Pentos.
A city on the far side of the Narrow Sea, staring straight across at King's Landing—one of the nine Free Cities.
Pentos was ruled by forty magisters who picked a puppet prince. Lose a war or get hit by disaster? Slit the prince's throat and elect a new one.
It used to be a slave city until Braavos smashed them and forced them to outlaw slavery. They switched to feudalism on paper.
But the nobles' greed never died. Slavery still thrived in everything but name.
Illyrio's manse.
"The war in the Seven Kingdoms is almost over," Illyrio said, standing on the balcony with a raven perched on his left arm. He flipped the letter open with one hand.
He was still young and powerfully built back then—no giant belly yet, just broad shoulders and a straight back.
"Two Targaryen princes fighting over the throne. One eldest son with no dragon, one second son with three. Beautiful. Truly beautiful."
Illyrio stroked his beard, a greedy merchant's smile spreading across his face.
He'd started as a sellsword, made his fortune trading, and clawed his way up until he was one of the real powers behind the throne of Pentos.
Kill, eat, make others kill so you can eat better. That was his life story.
Investing in the Blackfyres and eyeing the Iron Throne? That was his master plan to climb even higher.
He weighed the letter. "Should I gift those three petrified dragon eggs to Rhaegar Targaryen? Get close to him?"
The war wasn't finished yet, but Robert's rebels were already finished. No point backing the losing side.
Better to support one of the princes, slip Blackfyre blood into the Targaryen line, and wait a generation or two for the right moment.
Rhaegar's daughter Rhaenys was the perfect target. Whoever married her would have dragon blood in their kids for sure.
"Prince Daeron Targaryen is too young and way too wild," Illyrio muttered. "Blindly investing in him would be suicide."
He preferred Rhaegar.
First, Rhaegar already had children—primogeniture was on his side.
Second, Daeron was still unmarried, and the Blackfyres didn't have a daughter old enough to offer him.
From an outsider's view, Daeron's marriage would probably stay inside the Targaryen family anyway.
No marriage alliance meant no blood tie. Illyrio wasn't stupid enough to invest without insurance.
Rhaegar was safer.
He had a daughter. Another child on the way at Dragonstone.
Even if Rhaegar never took the Iron Throne, backing him against Daeron would keep the Targaryens tearing each other apart. Win-win.
And if the brothers destroyed each other… the Blackfyres could stroll right in.
"Giving him the three eggs costs me nothing—he can't hatch them anyway," Illyrio decided. "It'll build goodwill."
He paused. "But Varys warned me both Targaryen brothers are watching Pentos. Can't look too eager. That would be obvious."
He and Varys were old friends and political partners. Restoring the Blackfyre line was their shared dream.
A young servant hurried up and whispered in his ear.
Illyrio's face twisted in fury. "Damn those Triarchy pirates! They're fighting over the Stepstones and now the whole Summer Sea is crawling with every cutthroat in the world!"
Another one of his ships to Volantis had been taken.
Two whole chests of gold and silver—gone.
"Prepare another gift," he snarled. "I need that Yi Ti wizard here no matter what."
Since the red comet appeared, magic was waking up everywhere.
The warlocks of Yi Ti were famous—fortune-telling, medicine, astronomy. Real all-rounders.
Best part? They didn't reek of the same rotten, twisted evil as the Asshai'i or the red priests.
His wife Syra had died of a fever.
If he'd had a Yi Ti healer back then, maybe she'd still be alive.
Illyrio slipped his hand into his pocket and closed his fingers around the cool finger bone he always carried.
"Waaaah—waaaah!"
A baby's cry suddenly echoed from the bedchamber.
The servant froze, thinking he'd misheard.
"Die!"
Illyrio exploded. His eyes turned bloodshot, muscles bulging as he slammed his fist into the back of the servant's skull.
Crunch.
The man dropped dead on the spot, nose and mouth pouring blood.
"Too bad for you," Illyrio panted, stepping over the corpse. "He can't be seen."
He pushed open the door to the lavish bedroom.
King's Landing.
Daeron had been summoned by his father and was almost at the royal bedchamber when Rhaegar stepped out.
The brothers locked eyes for a second, gave each other the tiniest nod, and kept walking—no words.
Bang.
Daeron entered and found Aerys looking like death—huge dark circles under his eyes.
Aerys had been losing sleep for weeks. His voice was hoarse. "Tywin lost again. I sent Barristan and Jon Darry to the Riverlands to help him command the army."
