Chapter 22: The Westward Tide of Fire
The Emperor Vaelyx Targaryen's edict, proclaiming the Great Western Crusade, rippled across his Essosi dominion like the beat of colossal wings. From the newly subjugated pleasure houses of Lys to the smoking forges of Tyrosh, from the bustling markets of Myr to the terrified silence of Yunkai and the ashes of Astapor, the demand went out: ships, soldiers, gold, grain. The nascent Valyrian Dominion, built on fear and fire, was to fuel a war an ocean away, a war to reclaim a birthright most of its subjects had only heard of in frightened whispers.
The Great Muster was a logistical marvel orchestrated by Grand Exchequer Malakai, whose ledgers now tracked the wealth of half a continent. Fleets that had once warred against each other now sailed under Vaelyx's three-headed dragon banner. Myrish shipwrights, their skills honed by generations of naval craftsmanship and now augmented by Vaelyx's Valyrian-inspired designs and subtle enchantments, worked feverishly alongside conscripted Tyroshi and Lysene artisans to refit and construct a vast armada. War galleys, troop transports, supply cogs – hundreds of vessels began to gather in the newly fortified harbors of Myr and Tyrosh, forming the backbone of the Dragon Fleet. Grand Admiral Orzono, the once-reluctant Tyroshi captain, now a grizzled and deeply pragmatic servant of the Dragon Lord, oversaw their assembly with a ruthless efficiency born of terror and grudging respect.
The army Vaelyx intended to unleash upon Westeros was a terrifying tapestry woven from the disparate threads of his conquests. At its core were the ten thousand Astapori Unsullied, the Aegis Guard, under their stoic commander Valerion – a wall of spear and shield, their loyalty absolute, their discipline chilling. Alongside them marched the twenty thousand strong Myrish Legions, equipped with superior steel from their city's revitalized forges, their ranks stiffened by Serpent's Scale veterans. Ser Damon Sand's Golden Company, now five thousand strong and eager to prove their new allegiance (and win new glories), formed an elite heavy infantry reserve. From Norvos came three thousand of their famed Bearded Axemen, their priests chanting grim blessings for the Dragon Lord. Qohor had delivered its tithe of one thousand Unsullied, who were swiftly integrated into the Aegis Guard. And from the vast plains, Boros, Great Shepherd of the Dragon's Horde, brought a handpicked force of twenty thousand Dothraki screamers – not the entirety of his dominion, but its fiercest, most mobile warriors, their savagery now reluctantly yoked to Vaelyx's strategic vision. In total, nearly sixty thousand fighting men, a force of daunting diversity and proven lethality.
Before his departure, Vaelyx formalized the governance of his Essosi territories. In a grand, chilling ceremony held in the central plaza of Myr, before the assembled legions and terrified Myrish populace, he invested Kaelen, his loyal Westerosi Marshal, as Lord Regent of the Valyrian Dominion of Essos. Kaelen, his weathered face grim, knelt and swore oaths of fealty, oaths Vaelyx subtly reinforced with a binding magical compulsion woven into the Valyrian steel circlet placed upon his brow. A council of Essosi governors – carefully selected Myrish Magisters, a new Archon of Tyrosh whose family resided as "honored guests" in Myr, and a terrified Lysene representative – would nominally advise Kaelen, but his authority, backed by significant garrison forces and the ever-present threat of Vaelyx's return, would be absolute. Malakai would remain for a time, ensuring the uninterrupted flow of resources from Essos to fund the Westerosi campaign, his network of Valyrian Ascendant Holdings now the economic lifeblood of an intercontinental war.
The strategic planning for the invasion of Westeros took place in Vaelyx's war council, held aboard his new flagship, a colossal dromond captured from Volantis and refitted in Myr, now christened "New Valyria." Its black sails bore his imperial sigil, and its reinforced decks were designed to withstand the heat and impact of dragon landings, should the need arise.
Lyra, her intelligence network now truly spanning the known world, presented the latest from Westeros. "Robert Baratheon has been crowned King in the ashes of the Red Keep, my Emperor. He holds King's Landing, the Stormlands, and has the support of the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands, primarily through his alliances with Eddard Stark and Jon Arryn. Lord Tywin Lannister, despite sacking King's Landing and murdering your kin, has bent the knee to Robert, his daughter Cersei now queen – a marriage of convenience for both, I suspect. Stannis Baratheon, Robert's dour brother, has besieged Dragonstone, where some Targaryen loyalists and, it is whispered, your young cousins Viserys and Daenerys, had fled. The Royal Fleet was largely destroyed or scattered during the war."
Her most crucial piece of intelligence concerned Dorne. "The Martells are… incensed, my Emperor. The murder of Princess Elia and her children by Lannister men, under what they perceive as Robert's tacit approval, has bred a deep and bitter hatred. Prince Doran Martell makes public shows of fealty to Robert, but Dorne seethes with resentment. They would welcome any who offer vengeance against the Lannisters and the Usurper."
