That day, two declarations roared through the Narrow Sea like a hurricane, turning the waters of the Stepstones into a boiling cauldron of political upheaval.
The First Decree:
Aegon Targaryen formally declared absolute sovereignty over the Stepstones. All pirates were given a choice: flee immediately or sail to Bloodstone—now officially renamed Dragonstone—to register, take an oath, and be absorbed into the new duchy. Furthermore, all merchant vessels were commanded to use the designated "First Channel" and pay a toll of one-tenth the value of their cargo. Any ship found outside this lane would be seized as a smuggler, and its cargo forfeit to the Dragon.
The Second Decree:
In an act of "royal benevolence," Aegon announced that Tyrosh would be allowed to remain on its island—which, he claimed, had been a part of the Seven Kingdoms since ancient times. However, the city was to be "demilitarized." Aegon would station a permanent garrison within its walls, and Tyrosh would be reorganized as the "Tyrosh Island Autonomous Region," effective immediately upon their withdrawal from the Triarchy.
The ultimatum was simple: Comply or face total war.
The Narrow Sea held its breath. While nobles from Oldtown to Pentos cursed Aegon as an arrogant madman, twenty warships were already cutting through the wake of the harbor at Dragonstone.
Aegon stood on the new stone docks, watching his siblings' dragons circle the departing fleet. "A pity," he sighed to himself. "I still lack the hulls to move what I need."
He had the gold and the master shipwrights, but a navy required an industrial spine. He began mentally carving out the land near the port: iron foundries here, timber mills there, and the future sites for his salt and soap factories. He couldn't rely on the charity of his grandfather forever. Extraordinary times demanded he build his own machine of war.
Tyrosh was home to three hundred thousand souls, nearly sixty percent of them in chains. Aegon didn't care if the Archon agreed to his terms. In fact, he hoped they refused. He wanted to shatter Tyrosh's bones. By conquering the city, he could "liberate" hundreds of thousands of slaves, converting them into a loyal population for his islands without technically violating the Seven Kingdoms' laws against the slave trade.
In three years, he would build his base. In five, he would swallow the Disputed Lands. By the time Viserys breathed his last and the Black Party moved for the throne, Aegon would be sitting on a million-man fiefdom, ready to purge the realm and consolidate the power of the True Dragon.
Somewhere in the Narrow Sea
A massive cargo ship, the Harpy, was being hunted. Five small, agile warships had pinned it down, and the first man over the railing was Hugh.
The Harpy's mercenaries were seasoned men, used to the clumsy boarding actions of pirates. They weren't prepared for a giant in full, heavy plate armor to sprint up a grappling hook like a cat.
"How is he moving in that steel?" a mercenary yelled, his voice cracking with fear as he loosed an arrow.
Hugh didn't flinch. He raised his five-finger-wide greatsword, the steel singing as it deflected the shaft aimed at his eye. With a roar, he closed the distance. The greatsword swung in a horizontal arc, cleaving the two nearest archers into four bloody pieces before they could reach for their daggers.
The deck became a slaughterhouse. While Hugh's men followed his lead, an old man in silk robes and a gold slave collar stumbled onto the deck.
"Kill these sea-rats!" the old man, Alton, screamed. "A silver Meereenese coin for every head!"
The promise of gold briefly rallied the mercenaries, but Hugh met them like a cliff meets the tide. He moved with a disdainful grace, his blade a blur of silver and red.
"For glory!" Hugh bellowed.
"For glory!" his men echoed, their voices drowning out the crashing waves.
Realizing the bounty wouldn't save them, Alton held up his hands. "Warrior, stay your hand! My master is the Great Vittorio Daznak of Meereen! We will pay—name your price to resolve this misunderstanding!"
Hugh paused, his visor spattered with gore. He looked at Alton with cold, purple eyes. Alton began to babble about his master's wealth, his own "business trips," and the safety of the caravan.
Hugh didn't answer. He reached down, plucked a fallen spear from the deck, and hurled it with the force of a ballista.
The spear caught Alton in the chest, lifting the old man off his feet and pinning him to a wooden pillar. The shaft quivered as Alton's life leaked onto the silks. Hugh had no interest in ransoms. A dead man couldn't argue, and the ship belonged to the victor regardless.
Just as the last mercenary was cut down, a dual roar split the sky.
The first was a high-pitched cry of terror; the second was a guttural, terrifying sound of hunger. Hugh looked up to see a dark shadow chasing a smaller, brown shape through the clouds.
The Cannibal was hunting Sheepstealer.
Hugh watched, breathless, as the coal-black elder dragon surged forward, its massive jaws snapping shut on Sheepstealer's tail. The two dragons spiraled toward the sea, a chaotic whirl of scales and fire. The war for the Stepstones had just invited a new, primal horror to the feast.
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