Myr.
Daeron had taken over a governor's mansion and turned it into a temporary headquarters. The place still smelled like smoke and old incense, but it was clean enough.
Stannis knelt in front of him, armor still crusted with dried blood. "Your Grace, Graulon had help. We couldn't catch him."
Daeron studied the man's exhausted face. Stannis had pushed his knights hard down the Valyrian road and come back empty-handed. He didn't look happy about it.
"It's fine," Daeron said. "We'll deal with him later."
Stannis hesitated, then added, "We did seize some of his baggage. Books. Bottles. Things he couldn't take with him."
Daeron stood. "Show me."
They walked out into the courtyard. Two wagons sat under heavy guard. Dragon Tongue Knights stood watch while servants unloaded crates. Stannis pulled back a canvas cover on one wagon.
"Mostly books and alchemical junk," he said. "I thought some of it might be worth keeping."
Daeron reached into a small wooden box and pulled out three books.
The first one made his blood hum.
It was a plain brown volume with a small horse's head stamped on the cover. The moment he touched it, the panel in his mind flared.
Riding Secrets.
The real one.
He flipped through the other two quickly. One was a cheap printed copy of Horseback Secrets—the fake version that had been floating around. The last was a thick High Valyrian dictionary and grammar guide.
Daeron opened the real book and started reading.
Most of it was the usual riding techniques and dragon-handling advice. But buried in the middle were two fragments that didn't belong.
One full spell. One half-spell.
The full one was a compression charm—magic that let a rider focus their voice and push a command straight into a dragon's mind without shouting across the sky. The half-spell was a single word broken down in obsessive detail.
Dracarys.
Dragonfire.
The author hadn't just written the word. They'd dissected it—how the syllables worked in High Valyrian, how the tone and breath changed its meaning, how it could be twisted into commands. It was like someone had taken the single most important word a dragonrider would ever say and turned it into a weapon.
Daeron closed the book slowly.
Someone out there knew the real binding spells. The old Valyrian ones that let dragonlords actually control their beasts instead of just riding them. And they were leaking pieces of it on purpose.
He looked at Stannis. "Have the wagons guarded. No one touches anything until I say so."
Then he walked outside to where Caraxes was sprawled in the sun like a giant red cat.
The dragon lifted his head the second Daeron approached.
"Caraxes," Daeron said quietly. "I need to try something."
He cleared his throat, pulled fire up from his blood the way the fragment described, and spoke the partial command.
"Dracarys."
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
The word hit the air like a blade. Caraxes' pupils narrowed to slits. Without hesitation, the red dragon opened his jaws and unleashed a long, searing stream of flame that melted sand into glass thirty feet away.
When it was over, Caraxes let out a low, satisfied rumble and looked at Daeron like he was waiting for the next order.
Daeron felt the drain immediately. His knees went weak for a second. The spell worked—but it cost.
He rested a hand on Caraxes' warm scales and stared out toward the eastern horizon.
Someone was handing out pieces of the old dragonlord magic.
And they wanted the Targaryens to notice.
He needed to get back to King's Landing.
Varys had work to do.