"Dorne, then," Vaelyx declared, his finger tapping the southernmost region of the map of Westeros. "It is strategically sound. A southern landing, away from Robert's main power bases in the Crownlands and Stormlands. It offers a secure beachhead, potential allies, and a direct route into the Reach, the breadbasket of Westeros. We will bleed the Usurper from the south."
His initial objectives were clear: secure a major Dornish port – Sunspear itself if feasible, or a lesser coastal fortress like Starfall or the Tor. Rally the Dornish lords to his banner, willingly or through coercion. Then, with a secure base and local allies, begin the systematic conquest of the Seven Kingdoms. Grand Admiral Orzono confirmed that the Redwyne fleet, based in the Arbor, would be their primary naval opposition in the south, but Vaelyx was confident his dragons could neutralize that threat.
His seven dragons, his ultimate argument, were now truly magnificent creatures, their size rivaling the legendary dragons of old. Vorlag, Ignis, and Tempest were mountains of scaled fury. Argentus and Aurumel wielded elemental power with terrifying grace. Astra, his snow-white queen, possessed an almost divine majesty. And Veridian, the jade hunter, was a silent, lethal enigma. They had feasted well on the spoils of Essos, their strength and magical potency at their zenith. Transporting them across the Narrow Sea would be a challenge, but Vaelyx had designed specialized, open-topped barges and wide-decked transports within his fleet, though he knew the dragons would spend much of the journey soaring alongside, impatient for new lands to conquer. Their presence alone would be a weapon of psychological warfare against the unsuspecting Westerosi.
On the eve of departure, the Dragon Fleet assembled in the vast harbor of Tyrosh, its newly subjugated shipyards now serving their conqueror. Hundreds of warships, transports, and supply cogs stretched as far as the eye could see, a forest of black sails bearing the red, gold, and stormy blue flames of Vaelyx's three-headed dragon. The combined armies of his Essosi empire, nearly sixty thousand strong, were arrayed on the shores, a terrifying sea of diverse warriors united only by their fear and awe of the Dragon Lord.
Vaelyx Targaryen, clad in new armor of gleaming black steel, intricately etched with Valyrian runes that seemed to drink the light, addressed his expeditionary force from the deck of "New Valyria." His voice, amplified by magic, carried across the assembled throng.
"Soldiers of the Valyrian Dominion! Warriors of Essos!" he began, his pale lilac eyes blazing with an inner fire. "You have followed me through the ashes of Myr and the silks of Lys. You have tasted victory in Dragon's Bay and seen the pride of Volantis humbled. You have forged an empire with your blood and steel, under the wings of my children!"
He gestured to the skies. On cue, his seven dragons descended, their combined roars a deafening symphony of power that shook the very foundations of Tyrosh. They landed on the specially prepared stone breakwaters and reinforced sections of the harbor, their colossal forms dwarfing the ships, their eyes like molten jewels fixed upon their master. The assembled army, even his hardened veterans, felt a fresh wave of terror and exultation.
"Now," Vaelyx continued, his voice cutting through the awed silence, "we turn our gaze westward! Across the Narrow Sea lies a kingdom stolen, a birthright denied! Westeros, the land of my ancestors, languishes under the heel of a Usurper, a drunken brute who sits a throne stained with the innocent blood of my House! They call themselves lions, stags, wolves, and falcons. They have forgotten the meaning of the Dragon!"
He drew the Valyrian steel dagger he had found in the ruins of its namesake, its dark ripples catching the light. "I go to reclaim what is mine! I go to unleash a storm of fire and blood upon those who have wronged me, upon those who have forgotten true power! You, who have served me faithfully in Essos, will be the instruments of my vengeance, the founders of a new, greater empire that will span both continents! Westeros offers spoils beyond your imagining – fertile lands, ancient castles, a new world to carve your legends upon! Serve me well in this Great Western Crusade, and your names will be sung by poets for a thousand years! Defy me, or falter, and my dragons will ensure your names are forgotten even by the worms that feast upon your bones!"
His gaze hardened, becoming chips of violet ice. "We sail to bring the dawn of a true Targaryen restoration! We sail to remind the Seven Kingdoms that only one sigil truly matters! We sail to burn out the rot and forge a new world from its ashes! For the Empire! For the Seven Flames! For Vaelyx Targaryen, your Emperor and rightful King!"
A single, unified roar erupted from sixty thousand throats, a sound that even the dragons seemed to answer, their own bellows a promise of the devastation to come.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, bloody shadows across the assembled armada, the order was given. Anchors were weighed, sails unfurled. The Dragon Fleet, a westward tide of fire and ambition, began to move, exiting the harbor of Tyrosh and turning its prows towards the setting sun, towards the shores of Westeros.
Vaelyx Targaryen stood on the forecastle of "New Valyria," the sea wind whipping his silver-gold hair. His seven dragons, like dark constellations, took to the skies, their forms silhouetted against the dying light. Essos, his first empire, lay behind him, a testament to his power. Westeros, his birthright, lay before him, ripe for conquest. The Great Western Crusade had begun, and the world would tremble.