The red dragon and its silver-haired rider burst through the clouds. Victarion's men mistook the bronze dragon for Daeron's at first. They had never seen dragons up close before.
Rodrik Greyjoy stared up with his mouth hanging open. The sheer size of Valar hit him like a hammer. Ironborn grew up hearing stories about dragons, but seeing one in the sky breathing fire was something else entirely.
Victarion didn't waste time staring. He rallied his ships and turned the fight around the second he realized help had arrived.
"Dragonfire!"
Jaehaerys gave the order and Valar dove, bathing a cluster of New Ghis archers in bronze-gold flames. The men screamed as the fire stuck to their armor and skin.
The tide flipped fast. The ironborn went from fighting for their lives to chasing a broken fleet.
Daeron watched the enemy ships scatter. He wasn't about to let them escape cleanly. Not when they were tied to Slaver's Bay and whatever was happening near the Smoking Sea.
He pulled the dragonbone whistle from around his neck and blew.
The sharp, piercing note cut through the chaos.
Caraxes answered immediately.
The massive red dragon swept low over the remaining New Ghis ships, jaws open. A long stream of fire poured out, turning decks into infernos. One after another, the smaller vessels exploded or capsized as the ironborn pressed the attack.
By the time the sun started to drop, the New Ghis fleet was gone. Burned wrecks dotted the water. The ironborn were cheering and looting what they could.
---
On Cedar Island, Daeron called the ironborn captains together once the ships were secured.
Caraxes lounged near the treeline, casually roasting a monkey over dragonfire like it was a snack.
Victarion stood in front of his men, blood still on his armor, and gave a short, blunt report.
They had been raiding and gathering information near Slaver's Bay when the three slave cities turned on them. Victarion's people had picked up a lead on the Qohorik merchants Daeron was looking for—the ones supposedly carrying a dragon egg. The moment they got too close, the slave cities came after them hard.
"They're gone now," Victarion said. "Headed back toward Qohor. One ship split off from the rest. That's the one we want."
Daeron nodded once. He didn't smile, but the look in his eyes was sharp.
A red priest stepped forward from the edge of the firelight. He was massive—easily seven feet tall, broad as a door, with skin dark as pitch and a wild mane of white hair streaked with red tattoos across his face.
"Great King," the man said in a deep, calm voice. "I am Machiro, priest of the Lord of Light. I saw you in the flames. You would come here."
Daeron studied him. The man's presence felt heavy, like standing too close to a bonfire. Stronger than Melisandre. Much stronger.
"Prove it," Daeron said simply.
Machiro stepped closer to the fire and held his hands above the flames. His eyes went distant.
"In the fire I saw a dragon egg the color of wet mud," he said. "It is hidden inside a porcelain jar. The jar sits aboard a ship that has already passed the Red Waste. It will soon enter the straits near Qohor."
Daeron was quiet for a moment, then gave a short nod.
That was good enough for now.
He had a direction. He had dragons. And he had an ironborn fleet that owed him blood.
The Qohorik merchants weren't getting away with that egg.