292 AC, Viserysfort, White Castle, King's Tower.
Morning sunlight poured through the glass windowpanes, filling the room with warm, golden light.
After that heart-stopping night, history had officially turned a new page.
Viserys stepped out of his chambers and found the two girls playing with the baby dragons.
This was probably the only time these dragons would be small enough to play with. Their growth rate was going to be insane—they'd outgrow horses in no time.
The Targaryen bloodline carried the ancient magic of blood and fire. That Dragonlord heritage made it far easier for them to bond with and ride these creatures.
The hatchlings had seen Viserys first when they broke out of their shells. Because of that, they felt a much stronger attachment to him. He smelled of fire and dragon. To them, he was both parent and elder.
The two girls also carried pure Dragonlord blood, so the little dragons accepted them as well.
The white dragon seemed especially fond of Daenerys, while Rhaenys had won over the green one.
As soon as the other three spotted Viserys, they started hissing excitedly.
The black-and-red, the purple-and-gold, and the blue.
The black-red and purple-gold ones already looked bigger and more aggressive than the others. Even though they'd all hatched together, these two were noticeably larger and fiercer.
Those had been the first two eggs Viserys had paid the most attention to.
"Let's give them names," Rhaenys said eagerly.
"What do you two want to call them?" Viserys asked.
"The green one should be Egg," Rhaenys decided. "It reminds me of my family."
Egg was the nickname for Aegon—her mother Elia's and her little brother's name.
"The white one will be Daenerion," Daenerys said seriously. "Ser Willem Darry was my protector. My dragon will finish what he started."
Viserys nodded and looked at the remaining three.
"The black-and-red one will be Rhaegal," he said, gazing at the black dragon. People had once called Balerion the Black Dread. This name would honor his mother Rhaella and his brother Rhaegar.
"The purple-and-gold one will be Tyraxes. The blue one… Bluewing," Viserys announced. The purple-gold egg had come from House Belaerys, and Tyraxes had been one of their dragons. The blue one got its name from its striking color.
"Time to eat," Rhaenys said. She set down a basin of roasted meat strips. The hatchlings immediately started hissing and fighting over the food like little snakes.
Viserys watched the five young dragons. Right now he could only properly arm two dragonriders. Maybe a third if someone else was willing to follow him. The rest of the dragons and eggs would stay in reserve—for his future children, perhaps.
"Come on, let's head to the small hall," Viserys said.
The girls carried two of the dragons with them, refusing to let them out of sight. Viserys kept the other three close.
Breakfast was a proper spread: honey cakes, salted ham, bacon, fried fish with breadcrumbs, and Dornish-style cheesy eggs loaded with black pepper.
"Nothing beats a good breakfast after a big battle," the Red Viper commented.
"It is nice," Viserys said from the head of the table, the two princesses seated on either side of him. "But the next war is already coming."
Also at the table were the Red Viper, Count Roland, Count Donnel, Syrio, and the others. Dick Crabb served as the king's cupbearer, keeping his wine topped up.
Whenever the old order is challenged, fierce resistance always follows. The changes Viserys was building on Andalos soil had already sent shockwaves across both continents.
He had basically taken on the same role Daenerys would have as a liberator—but on a much larger scale. The impact was massive.
Viserys was starting to feel what it was like to stand in the eye of the storm. Whether he wanted to or not, endless wars kept finding him.
War didn't have to come to him. It was already marching straight toward him.
"Where do you think the storm will break next?" the Red Viper asked, his dark eyes gleaming.
"On the sea," Viserys replied. He still had a few Tyroshi prisoners. He had a decent understanding of their situation.
"Tyrosh," Count Roland said. He didn't sound surprised.
Viserys had already crushed the horse lords. Tyrosh was the next logical target.
"I think the timing is right," Viserys continued. "In the next phase, I need a proper navy. And we need to seize control of the Stepstones."
He felt that expansion eastward could wait. It was time to focus on a westward naval strategy.
