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Rhaegar was at rock bottom and in no mood for jokes. He looked Oberyn dead in the eye. "Oberyn, that's not funny."
Oberyn dropped the grin, tone turning crude. "You want the Stepstones as a springboard. You want to build real power, maybe even take a Free City. Fine. But the Stepstones aren't some tame mare you can just climb on."
As a man who kept mistresses across half of Dorne, Oberyn had wrestled with the idea and finally accepted Rhaegar's plan to settle in Lys and revive the old Valyrian custom of multiple wives—so long as Elia remained the first wife and Rhaenys stayed first in line for any inheritance. The other wives would be exactly that: wives. Their children would rank behind Elia's. That was the promise Rhaegar had given.
Oberyn might act like a libertine, but he was a well-read man who had earned six links at the Citadel. He knew the old Valyrian dragonlord marriage customs. Multiple wives were rare—Aegon the Conqueror being the most famous example. Heirs almost always came from the first wife, and she held the public social rank. The others sat above concubines but below a true Westerosi wife.
Besides, House Stark was finished. As long as House Martell stood, Elia's position was safe.
That was why he had pulled the Second Sons and the Windblown into Rhaegar's corner.
"I'm going to Dorne," Rhaegar said. "I'll rally whatever lords still follow me."
Oberyn snorted. "You show your face in Dorne and my brother might toss you straight into a pit of vipers."
"I missed the war, but I never broke my agreement with Prince Doran," Rhaegar replied coolly. "If I'm taking the Stepstones I'll need Dorne's supply lines. I have to go."
He had no real interest in the Stepstones war, but he needed seed money and a core of loyal men. Win their hearts first, then he could move on Lys.
"I saved a decent pile of gold dragons while I was Prince of Dragonstone," he added. "Enough to hire both companies and still have coin left."
Oberyn twirled his dagger, unimpressed. "Just remember what you promised me. Treat my sister right."
Their partnership ended at the Stepstones. Anything beyond that was Oberyn's business, and he knew his own limits.
"Find me a small boat," Rhaegar said. "I'll slip out of Lys when the chance comes."
Oberyn smirked. "And your Northern mistress?"
"Lyanna stays here," Rhaegar answered calmly. "The Stepstones campaign will need Lys as a partner."
You couldn't fight the Stepstones without dealing with the Triarchy. Better to ally with one and hit the other two.
"The Lyseni aren't subtle," he went on. "If I play my cards right I could steal an archon's seat out from under them."
Oberyn's eyes flickered. This Targaryen really is mad.
"House Rogare once made Lys their playground," Rhaegar said, voice hardening. "I have a claim on this land too."
---
Tarth, Evenfall Hall.
Daeron ordered several flat-bottomed cogs loaded until their decks groaned. The loot from Tyrosh filled ship after ship.
"Prince, after a full count we've taken between four and five million gold coins," Tyrion reported, trotting after him like a eager shadow, little ledger flapping. "That's roughly three million six hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons, Westerosi weight."
The Iron Throne's dragons were heavy and pure—not the light, clipped coins of the east.
"Keep it," Daeron said evenly. "It's earmarked for the Constabulary Knights."
Tyrion stopped short, stunned. "All of it? Three million dragons could buy half the Crownlands."
Daeron gave the boy a flat look. "Three hundred thousand could buy half the Crownlands. What do you think three million does?"
Tyrion blinked, then thrust the ledger forward. "Here's the full accounting, Prince. You'll want to review it."
"No need," Daeron waved it away. "We'll tally everything once the Stepstones are finished."
Tyrion's jaw dropped. "We're… still going?"
He was just the quartermaster. No one had told him Prince Daeron actually planned to honor the deal with Myr and keep pushing into the islands. They had already made a fortune. Why risk angering every pirate and slaver in the Summer Sea?
Daeron raised his voice so the fleet could hear. "We sail!"
---
Grey Gallows Island.
The beach was a slaughterhouse.
Myrish catapults hurled flaming bundles of oil-soaked straw into the caves where the Tyroshi garrison had taken shelter.
"Again!" the sea trader roared. Ten days of hard fighting had left him filthy and hoarse, but fury kept him upright.
On the other side of the island, inside the smoke-filled caves:
"Cough—cough—"
Tyroshi soldiers pressed wet rags over their faces and scrambled through the twisting tunnels, hunting for fresh air while the flames and smoke tried to cook them alive.
