Loren Lannister was not a man to leave gold on the table—or ships in the water.
Under his command, the twenty Lannister warships moved like a wolf pack circling a wounded stag. The Tyroshian fleet, once fifty strong, had been decimated. Vhagar's initial dives had broken their spirit, and the relentless barrage of Lannister ballistae and fire-pots had broken their hulls. Only twelve Tyroshian vessels remained intact, though they were little more than converted cogs.
"Hold your fire!" Loren bellowed over the roar of the sea. "Prepare boarding parties. Those twelve hulls belong to the Stepstones now. I want them floating and I want them manned!"
A series of dull, rhythmic bugle blasts signaled the shift in tactics. High above, Aemond Targaryen heard the horn and pulled sharply on Vhagar's reins. The ancient dragon banked, her massive wings creating a sonic boom that sent a localized gale screaming across the water, tilting the very ships Loren was trying to capture.
Aemond didn't stay to watch the prize-taking. His mission had a second phase: the Highlands. He banked Vhagar toward the interior of Tyrosh Island.
The Lango Highlands
On the plateau, the three pillars of the rebellion—Hidolf, Spartacus, and Kress—were locked in a heated debate. The scent of victory from the afternoon's surrenders was sweet, but the fear of a Tyroshian counter-offensive hung heavy.
A low, tectonic rumble rolled through the night sky. It wasn't thunder; it was the sound of a god breathing.
Hidolf stood up, a triumphant smile breaking through his weary grime. "You asked what I bought with our silence in Dragonstone?" He pointed toward the stars as the gargantuan silhouette of Vhagar blotted out the moon. "Behold: The Dragon's Protection."
Spartacus, the scarred warrior of the pits, narrowed his eyes. "At what cost, Hidolf? Did you trade the freedom we bled for just to have a bigger master?"
"It is freedom, Spartacus, but freedom with a roof," Hidolf countered. "Aegon provides the steel, the grain, and the land. We provide the fire that burns the slave-owners. He wants the Disputed Lands—Tyrosh, Myr, Lys. He needs a population to farm them, to craft for them, and to fight for them. Why shouldn't that population be us?"
"And if he turns on us?"
"Then we are no worse off than we were in the pits. But for now, the 'Dragon King' is the only thing standing between us and a Tyroshian cross."
Boom—
The earth shuddered as Vhagar landed on a nearby ridge. The sheer displacement of air sent dust and grit flying over the rebel camp. The dragon let out a window-shaking roar, her pale green eyes reflecting the campfires like twin emerald suns.
The rebels recoiled. They remembered this beast from the night the city burned. She was a mountain of scales and old scars, a relic of a more violent age.
Hidolf stepped forward, cupping his hands. "Welcome, Prince Aemond Targaryen! I am Hidolf Heidel! I trust your brother spoke of our arrangement?"
High in the saddle, Aemond looked down at the "Rebel Army." His violet eyes swept over the ragged, half-starved men, the mismatched armor, and the stench of the unwashed masses. A flash of pure aristocratic contempt crossed his face. To a prince of the blood, these weren't soldiers or allies; they were vermin that had crawled out from under a rock.
Vhagar, sensitive to her rider's mood, let out a low hiss. A glow of orange heat began to pool in the back of her throat, her teeth bared in a snarl of primal disgust.
"Easy, Vhagar," Aemond murmured, patting the dragon's neck with cold indifference. "Calm yourself. We shall let them feed you first. Then, we go to teach these Tyroshian curs the price of defying a Targaryen."
Aemond didn't spare Hidolf a second glance. He gestured toward the heaps of Tyroshian corpses at the foot of the hill—the harvest of the day's skirmish. Vhagar's head turned toward the meat, her hunger momentarily overriding her disdain. For the dragon and the Prince, the rebels were merely the help; the real work was yet to begin.
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