Melisandre glided into the solar, red robes whispering across the floor, her beautiful face shining with confidence. "Prince, I sensed you would summon me."
"I need you to foresee something," Daeron said, straight to the point. "Is a storm coming soon?"
He had just sacked Tyrosh, looted a king's ransom, and taken every scrap of war profit he could grab. Next he would help Myr bleed them dry.
But big trees catch the wind. The Stepstones were crawling with cutthroats who wouldn't care that he rode a dragon or carried the Targaryen name. They would still try to put an arrow or a knife in him.
"If a storm is coming, I'll pull the fleet back in time," Daeron added, half-truth, half-bait to squeeze more information out of the red priestess.
Melisandre's brows drew together. The specific question clearly surprised her.
"I will try to speak with the Lord of Light." She dropped the flirtatious tone, stepped to the burning candles, and stared into the dancing flames.
Her eyes glowed with intensity. Minutes passed.
Suddenly she staggered back a half-step, looking drained.
"What happened?" Daeron asked.
Melisandre shook her head slowly, hiding how much the effort had cost her. "The Lord of Light gave me no clear vision," she said in a low voice, "but I smelled danger in the fire."
Not all-powerful after all, Daeron thought, marking the Lord of Light down as "sometimes useful, sometimes not."
In this world the gods were mostly smoke and mirrors anyway. The Lord of Light was the best of a bad lot—he had actually delivered results. The Seven were straight-up useless.
"Feels like talking to a glitchy NPC," he muttered to himself, keeping a healthy distance.
Old gods, Seven, Lord of Light—back in ancient Valyria they had all been tools the dragonlords used to control the smallfolk.
Melisandre had failed on her first real summons and knew it. She made a quick excuse about needing to restore her strength and retreated to her cabin.
Witchcraft and sorcery seem to burn a lot of mental energy, Daeron noted. He rolled a round aquamarine between his fingers. Through the blue surface he saw ripples like an ocean.
Aquamarine—crit chance stone. A full knight who absorbed one gained a random 3.6 to 4.6 percent boost to critical strike chance. Stack enough and you could land devastating blows far more often.
"Basically a mental boost in disguise?" he guessed. The gem sequence wasn't just about raw muscle. Red, yellow, and green were still the meta for strength, defense, and speed—the holy trinity for any warrior. But aquamarine (crit chance), amethyst (knockback), and emerald (crit damage) were being ignored.
"Too bad I don't have any proper mages on my side. I'd love to test it."
Daeron had zero interest in letting sorcerers find an easy shortcut. If gems could amplify mental power, every mad wizard in Essos would chase them, turning the whole sequence upside down.
He kept turning the aquamarine, blue light reflecting in his eyes. "The danger Melisandre sensed is probably that storm—the one that hits the day my little sister Daenerys is born."
If he was right, there was still time to work with it.
---
Lys, Archons' Palace.
Sunset light slanted through the tall windows, painting every archon's face in sickly gold.
The council chamber was dead quiet.
Trystane Orlos rubbed his temples, looking like he had a migraine. "A Free City gets attacked and its archon just… dies?"
His handsome face twisted with fear.
Not long ago Pentos had lost Magister Illyrio to the same kind of raid. Lys had been too busy fighting over the Stepstones to care. Pentos was the weakest of the nine cities; losing one archon was almost expected.
"But Tyrosh isn't weak!" Valarr Syzmoq snapped, knuckles white around his teacup.
"Archon Goldfyre is dead," Natalya said, voice hollow. "Burned alive by a dragon. Eight-foot-tall man reduced to a few charred scraps."
She ran the Perfumed Garden. She and Goldfyre had been lovers for years.
A healthy, living man turned to ash in seconds. For Lyseni who preferred poison and schemes, the thought was terrifying.
"Can we actually fight a dragon?" one merchant archon asked, voice small.
Valarr's eagle eyes narrowed. "When exactly did Lys pick a fight with House Targaryen?"
The merchant shut up fast.
Valarr forced himself to stay calm and think. So far only Tyrosh had truly angered the Iron Throne by raiding Tarth. Lys and Myr had stayed out of it.
"But Prince Daeron's temper is insane," Valarr growled.
Tyrosh was a proud Free City, a member of the Triarchy. Daeron had sailed in, looted the inner city, and burned the ruling archon alive. The sheer ruthlessness made everyone's skin crawl.
Trystane sighed. "None of us want to be next."
