A few days later.
"Attack!!"
In the disputed seas, several warships bearing the flag of the Three Daughters were intercepted, engulfed in a baptism of blood and fire.
A larger fleet of smaller ships surrounded them from both sides, with catapults launching fireballs in a relentless bombardment.
A deafening dragon roar echoed through the sky.
A massive silver dragon soared into the air.
Lannino's face lit up with excitement as he shouted, "Dragonfire!"
The dragon, Sea Smoke, dove downward, unleashing a torrent of orange flames that incinerated the masts and sails of the pirate ships.
The fleet deployed ramming prows, colliding head-on and splintering ship hulls, while iron chains were thrown across decks as warriors clashed in brutal combat.
With overwhelming numerical superiority and the aid of a dragon, the naval battle turned into a one-sided massacre.
In less than an hour, soldiers bearing the sigil of the High Tower began clearing the battlefield.
"Haha! Let's go!"
Lannino, exhilarated, patted the dragon's back and steered Sea Smoke to return the way they came.
He had fought several battles like this already, and the sheer thrill of burning his enemies alive was intoxicating.
Even his old lover, Cole, had been completely ignored.
(Cole was a name, not a reference to Ser Criston Cole of the Kingsguard.)
Bloodstone Isle – Twin Castles
A large map of the Narrow Sea covered the floor, with Rhaegar pacing back and forth over it.
The mark for Myr now bore the symbol of a three-headed red dragon.
The Stepstones had been marked as a base of operations.
The surrounding waters near Lys and Tyrosh were gradually being filled with symbols—sea serpents, high towers, and purple grapes—representing allied control, as though a vast net was slowly closing in.
The two Free Cities were now encircled, trapped in an ever-tightening grip.
After more than a month, reinforcements from all corners had arrived, and their naval forces were stronger than ever.
Rhaegar exhaled deeply, then smiled. "Soon. The Three Daughters will be mine."
Lifting his gaze, he looked at the three-headed red dragon banner hanging in the hall.
His smile softened. "My children, you will inherit a vast domain."
Rhaenyra had written to him, saying the baby was kicking frequently, almost as if trying to communicate.
Suddenly, footsteps echoed through the hall.
Aemond led the way, followed by Aegon and Lannino.
Lannino, grinning like an excited stag, burst out, "Rhaegar! The Three Daughters' pirates have been purged from the seas! Many wealthy Lyseni and Tyroshi have fled by ship."
He had always liked his handsome cousin since childhood, but after experiencing war together, his admiration had only deepened.
Rhaegar had a knack for the unexpected, executing strategies that captured the hearts of his men.
With the unshakable stronghold of Twin Castles ensuring logistical support, their armies could fight without restraint.
Eradicating the scattered pirates of the Three Daughters had been immensely satisfying, both as a military achievement and a personal thrill.
Rhaegar smiled and instructed, "If they wish to flee, let them go. In fact, make sure they escape—publicly."
He wasn't after a ruined wasteland. He wanted a land that produced wealth.
Let the rich flee now; it would make conquering the cities easier.
Once stability returned, those same merchants would come crawling back for trade.
Lannino nodded eagerly, barely able to suppress his grin.
At the right moment, Tormund spoke. "Prince, the Tiger Party and Elephant Party of Volantis have reached an agreement. They've decided to send forces to conquer Lys."
Volantis was an ancient yet declining power.
The Tiger Party sought change through war.
The Elephant Party cared only for commerce and trade.
Unfortunately, the rise of Braavos and Pentos, combined with the unchecked aggression of the Three Daughters, had left Volantis lagging behind.
If they did not act, they would soon be reduced to a third-rate Free City.
Rhaegar pondered briefly before asking, "What about Daemon and Lord Corlys?"
Both Pentos and Volantis had allied with the Iron Throne, and rewards would be distributed after the war.
But he was more concerned about the ambitious Daemon and the cunning Sea Snake.
Tormund reported honestly, "Lord Corlys, along with the fleets of Hightower, Greenshield, and House Lannister, have secured Lys' waters and are now in talks with Volantis."
