I have never read Game of Thrones, but two weeks ago on the show, those two captive dragons fully scarfed down a flaming dude. They peeled him back like pepperoni, and I was so shocked that I started crunching numbers. If you had three teenage dragons that were flying amok and toasting shepherd children, how would you bring them to heel?
The answer, sad and cruel though it may be, is clearly the only way to leverage the power of these airborne death lizards: dragon crack.
So far in the show we’ve seen napalm (“wildfire”) and opiates (“milk of the poppy”). Are medieval stimulants really such a stretch? Some bent maester could emerge from his lab holding aloft the product of his marathon toil. He’d hasten to an impromptu audience with Daenerys Targaryen, whose eyes would narrow as she listened.
I envision the pipe as a permanent military facility set into the top of a large hill and run by a squad of 50, “The Devil’s Bellows.” They bring the dragon crack up through tunnels from the scullery deep below and stoke an undying fire in shifts like oarsmen.
When the winged fiends alight, having duly roasted a rival army, a cry goes up and all hands man stations. The chamber is filled with bundles of long blue-hued crystal and the flame unfurls huge curtains of smoke.
Weary and gaunt, the dragons know the drill. They twitch and cough until the first column of smoke is hoovered up. Then they wheeze with delight and take off, haphazardly zagging their way to a distant eyre to play dragon word games and count their digits until the lever of addiction drives them once again to war.
Dark, I know, but I’m open to other ideas.