Though the shadow in Nekania's gut grew darker, he knew Fenrir's plan was the only path forward. To survive a dragon, one had to find a bigger beast—or enough spears to pin it to the earth.
"So be it," Nekania said, his voice hardening. "Fenrir, when you reach the East, whisper in their ears that the Targaryen boy dreams of a New Valyria. Scare them. Tell them he seeks to forge an empire that will make the Freehold look like a village fair."
"I'll tell them more than that," Fenrir sneered, checking the daggers at his belt. "I'll tell them he intends to break every collar from Pentos to Meereen. If Volantis believes their slaves might hear the dragon's call, they'll send their fleet just to keep the fires from their own door."
It was a potent lie. Whether Aegon truly meant to abolish the trade was irrelevant; as long as he supported a slave revolt in Tyrosh, the great magisters of the East would see him as a plague. Without the support of a Great City, the ragtag rebel army in Tyrosh would eventually starve or be butchered by Nekania's remaining veterans.
"I trust your silver tongue. When do you sail?"
"Now. Before the sun is high enough for the golden dragon to spot my mast." Fenrir nodded to the Archon and vanished into the stone passage with his guards.
Nekania turned to his magistrate. "Elville, move. I want an account of every slave we lost—those dead in the fires and those who fled to the rebels. Gather the survivors of the Regulars. Consolidate the granaries. We move to a war footing."
He paced the damp floor. "And spread the word through the streets. Tell the Tyroshi that their Archon stands with them. We do not bow to dragon-fire. We resist to the last drop of blood. Then, send ravens to Lys and Myr. Tell them the wolf is at the door, and if they do not help us kill it, they are next."
"And the fleet?"
"Order Admiral Recharino to bring the galleys back to harbor. I want a wall of timber and scorpions around this island. We monitor the rebels, but we do not engage until we are ready."
Elville Taft was a man of action. He bowed and hurried out, leaving Nekania alone with the shadows.
The Archon rubbed his temples, trying to catch the thread of his unease. What did I miss? he muttered. Then, it hit him.
If he were Aegon Targaryen, he would not simply burn a city and leave. He would divide his dragons. One pair to watch the harbor, cutting off the grain ships and the reinforcements from the Disputed Lands. The other to bolster the slaves, turning a mob into a siege engine. Tyrosh was an island; cut the shipping lanes, and the city would devour itself in a month.
Nekania scrambled for a quill and parchment. He scribbled two feverish letters, his handwriting jagged.
"Deliver these to the Council of Governors in Myr and the Magisters of Lys. Tell them Tyrosh is drowning. Remind them that every cargo ship must now be a war-galley equipped with scorpions. If the Prince blocks the lanes, we all starve."
He added a final, venomous postscript to both letters. He knew his "sisters" in the Triarchy too well. Without a threat, Myr and Lys would watch Tyrosh burn, hoping to inherit its trade.
"If Tyrosh falls," he wrote, "I shall lead my people to your gates. We shall become the pirates that haunt your shores. We shall be the mercenaries that pillage your estates in the Disputed Lands. We are already homeless—we have nothing left to lose. Help us hold our walls, or prepare to defend yours against us."
The Triarchy was not a family; it was a nest of vipers. And sometimes, the only way to lead a viper was to point it at a bigger snake.
Bloodstone Isle
As dawn broke over the Stepstones, the sun's rays caught the golden scales of Sunfyre and the weathered bronze of Vhagar as they banked toward the camp.
Aemond slid from Vhagar's back, his initial adrenaline replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. Beside him, the ancient she-dragon collapsed into the sand, her breathing a series of heavy, rattling snores. A ten-year-old boy and a hundred-and-seventy-year-old grandmother had spent the night laying waste to a Great City; it was a miracle they were still upright.
Aegon looked at Vhagar and felt a pang of pity. If the Old Hoary Bitch were thirty years younger, her stamina would be unmatched. Dragons grew until they died, but even for a beast of fire, age took its toll. Vhagar was a mountain of power, but she lacked the relentless energy of a dragon in its prime—like the Bronze Fury, Vermithor, who was faster and more flexible despite his size.
Aegon turned his gaze to Sunfyre. He still couldn't fathom his own dragon's growth. Sunfyre was outstripping every record in the Citadel's scrolls.
More concerning was the bond. As his own mental strength sharpened, Aegon felt himself slipping into the 'Dragon Spirit' state without meaning to. In his dreams, he didn't just see through Sunfyre's eyes; he felt the dragon's soul sea—a vast, roaring furnace that threatened to swallow his own consciousness.
This is wrong, Aegon thought. The rider should master the beast, not be consumed by it.
He had scoured the ancient Valyrian texts and the cryptic spellbooks of the Shadow Lands, but found no answers. Perhaps the ruins of the Fourteen Flames or the sorcerous depths of Asshai held the truth. But those were journeys for another year. For now, he had a war to win and a crown to claim.
His mind felt like frayed silk. The night's exertion had pushed him to his limits.
Back at the pavilion, he summoned Ser Alec Cargyll.
"Aemond and I have taught the Tyroshi the price of arrogance," Aegon rasped. "While I sleep, the camp is to remain on high alert. Watch the coast. No moves until I wake. Do you understand?"
Ser Alec bowed. He was an observant man; he had noticed the dragons leaving long before the banquet had even ended.
"Rest easy, My Prince. My patrols are set. Not a ship shall pass these waters without my knowledge."
Aegon didn't hear the end of the sentence. He collapsed onto his furs, the roar of the dragon still echoing in his mind as sleep finally claimed him.
30+ chapters are available now and daily updates! @patreon.com/Authorzero