Before the gem sequence, the Stepstones had two selling points: worthless rock and terrain so nasty it was almost impossible to take. Perfect pirate country.
"Lys has stopped sending reinforcements," the Tyroshi commander growled, reading the grim signs. Three days earlier word had reached them that Tyrosh itself had been sacked and Archon Goldfyre burned alive. Morale had collapsed. Only the Myrish army camped right outside kept them from surrendering on the spot.
"We can't keep bleeding men like this," he snarled, baring his teeth. "If we don't break out we die in these holes."
No archon. No supplies. No one coming to save them. The only option left was a desperate counter-attack.
---
Noon.
The Myrish assault paused. Soldiers lit cookfires and grabbed a quick meal.
Then the Tyroshi exploded out of the caves like cornered rats.
"Kill them!"
"Rip the Myrish dogs apart!"
The long siege had turned the Tyroshi into rabid animals. They smashed through Myr's first line and the beach turned into a screaming melee.
"Hold the line!" the sea trader bellowed, shaking a lieutenant by the collar. "Bring every catapult to bear—smash those bastards!"
Swords rang. Men died in heaps. Sand flew.
At the same moment, dozens of pirate, slaver, and smuggler ships lurked just offshore, watching the Triarchy tear itself apart like vultures circling a dying ox. If the three cities bled each other dry, the scavengers would swarm in and feast.
The fighting reached its bloody peak. The beach was carpeted with corpses. Crabs scuttled in with the tide, pincers clicking.
"Archon, we can't hold much longer!" a Myrish officer staggered up, covered in blood.
The Tyroshi mercenaries were in their element—cornered, desperate, and ferocious. Myr's merchants and scholars were not.
"Damn it, they're out of supplies—how are we losing?!" the sea trader raged.
A sudden salty wind whipped across the beach, driving sand into the Myrish faces. The sky had darkened.
"Shit," the sea trader muttered.
His men were downwind. The Tyroshi had the wind at their backs.
"Hahaha! Even the gods hate Myr!" the Tyroshi commander laughed, red-ruby glow in his eyes as he hacked a Myrishman in half.
The battle reversed in seconds. Myr fell back toward the surf, fighting desperately behind their barricades.
"Archon, we should withdraw," the officers pleaded.
The sea trader's jaw clenched. He had the numbers and the initiative. This was the perfect moment to finish Tyrosh on the islands. If he pulled back now and the Tyroshi regrouped, he might never get another chance.
"We—"
A blazing red streak tore through the clouds.
"Hiss-graa—!"
Caraxes plummeted like a crimson comet, molten-gold eyes full of battle-lust. A roaring pillar of red-black flame slammed into the Tyroshi ranks.
"Dracarys!"
Daeron's voice rang out in crisp High Valyrian, cold and merciless.
Caraxes banked hard, sweeping the beach with flame. The Tyroshi charge shattered. Men screamed as dragonfire clung to them like pitch.
Toothless burst through the clouds right behind his father, spraying misty green fire in wide arcs. The clinging flames burned slower but refused to die, turning soldiers into writhing torches.
"Dragon!" the Tyroshi commander froze, ice shooting up his spine.
"Dracarys!"
Daeron wheeled Caraxes again and again, directing Toothless with simple commands. One rider, two dragons owned the battlefield.
The sea trader looked up, stunned—then broke into wild laughter. "The Iron Throne kept its word! The dragons are here!"
A royal fleet appeared on the horizon, three-headed dragon banners snapping in the wind.
"Charge!" Lord Lucerys Velaryon roared. Two thousand fresh troops stormed ashore.
The Tyroshi broke. They tried to flee back into the caves, but Daeron cut them off with sweeping walls of flame. The beach became an inferno. Even the crabs scuttling up from the surf roasted inside their shells.
"Dragons!" the watching pirates screamed. They saw the red and black monsters spitting death and rowed frantically away. No one wanted to be next.
"Don't let them escape!" Daeron ordered, spotting the pirate ships. "Stannis—take the remaining men and sink every last one of those vermin."
Stannis was already moving. "Yes, Prince!"
Daeron kept the dragons in the air, burning the last pockets of resistance until the battle ended in minutes.
Lucerys didn't waste a second. The moment the Tyroshi broke he led his men straight into the caves the garrison had defended for so long.
The first chamber they entered was stacked floor-to-ceiling with crates of gold, silver, and fine porcelain.
"Hahaha!" Lucerys laughed like a madman. "We're rich again!"
The looting of Grey Gallows had officially begun.