"MORNINGSTAR, NO!"
Marcos sprinted across the training yard as his dragon—now the size of a large dog after just three weeks of growth—attempted to eat Garrett's sword.
"That's iron! You can't digest iron! We've discussed this!"
Morningstar looked at him with those intelligent crimson eyes, chirped innocently, and bit the sword anyway.
The metal bent under the pressure of his jaws.
"Son of a—" Garrett yanked his sword away, looking at the teeth marks. "This was my favorite sword!"
"I'll make you a new one," Marcos promised, grabbing Morningstar by the scruff of his neck. "You. Dragon pen. Now."
Morningstar huffed smoke in his face.
"Don't give me attitude. You tried to eat Elia's medical supplies yesterday. And Mira's tax documents the day before. You're on thin ice, buddy."
The dragon just yawned, showing teeth that were already impressively sharp.
"I'm starting to think hatching dragons was a mistake," Marcos muttered.
"Starting to?" Garrett examined his ruined sword. "Jefe, it's been three weeks and we've had seventeen separate incidents. Syrax set fire to the grain storage. Vaemon somehow got stuck in the well. And Morningstar has eaten four pairs of boots, three helmets, and apparently is developing a taste for weapons."
"They're babies," Marcos defended. "They're learning."
"They're menaces." Garrett sighed. "Also, Daenerys wants to see you. Something about Syrax learning to fly?"
"She can fly already. I've seen her."
"Not like this, apparently."
The Dragon Training Grounds
They'd built a special area specifically for dragon training—away from the city, with reinforced walls and fireproof materials (courtesy of Minecraft's nether brick).
Daenerys was there with Syrax, who had grown even faster than the others. She was now the size of a small horse, with wings that could actually lift her for sustained flight.
And she was flying. Really flying.
Loops, dives, barrel rolls—Syrax moved through the air with natural grace that took Marcos's breath away.
"She's beautiful," he said, walking up to Daenerys.
"She's showing off," Daenerys laughed. "Watch this."
She raised her hand and called out in what sounded like High Valyrian.
Syrax immediately dove, pulled up at the last second, and breathed fire—controlled fire—into a pattern that vaguely resembled a circle.
"You taught her that?" Marcos was impressed.
"She taught herself, mostly. I just... guide her. It's hard to explain." Daenerys watched as Syrax landed gracefully beside her. "It's like we're connected. I can feel what she feels. When she's happy, hungry, playful..."
"Dragon bond," Marcos said. "The old texts mention it. Riders and dragons share something deeper than training. It's almost telepathic."
"Do you have that with Morningstar?"
"I have something with him." Marcos watched as his dragon trotted over, apparently forgiven for the sword incident. "But it's different. Less... harmonious. More like arguing with a stubborn teenager who happens to breathe fire."
Morningstar headbutted his leg affectionately.
"See? Stubborn."
Daenerys laughed. "What about Vaemon?"
"He's independent. Friendly with everyone, bonded with no one specifically." Marcos looked around. "Where is he, anyway?"
A roar from the direction of the city answered his question.
"Oh no," both of them said simultaneously.
The City
They found Vaemon in the marketplace, surrounded by amused citizens, happily accepting offerings of food from various vendors.
The green dragon had apparently figured out that humans would give him things if he looked cute enough.
Which was both adorable and problematic.
"This is why we can't have nice things," Marcos said, watching Vaemon charm an elderly woman out of an entire basket of fish.
"He's not causing trouble," Daenerys pointed out. "Just... aggressive begging."
"Today it's fish. Tomorrow it's sheep. Next month it's actual people." Marcos walked over. "Vaemon. Come."
The dragon looked at him, looked at the fish, and chose fish.
"Traitor," Marcos muttered.
Daenerys tried. "Vaemon, dracarys."
The command word for fire. Except she said it gently, with affection.
Vaemon perked up, abandoned the fish, and trotted over to her.
"How did you do that?" Marcos asked.
"I asked nicely." Daenerys petted Vaemon's snout. "Unlike someone who just orders them around."
"I don't order, I—" Marcos stopped. "Okay, I order. But they're dragons! They need discipline!"
"They need love," Daenerys corrected. "Discipline too, yes. But love first."
"You sound like a parenting book."
"I sound like someone who actually understands our children."
"They're not our—" Marcos caught himself. "Are we really calling them our children?"
"What else would you call them?" Daenerys raised an eyebrow. "We literally gave our life force to birth them. That's pretty parental."
"Fair point." Marcos looked at the three dragons—Syrax preening her scales, Morningstar trying to catch his own tail, Vaemon stealing fish again. "We have the weirdest family."
"The best family," Daenerys corrected, slipping her hand into his.
Marcos squeezed it. "Yeah. The best."
That Evening - War Council
The dragons were (temporarily) secured in their pen, and the council gathered for serious business.
"The dragons are growing faster than expected," Mero reported. "At this rate, Syrax will be large enough to ride within three months. The others will follow shortly after."
"That accelerates our timeline," Garrett noted. "For the Slaver's Bay campaign."
"Indeed." Marcos pulled up the strategic map. "Original plan was to wait another year. But with dragons..."
"We have a weapon that changes everything," Daenerys finished. "Slavers have never faced dragons. Neither have the Unsullied they rely on."
