Daeron walked away without another word.
He had people to round up and a flawless dragon-egg heist to plan.
It might completely trash the deal he'd just made with Rhaegar, but it was going to be perfect.
Rhaegar stayed behind in the garden, letting the salty sea wind whip through his silver hair.
He had just flat-out refused his father's ridiculous order to hand over the ten thousand Dornish spears.
His whole goal now was to drag this war out as long as humanly possible.
The "stall" strategy had been Prince Doran's idea.
Daeron was simply too strong—dragons, army, momentum. Crushing the rebellion would be child's play for him.
But Doran was a cold-eyed investor. He could already see the coming friction between Daeron and the Lannisters and Tyrells.
Rhaegar and House Martell had the exact same problem.
Before the Harrenhal tourney, Rhaegar had a real shot at sidelining Aerys through a Great Council and taking real power.
Then Lyanna happened and blew everything up.
Now he was stuck leaning on Dorne again.
Doran had laid it out plainly:
Aerys was too stingy and jealous to let Daeron keep stacking glory forever. He'd start blocking him soon.
So the plan was simple.
If Daeron marched to war, Rhaegar marched too.
If Daeron sat on his hands, Rhaegar sat on his.
Either way, the eldest son stayed in the picture. Primogeniture was still a mountain no lord could ignore.
Just like the Great Council of 101 AC—when the lords chose the older male heir, Viserys, even though the "Wandering Prince" Daemon had no dragon and Rhaenys already rode one.
Age and gender still mattered more than dragons to most of Westeros.
"Buy time," Rhaegar whispered to the wind. "Buy time until little Aegon is born… until we have the eggs."
His pride hated the tactic.
But he couldn't deny it was working.
Half a month later.
A raven flew from Dragonstone to King's Landing carrying Rhaegar's message: Dorne is ready—prepare the raid.
Maester Aemon read it, face tight with worry.
He couldn't stop it.
He couldn't even warn Daeron.
Because by the time the letter arrived, Daeron was already sailing for Gulltown.
Gulltown.
The harbor sat inside a deep triangular bay between towering cliffs—an ice-free port year-round.
Dozens of longships now packed the water.
At the front flew the banners of the seahorse, red crab, burning tower, and golden kraken.
"Charge! Take back Gulltown!!"
Victarion Greyjoy stood on the deck of Iron Kraken in full plate, the first man to leap ashore.
After half a year of rebuilding, the Iron Fleet was back up to thirty longships.
The second they got Daeron's order they'd raised sail, slipped through the pirate-infested Stepstones, and hit Gulltown like a hammer.
"This is the Iron Islands' first step back to glory," Victarion roared. "I'll earn the prince's favor and make the Iron Fleet feared again!"
He stormed up the docks like a walking iron tower, smashing anyone in his path.
Gulltown had no walls—only light defenses.
The fleet had come out of nowhere, shattered the bay blockade, and was already in the city's guts.
Bells started ringing. Doors slammed shut.
People barricaded themselves inside.
"Hold them! Kill the Iron Throne's dogs!"
The Vale garrison rushed out to meet the landing force.
A streak of red fire split the sky.
Caraxes's molten-gold eyes locked on the defenders. One blast of dragonflame turned the front line into screaming torches.
Daeron scanned the city from above, spotted the main garrison barracks, and dove.
"Dracarys!"
Tessarion and Toothless followed right behind their father and big brother, pouring blue and black fire wherever Caraxes struck.
No riders—Daeron had trained them to copy the red dragon. Simple.
"Hahaha! The Vale men are nothing in front of dragons!" Victarion bellowed, completely forgetting how badly he'd been burned the last time.
Fighting with dragons was just pure fun.
Lords Rosby and Adrian came ashore right behind him, leading their troops to sweep the docks and lock down the port.
When Daeron invited them they'd nearly tripped over themselves accepting.
The Three Sisters and Gulltown had once banded together as the Guardians of the Throat to fight pirates.
Robert had shattered that alliance when he took Gulltown.
Now the prince was giving them a chance to rebuild it—and put themselves directly under his banner.
The future looked bright.
"Dracarys, Caraxes!"
The red dragon wheeled overhead, hosing the remaining Vale soldiers with liquid fire.
Jon Arryn really was an old fool—leaving only a thousand men to hold a city this important.
"Scared he'd weaken his main army too much?" Daeron muttered.
He could already see the Vale was full of factions. Not everything went through Jon Arryn.
He was here to retake Gulltown and rebuild the Throat Guardians.
Ever since the Iron Islands campaign he'd realized how perfectly dragons and a navy went together.
Problem was, the royal fleet belonged to Rhaegar.
The Redwyne and Shield Islands fleets answered to Highgarden.
The only real naval force Daeron controlled was the rebuilt Iron Fleet.
That wasn't enough.
"To hit Pentos I'll need at least a hundred ships."
The second he left Rhaegar in the garden he'd decided: screw the partnership.
Why split three dragon eggs when he could take all of them himself?
Rhaegar could still create the perfect excuse.
Daeron would supply the dragons and the fleet.
Winner takes all.
"Keep your royal ships in port collecting barnacles," Daeron thought with a cold smile. "I'll handle this."