After all, Daenerys had hatched her dragons in a quiet corner of the Red Waste. He had done it on the very public battlefield of Andalos. Word would spread to every Free City soon.
The Stepstones sat at the crossroads of the world—the vital chokepoint between the two continents. If he controlled them, the other two great fleets of Westeros—the Iron Fleet and the Redwyne fleet—would be heavily restricted.
Besides, even though Theon was a hostage in Winterfell, King Balon still burned with resentment toward the Baratheons and Starks.
Viserys had thought it through. Tyrosh was a city of islands and chains. Its heart was its islands, its city, and its outlying estates. The coming southern campaign would force Tyrosh to its knees, then they would take the Stepstones.
...
Tyrosh, Archon's Palace.
The mansion deep behind the black walls was a showcase of Tyroshi architecture—fountains, lush gardens, soaring domes, carved pillars, and purple silk drapes everywhere.
Right now, the Archon with his green beard and hair looked like he was about to have a stroke.
"Give me back my legion!" the Archon roared as he grabbed a bandaged mercenary who had just fled back home. He punched the man square in the face.
The mercenary howled in pain.
These cowards hadn't even stayed until the final moments. They had run the second Viserys first attacked with his dragon.
They had managed to sail back to Tyrosh and deliver the news.
Normally these deserters would all be executed, but right now the city couldn't afford to be picky.
"The situation is bad," the man gasped. "The two giant trebuchets we prepared were burned by the dragon. The Commander-in-Chief is dead…"
"How is that possible?" the Archon collapsed onto his velvet couch, breathing hard. "Dragons have been gone for centuries…"
"How big was it? Still a young one, right?" the Archon tried to reassure himself.
"At least forty feet long. Fast, agile, and vicious. Not ancient-sized, but more than enough to wreck us on the battlefield. It burned the trebuchets and roasted our men alive…"
"When did you run?" the Archon demanded.
"The same day the Commander was killed. We slipped out of camp together. Some of the unlucky ones got their legs chopped off by Bloodbeard's men…"
"Bloodbeard… Drogo… at least they fought like men," the Archon muttered. Even if his brother and the trebuchets were gone, Khal Drogo and Khal Jhaqo still had massive armies.
"They won't lose. They can't lose," the Archon kept whispering like a man possessed. We still have scorpions and archers. A half-grown dragon isn't unbeatable. The Three Daughters fought dragons before.
With that thought, the Archon started feeling optimistic again. If they somehow won, he'd hang these cowards later.
This war could not be lost. If the mercenaries he'd hired died in Andalos, their families would storm his palace. Even worse, the other magisters would use it to tear him down.
"Archon," his Unsullied steward rushed in, "a red comet appeared in the sky last night. The priests say it's the Lightbringer—Azor Ahai's sword.
There's more news from Pentos. They say the battlefield in Andalos was filled with screaming. It sounded like the Andals won…"
"What?" The Archon's eyes went wide.
No time to mourn his brother. Worse news was coming.
"The Andals achieved total victory. Both khals and our entire coalition army were wiped out."
"Impossible… that's impossible!" the Archon stammered. "Khal Drogo—the Dothraki are supposed to be the greatest warriors in the world! And Bloodbeard, the Brave Companions, the Stormcrows—they all took my gold!"
"Archon, we weren't fighting a normal man. He might be a sorcerer," the mercenary said. "Viserys's dragon is unnatural. We all think he went into the ruins of Valyria and came back alive. He's terrifying…"
Sweat poured down the Archon's forehead. All his strong allies were gone. The enemy had a dragon.
Given Viserys's ruthless nature, war with Tyrosh was now inevitable.
"Prepare the scorpions! Ready the ballistae—now!" the Archon bellowed. "Clear my tunnels! Hurry!"
"No… I need to stay calm," he told himself. "The other cities won't just sit by."
"Send for help from Lys!"
"Send for help from Myr!"
"Send word to King's Landing!"
"Send word to Volantis!"