"As for Prince Daemon, he has joined forces with Princess Rhaenys and the Prince of Pentos to pressure the Archon of Tyrosh into surrendering."
"Pfft—"
Aegon couldn't help but laugh, quickly covering his mouth.
Rhaegar shot him a sharp glance before saying firmly, "Ignore it. Send word to both sides to accelerate their efforts. We march on their cities in three days."
"As you wish."
Tormund bowed slightly.
Nightfall – Storm Clouds Obscure the Moon
Lys – The Domed Dragon Pit
A series of furious dragon roars echoed through the night, muffled by a massive bronze gate.
The cries carried both rage and exhaustion.
From the sound alone, one could tell Mogul had been subjected to brutal mistreatment.
"That damn gambler, it's almost our turn," a towering man named Shuff muttered under his breath, his expression tense as the cold wind howled around them.
Two hundred meters from the bronze gate, a long line of "dragonseeds" stretched outward, all watched over by mercenaries wielding curved swords.
Tonight was the crucial moment—the taming of the dragon. Every dragonseed in the city had been summoned for the attempt.
Tristan, shivering from the cold, muttered through chattering teeth, "Relax, there are still a dozen people ahead of us."
Shuff grumbled, his voice rough and impatient. "I'd rather go now—just hop on the beast's back and ride."
Tristan shot him a sideways glance, exasperated. "I just saw that old priest lead a few disciples inside. You and I probably won't get the chance."
What he didn't say aloud was that he hoped they wouldn't.
His fingers discreetly brushed the heavy coin pouch hidden in his coat.
He had won enough money from gambling—he wasn't about to gamble his life on a dragon's back.
Inside the Dragon Pit
A massive bonfire blazed, casting bright light that pushed back the shadows and cold.
Mogul lay in the depths of the cavern, his eyes half-lidded, his breath labored.
Once a mighty dragon, he was now shackled—heavy chains binding his neck and legs.
His fury was immense, but the endless captivity had drained his strength.
The prolonged rage and confinement had left both his body and spirit utterly exhausted.
Before the Bronze Gate, a Group Gathers Around a Bonfire
Bambaro stood nervously behind a squad of mercenaries, his expression tense with excitement.
An elderly figure, hunched with age, held a dagger and sliced open the throat of a silver-haired boy.
Slash!
Blood spurted like a crimson fountain, collecting in a bronze basin.
The old man was none other than Ross, a priest skilled in the dark art of blood magic.
Muttering incantations, Ross tossed strange and exotic ingredients into the basin, stirring up a chilling wind.
By the bonfire lay a young, bare-chested man, staring blankly at the ceiling of the chamber.
He had an undeniably handsome face, piercing indigo-blue eyes, and a shaved head with silver stubble remaining.
When Ross finished his prayer, he reached into the bronze basin, smearing his bloodied hands across the young man's body.
It was not an act of desecration but rather the careful inscription of eerie symbols.
The symbols, mostly in the language of Valyria, represented elements such as fire, blood, wisdom—each belonging to its own distinct category.
Before long, the young man's entire body was covered in blood-red sigils, even his scalp was not spared.
Ross chanted for a while longer before speaking in a low voice:
"Baelor, prove your noble bloodline."
The young man blinked, as if regaining consciousness.
Under Ross's persistent urging, Baelor crawled up from the ground, his bare feet carrying him toward the great beast lurking in the depths.
Bambaro's eyes gleamed as he stepped closer and whispered, "Priest, can he really tame a wild dragon?"
"Perhaps," Ross rasped, his cloudy eyes deep and unreadable. "I have painted a special incantation upon him. It appears to be a spell once used by a royal dragonlord to help their heirs tame dragons. However, I am missing key words—I only know a few techniques."
The rest depended on how much the wild dragon's spirit had been broken… and whether its belly was full.
Bambaro was momentarily speechless, realizing that this was nothing more than a sophisticated suicide mission.
He glanced back at the other young dragonseed candidates—each clad in red robes with their heads shaved clean.
