Stormlands, ten leagues northeast of Storm's End—the gray coastline of Shipbreaker Bay.
Lead-gray waves crashed violently against jagged reefs, churning up murky foam. Low clouds pressed down from above, suffocating the air. The wind from the Narrow Sea carried a damp, bone-chilling cold, howling across the barren flats and whipping the dead grass into motion.
Upon those windswept sands stretched a vast brown host—an unsettling sight to behold. Over thirty thousand Dothraki poured ashore from countless broad-bellied merchant ships anchored offshore. Warhorses neighed, men shouted, and curved blades and arrows flashed with cold light beneath the dim sky. They wore painted leather armor, their oiled braids gleaming, eyes blazing with a primal thirst for plunder and blood. Heavy hooves trampled the muddy flats, splashing up foul water with dull, muffled thuds.
Viserys Targaryen stood atop a raised rock, overlooking the "army" that was now his. He wore new leather armor embroidered with the black-and-red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The sea wind tugged at his freshly grown silver hair, making his pale face even paler. Beside him stood the small figure of Tyrion Lannister and a trembling interpreter.
Ever since "Varys" had brought him before Viserys, Tyrion had been suspicious. Viserys had said these horselords were a wedding gift from the Easterner who had married Daenerys. Could that scheming bastard Varys really have thrown in his lot with the Easterners?
Tyrion did not yet know that Varys's head was already hanging above the gates of Dun Fort in Duskendale. For now, to preserve his own life, he could only advise this Targaryen who stood against House Lannister.
Viserys, impressed by Tyrion's eloquence, had hastily named him Hand of the King. Tyrion felt only bitterness. As he watched the wild, bloodthirsty glint in the Dothraki eyes, regret gnawed at him for boarding this doomed ship—and for ever trusting Varys.
Viserys drew a deep breath, forced his back straight, and pointed toward the distant horizon. Through the interpreter, he gave his command to the Dothraki chieftains gathered below the rocks:
"Tell your warriors to march southwest toward Storm's End. Bring me the head of that bastard Baratheon. Let Baratheon blood pave the way for the true dragon to reclaim the Iron Throne!"
The interpreter stumbled over the words as she translated Viserys's fiery proclamation into Dothraki. The chieftains exchanged glances. None showed excitement or obedience—only open contempt. One of them, the largest and most imposing, Jago, let out a mocking grunt. He looked around at the restless warriors around him and barked several coarse sentences in Dothraki.
The interpreter's face turned as white as chalk. His lips trembled as he forced herself to speak to Viserys.
"He says the stone houses are cold and hard. The warriors did not cross the sea to gnaw on stone. He says they need horses, food, women, warm tents, and fodder for their mounts. They will first… go to the nearby villages—to feed their horses, to let their blades drink blood—and then… perhaps they'll consider that stone mountain."
Tyrion caught every word, his small body tensing. He could not stand by while the Dothraki turned their blades on common folk. Quickly, he spoke to Viserys.
"Your Grace, listen to me. These horselords are not your army—they're locusts, hungry wolves. They know nothing of sieges, and they won't dash themselves against stone for your invisible Iron Throne.
Storm's End is one of the strongest castles in the Seven Kingdoms, and old Cortnay Penrose is no fool. Do you really wish to unite all the Stormlords against you, to have them tear this so-called true dragon apart as an invader?
What we should do is raise your dragon banner. Send envoys to Storm's End, Rain House, and Haystack Hall. Tell them you've come to liberate them. Wait for the Dornish army to arrive—that is—"
"Silence, dwarf!"
Viserys spun on him, his pale face flushed red, eyes burning with fury as he glared at Tyrion like a traitor. Tyrion's words had pierced his fragile pride and shattered his delusions. They dragged back memories of the humiliation he'd suffered at the hands of Lo Quen's Blooddancer, stoking the fire of his rage.
"What do you know? I am the true dragon! Beneath my dragonfire, every castle shall be reduced to ash! They must obey me!"
He ignored Tyrion and violently drew the ornate longsword from his waist. Its tip trembled as he pointed it toward Jago below the reef, whose face twisted into a mocking grin. With every ounce of strength, Viserys roared, "Jago, I command you! Attack Storm's End at once, or... or by the name of the true dragon, I shall execute you, traitor!"
The translator, terrified out of his wits, nearly cried as he relayed Viserys's death-filled command.
A deathly silence fell instantly beneath the rocks. The Dothraki's scorn and derision froze on their faces, replaced by a cold, murderous glint. Jago's facial muscles twitched. Slowly—agonizingly slowly—he raised his hand.
"Swish—"
A synchronized scraping of metal erupted. All around the rock, as far as the eye could see, thousands upon thousands of Dothraki scimitars were drawn at once.
The cold blades reflected the gray light of the sky, forming a suffocating forest of death. Countless pairs of eyes, wild and bloodthirsty, fixed on the "true dragon" standing atop the rock, waving his toy-like sword.
Viserys's rage froze instantly, turning his face ashen and lifeless. His hand trembled violently, the blade's tip drooping weakly. Only then did he realize with horror that he was facing not an army to command, but a horde of beasts who knew only strength and plunder.
His so-called "True Dragon's Wrath" was, in their eyes, worth less than a lamb led to slaughter.
Jago let out a savage roar. Several Dothraki as strong as black towers sprang onto the reef like hunting cats.
Viserys had no time to react. A sharp pain tore through his wrist as his sword was struck from his grasp, clattering across the rock. In the next moment, coarse leather straps bit into his pale wrists and ankles, binding him tight like an animal ready for slaughter. He was slammed hard onto the cold rocks, his mouth filling with sand and grit.
Tyrion and the poor translator were not spared, trussed up the same way until all three looked like pitiful bundles waiting to die.
Jago strode toward Viserys, who lay bound and helpless, towering over him. He raised his heavy boot and mercilessly ground it against Viserys's pale, handsome face, leaving behind a filthy mud print.
Then he bent down, picked up the fallen sword, weighed it in his hand, and casually tucked it into his belt.
He barked orders in Dothraki, his voice rolling like thunder across the noisy beach.
Though bound, the translator understood him. He turned to Viserys, his voice trembling. "Jago says they don't need a sheep who only gives orders. He says... he'll make good use of this dragon banner. He says... the Stormlands are rich, the women fair, the gold bright. He's taking his warriors to claim what's theirs. He says he'll become a great khal here, and build his own khalasar."
Jago spared not another glance at Viserys writhing on the ground. Raising the black dragon banner high, he roared to his Dothraki warriors, their blood-red eyes burning with hunger for battle.
In answer, thirty thousand curved blades lifted to the heavens, releasing a deafening war cry.
The black dragon banner, crudely tied to the tips of the soldiers' spears, snapped and cracked in the salty wind. Over thirty thousand Dothraki screamed and whistled as they mounted their horses and thundered across the muddy flats.
They did not look toward Storm's End again. Instead, they charged inland toward the fertile villages of the Stormlands.
Tyrion lay face-down across a warhorse's back, jostled so hard his insides felt ready to burst. He stared at the dragon banner twisting in the wind, then at the faint smoke rising from peaceful villages on the horizon. His heart was filled with nothing but icy despair and silent curses.
Finally, his gaze fell on Viserys, bound and shivering on another horse.
Damned fool of a king...
Do you realize you've lit the first fire that will consume the Stormlands... and burned away the last hope for the Targaryen restoration...
Tyrion sighed inwardly, his thoughts bitter and cold. Why, he wondered, must every king he served be a madman?
...
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