Daeron rubbed his temples. The scattered rumors gave him a headache.
Where the hell was the Laughing Lion?
Had it sunk in the Smoking Sea? Or had Gerion been ambushed with the ship?
And who had done the ambushing?
On the surface it looked like Volantis. But Volantis might have partners—like those Qohorik merchants from the new reports.
Or worse, were the attackers tied to the fake dragon king?
Daeron's thoughts spun fast. He let out a short laugh. "Looks like I'm in the same spot Jaehaerys the Conciliator was in."
Back then the family had lost three eggs from Dreamfyre. When Rhaenyra—the "Queen Who Never Was"—came looking for them, Jaehaerys had been furious and said it plain:
"If a hatchling appears, we go to war. If we can't take it back, we kill it."
Roughly that.
"I need to reach out to someone in Volantis," Daeron muttered.
He wouldn't kill a dragon hatchling unless he had no choice. Too damn expensive.
He decided to write to Malacho Maegyr, the Tiger Party archon. The arrogant, greedy slaver wasn't exactly a friend, but it was worth a shot. After getting kicked out of the Stepstones, Malacho's position had tanked. He might need a powerful ally to hide behind.
Daeron picked up a pen.
---
Early the next morning, just before dawn, Daeron walked into the royal treasury looking for something useful.
"Your Grace, how about this fishbeam wood longbow?"
Lord Owen was sweating, pulling a six-foot-long wooden longbow from a dusty weapons rack in the corner. The bow was long and curved, its surface the natural gray-white of fishbeam wood with teardrop-shaped crimson streaks along the sides.
Daeron took one look and smiled. "The treasury still has good stuff like this?"
"Of course. The treasury is a treasure chest. Use it right and it's endless."
Lord Owen puffed up with pride, beer belly and all.
Daeron had to admire the man. He could find anything in the treasury. The guy was basically the god of royal storage.
"Your Grace, try it. See if it fits your hand."
Lord Owen led him outside. Sunlight hit them hard. It was year five of the Long Summer—almost every day was blazing.
Daeron drew the fishbeam longbow, took the matching arrows Owen handed him, and loosed at a nearby elm tree.
Thwack!
The arrow flew straight and buried itself deep in the trunk.
"Nice shot!" Lord Owen clapped like it was the greatest thing he'd ever seen.
Daeron ignored the overacting. He turned the bow in his hands, thinking about training his aim. According to Jaehaerys's own notes, a Life Knight who had formed a Life Seed could also become a wizard's apprentice and absorb three kinds of gems—amethyst, aquamarine, and emerald.
Daeron liked having options. He planned to practice precision now so that when he learned real magic and gathered mana, he could absorb aquamarine to boost his accuracy even further.
Amethyst improved mana purity. Aquamarine improved precision. Emerald improved raw power. Professional wizards and fire mages would love the first and third. But Daeron was only a part-timer. As true dragonblood, his fire magic was already extremely pure—he didn't need amethyst. And as a High Knight who already rode dragons and swung a sword better than most men alive, extra power was redundant.
He was learning magic just to add another tool to the kit—specifically so he could use the binding spell and the dragon horn properly when he found them.
Aquamarine for precision? Perfect.
Precision wasn't just about archery. It was about absolute control over your own body and mind. Some people couldn't even walk a straight line because their senses were that messed up. That was low control. Whether he was judging wind while riding a dragon, swinging a sword in a fight, or shaping mana when casting spells, precision mattered everywhere.
Aquamarine was exactly what he needed.
"Your Grace, want to take some special gems? The treasury has a few in stock."
Lord Owen was trying to be helpful.
Daeron waved him off. "No need. I'm heading out for a while. The Small Council can run on Lord Corlton's and Great-Uncle Aemon's opinions until I get back."
"Where are you going?"
Lord Owen looked suddenly nervous.
Daeron didn't hide it. He told him, then headed for the Dragonpit.
---
Myr.
After Rhaegar seized the Stepstones, Myr had gone quiet, planning to rest and recover. But the world didn't cooperate.
