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Daeron didn't allow it.
There was an old saying—you came this far, might as well stay.
He had things to do in Myr and needed someone with a sharp brain to handle them.
"Your Grace, I'm honored to take on the burden again."
Tyrion wasn't upset. He was excited. He loved proving himself.
Daeron motioned for him to stay quiet and let Tristan speak.
To be fair, Tristan delivered.
He'd stolen the original copy of The Way of Wind from Graven's house like it was nothing.
"Ha. When that bastard realizes his precious book is gone, he's going to lose his mind."
Tristan laughed, genuinely pleased.
As a man who made his fortune at sea, he'd been eyeing the secret wind-rider sails for a long time. He'd planted a spy inside Graven's inner circle months ago, just waiting for the right moment.
Stealing the book as a show of loyalty? Perfect timing.
"Your Grace, my man inside Graven's circle picked up some fresh intel."
Tristan's tone turned serious.
Volantis and Slaver's Bay were talking more than ever. Both were sending large numbers of ships into the Smoking Sea, hunting for the rumored dragon.
Those Qohorik merchants? They'd been heading to Slaver's Bay on business.
"Volantis and Slaver's Bay aren't easy to deal with."
Tyrion couldn't help but chime in.
Daeron shot him a look. The dwarf immediately shut his mouth.
But he wasn't wrong.
Volantis sat near the top of the nine Free Cities in raw power. Malacho Maegyr's campaign—taking on three cities at once and winning—had made that clear.
Slaver's Bay was no joke either.
Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor were basically the Triarchy of the Summer Sea—three slave cities that had ruled the bay for centuries. Ancient. Ruthless. Cultured in their own brutal way.
Slaver's Bay had once belonged to the Ghiscari Empire, strong enough to go toe-to-toe with old Valyria. Until the dragonlords burned it down.
Now Volantis and Slaver's Bay were working together, squeezing the Smoking Sea from both sides. That kind of alliance carried serious weight.
"Your Grace, Volantis is definitely making moves."
Tristan looked grim. "I've heard they're secretly reaching out to Qohor and Lys… even Braavos. They're trying to pull in more allies."
One Volantis was already dangerous. Why the sudden need for friends?
Obviously because they were facing an enemy even they couldn't handle alone.
Tyrion looked up at the young king standing tall and confident.
No one else was worth Volantis going this far—not even dragging Braavos into it.
"Braavos wants to abolish slavery. They control the world's biggest iron bank and have never been friendly to Volantis for keeping the old slave system. They only deal with them on pure business terms."
Tyrion gave a quick history lesson.
Braavos was the odd one out among the nine Free Cities. It was never part of old Valyria. Founded by slaves who escaped the Fourteen Flames, it had never bowed to the dragonlords. They kept a careful, equal trade relationship instead.
Hell, some dragonlords had even borrowed money from Braavos's Iron Bank.
"The Sealord of Braavos isn't moving yet. He's a cautious man. He won't jump into muddy water without a damn good reason."
Tristan sounded confident.
So the main expected enemies were Volantis and Slaver's Bay… with Qohor and Lys possibly tagging along.
"What do you know about Qohor's Dragon King—Olyvar?"
Daeron suddenly remembered the quiet one.
Tristan shook his head slowly. "Not much. Only that the governors of Qohor picked him. He's supposedly a master of some lost forging techniques and can pull rare metals out of volcanic stone. Sounds more like a master smith than a flashy dragonlord."
Daeron didn't buy it.
Qohor—or rather, this Olyvar—was being too quiet.
All the other fake dragon kings were screaming their bloodline from the rooftops, desperate for recognition and profit.
But Olyvar stayed hidden in Qohor, barely making a sound.
"The dog that bites doesn't bark. Too much silence usually means big plans."
Daeron filed it away as a real threat.
Unfortunately, Westeros was too far from Qohor. There was nothing he could do about it right now.
But one day… he'd pay a visit.
"Your Grace, this book came from a printing house in Myr. Do you know which one?"
Daeron pulled out the copy of Riding Secrets he'd bought in the city and handed it over.
Tristan's eyes lit up the moment he saw it.
"Your Grace… this was printed by Graven's own printing house. Word is he has a Volantene partner and they're selling these books cheap."
Daeron raised an eyebrow. "Graven again?"
"In Myr, anything involving books or new technology eventually traces back to Graven."
Tristan was quietly thrilled. Another reason to take the bastard down.
Daeron pretended to think for a moment, then said, "Find out everything you can about that Volantene partner. I want the original of this book."
The real Horseback Secrets contained fragments of the binding spell. Finding whoever owned the original could lead to something very useful.
"Yes, Your Grace!"
Tristan accepted the order with the enthusiasm of a true Triarchy pirate.
Daeron glanced at Tyrion and gave him a look.
"Coming, Your Grace."
Tyrion understood immediately and fell in step beside the king.
Daeron gave him new orders.
Stay in Myr. Work with Tristan to convince more governors to bend the knee to the Iron Throne. Keep an eye on him while you're at it.
The moment enough governors were ready to submit, that would be the signal for Daeron's second eastern campaign.
