If you're enjoying these stories, consider leaving a comment, review, or vote.
You can also visit the Pat** on at: CaveLeather
The morning mist over Tyrosh had barely begun to thin when the clash of gold and steel inside the Black Wall gave way to the cheerful rattle of coins.
The same Tyroshi nobles who had marched through the streets only days earlier, weapons raised and screaming for the death of the "Kingslayer," now stood in the courtyard of Sylas's private estate watching servants pry open strongboxes. Bright Tyroshi gold, ruby-studded silver plates, and silk bolts heavy with golden thread were counted out and piled into glittering hills. Mercenary captains and pirate lords rubbed their hands together, eyes greedy, but all trace of yesterday's swagger had vanished.
Outside the Black Wall, citizen representatives gripped rusty swords while commoners behind them clutched farm tools, clearly there to supervise this "ransom of the city."
"Is this enough?" Marqos Vance, spokesman for the Tyroshi nobles, shoved the last chest forward. His silk robe still bore last night's bloodstains, yet he kept his voice steady. "The Triarchy's debts to you are settled in full. Take your men and get out of Tyrosh."
The lead mercenary, a scarred brute from the Disputed Lands, weighed a sack of gold in his palm. The metallic clink rang sharp. "Should've done this sooner and saved us all the trouble."
He whistled to his crew. "Boys! Coin's in hand—time to leave!"
The pirate lords followed suit, shouldering chests and heading for the gates. As they passed the gathered smallfolk they still spat, but none dared linger. The scorch marks Vhagar had left on the harbor last night were still burned into their minds. No one wanted to test a true dragon's temper twice.
In the slave quarters beyond the Black Wall, a very different scene unfolded.
Racallio Ryndoon had swapped his gaudy silks for a faded purple-and-green tunic. His purple-and-orange striped beard was tied back with a simple hemp cord while he knelt to tie a ragged grass shoe onto a tiny slave girl's foot.
Around him, his sellswords were handing out captured weapons to any former slave who wanted to follow. A bearded captain slapped his chest and bellowed, "Anyone heading to the Summer Isles with Racallio, line up behind me! Anyone who'd rather join one of the free companies, step forward!"
The choices were scattered but firm.
A dozen older, stronger men shouldered makeshift arms and stood with the bearded captain.
Two dozen younger ones clustered around Racallio, eyes bright with dreams of the Summer Isles.
Another group—thirty or so women, children, and elderly—clutched the protective letters the United Fleet had issued and headed quietly toward the harbor. They had heard the Westerosi criers promising open land, no whips, and the shelter of true dragons.
Only a handful slipped away in silence toward the Essosi interior—perhaps thinking of family left behind, or simply too broken by years of chains to believe in anything else.
"Take care of yourselves!" Racallio called after them, voice unusually solemn. "If trouble finds you, run west toward Westeros. At least there the Targaryen dragons will keep you safe!"
The little pale-grey dragon at his side suddenly gave a soft churr. Grey Ghost had followed one of Daemon's retainers down here. He bumped the slave girl's hand with his snout, coaxing out the first real smile she had worn in years. He was used to begging for scraps, but today there were none to be had.
Meanwhile the United Fleet camp at the harbor was a model of order.
Prince Baelon's Vhagar circled high overhead, bronze-green wings blotting out half the sky. Her shadow alone was enough to make any Tyroshi noble who came sniffing after runaway slaves think twice. One fool had tried to storm the camp last night; Vhagar had answered with a lazy puff of dragonflame that singed half his robe. He was still nursing the burns back at his estate.
"Your Highness, the royal squadron from King's Landing has arrived!" Colin Celtigar's voice cut through the camp.
Daemon looked up. On the horizon the King's Banner and the Sea Snake's silver sails were gliding in, flanked by the familiar gold lion of House Lannister. Otto Hightower and Lyonel Strong stood visible on the foredeck of the royal galley.
Daemon's heart warmed at the thought of the letter Gael might have sent. Before he sailed she had promised a new charm; perhaps it had come with the fleet.
As the ships docked, Otto Hightower stepped down first, immaculate in dark-green velvet, the Hand's brooch gleaming at his breast. Lyonel Strong followed in plain black, the seal of the Master of Ships at his belt. The big bald man's stern face made strangers instinctively keep their distance.
"Prince Baelon, His Grace has sent us to assist with the peace talks," Otto said, bowing with practiced courtesy. "I understand Lord Tymond Lannister is already waiting in the pavilion. The envoys from Lys and Myr have arrived as well."
Baelon nodded. "Then let's begin. We aim to seal the treaty within three days."
Rhaenys, true to form, had already excused herself the day after the fighting ended. "Dividing the spoils is men's work," she had laughed, mounting Meleys and sailing home to Driftmark with Corlys to see Laena and Laenor.
Before she left she had still pulled Daemon aside. "Don't let your namesake drag you into trouble. Tyrosh has its own pleasure houses—mind your manners. You're betrothed to little Aunt Gael now."
Daemon stood at the edge of the crowd, watching the pavilion flap drop. A faint flicker of distaste crossed his face. He would rather patrol with his brothers than watch politicians haggle.
Then a familiar voice called from behind. "Little Daemon! Fancy a stroll? Tyrosh's night markets are far more interesting than the Street of Silk back home!"
Daemon was about to refuse when Baelon walked over and clapped him on the shoulder. "You two have been wound tight for weeks. Go stretch your legs. But Little Daemon—keep an eye on the bigger one. Don't let him cause trouble."
Baelon looked at their still-youthful faces—eighteen for the Rogue Prince, fourteen for Daemon himself—and smiled faintly. Days of battle had been hard on boys who were still growing.
