Chapter 15: The Gathering Storm
The news of the Tyroshi-Volantene alliance, a pact sealed in desperation and mutual ambition to crush the nascent Dragon Lord, swept through Essos like a chill wind presaging a brutal winter. Lyra's reports, delivered with her customary quiet precision, painted a grim picture of the forces arraying against Vaelyx Targaryen. In Tyrosh, the Archon, a flamboyant peacock of a man named Malerion, had leveraged the city's vast wealth to hire an unprecedented coalition of sellsword companies – the Ironhides, the Crimson Shields, even a sizable contingent of the feared Second Sons, tempted by promises of plunder and triple pay. Tyroshi shipyards glowed day and night, turning out war galleys at a feverish pace, their distinctive brightly dyed sails a bold statement of defiance. Public criers extolled the virtues of a Free Essos, rid of the "Valyrian pretender and his demonic beasts."
From Volantis, the reports were even more sobering. The Old Blood, the proud descendants of Valyria who had long considered themselves the Freehold's true heirs, were stirring with a fervor not seen in centuries. The Tiger Triarchs, now firmly in control, had mobilized the famed Volantene legions – tens of thousands of disciplined slave soldiers, their loyalty beaten into them, their ranks stiffened by noble Volantene officers on elephant-back. The Black Walls of Volantis, already formidable, were being further strengthened with newly rediscovered (or so they claimed) Valyrian engineering techniques. Red Priests of R'hllor, their influence soaring, conducted nightly rituals, calling upon their fiery god to smite the "Shadow Dragon" from the skies, their chants echoing through the temple district. Their combined fleet, it was whispered, would number over five hundred warships, a veritable armada.
This was no mere punitive expedition; it was a crusade, a holy war declared by the established powers against the existential threat Vaelyx represented. The psychological impact on Myr and Lys was palpable. Fearful whispers spread through the markets of Myr, and some of the newly subjugated Lysene Magisters began to hedge their bets, sending secret overtures to Tyrosh. Vaelyx, however, met this growing dread with an icy calm that was, in itself, terrifying.
His war council convened in the heart of Myr's Magisters' Palace, now his command center. Kaelen, his Westerosi Marshal, grimly outlined their defensive preparations. Boros, gruff and direct, reported on the Dothraki, their initial fear of the "great alliance" now being molded into a savage anticipation of battle and plunder under his brutal tutelage. Malakai, the cool-headed Chancellor, detailed the war chest – swollen with Myrish and Lysene tribute, and the profits of Valyrian Ascendant Holdings – and the logistical chains he was establishing to keep their armies supplied. Lyra presented her latest intelligence: troop numbers, fleet compositions, the names of key enemy commanders, and, most intriguingly, whispers of discord between the pragmatic, profit-driven Tyroshi sellswords and the proud, tradition-bound Volantene nobles.
"They believe numbers and old glories will grant them victory," Vaelyx stated, his pale lilac eyes sweeping over his lieutenants. The massive map of the Disputed Lands and the western coast of Essos lay spread before them. "They believe they can extinguish the flames of a new Valyria. They are mistaken." He tapped Myr. "They expect us to cower behind these walls, to be besieged and starved into submission. We will not grant them that comfort."
His strategy was audacious. He would allow the combined enemy fleet to approach Myr, to commit itself to a naval blockade. Then, he would strike, not just defensively, but with a series of devastating counter-offensives designed to cripple their naval power and sow chaos in their land forces before they could fully invest the city.
"Lyra," Vaelyx commanded, "your agents within Tyrosh and Volantis. I want their supply lines harassed, their granaries burned, their commanders plagued by doubt and misinformation. Can you arrange for key Volantene officers to receive… compelling evidence… of Tyroshi treachery? And vice versa?"
Lyra's lips curved into a faint, dangerous smile. "Consider it done, Lord Vaelyx."
Veridian, Vaelyx knew, would be invaluable in this. The jade dragon, under cover of darkness or magically induced mists, could make deep reconnaissance flights, confirming Lyra's intelligence, identifying weak points in the enemy's sprawling encampments, and even delivering… messages… to key individuals, its empathic senses allowing Vaelyx to gauge their reactions.
Myr itself was transformed into a fortress. Kaelen oversaw the strengthening of its walls, the digging of new trenches, and the placement of magically enhanced siege engines Vaelyx had designed based on Voldemort's knowledge of destructive enchantments. The Myrish Legions, now fiercely loyal to the Dragon Lord who had given them a purpose beyond slavery, drilled relentlessly alongside the Serpent's Scale veterans. The Dothraki, encamped outside the city but within its defensive perimeter, were kept on a tight leash by Boros, their savage energy directed towards constant patrols and brutal skirmishes with enemy scouts.
