4:00 p.m.
The battle was over.
Daeron slid down from Caraxes's back and spotted Lord Lucerys Velaryon directing soldiers as they cleared the battlefield. Lucerys jogged over, barely containing his grin.
"Prince, we're rich!"
Daeron scanned the beach—bodies already being dragged into the surf—and asked, "How much?"
"At least a million gold dragons!" Lucerys's face was flushed with excitement. He lowered his voice. "Tons of coin, and deep in the caves we found the special gems the Tyroshi never had time to ship back to the city. Six full chests!"
A single large crate held roughly a hundred stones.
"Six hundred special gems?" Daeron's eyes lit up.
Truth was, he had never seen a gem vein in person or watched one being mined. But one thing was obvious: the more gems the Triarchy pulled out of the ground, the fewer made it to market. Most were grabbed the moment they were dug up.
"The Archon and the inner-city nobles only scraped together three hundred or so," Daeron muttered. "And here's six hundred just sitting on one island."
He ordered the crates loaded onto the ships immediately. They would go straight into his inventory later.
Lucerys might be proud, but he was also thrifty. His men stripped every usable piece of armor, bow, crossbow, sword, and spear from the dead. They even hauled out the Tyroshi grain stores and sailed off with ten of the garrison's oared galleys.
"Those longships and cogs will be hard for you to crew," the sea trader said, still filthy from battle. "Sell them to Myr. I'll make you an offer you won't refuse."
Lucerys brought the man straight to Daeron.
Daeron stood on the beach, nose wrinkled against the stench of blood and charred flesh, inspecting the Tyroshi slaves they had captured. The Free Cities ran on slavery; in Myr and Tyrosh the ratio was roughly one citizen to three slaves.
"Prince, some of these look like dye slaves," the sea trader offered, flashing a familiar smile.
Daeron kept a finger under his nose. "Purple dye?"
"Exactly." The archon pulled an elderly slave forward and pointed at the man's cracked, purple-stained hands. "Only someone who spent decades harvesting and crushing purple sea snails gets hands like that."
Tyrosh's famous purple dye came from those snails and brought in huge yearly revenue. They also made a spicy garlic sausage Daeron had tried once—nothing like Westerosi food.
"Keep him," Daeron said. The old slave's eyes were dull and empty. Age had made him disposable.
The sea trader happily picked out a dozen more skilled slaves—grape growers, winemakers, glassblowers, apothecaries, dyers. Every trade imaginable.
"Free Cities are this wasteful with skilled craftsmen?" Daeron asked.
"Not all of them," the sea trader said proudly. "Only the Triarchy cities act like this. Our location is perfect—right on the trade routes between east and west, plus farmland in the Disputed Lands. Slavery gives us endless cheap labor, so the nobles never have to pay real wages. It creates the illusion of surplus. Money plus labor plus ambition equals rapid technical progress. Only the Triarchy managed it."
Pentos and Volantis had decent geography but rotten, stagnant leadership. Braavos had balance but no massive slave workforce.
"I'll take them back to Westeros," Daeron said. "They'll serve the crown."
The sea trader shrugged. "As you wish. But the Crownlands don't really have the output to support these exotic crafts. And Tyrosh's purple dye only works with those specific snails—they die outside Tyroshi waters. That's why they hold the monopoly."
"They'll serve the crown," Daeron repeated, ending the discussion.
The sea trader dropped to one knee, all arrogance gone. "Prince, thank you for coming today. Without you we would have lost."
"No need for thanks," Daeron said, meeting his eyes. "Targaryens keep their word."
The archon stayed on his knee. "I saw you fight from dragonback. I'm in awe. I kneel willingly and hope that once the Stepstones are settled, Myr and the Iron Throne can forge a deep, lasting friendship—mutual benefit, mutual defense."
Got it, Daeron thought. The man was scared. Tarth, Tyrosh, and now Grey Gallows had shown him exactly what dragons could do. He wanted to lock in an alliance before the Iron Throne turned its eyes on Myr.
"Prince, Myr will offer its fullest sincerity," the sea trader said earnestly. "When I return, the other two archons will plead the same."
"An alliance isn't a handshake," Daeron replied calmly. "It needs shared interests, clear hierarchy, and shared risk. Convince the other two archons. Then we'll talk."
---
Two days later.
10:00 a.m.
Stannis's small squadron returned, pirate heads dangling from every rail like grisly trophies.
He knelt before Daeron. "Mission accomplished, Prince."
Daeron studied him on the grassy northwest slope of Grey Gallows. Stannis was blood-spattered, armor slashed in two places, a fresh cut across one shoulder. Yet his grey-blue eyes were steady and calm.
"You did well, Stannis," Daeron said, gripping the younger man's shoulder and pulling him upright. "I'll make heavy use of you."
Stannis looked away, uncomfortable with the praise. He still saw himself as the brother of a rebel.
"You're close to mastering life force, aren't you?" Daeron asked.
"A little progress fighting the pirates," Stannis answered stiffly.
Daeron smiled and handed over two bottles of iridium-star milk plus a red healing potion. "Use these. Come back when you need more."
Stannis stared at the gifts, a strange look crossing his face—like he was remembering Robert's easy generosity. He bowed and withdrew.
Daeron opened his inventory. The gem count was absurd: every type at least 167 stones, yellow rubies topping out at 412. Enough to build an entire order of full knights if he concentrated them on the right people.
"Still short on talent," he muttered.
Barristan and Ser Jon were excellent bodyguards but terrible field commanders. He needed men like Randyll Tarly, Stannis, or Lucerys—leaders who could actually run armies.
He still missed the Blackfish.
"Find the red priestess," Daeron ordered. "I want that prophecy."
He hadn't forgotten Melisandre's vision of a volcano in the Stepstones. With the battle won and pirate ships circling like vultures, it was the perfect time to hunt for it while clearing out the vermin.
---
Two days later, among the scattered islands between Bloodstone and Grey Gallows.
"Hiss-graa—!"
Daeron wheeled Caraxes low, a ribbon of red flame slicing across calm blue water and slamming into a pirate galley. The stern exploded. Burning planks flew everywhere.
"Again," Daeron said calmly.
Caraxes banked like a serpent, dodging the desperate arrow storm, then bathed the deck in dragonfire.
Toothless swooped in right behind, spraying clinging green flames over the men leaping into the sea.
"Good," Daeron murmured.
He was drilling the dragons hard—teaching them to fight in changing conditions, obey commands instantly, and work as a team. No one had trained him; he was figuring it out as the only living dragonrider.
Around noon they landed on a small, unremarkable island. Two oared boats beached behind them. Stannis, Tyrion, and Melisandre stepped ashore.
"Prince, the Lord of Light has guided me," Melisandre said, hood half-covering her heart-shaped face. "This is the volcanic island from my vision."
Daeron looked up. A massive volcano loomed on the northern end, thick black smoke curling from its crater. The rest of the island was dense tropical jungle alive with bird calls and monkey shrieks.
A hidden bay, thick jungle, and an active volcano.
Daeron's eyes narrowed. He dropped from Caraxes's back and walked to a patch of sand near the cliff. Bright green, oval leaves poked up from the ground.
He crouched and harvested seven ginger roots—ordinary, silver-star, and gold-star quality.
Daeron's mouth curved into a slow, delighted smile.
Ginger Island.