the temperature in the courtyard seeming to drop several degrees, "and Castle Stokeworth will become a cinder, your line will end here, and your people will learn the true meaning of a dragon's wrath. Choose."
There was no real choice. Stokeworth, his eyes darting from Viserys's implacable face to the colossal, smoke-wreathed form of Balerion, and then to the silent, obsidian-armed demons surrounding him, stammered out his oath of fealty, his words tumbling over each other in his haste. Viserys accepted his surrender with a curt nod. He had his beachhead.
The immediate aftermath was a whirlwind of organized activity. Draq's Shadow Legion and the Phoenix Guard secured every corner of the castle and town, imposing a strict curfew. Ledger, who had landed with the second wave, immediately began assessing Stokeworth's granaries, armories, and port facilities, his mind already calculating resources and supply lines. Lyra of Lys established a field hospital, tending to the few wounded on both sides (though Phoenix Company casualties had been remarkably light, a testament to the dragons' overwhelming impact and the Shadow Legion's efficiency). Archivist, his eyes alight with scholarly fervor, began confiscating Lord Stokeworth's records, searching for intelligence on local loyalties, Lannister deployments, and the political situation in King's Landing. Xaro Xhandar, landing with his engineers, immediately began assessing the castle's defenses, planning modifications and improvements.
Daenerys, her face smudged with soot but her eyes shining with a mixture of awe at their victory and a dawning horror at the brutal reality of war, walked through the captured town. She saw the fear in the eyes of the smallfolk, the devastation wrought by their dragons, even in their "controlled" assault. While Viserys focused on consolidating military and political control, Daenerys, with Lyra the nurse and a small escort, found herself drawn to the women and children, offering what comfort she could, her gentle words and regal presence a stark contrast to the grim warriors who now occupied their homes. She was already, unknowingly, laying the foundations for a different kind of rule, one that might one day earn her the name "Mhysa."
Viserys felt the sting of their losses – a dozen Shadow Legionnaires, a handful of Phoenix Guardsmen, two of Kiera's Corsairs who had gotten too reckless – but it was a price he had calculated, a cost he was willing to pay. The Iron Price for Stokeworth had been relatively cheap, thanks to the dragons.
That evening, in Lord Stokeworth's captured solar, Viserys convened his War Council. The Targaryen banner – his new black dragon on a blood-red field – now flew from the castle's highest tower, a defiant challenge to the warring kings of Westeros. They had a foothold, a secure base within a few days' march of King's Landing. But they were also now an open target, their arrival announced to the world with dragonfire.
"Stokeworth is ours," Viserys stated, his gaze sweeping over his commanders. "But this is merely the first step. The lions, the stags, the wolves, even the krakens, will now know that the true dragon has returned. They will react. We must anticipate their moves, and we must strike next where it will hurt them most. King's Landing is the ultimate prize, but Tywin Lannister is a formidable foe, and Stannis Baratheon is a serpent coiled on Dragonstone. Valerion, send out our swiftest cutters; I want to know the disposition of Stannis's fleet and the Lannister forces around the capital. Draq, fortify Stokeworth; turn it into an impregnable bastion. Kiera, your ships will patrol these coasts; no unauthorized vessels enter or leave this bay. Ledger, I want a full accounting of Stokeworth's resources within three days. Archivist, any intelligence gleaned from Stokeworth's records is to be brought to me immediately. Kipp and Shadowfoot," he mentally projected his will towards his distant spymasters, "I need to know how Westeros breathes now that it has tasted dragonfire."
The Dragon's Wake had indeed begun. Stokeworth was ablaze, not with uncontrolled destruction, but with the dawn of a new, terrifying power. Viserys Targaryen had paid the first installment of the Iron Price for his throne. The game had been rejoined, and the pieces were now moving at a furious, unpredictable pace, all under the watchful, violet eyes of the Last Dragon King. The war for Westeros had truly begun.