The combined Myrish and Lysene fleets, though outnumbered, were being refitted by Vaelyx's magically gifted artisans. He personally oversaw the enchanting of key vessels, imbuing their hulls with resilience, their ballistae with unerring accuracy, and their sails with unnatural speed. He was preparing a fiery welcome for the Tyroshi-Volantene armada.
His seven dragons were the heart of his power, the ultimate guarantors of his dominion. They were now truly colossal, their appetites immense, their elemental abilities honed to a terrifying degree. In the secret roosts overlooking Myr, Vaelyx spent hours with them, not merely training them, but communing with them through the blood bond. He flew with them, astride Vorlag or Tempest, feeling the rush of the wind, the thrum of their immense power, the world spread out beneath him like a conqueror's map.
He devised intricate aerial strategies: Vorlag and Ignis as a devastating fire-breathing vanguard; Tempest to command the storms and seas; Argentus to unleash targeted electrical destruction; Aurumel to shield his forces and disrupt enemy formations with illusions; Astra, his queen of the skies, to deliver precise, overwhelming blasts of pure energy against enemy command structures or magical threats; and Veridian, the silent hunter, to sow chaos and gather intelligence from within the enemy's own ranks.
The three moons allocated by Lyra's intelligence passed with agonizing slowness for some, with feverish preparation for Vaelyx and his commanders. The psychological warfare intensified. Vaelyx allowed captive enemy scouts to "escape," filled with terrifying (and often exaggerated) tales of his dragons' savagery and his own dark sorcery. He ensured that reports of dissent and mistrust between Tyrosh and Volantis reached the ears of their respective commanders, fanning the flames of paranoia.
On the eve of the enemy's expected arrival, Vaelyx gathered his commanders and the officers of his Myrish Legions, Serpent's Scale veterans, and Dothraki kos in the grand plaza of Myr. The shadow of his new banner – the three-headed dragon breathing its distinct flames – fell long in the torchlight.
"Soldiers of the Dragon's Horde! Warriors of Myr!" his voice, magically amplified, boomed across the assembled thousands. "The old powers of Essos, fat and decadent, consumed by their petty squabbles and their fear of change, march against us. They call us demons, pretenders, a scourge. They seek to extinguish the light of our new dawn and drag Essos back into the darkness of their corrupt rule."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over them, compelling and terrible. Tempest let out a deafening roar from the battlements above, a sound that vibrated in their very bones.
"They bring numbers. They bring steel. They bring the weight of their dying age. But we… we bring fire! We bring blood! We bring the fury of dragons reborn! We bring the dawn of a new Valyrian Empire!"
Astra, snow-white and radiant, landed gracefully beside him on the raised dais, her sapphire eyes blazing with cold light, her presence an undeniable statement of regal power. The assembled soldiers gasped, then roared their approval, a wave of fierce, almost fanatical devotion washing over the plaza.
"Tomorrow," Vaelyx declared, his voice dropping to a predatory hiss, "they will learn that the age of merchants and squabbling Magisters is over. Tomorrow, they will learn that the dragon has returned to Essos. Tomorrow, they will taste our fire, and they will break upon our fury like water upon rock! For Myr! For the Dragon Lord! For Empire!"
A thunderous roar answered him, a symphony of Dothraki war cries, Myrish battle shouts, and the disciplined cheers of his Serpent's Scale veterans. The city was a coiled serpent, ready to strike.
Vaelyx retreated to his private chambers, the adulation of his army still ringing in his ears. He felt no elation, only a cold, focused readiness. Voldemort's strategic genius analyzed every variable, every contingency. His Targaryen blood thrummed with an ancient, predatory anticipation of battle. He was on the cusp of his first great test as an empire builder. The combined might of Tyrosh and Volantis was a fearsome weapon, but he held the ultimate arms: seven living engines of destruction, an army forged in fear and loyalty, and a will of unbreakable iron.
As dawn approached, Lyra slipped into his chambers, her face grim. "Lord Vaelyx. Our outriders report the vanguard of the Volantene legions less than twenty leagues from Myr. And Captain Orzono signals from the watchtowers… sails. Hundreds of sails on the eastern horizon, bearing the banners of Tyrosh and Volantis."
The storm had arrived.
Vaelyx rose, donning his black, rune-etched armor, crafted by Myr's finest smiths under his direct magical supervision. His disguised wand felt warm in his grip. He ascended to the highest tower of the Magisters' Palace, the wind whipping his silver-gold hair. Below him, Myr was a city awake and armed. Beyond, the land and sea were stirring with the approach of his enemies.
And in the skies above, seven colossal shadows wheeled and soared, their roars a challenge to the rising sun. The battle for the Dragon's Dominion was about to begin.