CHAPTER 10 — THE TIDE OF CITIES
The heat of Slaver's Bay pressed down like a hand on the throat of the world. Dust drifted across the roads, clinging to skin and stone alike. The air felt heavy, as if waiting for something to break it open. And everywhere on docks, in taverns, in the shadowed corners of markets people whispered the same thing.
"Dragons have returned."
Not one.
Two.
A great red mountain of a beast that blotted out the sun…
and a smaller emerald‑green hatchling that perched on the conqueror's shoulder like a living jewel.
Rumors spread faster than caravans. Faster than ravens. Faster than fear itself.
"They call him the Great Dragon," a fisherman muttered as he mended his nets.
"The Conqueror reborn," a merchant whispered while counting coins.
"A Valyrian lord come again," said a slave girl, eyes wide with something between terror and hope.
"A dragonlord," an old man croaked. "A true one. Not like the pretenders."
No one doubted it anymore.
Not after seeing the green hatchling flare its wings.
Not after hearing the roar of the red titan that followed him like a shadow.
In Meereen, the Great Pyramid's council chamber felt smaller than it ever had. Galzon Meereen sat at the head of the table, fingers drumming against polished cedarwood. The carved faces above them seemed to watch with silent judgment.
"They say he carries the small dragon on his shoulder," one of the younger Masters said, voice cracking. "Emerald scales. Wings like glass. They say it watches everything."
Hazkar no‑Karath's scarred hands tightened. "Not rumors. Reports. Yunkai's agents saw it. Astapor confirmed it. A second dragon means a brood. A brood means a dynasty."
Galzon exhaled slowly. "A dynasty requires land. He will come for ours."
Sevrus Kandaq, the war architect, leaned over the map. "He is not behaving like a man who wants a single city. He is behaving like a man who wants a system. He takes what is useful. He discards what is not. Qarth was not conquered—it was reorganized."
"And the towns?" Galzon asked.
Sevrus tapped the coast. "He takes them one by one. Small ports. Salt towns. Fishing villages. He offers freedom, pay, protection. And they join him."
Hazkar scoffed. "Slaves do not join armies."
"They join his," Sevrus replied. "Because he does not call them slaves."
The room fell silent.
In Astapor, Kraznys mo Nakloz stood on a balcony overlooking the Unsullied training yards. The boys below moved like a single machine, spears rising and falling in perfect rhythm. He watched them with cold pride.
"They say the small dragon sits on his shoulder," an attendant whispered. "They say it hisses at anyone who comes near."
Kraznys did not look away. "Dragons do not return. They are owned, or they are dead."
Skahaz mo Kandaq stepped from the shadows. "This one is neither. And he is not alone. The people call him the Great Dragon. The Conqueror reborn. They say he is building an army from the broken."
Kraznys's smile was thin. "Then we break him first."
Skahaz shook his head. "He will not come for the Unsullied first. He will take the towns that feed us. The ports that supply us. The villages we ignore. He will take the desperate. And the desperate are many."
In Yunkai, the Wise Masters gathered in a hall draped in yellow silk. Xandor the Yellow stood at the center, swirling wine in a golden goblet.
"A dragonlord," he said slowly, as if tasting the word. "After all these centuries."
One of the others scoffed. "A single dragon cannot stand against three cities."
"Two dragons," another corrected. "The small one was seen perched on his shoulder. Green as jade. Quick as a hawk."
Xandor set down his goblet. "The dragon is not the danger."
"Then what is?" a younger Master asked.
"The man who commands it," Xandor replied. "A dragon can burn armies. That is predictable. But a man who convinces slaves to fight for him instead of against him… that is contagious."
The word lingered like smoke.
Across Slaver's Bay, the whispers grew louder.
"He freed the salt‑town slaves."
"He paid the fishermen double."
"He gave land to the river folk."
"He turned smugglers into scouts."
"He made soldiers out of men who had never held a spear."
And everywhere he went, the small green dragon perched on his shoulder, watching, learning, growing.
Aelor moved like a tide—slow, inevitable, unstoppable. He took small towns first: fishing hamlets, saltworks, river villages ignored by the Great Masters for generations. He offered freedom, pay, protection. He left markets open, wells working, fishermen on the water. He replaced masters with captains, tax collectors with quartermasters, slavers with recruiters.
Where a town resisted, he struck fast and left no doubt.
Where a town surrendered, he rewarded loyalty.
The Dragon Scions drilled new recruits until they moved like a single organism. Vaelor Maegyr shaped shield walls. Seris Velthar taught discipline. Rhaekor Saan mapped the coast. Lynor Vhal organized heavy infantry. Miraella Qhor tended the wounded. Tessaro Velys handled logistics.
Aelor rode among them, not as a distant lord but as a leader who fought beside them. He trained with them, ate with them, listened to their stories. Men who had been nameless now had names on rolls and numbers on paylists.
Every surrendered town added men, ships, supplies. Port Yhos and Qarkash had given him fleets; smaller ports added skiffs and merchant hulls. He converted them into transports and raiders. Workshops became armories. Forges hammered out spearheads and breastplates. Grain stores filled. Training grounds spread.
The army grew:
100,000.
300,000.
500,000.
800,000.
And always, the small green dragon perched on his shoulder, emerald wings shimmering in the sun.
One evening, Aelor walked the docks of a newly taken port. Lanterns bobbed on the water. Men laughed as they mended nets and sharpened spears. Children chased each other between crates of grain. The Red Death slept coiled on the beach, Tessarion dozing at her side.
Jackal joined him. "They're calling you the Great Dragon," he said. "The Conqueror reborn."
Aelor didn't answer.
"They say you're a true dragonlord," Jackal continued. "Not a pretender. Not a merchant prince with a stolen egg. A real one."
Aelor watched the horizon where Meereen's lights flickered like distant stars. "Let them talk," he said. "Rumors are useful."
Jackal smirked. "Rumors are armies."
Aelor's eyes glowed faintly in the lantern light. "Tomorrow, we march again."
Behind him, the Red Death rumbled. Tessarion lifted his head and chirped.
And across Slaver's Bay, the whispers grew into a single truth:
A dragonlord had returned.