Tyrosh's defenses were decent—at least stronger than Lys, which was spread across a hundred tiny islands. If Tyrosh could fall so easily, Lys would be a slaughter.
"I move we stop sending troops to Grey Gallows," Natalya said, swallowing her pride. "Pull everyone back to the city. Play it safe."
The vote was unanimous.
Trystane rubbed his chin. "We can't just sit and wait. Dragons are strong, but they're not invincible. They have weaknesses."
"The Dragon Prince's dragons are still young," a slaver archon offered.
Trystane shot that down. "Intelligence says the red one is nearly seventy feet long. Not exactly a hatchling."
"Then what can kill one?" Natalya demanded, fear making her voice sharp.
Valarr frowned. As a man of old Valyrian blood he both loved and hated dragons.
"Remember Queen Rhaenys Targaryen, sister-wife of Aegon the Conqueror?" Trystane said. "During the First Dornish War her dragon Meraxes died at Hellholt. A scorpion bolt took it through the eye and it fell from the sky."
The other archons understood at once.
"We build scorpion ballistae," Trystane said. "Place them all over Lys. If a dragon shows up, we shoot it down."
The merchant archon's eyes lit up. "I have a crew of alchemists who do nothing but eat and sleep. Put them to work copying the old plans. We'll crank out as many as we can."
Whether the scorpions could actually kill a dragon didn't matter. The record of one dragon dying to a bolt was enough to prove they could hurt the beasts.
Valarr agreed to fund the project and ordered tall, sealed towers built across the city—arrow slits only, perfect for hidden crossbowmen to fire at dragons from cover.
In their minds, enough firepower could kill anything. Even a dragon.
"We leave Grey Gallows for now," Valarr said. "The silver prince has been here long enough. It's time we made real progress with him."
Trystane nodded. "I already sent someone. He seems pleased with the hospitality. He even accepted an invitation from House Rogare."
He motioned for the guards to fetch the Rogare patriarch.
---
Temporary Manse.
Rhaegar sat quietly reading, quill scratching across parchment as he absorbed every scrap of ancient Valyrian lore.
Behind him stood a lovely figure.
Marana Rogare had just turned sixteen. Sweet-faced, pale skin, soft honey-colored hair, and sapphire eyes. Her pale-green gown with lace trim hugged every curve of her blossoming figure.
Rhaegar barely looked at her.
"Prince, may I refill your tea?" she asked softly, using a handkerchief to steady the pot as she poured.
"Thank you," Rhaegar murmured without glancing up. "You may go rest, Marana."
Her face fell. She lingered at the stairs a moment, then slipped downstairs when he still didn't look.
Only after she was gone did Rhaegar lift his head.
Marana was the second sister of Fleck Rogare. After Rhaegar accepted the family's dinner invitation they had offered her as Lyanna's companion. Everyone knew what that really meant.
"House Rogare was once so glorious," Rhaegar sighed. "Now look at them."
The Rogares had risen at the end of the Dance of the Dragons. Lysandro Rogare became Lys's first and lifelong archon and ushered in the city's golden age. He fostered Viserys II Targaryen and later married his daughter Larra to him. Their blood still ran in the Targaryen line.
But after Lysandro's death the Rogare bank collapsed, the family name was ruined, and they had been fading ever since.
"Even the mightiest houses fall," Rhaegar whispered, thinking of his own shattered dreams.
A sharp knock sounded at the ground-floor door.
Oberyn slipped inside, checked for watchers, and bounded up the stairs.
"You're risking a visit this late?" Rhaegar asked, tilting his head.
Oberyn grinned, full of energy. "I got the Second Sons and the Windblown on board. The Tattered Prince himself agreed to sign a contract. With those two companies behind you, your claim on the Stepstones just got a hell of a lot stronger."
Mercenary companies were everywhere in Essos. The Second Sons were small but tough—mostly Westerosi second sons, bastards, and hedge knights. The Windblown, led by the Tattered Prince, fielded two thousand mounted and foot soldiers and ranked right behind the Golden Company.
The Tattered Prince's real name was a secret, but everyone knew he came from one of the forty noble families of Pentos. He had refused the prince's seat when offered and fled to the Disputed Lands to found his company instead.
"With their support you can press your claim," Oberyn said, leaning on the banister with a wicked smile. "You could even use your ancestor's old title—Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, who once ruled the Stepstones and called himself King of the Narrow Sea."
"You've got a legitimate claim too."