"Dracarys!"
Caraxes screamed and poured even hotter flame, burning the last of the defenders out of their armor.
Minutes later Gulltown belonged to the prince again.
Lord Rosby reported the numbers. "One thousand two hundred Vale men—six hundred fifty dead, four hundred captured. The rest jumped into the sea."
Daeron nodded. "Calculate House Grafton's losses. How much wealth is still here?"
Robert had looted the city, then Jon Arryn picked it clean.
Thank the gods Daeron had warned Lord Grafton months earlier—he'd moved most of his gold before the rebels arrived.
Moments later Lord Grafton came running, tears streaming down his face, thanking Daeron over and over.
"My lord, you stayed loyal to House Targaryen," Daeron said, helping the man up. "House Targaryen does not abandon its own.
From today forward, you are Lord of Gulltown again."
Grafton wiped his eyes, gratitude turning to burning hatred for Jon Arryn.
Daeron didn't waste time. "My lord, I need a strong fleet. I cannot do this without House Grafton."
"Leave it to me, Prince," Grafton answered at once.
Gulltown lived on trade, not warships—but that didn't mean they were helpless.
The Graftons had contacts with captains all over the Narrow Sea. They could buy ships fast.
Daeron accepted everything.
He'd already ordered Davos to raise thirty-five hundred Stormlands troops.
As soon as the new ships were ready, they would sail straight for Pentos.
Sunspear.
Prince Doran sat on his balcony watching the sunset, mind turning slowly.
Three dragon eggs in Pentos.
A gift from the gods.
Even if they were stone, they were still dragon eggs.
What if they could be woken?
"The Braavosi fleet has already sailed," he murmured. "They'll be ambushed by pirates the moment they leave Pentos."
A flicker of regret crossed his face, then vanished.
The magisters of Pentos were greedy fools who'd sell their own mothers for profit.
Through Oberyn's letters he'd learned one magister owed massive debts and was about to lose his head.
After Rhaegar and Lyanna's little adventure, Oberyn had gone east, joined a free company, and thrown himself into the Stepstones fighting.
According to Oberyn, that particular Pentoshi magister was in bed with a Lysene colleague. The Lyseni kept huge pirate fleets and raided anyone they wanted.
The Pentoshi fed them targets, then they split the loot.
Doran's own ships were the bait.
"I've already bought several other magisters," he said softly. "Even if the Prince of Pentos wants to complain, no one will listen."
Changing princes in Pentos was as easy as changing socks.
Ten days later. Night.
The great lighthouse of Pentos burned bright, guiding ships into the huge bay.
Only eighteen warships guarded the harbor. Less than a thousand soldiers.
That was the price of losing to Braavos—treaties limiting their navy, banning sellswords, capping their army at city guards.
Even though Pentos was filthy rich, everyone still called it the weakest of the Free Cities.
Boom—
A sudden gale howled across the water. The lighthouse flames whipped and danced.
"Huh? Wind's picking up. Rain coming?"
The lookout shivered and looked up.
Why did the wind smell like sulfur?
The firelight painted the black sky red.
A massive crimson shape appeared silently above the harbor, wings spread wide enough to eclipse the entire lighthouse.
The lookout's brain simply stopped working.
Daeron sat high on Caraxes's back, glanced back at the two fleets in the bay, and smiled.
"Dracarys."
"Skreeeee—!"
Caraxes's molten-gold eyes filled with savage joy. His jaws opened and a river of flame swallowed the lighthouse whole.
In seconds the entire Pentos waterfront was on fire.
"Up there! Look up there!"
Soldiers screamed as the red dragon blotted out the stars.
Another blast of dragonflame rained down and turned them into living torches.
Daeron's voice was ice. "Into the city, Caraxes."
The dragon screamed, raked flame across every ship in the harbor, and soared straight over the massive walls Pentos was so proud of.
Walls meant nothing to a dragon.
BOOM!
The city gates exploded outward in a storm of red fire.
Stannis Baratheon, coming ashore with the troops, froze and stared.
If he hadn't surrendered at Storm's End… that could have been his gate.
He swallowed hard, then bellowed, "Follow me! I know exactly where Illyrio's manse is!"
Bells rang wildly.
The waterfront blazed.
The gates were gone.
Pentos fell into pure panic.
"Skreeeee—!"
Caraxes flew low along the streets, burning every soldier and slave who tried to stand in his way.
Behind him, Daeron's men poured through the shattered gates and began a house-by-house sweep.
Fifteen minutes later they had Illyrio's estate surrounded.
"Come out, little eggs," Daeron murmured, guiding Caraxes down. "Your father's here."
Somewhere in the city, Magister Ordello woke from a nightmare, ran to his balcony, and saw the western half of Pentos burning.
"What the—?! I only sent the message to Sunspear this morning! The Dragon Prince is already here?!"
He wiped sweat from his face, terrified.
"Dragonriders really don't play by normal rules… I need to disappear."
He was one of the magisters Doran had bought.
The Dornish decoy fleet had only been hit that afternoon. Word had gone out at sunset.
And the Targaryen prince had flown straight here.
Ordello sprinted for the back door.
"Good luck, old friend Illyrio," he muttered. "You're on your own."