And this time, his real focus would be on Volantis and Slaver's Bay—watching the shadows for the real enemies.
---
Lys Harbor.
Five three-masted ships fitted with secret wind-rider sails sat at the docks. They were loading mysterious passengers and preparing to sail into the Summer Sea.
Every one of them flew House Redwyne's purple grape banners from the mast.
"I hope my aunt's judgment is right. I don't want to drag House Redwyne into trouble."
Paxter Redwyne stood on the deck of another Redwyne ship, watching the five vessels pull away. His stomach was in knots.
He was tall and thin, his golden hair wind-tangled and thinning from the long voyage. He looked older than his years, tired and worried.
Those five ships carried Rhaegar.
Paxter sighed and muttered, "With Desmond leading them, they should reach the Smoking Sea safely."
Desmond was his distant cousin, a knight of House Redwyne.
Reach noble families were all tangled together.
Lady Olenna was his aunt and his mother-in-law—his wife Mina was her daughter. His cousin Mace had married Alerie Hightower, and his distant cousin Desmond had married the third Hightower daughter, Denyse.
So when his aunt-and-mother-in-law asked, he couldn't really say no.
"Aunt Olenna investing in Prince Rhaegar right now is basically flipping the bird at the Iron Throne."
Paxter hadn't wanted to come.
But he knew his aunt too well. She was the type who never bet unless she saw the rabbit—and if she didn't pick it up, she considered it lost.
Lady Olenna had heard Rhaegar had been accepted as Prince of Lys and decided it was time to stop putting all her eggs in one basket.
She was secretly keeping Rhaegar's fire burning behind the Iron Throne's back.
In her words: "The Iron Throne is big and powerful. If they won't give House Tyrell the respect we deserve, then we'll find a few more friends. Just for protection."
Paxter felt a fresh wave of chest pain just thinking about his aunt's calculating, wrinkled old face.
Thud!
A figure leapt from the dock onto the deck, boots hitting wood hard and snapping Paxton out of his thoughts.
He turned. Oberyn Martell stood up, dusted himself off, and said casually, "Lord Paxter. I'm packed. When do we sail?"
"As soon as the crew finishes loading cargo. Shouldn't be long."
Paxter kept his tone polite, even though he wanted the Dornishman gone.
Oberyn nodded, strolled across the deck, picked the nicest cabin, and claimed it without asking.
Prince Doran had sent word: the Iron Throne had officially reprimanded House Martell and forbidden any further support for Rhaegar.
Rhaegar was now Prince of Lys.
Oberyn's job was done. He was more than happy to head back to Dorne and live wild again.
"Prince, the sea can get rough. Be careful out there."
Paxter forced himself to be polite.
Oberyn laughed. "I've sailed the eastern seas for years. I've seen every kind of storm. No need to worry."
Paxter didn't argue.
Oberyn and his nephew Willas Tyrell were close—constant pen pals. And now that Lady Olenna was secretly funding Rhaegar, House Martell was lightly tangled in it too.
Oberyn had used the trip to buy a batch of fine Dornish sand steeds in Planky Town and sell them to the Lyseni at a fat profit.
"I hear Prince Doran is looking for a match for Princess Arianne. Maybe she'll marry into House Tyrell?"
Paxter was fishing.
After all, a Tyrell-Martell marriage made sense. Both houses were being watched by the Iron Throne and overshadowed by the Lannisters.
"If Prince Rhaegar makes it back safely from the Smoking Sea, the Seven Kingdoms are going to get very interesting."
As a Reach lord with strong naval ties, Paxter had heard the rumors about the Smoking Sea.
Forget the possible dragon for a second.
A Lannister being attacked at sea? That was never small news.
Tywin Lannister ate people for less.
---
A simple carriage rolled slowly down a flat dirt road, pulled by two tired horses.
The carriage was sealed tight. The windows were boarded over. Only a few thin beams of sunlight managed to slip inside.
Gerion Lannister lay bound hand and foot like a scrawny shrimp, a dirty rag stuffed in his mouth.
His face was gaunt, lips cracked and dry. His pale green eyes stared blankly at the sunlight leaking through the cracks, using it to tell day from night.
It had been over half a month since he escaped the Smoking Sea… only to get ambushed at sea.
He had no idea if the desperate rescue letter he'd written had ever reached his brother Tywin.
"Fucking bastards. I'm not telling you shit."
Gerion seethed inside. A feverish flush spread across his pale face and he started coughing hard.
The gag kept the sound trapped in his throat.
Outside, he heard his captors talking.
"You hear? The archon sent people to the Smoking Sea looking for dragonlord relics."
"The Smoking Sea is cursed. Even if there is a dragon, those bastards aren't touching it."
"Fake dragon king or not, he's still a dragon king—"
A slick, snake-like voice cut in, cold and mocking. "Compared to Volantis's fake dragon king, the guy in the carriage is worth more. I hear Lannisters shit gold."
Gerion's head snapped up. He strained to hear the accent.
That "Lannisters shit gold" line was pure Westerosi.
And the voice… it sounded like an ironborn.