Dragon King Daeron the Third had struck like lightning—taking the Stepstones and then Tyrosh, claiming the lower half of the Disputed Lands for the Iron Throne.
Myr was stunned.
The Iron Throne and the Triarchy had always had bad blood, but it stayed at the level of skirmishes and posturing. Lately the fighting over the Stepstones had gotten hotter, but Myr still saw it as internal Triarchy business or just another round of Stepstones squabbling. Nobody took it seriously.
Nobody expected the Dragon King—who had been quiet for five years—to suddenly explode onto the scene and actually conquer a Free City.
"How can we sit by while our sister city falls?" Governor Osgood Graven shouted, eyes bulging with fake outrage.
Graven was plain-looking—ordinary black hair, brown eyes, and oddly pale skin for a Myr native. He looked like a skinny medieval gentleman. He was one of the newer governors.
The Council of Eighteen was meeting again—probably the tenth time—to argue about Tyrosh's fall.
An older governor from Graven's faction glared at one man and snapped, "Lord Tristan, the Council sent you with the Myr fleet to help Tyrosh. Where the hell were you?"
Everyone knew Tristan had only pretended to help. He'd parked the fleet right on the border between Myr and Tyrosh waters, watched Tyrosh burn, and spent his time scooping up rich merchants and sellswords fleeing the city.
Tristan looked refined, but his words were anything but polite. "Dragon King Daeron has one dragon. His brother Jaehaerys has another. Was I supposed to sail the fleet we spent years building straight into a dragon's mouth?"
A dragon.
No fleet in the world could stand against that.
The old governor turned purple and couldn't answer.
Graven cut in before things got worse. "Enough. Tyrosh's defeat was inevitable. Myr lost nothing. That's the best we could hope for."
The old governor frowned, waiting.
Graven's tone shifted. "Tyrosh may be occupied, but the rich merchants and slave owners inside won't just roll over. I've already made contact with them in secret. We're sending weapons and information so they can fight the invaders from within."
The assassination attempt on Daeron in Tyrosh? Graven had a hand in that.
Someone tried to look noble. "Those poor Tyroshi are going to lose so many lives for their city."
Graven shot the man a cold look. "They should be grateful. House Targaryen wants to rule the place, not just loot it. Otherwise the body count would be ten times higher."
Everyone at the table had governed something. They all understood the truth: conquering a city was easy. Governing it afterward was the nightmare. Massacres only created endless hatred and made ruling ten times harder and more expensive later.
It was clear this new Targaryen king had a real plan. He wasn't just another glory-hungry conqueror trying to add a Free City to his trophy case.
"Men like that are the most dangerous," Graven muttered, shutting down any talk of open war with the Iron Throne.
A young king with a dragon, real patience, and actual brains? What couldn't he do? If Myr pushed too hard, they might be next.
"We've kept friendly relations with the Iron Throne. Tyrosh isn't easy to digest. Myr is safe for now."
A handsome governor spoke up—one of the original three, a banker who owned a major bank. But his status seemed low; he sat beside Tristan and nobody paid him much attention.
Tristan was done with the politics. He changed the subject. "I got word from Lys. There's movement in the Smoking Sea. Volantis and Slaver's Bay are both pouring resources in that direction."
That got Graven's full attention.
---
Noon, 12:40.
Daeron waited inside Tristan's mansion until the man finally returned.
"Your Grace, sorry to keep you waiting."
Tristan laughed loudly and gave an exaggerated bow.
He respected Daeron. Because of the young king's advice, his fleet had survived without losing a single ship and he'd made a fortune off the rich refugees and sellswords fleeing Tyrosh. His reputation had shot up. That wouldn't have been nearly as easy before.
Daeron leaned against the window, smiling. "How did the meeting go? What do they think of the Iron Throne?"
"Not great."
Tristan shook his head slightly.
Daeron pressed. "How radical are the radicals?"
Tristan was his inside man.
Well… sort of. More like the Rogare family with Rhaegar—mutual benefit allies.
