Daeron sat across from Tristifer in the governor's palace, the scent of perfume and roasted meat thick in the air. The Myr merchant puffed out his chest like he'd just won the war.
"Of course I can get you the sails," Tristifer said. "I'm the biggest trader on the Narrow Sea. Nothing moves without me."
Daeron had come for the Wind-Rider sails—the secret design that added a quarter speed even in dead calm. He named his price.
Tristifer's smile faltered. "Buy them? Your own Lord of the Tides already bought enough last year to outfit a small fleet. Paid a fortune and never told you."
Daeron's eyes narrowed. Lucerys Velaryon had been playing Sea Snake behind his back for six months. The man had nerve.
He laughed it off. "Velaryon is Velaryon. Targaryen is Targaryen. Different houses, different rules."
Some things you let slide. A king who obsessed over every coin and every secret never stayed king for long.
Tristifer took the hint. "They're expensive. Even I think they're expensive."
"How much?"
"Three thousand five hundred gold coins per sail. Thirty-five hundred dragons."
Daeron almost choked. In Westeros that much bought a full suit of plate, a warhorse, and a good sword. Ten dragons armed a knight. Myr was charging three thousand for a piece of cloth.
He bought fifteen anyway. Forty-five thousand dragons gone in one afternoon. The treasury could take it. Between the old hoard, the sack of Tyrosh and Lys, and steady new taxes, the crown still sat on six million dragons. A few sails were pocket change if they gave the royal fleet an edge.
Tristifer grinned like a man who'd just sold his mother. Daeron leaned in.
"How are they made? That 'Wind Path' magic—where does it come from? Wizards?"
Tristifer waved the slave girls out of the room. His voice dropped.
"An old wizard's book. Blood magic, they say. The more wizards you feed it, the more sails you get."
Daeron's fingers tightened on his cup. Blood magic again. Always blood magic.
He stood. "We're done here. I'll send the gold."
Outside, the Narrow Sea wind smelled like salt and trouble. Rhaegar was already moving on Lys. Daeron had his own plans.
---
Dragonstone. The Dragonmont.
Jaehaerys hauled himself up another ledge, sweat stinging his eyes, a bleating sheep strapped to his back like a mad backpack. Half a month of this and his hands were raw, but he didn't care.
He had picked his dragon. The bronze one. Valar. If he had to climb this smoking mountain every day and feed it until his arms fell off, he would.
"Keep going," he muttered. "Persistence wins."
Below, Viserys lounged in the grass and shouted encouragement that mostly sounded like heckling.
"Little brother's got the heart of a lion!" Viserys called. "Or the brain of one!"
Jaehaerys ignored him. The green dragon had already roasted Viserys once. His little brother had decided dragons were "too dangerous" and was waiting until he was a High Knight before trying again. Typical.
A roar split the air. Valar burst from a smoking cave—fifteen meters of bronze scales and brown wings, built like a battering ram. Jaehaerys's heart slammed against his ribs.
"Valar! Look at me!"
The dragon didn't even twitch an eyelid. It spread those huge wings and launched into the sky, hunting.
Jaehaerys watched it go, chest tight with something that felt a lot like love. The dragon was perfect—thick, angry, built for war. Just like him.
He slid back down the slope, legs numb, and dropped the sheep. Tomorrow he'd try again.
Viserys jogged over. "Bad luck, huh?"
Jaehaerys didn't answer. He stared at the horizon where Valar had vanished.
"I'm going after it," he said.
Viserys blinked. "What? Now?"
Jaehaerys was already walking. "Maybe I'll find it. Maybe it'll let me close."
He left his brother standing there, mouth open.
---
King's Landing. The Small Council chamber.
Daeron read the raven scroll twice and started laughing—sharp, ugly laughter that made everyone sit up straighter.
Tywin's jaw tightened. "What is it?"
"Tyrosh just crowned a fake Dragon King," Daeron said. "Some ex-mercenary archon calling himself the Silverhand decided the world needed another Targaryen. Pulled a fallen Valyrian house out of his ass and named one of their bastards Prince of Tyrosh."
Varys slid a note across the table. "The family name is Pojiali. Old Black Wall blood from Volantis. Moved to Tyrosh after the Bleeding Years. Silver hair, purple eyes, heat-resistant. They like scalding baths and never catch colds."
"Sounds convincing," Lucerys said dryly.
Daeron's smile vanished. "I've never heard of them. And I know every dragonlord line that survived the Doom."
Lucerys shrugged. "After the Doom the Free Cities burned every record they could find. The 'Forty Dragonlord Families' is a myth anyway. There were always more. Most killed each other. Targaryen just got lucky and ran."
Daeron stood. The room went quiet.
"They can't stay," he said. "Fake blood or not, they're waving a dragon banner in my face. We finish what Rhaegar started. We take the Stepstones for real. No more games."
Tywin's green eyes gleamed. "Conquering the Stepstones means war with everyone who profits from them."
Daeron met his gaze. "Then we burn them all. Blood and fire. That's how House Targaryen keeps its throne."
Outside, Caraxes roared from the Dragonpit like he agreed.