"A living dragon is worth a kingdom; a dead one is just meat and bone," Hugh Hammer's voice rumbled like a landslide.
He didn't hesitate. "Strip the ship! Toss the silks, the spices, the furniture—everything that isn't steel goes into the sea. We're dragging this beast aboard."
By the time the sun bled into the horizon, the Harpy groaned under a weight it was never meant to carry. With the strength of fifty men and the dragon's own dying hitches, Sheepstealer's massive, muddy-bronze frame was hauled onto the deck. The ship tilted dangerously, its gunwales kissing the salt spray.
"Captain," the fat sailor whispered, his eyes darting to the horizon. "A dragon this size is a beacon. If the Triarchy sees us, they'll swarm. They'd give their own mothers to get a drop of Valyrian blood into a saddle."
The "Child"—a lean, sharp-eyed boy who had survived the slave pits with the fat man—nodded grimly. "The Triarchy would love to break the Targaryen monopoly. If they tame a dying dragon, the myth of the 'Blood of the Dragon' dies with it. House Targaryen becomes just another family with fancy lizards."
Hugh didn't answer. He walked toward the dragon's head. Sheepstealer, whose eyes had been filmed with the haze of death, suddenly snapped them open. Golden, vertical pupils locked onto Hugh, a low, tectonic growl vibrating through the deck boards. A flicker of orange sparked in the back of the beast's throat.
"Calm," Hugh said. His voice shifted, the guttural, melodic tones of High Valyrian rolling off his tongue with surprising fluency.
The dragon paused, the fire in its throat dimming.
Hugh stepped closer, his hand outstretched. "I mean no harm. I have food. I have a home for you. Trust me."
He pressed his palm against the sun-warmed, mud-colored scales. For a heartbeat, the world went silent. Then, Sheepstealer exhaled a long, smoky breath and closed his eyes, leaning into the touch.
"Phew," Hugh exhaled, his face splitting into a jagged grin. "From now on, we're brothers."
Sheepstealer opened one eye and gave Hugh a look of such profound, reptilian displeasure that the crew froze.
The fat man stared at the boy. "Slap me, kid. Did a blacksmith just tame a wild dragon?"
The boy let out a long, whistling sigh. "Fatty, remember what I told you in the pits? Follow the right man, and even a pig can fly. Our Captain speaks the High Tongue, has the silver hair, and now? He has the teeth. We're invincible."
"Kressting!" Hugh shouted, breaking the spell. "Roast every goat we took from the hold. Feed him. Now!"
"Captain, can't we save just one for—"
"No! Feed the dragon. If he lives, we all live like kings. And get the 'irrelevant' people off this ship. The dragon needs peace to heal."
The boy and the fat man shared a look. They were the "cleanup" crew. While the boy handled the quick work of a dagger, the fat man provided the muscle to heave the "irrelevant" bodies into the sea to feed the sharks.
Ten Days Later: Dragonstone
The thunder of wings announced the return of the princes. Vhagar landed with a bone-shaking thud, followed by the elegant Dreamfyre and the nimble Tessarion.
Inside the command tent, Aegon sat across from a man who looked like he had walked through hell to get there.
"So," Aegon said, swirling a cup of water. "You came all this way just to look me in the eye?"
Hidolf Heidel, the leader of the Rebel Army, sat stiffly. He had survived the Lango Highlands only to watch his supplies burn, and yet he had sailed through pirate-infested waters to confront the man who held the torch.
"You have some nerve," Aegon continued. "I could have you executed now, and your 'army' would collapse into infighting before the moon turns. Aren't you afraid of dying?"
Hidolf didn't blink. "I want to know if you are a friend to the slave or just a new master with a different name. Will you support us against the Triarchy?"
"The enemy of my enemy is a useful tool," Aegon mused. "But does a rebel army deserve support if it can't even—"
"Brother! Brother!" Aemond burst into the tent, his face flushed with the heat of battle. "I destroyed twenty pirate ships today! I lost count of the bodies! Praise me!"
"He's lying!" Daeron shouted, skidding into the tent right behind him. "I spotted them! I burned the flagship! He just picked off the swimmers!"
Aegon rubbed his temples. "Gods, you two are a disgrace to the blood."
Hidolf watched the bickering princes with a hollow sort of awe. To these boys, the war was a game of scores. But to the world outside, it was a nightmare. On his journey here, Hidolf had seen the "New Stepstones."
Aegon's campaign wasn't a slow crawl; it was a scorched-earth purge. The dragons didn't just wander; they scouted with god-like vision, pinpointing hideouts that had remained hidden for centuries. Then the fleet would arrive—disciplined, cold, and relentless.
The pirates who hadn't fled to the "First Channel" to pay Aegon's 10% toll were simply being erased from existence. The First Channel was now the only safe water in the Narrow Sea, and Aegon was getting rich off the "peace" he had forced upon it.
Aemond finally noticed the stranger in the tent. "Who's this, Aegon? A spy?"
"The leader of the Rebel Army," Aegon laughed. "He's here to 'question' my motives."
Aemond's hand went to his hilt, a cruel smirk crossing his face. "Questioning? Guards! Throw this beggar out and feed him to Vhagar. She hasn't had a proper snack all morning!"
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