Back during the Battle of the Narrow Sea, Tristan had admired dragons and House Targaryen and wanted to get close. Over time they'd built a relationship on favors and profit. Tristan's decision to abandon Tyrosh had been Daeron's idea from the start.
And Daeron's visit to Myr had been prompted by Lady Olenna's "good advice." She'd opened his eyes.
"Unlike Tyrosh, Myr doesn't have to be taken by force," Daeron thought while talking.
Taking the Stepstones and Tyrosh had only been the first step of his eastern campaign. The entire Triarchy and the Disputed Lands were the real target. Lys was too far and already had Rhaegar stirring things up, so it wasn't the next priority. Myr was close, a mainland coastal city—perfect for the next conquest.
Daeron had originally planned to digest Tyrosh first before moving on Myr. But Lady Olenna's visit had changed his thinking.
The nobles of the Seven Kingdoms are hungry for glory and new land.
Olenna had been right. The Reach lords were jealous that only the Crownlands and Lannisters had gotten to share in the Tyrosh victory. That was proof enough.
And could the Reach really speak for all the great houses? Before the new royal domain, the Reach had been the largest and richest of the Seven Kingdoms, full of the wealthiest and most numerous nobles. It was the beating heart of the realm. The Vale, North, and Dornish marches were weak. Dorne was isolated. The Westerlands were glued to the Lannisters. So yes—the Reach could speak for most of the nobility. And if the Reach moved, the others would follow.
Daeron had every reason to keep swallowing territory. But with one condition.
It wouldn't be the grand eastern crusade Olenna had pushed. It would be an Iron Throne-led campaign with carefully selected nobles from across the realm—chosen for skill, not just blood. The goal was to centralize power and create a new class of military nobles who would plant roots in Tyrosh and Myr and help govern the new lands.
That was why he'd come to Tristan.
"Your Grace, the radicals are Graven's faction."
Tristan's face darkened. He made his hostility clear.
From Tristan's report, Daeron learned how Myr was really divided.
Three main factions:
- Graven's faction: reformers pushing new technology. They made the secret wind-rider sails and secretly hired wizards.
- Tristan's faction: trade and finance. They controlled over half of Myr's ships and commerce, including the banks.
- Assur's faction: land and slave trade. Nine governors owned seventy percent of Myr's land and slave business, including in the Disputed Lands. But they were stubborn and usually stayed neutral in the other two factions' fights.
These three groups represented Myr's will.
The old bankers and landowners had joined Tristan's or Assur's factions.
Tristan's mood flipped fast. He said gratefully, "Because of the Stepstones fighting and unstable shipping lanes, my faction was getting squeezed. Graven's secret sails were about to crush us. Thanks to you I clawed back some ground. Otherwise Graven would've run everything."
Daeron looked him in the eye. "If I give you more help, can you take Graven down?"
Tristan dropped to one knee so fast it echoed. He looked up with his pale, sweaty face and said with raw hunger, "Your Grace, if you help me take control of Myr, I'll repay you in the most sincere way possible."
This was the difference environment made.
In Myr there were no ancient families like in Westeros. Nobles, merchants, and slave owners—basically capitalists—rotated every few decades. Tristan came from a small merchant family that could go bankrupt at any moment. He'd been an apprentice and a sellsword before making his fortune in middle age through trade. He didn't feel much loyalty to Myr itself—only worry about his own future and his family's.
He wanted to climb. Badly. He wanted his family to become one of those ancient noble houses that lasted centuries, like the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms.
As for guilt? Please. Myr belonged to men like him. He might rule for a few decades at most. When he died, none of it would matter. Right now the governors fought among themselves and shared power. But Tristan wanted a "tall one" above him—someone who could guarantee his family's survival for generations.
House Targaryen, the last true dragonlord family, was that tall one.
Tristan was certain: Dragon King Daeron had every legitimate claim to Myr.
To prove his loyalty, Tristan's eyes lit up and he said, "Your Grace, to show my sincerity, I have a gift for you."
"Oh?"
Daeron's interest sharpened. "What kind of gift?"
Tristan smiled. "A book."