It was only natural to nod in understanding.
There were plenty of dragonseeds. No harm in burning through a few.
Beyond the gate, over a hundred dragonseeds huddled in the sea breeze, whispering among themselves while avoiding the mercenaries' gaze.
Shuff was restless, grumbling, "Damn it, when will it be my turn?"
He was determined to ride a dragon—then return to Westeros and live as a noble lord.
Tristan, his nose running from the cold, sighed heavily.
Even if he did manage to mount a dragon, he doubted it would lead to a good end.
Wealth and power weren't easily claimed—that was a lesson he had learned through years of gambling.
"Screeeech!!"
Suddenly, a furious dragon's roar split the night, echoing across the sea for miles.
Boom—
The Bronze Gate slowly creaked open, releasing a wave of scorching heat.
"Screeeech…"
A massive, menacing dragon head emerged, jaws wide as it spewed a blast of ashen flame skyward.
A moment later, a pair of smog-gray wings unfurled, revealing an enormous body covered in densely packed silver-black scales.
Under the night sky, the creature resembled a beast from the abyss itself.
Every dragonseed turned to stare, awestruck by the sight of the silver-black behemoth.
Atop the dragon's broad back sat a figure, drenched in blood.
"Roar…!"
Moghul's vertical pupils burned red with fury, and his steel collar rattled as he roared, thrashing in defiance.
"In the name of the Smith… the wild dragon has been tamed!"
Shuff gasped, his entire body trembling with excitement.
Tristan, however, exhaled in relief and studied both the dragon and its rider—only to realize something was terribly wrong.
The dragon, Moghul, didn't seem very obedient.
"Moghul, calm down!"
Baelor clung desperately to the gray scales, his indigo-blue eyes filled with tension.
"Roar…!"
Moghul ignored him completely. With a violent shake of its body, it spread its wings and crawled swiftly out of the dragon pit.
From a distance, Tristan's face turned pale with fear. He grabbed Shuff's arm and bolted.
"Brother, we have to go—NOW!"
"Go? Why?"
Shuff was reluctant, his eyes glued to the dragon.
"If we don't, we're dead."
Tristan cursed under his breath, seizing the moment to slip away before the mercenaries could notice.
Right at that moment—
"SCREECH!!"
Moghul let out a crazed shriek and abruptly took flight, spewing dark flames in every direction.
Had anyone looked closely, they would have noticed the madness reflected in its vertical pupils.
"The wild dragon is out of control! Run!"
"The fire—! It's burning—!"
Like mist and smoke, the dragonfire descended, engulfing mercenaries and dragonseeds alike. Those too slow to flee were doomed.
Tristan, terrified, sprinted with all his might, his injured leg barely slowing him down.
With a splash, someone beat him to it—plunging straight into a drainage canal, sending up a spray of water.
"Screeech…"
Moghul soared above the flaming ground, circling the dragon pit as if in a fit of vengeance.
Again and again, it unleashed torrents of dark flame upon the silver-haired dragonseeds below.
"No! Stop!"
Baelor's desperate cries echoed as he clung tightly to the dragon's back, struggling to rein in the untamed beast.
He could feel it—Moghul resented him. It refused to bond. It rejected his very presence.
Moghul's relentless assault left only blazing ruins in its wake.
Bambaro and Ross emerged from the dragon pit, hastily taking cover beneath the Bronze Gate.
"Should we use the scorpion ballista?" a mercenary asked.
Bambaro cursed. "Hell no! Do you think I'd waste a rare tamed wild dragon by shooting it down?!"
"Wait," Ross interjected, his old eyes glinting with fascination. "The dragon is lashing out because of its captivity. It needs time to adjust."
"Screeeech…"
Moghul glided above the sea of fire, beating its wings as it soared into the sky—its intentions becoming clear.
It was trying to escape.
"Moghul, obey me!"
Baelor nearly lost his grip, his arms locked around the dragon's ridges.
Moghul hesitated for a moment, then with a final defiant roar, it plunged into the swirling storm clouds, vanishing above Lys.