Chapter 102: Looting, Fighting, Wildfire and Smoke
Grey Gallows lay smothered beneath a pall of fog. The damp white shroud clung to the jagged peaks and narrow ravines of the island, seeping into every crack and cave like a living thing.
Craghas Drahar—called the Crabfeeder—had withdrawn what remained of his host deep into those caves, sealing himself within the island's bones and refusing battle.
By 102 AC, Prince Daemon Targaryen's war had ground steadily forward. The Velaryon fleet, reinforced by ships from the Three Sisters and the Iron Islands, had seized dozens of lesser isles around Grey Gallows, closing the net. The island was isolated by sea, even if its caves still defied conquest.
Daemon's camp sprawled along the shore. At its heart rose a great pavilion of dark red velvet, embroidered in gold with the three‑headed dragon of House Targaryen. Guards, knights, and sellsails moved through it like ants in a hive.
Warships patrolled the surrounding waters without rest, while Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, wheeled overhead, his long body vanishing and reappearing in the fog with each slow beat of his wings. Dragons could burn fleets and cities—but stone tunnels and buried caverns mocked even dragonfire. For now, the assault had stalled.
Daemon broke his fast on roasted beef and thick barley stew, washing it down with sweet amber wine. Nearby, Tyland Lannister argued quietly with other lords over maps and tallies, the crackle of charcoal fires mixing with the mutter of the sea.
The tent flap opened.
Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, entered with long strides, his silver hair bound back, his face dark with anger. At his side walked Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was, her expression no less grim.
"Prince Daemon," Corlys said without preamble, "the Triarchy has raised false banners—our banners."
Daemon looked up, mildly interested.
"They sail under the silver seahorse of House Velaryon, the sigils of the Three Sisters, even the golden kraken," Corlys continued. "They are masquerading as Westerosi fleets and plundering ships bound for Braavos, Volantis, Pentos, the Summer Isles—anyone they can catch."
Rhaenys added, "We took a Tyroshi warship yesterday. The prisoners confirmed it. This is the Triarchy's doing, deliberate and calculated."
Daemon smiled faintly as he cut into his meat. "How inventive of them."
Corlys scowled. "This is no jest. The Archon of Volantis and the Sealord of Braavos ignored the Triarchy's pleas for aid. Now they mean to force the Free Cities to act by choking the Narrow Sea. If the Free Cities intervene, the Iron Throne may be pressured into a truce."
He gestured sharply at the map table. "Trade is already bleeding. Braavosi purple sails, Pentoshi spice cogs, Summer Island swan ships—none are spared."
Daemon drained his cup and shrugged. "If Braavos and Volantis are angry, they can take it out on the Triarchy. Why should that concern the Iron Throne?"
"Their governors know they cannot defeat dragons," Daemon went on coolly. "So they hide, lie, and steal."
It was true enough. Triarchy warships no longer dared challenge dragons in open waters. Scorpions and archers were little defense against fire from the sky. Instead, the enemy fleet had turned pirate, striking soft targets and fleeing before retaliation could come.
Corlys stood over the map, his shadow falling across the Stepstones and the Disputed Lands beyond. "We already hold more than half the islands. Dorne is pinned westward by the Stormlands and the Reach. The Triarchy knows its defeat is certain—so it seeks to muddy the waters before we can finish this."
Daemon rested one hand on the table's edge. "Let them muddy it."
Corlys hesitated. "We should write to King's Landing. Prince Viserys and the small council must warn the Sealord and the Archon that this is a Triarchy ruse. If King Jaehaerys himself were to write—"
"No," Daemon said lightly. "There is no need to trouble my grandsire, nor my brother."
Corlys and Rhaenys both looked at him sharply.
Daemon's eyes gleamed. "Order our fleets to fly the Triarchy's banners. Let us plunder the same routes."
Silence fell.
Rhaenys frowned. "That would anger every neutral power in the Narrow Sea."
"They will blame the Triarchy—or us," Daemon replied with a laugh. "Either way, the Stepstones become a graveyard for trade. Within a month, no sane captain will sail these waters."
Corlys inhaled sharply. "That risks drawing Braavos or Volantis into the war."
"Braavos was founded by men fleeing dragons," Daemon said. "They will not face them now for Tyroshi coin. And Volantis is proud, not suicidal."
Corlys changed tack. "Then end the war quickly. Craghas is trapped. Take Grey Gallows, kill the Crabfeeder, and the Triarchy will fold."
Daemon met his gaze. "Craghas hides in stone like a rat. Killing him will not be simple."
"Send the Ironborn and the Sistermen into the caves," Corlys said evenly. "Numbers will tell."
Daemon almost laughed. He knew the Sea Snake's thinking well enough—better the pirates bleed each other dry. "And waste men for nothing? No."
They stood later upon a low rise overlooking the fog‑choked valleys.
"Some 'Crabfeeder,'" Daemon said dryly. "He should be called the Turtle instead."
Grey Gallows had once been a place of horror, captives nailed to stakes for the crabs. Even now, the beaches crawled with them, returning with every tide.
Daemon gave a sharp clap of his hands.
Men hauled timber into the valley mouth and stacked it high. A moment later, robed alchemists of King's Landing appeared, directing soldiers bearing sealed ceramic jars. Thick green wildfire sloshed over the wood.
Corlys swore under his breath. "Wildfire. Gods help us all."
With a thunder of wings, Caraxes descended through the fog.
"Dracarys," Daemon commanded in High Valyrian.
Dragonfire met wildfire.
Green flame roared skyward, tearing the mist apart. Smoke followed—thick, choking, relentless—rolling into the caves like a living tide. Men inside screamed and coughed; some never rose again. Others fled deeper, hanging soaked blankets at tunnel mouths to survive.
Craghas Drahar raged within the stone, losing hundreds and gaining nothing.
For days Daemon repeated the assault—fire, smoke, horns, drums—until the defenders grew numb to it.
On the seventh day, when the smoke thinned and the enemy's guard slackened, Daemon struck.
With Lord Roderick Dustin, northmen, Ironborn reavers, hounds, and picked men at his back, the Prince of the City burst into the caves like a wraith.
Dark Sister flashed in the torchlight, Valyrian steel shearing mail and bone alike. Blood steamed on stone. Hounds tore at throats. Screams echoed endlessly through the dark.
The caves of Grey Gallows became a slaughterhouse—and at last, the Crabfeeder's shell began to crack.
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