Lys was terrified.
The governors sat in their council chamber looking like men who'd just heard the executioner sharpening his axe. Myr had fallen. Tyrosh had fallen. Now the Iron Throne's eyes were turning toward them.
"We need to do something," one of the older governors said. "We can't just sit here and wait to be conquered."
They had already tried reaching out through Rhaegar's name. It hadn't worked. Daeron hadn't even bothered to answer.
Valarr sat quietly through most of the arguing. Then he spoke.
"I have news from the Smoking Sea. Rhaegar found two dragon eggs. He's alive. He's on his way back."
The room went still.
For a moment the governors looked almost hopeful. Two dragon eggs meant Rhaegar might actually be worth something. Maybe they could still use him.
Valarr continued. "When he returns, I'll speak with him. We'll open proper talks with the Iron Throne and end this before it starts."
No one argued. They all knew they couldn't win a war against dragons. They just wanted to keep their city, their trade, and their lives.
Then the table began to tremble.
A porcelain cup of green tea rippled. The surface of the water shivered even though no one had touched it.
"Earthquake," one governor muttered, already sliding under the table.
It wasn't much. Just a faint tremor. But Valarr walked to the window anyway.
The sky had gone dark. Heavy clouds were rolling in from the east, carrying the smell of sulfur and rain.
---
Far away in Myr, Daeron felt it too.
He stood by the hearth, one hand resting on the stone. His forest magic was screaming. Something vast and violent was waking up in the east.
Tyrion glanced at the darkening sky. "Looks like rain, Your Grace."
Daeron didn't answer right away. He was still listening to the pressure building in the air.
Then he said, "That's not ordinary rain."
---
Slaver's Bay.
Victarion Greyjoy stood on the shore of New Ghis and watched the sky turn red.
A massive wave of heat rolled out from the direction of the Smoking Sea. The ironborn on the beach staggered as the shockwave hit. Rain lashed their faces like needles.
Rodrik pointed, eyes wide. "Uncle… what in the seven hells is that?"
In the distance, a pillar of fire had risen above the horizon. It climbed higher and higher until it bloomed into a towering mushroom cloud that stained the clouds blood-red.
Victarion's voice was rough. "The sea just exploded."
He didn't know the word for what he was seeing. He only knew that something terrible had just happened in the Smoking Sea.
And that every ship caught in those waters was already dead.
---
A month later, the great storm finally passed.
Daeron was still in Myr, waiting for any word from the east. The city had settled into a strange, watchful quiet. The lords were growing restless for their rewards.
Tywin sat across from him, going through reports like nothing was wrong.
"The storm was the worst anyone can remember," Tywin said. "Worse than the one the day your sister was born."
Daeron studied him. "You're thinking about your brother."
Tywin didn't answer. His face stayed blank, but Daeron could feel the greed underneath. Gerion had sailed into the Smoking Sea with six dragon eggs. If even one or two had survived…
Daeron let the silence stretch.
Finally Tywin spoke. "Myr is stable. The lords are waiting for their rewards. We should return to King's Landing and hold court."
Daeron nodded. "Soon."
Tywin looked at him. "And the two princes? What will you do with them when they return?"
Daeron met his eyes.
"That," he said, "depends on what they bring back with them."