Daemon opened his mouth to claim he needed to watch the newly surrendered mercenaries, but Daemon Targaryen had already dragged a young man around the corner. It was Alequo's nephew, also named Alequo, dressed in plain grey wool far beneath his station. A handful of other young Tyroshi nobles trailed nervously behind.
"Look, Alequo says he'll show us Nightingale Lane!" the Rogue Prince announced, thumping the youth on the back like an old friend. "The music there beats any war horn, trust me!"
Daemon sighed but nodded. He whistled for Grey Ghost. The little pale dragon had already flown back and now trotted over, tugging at his cloak hem with his teeth, clearly ready for an adventure.
The streets of Tyrosh still bore the scars of rioting—toppled statues, smashed shopfronts, noble manses with windows shattered by stones. Yet the citizens who saw Daemon's black sword and the dragon on his shoulder stopped and bowed. The terror of true dragons had returned to the old Free City.
"Before Sylas took power, this place was lively every night," Alequo said softly, his Tyroshi accent shy. "Musicians, honey-wine vendors, roast sausages…"
Daemon Targaryen's eyes lit up. He peppered the young noble with questions while Daemon walked a step behind, hand near Blackfyre, scanning every shadow. Past-life battlefield instinct told him quiet streets could hide the sharpest blades.
Grey Ghost suddenly growled at a dark alley mouth. Daemon's fingers tightened on his hilt.
A ragged guard stepped out, coin purse clutched in one hand, clearly intending to rob the trailing Tyroshi youths. He had mistaken the two groups for separate parties.
Before Daemon Targaryen could draw Dark Sister, Grey Ghost shot forward. A tiny jet of pale flame scorched the cobbles at the guard's feet. The man yelped, dropped the purse, and fled.
"Ha! Your little dragon's still got bite!" the Rogue Prince laughed, scratching Grey Ghost under the chin. The dragon churred and bumped his hand, clearly pleased with himself.
Alequo and the young nobles stared, awestruck. True dragons were legend here; none of them had ever stood this close.
At the entrance to Nightingale Lane a honey-wine vendor was packing up his stall. Seeing Daemon he hurried forward with a cup. "For you, Your Highness—Tyrosh's finest. No charge!"
Daemon took a sip. Sweet, with a faint fruit note, smoother than King's Landing ale.
Daemon Targaryen snatched a cup from Alequo, downed it in one gulp, and called for another, making the vendor beam.
The musicians had already resumed playing. Lute strings wove through the air, chasing away the last shadows of war.
A cluster of Tyroshi girls spotted Daemon Targaryen and giggled behind their hands. His black-and-red riding leathers were travel-stained, yet the ruby dragon brooch at his collar still flashed with princely fire.
The Rogue Prince struck a pose and winked. Daemon caught his sleeve. "Remember what Rhaenys said before she left—and what Uncle Baelon just told me."
Daemon Targaryen rolled his eyes but behaved, turning instead to swap war stories with the young Tyroshi nobles. He described The Cannibal burning through hulls and Caraxes crushing shields until the locals gasped in wonder.
Alequo listened, eyes shining. "If only I could ride a dragon…"
Daemon watched the easy laughter, the music, the ordinary street life, and felt a rare warmth settle in his chest. The blood and politics of war seemed distant for a moment.
He touched the charm beneath his tunic and thought of Gael's last letter, of the Valyrian wedding still to come. A small smile tugged at his mouth.
Grey Ghost suddenly looked up and trilled softly.
Daemon followed the dragon's gaze. High above, Vhagar's bronze-green shadow swept over the lane—Baelon on patrol. The huge silhouette fell across the street and every soul froze, bowing toward the sky. The memory of dragonfire was still fresh; respect for the dragonlords had returned in force.
"It's getting late," Daemon said quietly. "Time to head back."
Daemon Targaryen grumbled but obeyed, waving to the girls. Alequo and the Tyroshi youths walked them all the way to the lane's mouth and promised to show them the famous Crystal Gardens tomorrow—where the flowers were said to glow at dawn.
On the walk back Daemon watched Grey Ghost bouncing along and listened to Daemon Targaryen humming a new Tyroshi tune. For the first time in weeks the weight on his shoulders felt a little lighter.
War's blood and fire, the endless negotiations—perhaps a few hours of ordinary youth were exactly what they needed.
By the time the camp lanterns glowed, the pavilion flap opened. Corlys, Otto, Lyonel, and Tymond emerged looking tired but satisfied. The first draft of the peace treaty had been reached.
Baelon saw the two Daemons returning and smiled. "How was it?"
"Not bad," Daemon answered, nodding at Grey Ghost. "He even scared off a would-be robber."
Daemon Targaryen jumped in eagerly. "Alequo took us to Nightingale Lane—the honey wine was excellent! We're going to the Crystal Gardens tomorrow!"
Baelon chuckled and clapped them both on the shoulder. "Get some rest. Tomorrow will be busy."
Daemon watched Baelon walk away, then glanced at the glowing pavilion. The war might be ending, but the real work—governing the Stepstones, rebuilding Tyrosh, shaping Westeros's future, and keeping his promise to Gael—was only beginning.
Grey Ghost bumped his hand. The Cannibal's low rumble drifted from the far end of camp, his black wings catching the firelight with a faint golden sheen.
Daemon closed his fingers around Blackfyre. Whatever challenges waited, he had dragons, brothers, and someone worth returning to. That was enough.
Night deepened over Tyrosh. Faint music still drifted from the lanes, mingling with the crackle of campfires and the soft sighs of dragons—the gentlest lullaby the city had heard in years.
---