Daeron nodded, eyes flicking to the purple shoes on his father's feet.
Those fairy boots were no joke. The old man was exhausted but still sane.
Aerys suddenly exploded. "I ordered Rhaegar to lead the Dornish spears north and crush the rebels—and that ungrateful bastard dared to disobey me!"
Daeron stayed silent.
Aerys kept ranting, calling Rhaegar every name under the sun—no king, no father, total disgrace.
"You're right," Daeron said flatly.
Finally Aerys got to the point.
He'd tried to pull the ten-thousand-strong Dornish force away from Rhaegar. Rhaegar refused—not just for himself, but he also blocked Prince Lewyn from taking command and marching.
"Victory is right in front of us! What the hell is he trying to do by defying me now?!"
Aerys roared.
Daeron frowned, turning the move over in his head.
Keeping the war going helped him, so he hadn't volunteered to march either.
His father pulling Barristan and Jon Darry away was basically a quiet order for Daeron to stay out of the fighting and stop stacking more glory.
With Barristan gone, control of the Red Keep's patrols went straight back to Ser Gerold Hightower.
Daeron had pretended not to notice.
He was busy anyway—building up his fief. He'd started expanding southwest from the Hall of Plenty, naming the new town "Dairy Town" in honor of his Stardew panel.
Twenty-three thousand people already lived there—locals from the old villages, refugees from the Kingswood, a few thousand King's Landing orphans, and the families of his eight hundred Dragon Guards.
He'd built two water-powered mills and a textile loom on the Blackwater. Workdays were shorter, so people had time to clear more farmland, raise livestock, fish, and log.
The construction was going full speed.
He had zero interest in his father's clumsy political games.
"But Rhaegar refusing to fight and missing out on glory… that's new," Daeron thought. A flicker of an idea came and vanished.
This didn't feel like Rhaegar's usual style.
"Someone smart must be advising him."
Daeron's guess: Prince Doran Martell.
"Boy!" Aerys barked, switching moods again. "I'm ordering you to march north and crush the rebels. Will you go?"
"I will," Daeron answered calmly.
"But Rhaegar won't!" Aerys howled.
Daeron shrugged. "Then I'll go."
"No!" Aerys snapped, face flushing with embarrassment. "Go back to your lands and keep those Stormlander traitors in line. Don't let them rise again."
Daeron rolled his eyes internally and left.
I offer and you say no. Classic.
He hadn't gone far when Ser Arthur Dayne stepped out.
"Prince."
"Ser Arthur?" Daeron raised an eyebrow. "Waiting for me?"
Since Rhaegar came of age, the seven Kingsguard had finally all gathered in the Red Keep.
Barristan and Jon Darry had just left.
Arthur's voice was serious. "Prince Rhaegar wishes to speak with you."
In the lush royal gardens behind the Red Keep, Daeron found his brother waiting.
"Daeron," Rhaegar said the second he arrived, "I have a cooperation proposal for you."
He got straight to it—three dragon eggs in Pentos, currently held by Magister Illyrio, who was tied to the Blackfyre remnants.
Normal diplomacy wouldn't work.
Only one option: take them by force.
Rhaegar's plan was simple. "You bring the dragons. I control the royal fleet. We hit Pentos together, raid Illyrio's manse, and grab the eggs."
Daeron stared at him for a long second.
Big brother… we're still in the middle of a civil war. The rebel armies are still fighting in the Riverlands.
You want to randomly attack a Free City right now? That's how you get every sellsword company in the world hired against us.
"We won't do it blindly," Rhaegar said, reading his face. "I'll create a legitimate pretext. We strike fast, take the eggs, and leave."
Daeron's eyes widened. So that's how you want to play it.
"I also found traces of the Golden Company," Rhaegar added, laying everything on the table. "They're hiding well, but they're connected to the Blackfyres."
Once they had the eggs, Daeron could pick first—one for him, two for Rhaegar.
Reason: Daeron already had three living dragons.
To make it fair, Rhaegar would let Daeron keep every coin looted from Pentos after the fleet's costs were covered.
"You really have a plan?" Daeron asked, suddenly serious.
Rhaegar smiled faintly. "I've already spoken with Prince Doran. It won't be a problem."
"I'll wait for your signal," Daeron said.
If Rhaegar handled the politics and the excuse, Daeron could just show up with the dragons. Easy.
As for splitting the eggs—
I'll divide them after I have them in my hands.
If I don't get them, there's nothing to divide.
The strong get to bully the weak. That's just how it is.