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"Prince Daeron, meeting you is the honor of three lifetimes."
The banker bowed with perfect courtesy. Strip away the black hair and olive skin and he could have passed for a refined Westerosi gentleman.
The estate lord and the sea trader smiled just as warmly, every gesture flawless.
Daeron didn't give a damn.
Westeros ran on feudal lords and serfs. These Free Cities ran on slaves and cutthroat capitalism. Every man in this room deserved to swing from a lamppost.
"My fleet is still sailing in," he said coolly, offering zero small talk.
The banker's smile froze. He glanced at the other two archons. They had expected the usual diplomatic ass-kissing. Instead they got ice.
"No problem at all," the sea trader recovered smoothly. He'd seen every strange custom from Yi Ti to the Summer Isles. "We heard how your royal fleet crushed the Tyroshi pirates. We've been eager to witness your strength firsthand."
Lucerys Velaryon's ships arrived shortly after—three big sailships gliding into the calm Myr bay and dropping anchor.
"Prince, everything went smoothly," Lucerys reported, dressed in his finest Valyrian silks and standing one respectful half-step behind Daeron.
The three archons greeted the newcomers with fresh enthusiasm. House Velaryon had always been active on both sides of the Narrow Sea, and now that the Targaryens had dragons again, the old Valyrian bloodline was back in fashion.
"Please, this way," the banker said, gesturing toward the archons' palace.
Once everyone was seated, the real talk began.
The estate lord tried pleasantries first. "We meant to throw a grand feast for your arrival. Forgive our lack of preparation."
"No need," Daeron cut in. "Save the feast for later."
A Pentoshi envoy wearing a golden scales badge rose. "Honored prince, Prince Rhaeton's position makes it difficult for him to attend in person. I speak for him today."
Daeron gave a single nod.
The three Myrish archons exchanged quick glances, quietly sizing up the Iron Throne delegation.
Lord Lucerys sat as Master of Ships and fleet commander. The rest—Melisandre in her red robes, Tygett Lannister, little Tyrion, and Lord Selwyn Tarth—stood or sat according to rank.
"You follow the Lord of Light as well?" the banker asked Melisandre with a bright smile, thinking he'd found common ground.
Red temples existed in all three cities, so the faith had some followers here.
"I don't," Daeron answered bluntly. "She's just a servant who insisted on coming."
Melisandre smiled softly, not the least bit offended.
The banker coughed and changed the subject. Luckily Lucerys had traded with Essos for years and kept the conversation flowing.
Daeron had planned it this way.
Since the time of Aegon the Unworthy, Targaryen kings had been either weak or mad. It had hurt the family's reputation for generations. People saw House Targaryen as faded, unstable, powerless.
He intended to change that image. Dragonlords were supposed to be strong, ruthless, and in control.
"Serve the tea," Daeron ordered, speaking as little as possible.
Melisandre's eyes flicked toward the only half-man in the room.
Tyrion produced an elegant little tea canister and the matching porcelain set. One leaf per cup, hot water, a quick steep under the lid.
"What is this?" the banker asked, genuinely curious. He had bought plenty of special crops before, but never anything that looked like dried leaves.
Lucerys answered for him. "A specialty from Westeros, grown only on Prince Daeron's personal fief. An extremely rare new drink."
"Ah, we are clearly behind the times," the banker said, sliding his emerald wine cup aside. He was used to fine vintages and approached the new drink with mild curiosity. If it was valuable he could buy a shipment and turn it into futures for the bank.
The moment the lid came off, a clean, delicate aroma filled the room.
Daeron lifted his cup and took a calm sip.
"I'll try it," the banker said, copying him.
He took a big gulp—and immediately spat it across the table, eyes watering, face beet red.
"Too hot!"
Melisandre laughed lightly. "A Targaryen would never be bothered by mere temperature." She accepted her own cup from Tyrion, tasted it, and her eyes brightened. "Excellent. Truly worthy of the Dragonlord family."
The cool liquid soothed the usual fire-madness in her veins and even seemed to sharpen her magic a fraction.
"Dragonlord family specialty?" the estate lord and sea trader echoed, already hooked by the name alone.
They remembered their own history: colonists under the old dragonlords of Valyria, freed after the Doom, then nearly conquered again by Volantis during the Bleeding Years—until Aegon the Conqueror and Balerion the Black Dread drove the invaders off. The Free Cities had spent centuries both resenting and envying dragonlords.
"Prince Rhaeton received a gift once," the Pentoshi envoy said respectfully. "A single ordinary-quality tea leaf was said to be worth one hundred gold dragons."
He lifted his cup with both hands, blew on it like a proper connoisseur, and sipped with reverence. He had tasted it once before at Rhaeton's table and still remembered the faint bitterness followed by a gentle sweetness.
The two Myrish archons watched him, then carefully picked up their own cups like country bumpkins learning court manners.
First sip—eyes widened.
Second sip—they were hooked.
They praised the tea lavishly, almost reverently.
"Really that good?" the banker muttered, still nursing his scalded tongue with wine.
It wasn't. Tea was pleasant and packed with trace minerals, but the real appeal here was different.
These men weren't drinking leaves. They were drinking prestige. They were drinking the fact that they were being treated as equals by a Dragonlord.
Right now I could sell them tea at a hundred gold dragons a leaf and they'd fight each other to buy it, Daeron thought, taking another calm sip. One more hugely profitable cross-sea trade secured.
"Prince Daeron, once the war ends, we hope the Iron Throne will open its doors for Myr to import this tea," the sea trader said eagerly.
Daeron gave a small nod.
With the tea sampled, the meeting finally turned to business.
The banker cleared his still-tender throat. "Prince Daeron, Myr and Pentos sincerely invite you to join our alliance. Together we will crush the Tyroshi bandits and restore peace to the lower Narrow Sea."
The other two archons nodded vigorously.
Lucerys handled the back-and-forth while Daeron watched.
The three parties talked heatedly about striking Grey Gallows Island first, driving out the Tyroshi garrison, then squeezing Lyseni forces and seizing control of the central Stepstones. Myr would commit a hundred warships and eight thousand men—plus their existing garrisons—to hold the line while the Iron Throne reaped the spoils.
"As our gesture of goodwill," the banker continued, "we offer the Iron Throne ten percent of all special gems mined on Grey Gallows, and all other war prizes go entirely to you."
Daeron stayed silent, eyes drifting to Melisandre by the hearth.
She toyed with a small flame, her gaze reflecting orange fire. "I see it again," she murmured. "A volcano on the Stepstones."
"A volcano?" Daeron's interest sharpened.
She had mentioned it once before. Dragons thrived near volcanic ground.
But the presence or absence of a volcano wouldn't change his plans. He had come to Myr intending to accept an alliance anyway.
"Prince, what do you say?" the three archons asked, eyes bright with hope.
"How many troops can you actually field, and can you hold the front line?" Daeron asked.
The sea trader answered instantly. "One hundred warships and eight thousand men. With our existing garrisons we can easily hold off any Tyroshi or Lyseni counterattack."
Daeron nodded once. "Agreed."
"Wonderful!"
"Truly excellent news!"
The three archons erupted in delighted laughter, showering him with praise.
Daeron allowed himself a small smile.
Yes, they would strike Tyrosh.
But the Tyrosh he had in mind was a very different target than the one they were picturing.