The dragons perched on the rocky outcrop, their scales glittering like emeralds and obsidian in the harsh sunlight. They watched the young woman with unblinking eyes, sensing the tension in the air.
"What is the objective?" Rhaegar asked.
Shireen of Tyrosh stood on the sand, her blue-green hair whipping in the wind. Despite her playful demeanor, her intelligence was sharp as a razor. Rhaegar trusted her intel over the vague warnings from Volantis. The Tyroshi knew their neighbors better than anyone—because they hated them the most.
"Peace," Shireen said, the word dripping with irony. "They are calling for 'Peace in the Stepstones'."
"Peace," Rhaegar scoffed. "A war started by their exiles, funded by their gold, and now they want peace because they are losing."
"The Lysene and Myrish definitions of peace are... flexible," Shireen explained. "To them, peace means you withdrawing your forces. It means the Iron Throne surrendering control of the shipping lanes. They demand a return to the status quo—a lawless no-man's-land where they can profit without paying tolls."
"And to enforce this peace," Rhaegar noted, "they have sent fifty warships."
"Fifty heavy galleys," Shireen confirmed. "And they have petitioned the Sealord of Braavos to mediate. Or rather, to threaten you into compliance."
Rhaegar's eyes narrowed. Braavos. The hidden titan. If the Sealord intervened, things would get complicated. Braavos hated dragons, and they hated slavery. But they loved money and stability.
"If Lys moves," Rhaegar asked, looking directly at her, "will Tyrosh stand by? This is a test of your father's strength, Shireen. If he lets Lys dictate terms in his own backyard, he will look weak."
Shireen sighed, kicking at a shell. "My father is cautious. But he hates Lys more than he fears you. If the Lysene fleet attacks, we will deploy thirty ships. But only if they strike first."
"Good," Rhaegar said. "That is all I need."
He looked at her, really looked at her. She was beautiful, yes, but she was also a player in the great game.
"You speak of politics like a Magister," Rhaegar observed. "It is a pity you were not born a man. Your father wouldn't have to worry about his legacy."
Shireen laughed, a bitter, sharp sound. "If I were a man, Rhaegar, I wouldn't be here whispering secrets on a rock. I would be leading the fleet. I would be conquering."
She stepped closer, her voice dropping. "We are alike, you and I. Ambitious. Young. Surrounded by old men who think they know better."
"The crown is heavy," Rhaegar said quietly. "It is not just gold. It is blood and fire."
"I know," Shireen whispered. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. "Will you marry me, Rhaegar?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and desperate.
Rhaegar felt a pang of sadness. He saw the hope in her eyes, the desire to escape her cage, to forge an alliance that would shake the world.
"I cannot," he said gently. "The realm would not accept it. A foreign queen... it would cause chaos. My duty is to Westeros."
Shireen's shoulders slumped slightly, the light in her eyes dimming. "I know. You will marry a Baratheon, or a Martell. Safe choices. Political choices."
She stepped back, her mask of playfulness returning, though it looked brittle now.
"You are cold, Rhaegar Targaryen. You are a beast of reason. But that is why you will win."
She turned to her boat. "Goodbye, Dragon Prince. Perhaps one day I will stop loving you. Perhaps one day I will conquer the world myself, and you will come begging for my favor."
"Until that day," Rhaegar said, bowing his head.
He watched her sail away, a splash of color against the grey sea. Empire and beauty. It was a lonely path.
Days later, the horizon filled with sails.
The Lysene-Myrish coalition fleet arrived in force. Fifty heavy galleys, their decks packed with Unsullied and sellswords, anchored off the coast of Bloodstone.
They sent an envoy.
The meeting took place on the beach of Bloodstone, beneath a pavilion flying the three-headed dragon.
Prince Aerys sat in the center, flanked by Tywin Lannister, Steffon Baratheon, and Rhaegar. Across from them stood the envoys of Lys and Myr—men in silk and perfume, looking out of place amidst the carnage of war.
"We come in the name of the Magisters of Lys and Myr," the Lysene envoy announced, his voice dripping with disdain. He was a beautiful man with platinum curls and violet eyes, a bastard of old Valyria. "We seek to restore the Stepstones to their status as a free commons. The pirates are gone. It is time for the Iron Throne to withdraw."
"Withdraw?" Tywin Lannister's voice was like grinding stones. "We bled for these islands. We spent gold and lives to clear your mess. We will not leave just because you ask nicely."
"You tax our ships," the Myrish envoy spat. "You strangle trade. This is tyranny."
"Tyranny?" Aerys laughed, a high, dangerous sound. "You call me a tyrant? You, who buy slaves from the pirates? You, who let your exiles raid my coasts?"
He stood up, his face red. "I should burn your cities to the ground!"
"Careful, Prince," the Lysene envoy warned, his hand drifting to his sword. "You are outnumbered at sea. Fifty ships against your battered fleet. And do not think your dragons scare us. We killed a dragon once. We can do it again."
Roar.
Three shadows fell over the beach.
The Silver Emperor, Balerion, and Belaerys landed behind Rhaegar, shaking the ground. Dust billowed over the table.
Rhaegar stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He wore his black armor, and he looked like death itself.
"Dragons are not all the same," Rhaegar said softly. "And neither are princes."
He drew his sword. The steel sang.
"You threaten us with numbers?" Rhaegar pointed out to sea. "Look."
From the west, a new fleet emerged from behind the headland. Thirty ships, flying the banners of Tyrosh. They moved into position, blocking the coalition's retreat.
The envoys paled.
"Tyrosh," the Lysene envoy whispered. "Traitors."
"And that is not all," Rhaegar continued, his voice cold. "The Sealord of Braavos is coming, yes. But my fleet is currently... 'escorting' him. He will be late."
He leaned across the table.
"So here is the situation. You are trapped between my fleet, the Tyroshi fleet, and three dragons. I can burn your fifty ships to ash before you can launch a single scorpion bolt. And then I can fly to Lys and have a very long conversation with your Magisters."
Rhaegar smiled, but there was no warmth in it.
"Do you still want to talk about 'withdrawal'?"
The air was thick with tension. Five cities, five powers, all balanced on the edge of a blade.
The War of the Five Cities was about to begin. Or end.