"The Unsullied aren't the problem," Garrett countered. "They're slaves forced to fight. They'll surrender if given the option. The real problem is the Good Masters. They won't surrender. They'd rather burn their cities than give up power."
"Then we give them a choice," Marcos said. "Surrender and live in exile with their wealth intact. Or fight and lose everything."
"They'll choose to fight," Mira predicted. "Men like that always do. They can't imagine a world where they're not in control."
"Then we make them imagine it," Daenerys's voice was cold. "Syrax alone could destroy half of Astapor's defenses. All three dragons together? The cities won't stand a chance."
"That's the problem," Marcos said quietly. "We have too much power. If we're not careful, we become the tyrants we're trying to depose."
"So we're careful," Daenerys met his eyes. "We offer terms. We give them chances. We only use the dragons as last resort. But we don't let mercy become weakness."
"Spoken like an empress," Mero grinned. "I like this version of you."
"I've had good teachers." Daenerys glanced at Marcos. "When do we move?"
"Three months," Marcos decided. "That gives the dragons time to grow. Gives us time to prepare the army. And gives us time to reach out to the slaves in those cities."
"Reach out how?" Garrett asked.
"Information warfare," Mira explained, catching on. "We send word that liberation is coming. That slaves who rise up when we attack will be freed and protected. That the Unsullied have the choice to lay down arms and join us."
"Propaganda," Garrett said. "But effective."
"Not propaganda," Daenerys corrected. "Truth. We mean every word. Any slave who fights for freedom gets it. Any Unsullied who refuses to fight for their masters gets a new life."
"And what about the masters themselves?" Mero asked.
"The ones who surrender go into comfortable exile," Marcos said. "The ones who fight to the death..." He shrugged. "Get their wish."
"Cold," Garrett observed.
"Necessary," Marcos countered. "I'm not going to lose sleep over the fate of slave owners who choose violence over compromise."
"Neither will I," Daenerys agreed.
The council continued for another two hours, planning logistics, supply lines, and strategic objectives.
When it finally adjourned, Marcos and Daenerys walked back to the dragon pen to check on their "children."
They found all three dragons curled up together, sleeping peacefully.
Morningstar's wing was draped over Syrax. Vaemon was using Morningstar as a pillow.
"They're so peaceful when they sleep," Daenerys whispered.
"Should we tell them they're about to become weapons of war?" Marcos asked quietly.
"They already know. Dragons aren't stupid. They can sense what's coming." Daenerys leaned against him. "Are you scared?"
"Terrified," Marcos admitted. "Not of losing. But of winning too easily. Of becoming so powerful that we forget why we started this."
"Then we remind each other." Daenerys turned to face him. "That's what we do. When one of us starts to slip, the other pulls them back."
"Promise?"
"Promise." She stood on her toes and kissed him.
It was soft. Brief. Achingly tender.
And entirely unexpected.
Marcos froze.
Daenerys pulled back, blushing. "Sorry. I just... I wanted to. I've wanted to for a while now."
"Dany..."
"I know. I'm still fifteen. We're still waiting. I'm not asking for more than that." She smiled. "I just wanted you to know. When you're ready—really ready—I'll be here."
"I..." Marcos's brain had temporarily stopped working. "You just kissed me."
"Very observant."
"We agreed to wait."
"We agreed to wait for anything serious. A kiss isn't serious. It's just..." She shrugged. "A promise. For later."
"A promise," Marcos repeated, finding his voice again.
"For when the time is right. When we've won this war. When the empire is stable. When you finally stop treating me like I'm made of glass." Daenerys squeezed his hand. "I can be patient. I've waited this long. I can wait longer. But I wanted you to know what you're waiting for."
With that, she walked away, leaving Marcos standing there trying to remember how to breathe.
Morningstar opened one eye, looked at him, and made a sound that was unmistakably dragon laughter.
"Shut up," Marcos told his dragon. "You don't get an opinion."
Morningstar just closed his eye and went back to sleep.
Leaving Marcos alone with his thoughts, his racing heart, and the lingering sensation of Daenerys's lips on his.
"Three months," he muttered. "We plan a campaign, train dragons, and apparently I figure out my life. No pressure."
From the pen, all three dragons rumbled in what sounded like agreement.
"You're all conspirators," Marcos accused them.
But he was smiling.
Because despite the upcoming war, despite the responsibility, despite everything...
He was happy.
And that was worth fighting for.
Meanwhile, in Astapor
The Good Master Kraznys mo Nakloz read the reports with growing alarm.
Dragons. The empire to the north had actual dragons.
"Impossible," he said to his fellow masters. "Dragons are extinct."
"The reports come from multiple sources," another master said nervously. "Three dragons. Still young, but growing. And the empire plans to move against us."
"Let them come," Kraznys sneered. "We have eight thousand Unsullied. The finest warriors in the world. Three baby dragons won't change that."
"And if they're not babies when they arrive?" a wiser master asked.
Kraznys waved dismissively. "Then we'll roast them and serve them at a feast. Dragon meat must be delicious."
He was very wrong.
About many things.
But he wouldn't realize that until it was far too late.
[END OF CHAPTER 22]