Tyrosh, The Purple Palace, The Throne Room
Several days had passed since the intense research in the House of the Book of Gold. During this time, a quiet tension had permeated the Palace. Sarene, usually the picture of poise, had become noticeably withdrawn, her silver hair losing its luster as she repeatedly found herself outmaneuvered by the razor-sharp wit of Sarella Sand.
The Throne Room was crowded today. The "Chainbreakers" were no longer a mere mercenary company; they were the masters of Tyrosh. Supported by a coalition of Tyroshi defectors and opportunists, Jon's administrative reforms were moving with a frightening, mechanical efficiency. The City Watch and the newly formed Legions were being purged of the old rot, replaced by a mixture of hardened veterans and enthusiastic freedmen.
"Quiet, everyone," Jon commanded, his voice cutting through the hum of voices as the last councilors took their seats.
"After reviewing the histories of the Freehold and the maps of the south, I have decided to officially authorize 'Project Dragon'."
The room erupted.
"Project Dragon?" "Are there dragons left in the world?" "Is the Prince going to wake them from stone?" "Has he found the lost arts of Valyria?"
The councilors—men who lived and died by trade and steel—leaned in, their faces alight with a mixture of greed and awe. If Jon could restore the terror of the Valyrian Freehold, they wouldn't just be lords of a city; they would be the masters of the world.
"Salladhor Saan!"
"At your command, my Prince!" The Lysene pirate-lord stood, his back as straight as a spear. He had known this was coming the moment Jon asked for the charts of the Basilisk Isles.
Jon knew the risks. Sothoryos was a cursed continent, a green hell of "Red Death" plagues and shadow-cats. Even the Valyrians at the height of their power had only established small outposts there, which were inevitably swallowed by the jungle. But it was also the home of the Long-winged Dragons—creatures that shared the blood of the Targaryen mounts.
"You will lead the vanguard fleet," Jon stated. "You are to establish a fortified supply point in the Basilisk Isles. If the pirate-kings there resist, show them the meaning of dragonfire. Narsas will handle the logistics of the 'cargo.' You just make sure the ships are ready to receive them. Understood?"
"It shall be done, Lord Aegon," Salladhor said, though he hesitated for a beat. "Though... I have one request."
"Speak. You want the God-Warrior's Blessing, don't you?"
"Heh, nothing escapes you, my Prince!" Salladhor's black face creased into a wide, fleshy grin. The prospect of gaining supernatural strength was a better incentive than any chest of gold.
The Strategy of the Three Kingdoms
Once the public session ended, Jon led Tyrion and Bronn into the seclusion of the House of the Book of Gold. Ser Barristan stood guard outside the doors, his hand on the hilt of his sword, ensuring no prying ears remained.
"Aegon, you aren't just hunting for lizards in the jungle, are you?" Bronn asked, leaning against a shelf of ancient scrolls. "You've leaked word that the fleet is heading for Estermont in the Stormlands."
Jon didn't answer directly. He looked at Tyrion. "Do you remember the first test I gave you? The Map of the Three Kingdoms?"
Tyrion's mismatched eyes brightened. He realized the "fictional" map was a localized tactical simulation. "Wei, Shu, and Wu. You're applying it here, aren't you?"
"We are in the 'Northern' position," Jon said. "Tyrosh is the heartland. I am giving you tactical command of the Praetorian Guard. You will act as my Chief Strategist. I want you to look at the Disputed Lands—look at Myr and Lys. I want you to plan the strike that will bring the Kingdom of the Daughters under one crown."
Tyrion took a sharp breath. This was his first real command, a chance to prove he was more than just a dwarf with a famous name. "I will not fail you, Aegon. Myr will fall before they even realize the Dragon has landed."
"Bronn, your special ops unit will be Tyrion's scalpel. You report to him now."
"As long as the pay is good and the targets are fat, I'm your man," Bronn smirked, though his eyes were sharp with anticipation.
The Secretary and the Spy
After dismissing the others, Jon pulled a volume titled Record of the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He was interrupted by a faint, rhythmic knock.
"Enter."
Narsas slipped into the room. Under Jon's investment of Soul Energy, the spymaster had transformed into a ghost of a man—his attributes pushed to the peak of human capability. More importantly, he had mastered the "Mimicry" trait, allowing him to shift his face and voice with a perfection that rivaled the Faceless Men of Braavos.
"Report," Jon said, not looking up from the book.
"We've investigated Sarene's past in Lys," Narsas whispered. "The records are... perfect. Too perfect. Her mother was a whore, her father a drunk who sold his daughter's history for a single gold dragon. He knew everything—when she was sold, her first moon-blood, the color of her favorite dress."
"And?"
"It's a fabrication," Narsas said with a chilling certainty. "A common girl from a Lysene brothel does not possess the administrative genius or the refined aura she displays. She carries herself like a High Priestess of the Lust-Goddess, not a bed-slave."
Jon closed the book. He had noticed the faint thrum of Dark Magic around her since the beginning. "Let her stay. If she's a spy, she's a conduit. We will feed her exactly what we want her masters to know."
Jon knew he had to move fast. He needed the strength of the Three Free Cities to challenge the Iron Throne. For now, he would hold his "Dragonstones" as a final deterrent, while Tyrion and his legions forged an empire in the mud and blood of the Disputed Lands.
"Keep a shadow on her, Narsas. And keep Sarella Sand focused on the maps. The real war hasn't even begun."