The dragons circled over Maidenpool, three shadows that had become the town's new constellation.
The Silver Emperor, Balerion, and Belaerys. To the smallfolk, they were no longer just legends or distant terrors; they were their monsters. They watched with pride as the beasts grew larger by the day, fed on the cattle of House Mooton and the fish of the Bay of Crabs. They knew the Prince was preparing for war, and every time the dragons roared, the people felt a little safer.
After bidding farewell to the pompous Mace Tyrell and the enigmatic Prince Lewyn Martell, Rhaegar received a third guest.
This one did not come with fanfare or banners.
The envoy arrived at the Brownfort in a simple carriage, cloaked in grey wool. But the guards at the gate whispered of the scent of pears and brandy that lingered in the air long after the carriage had passed.
In the reception hall, Rhaegar waited.
The envoy lowered the hood of the cloak.
Cascades of blue-green hair spilled out, framing a face that was both strikingly beautiful and undeniably sharp. Her eyes were the color of the Summer Sea, bright and calculating.
"It is you, Lady Shireen," Rhaegar said, surprised.
Shireen of Tyrosh. The daughter of the Archon. The "Pearl of the Stepstones."
"Your Highness," Shireen said, dropping into a curtsy that was more playful than respectful. "You are younger than me, yet already you fight for the glory of the Iron Throne. I could hardly let the men have all the fun."
She stepped closer. The scent of pear brandy was stronger now—sweet, heady, and expensive. She wore a gown of Tyroshi lace that clung to her figure like a second skin, dyed in vibrant shades of teal and vermilion.
"Does my perfume offend you, Prince Rhaegar?" she asked, noticing his slight hesitation. "It is made from the winter pears of the Disputed Lands. Rare and intoxicating."
"It is... memorable," Rhaegar replied, keeping his distance. "But let us speak of why the Archon's daughter is traveling in secret through the Riverlands."
"You are so serious," Shireen sighed, pouting slightly. "I feel like a ship crashing against a rock. Have you let the armor freeze your heart? They say your ancestor, Aegon the Unworthy, had nine hundred women. Surely you have inherited some of his... appetite?"
"Aegon the Unworthy died rotting in his own bed, hated by the realm," Rhaegar countered dryly. "I prefer to avoid his example."
"Touché," Shireen laughed. The sound was like silver bells. Then, in an instant, the flirtatious mask dropped. Her eyes hardened, revealing the shrewd diplomat beneath. "Very well. Business. My father knows you are planning to move against the Stepstones. He knows you have secured the Redwyne Fleet."
"And?"
"And Tyrosh is in a delicate position," Shireen explained. "The pirate king, Klarl Rhaen, is a Lysene exile. But he has friends in Lys and Myr. If Tyrosh openly sends warships to aid you, the other two Daughters will see it as an act of war. The Triarchy collapsed years ago, but the hatred remains."
"So the Archon wants the pirates gone, but he doesn't want to get his hands dirty," Rhaegar summarized.
"Precisely."
"I need ships, Lady Shireen," Rhaegar said bluntly. "Troop transports. The Royal Fleet is engaging the pirate navy, but I need to move my army—the men I gathered in the Riverlands—to the islands quickly."
"Warships are out of the question," Shireen said, shaking her head. "A Tyroshi war galley spotted in the Stepstones would be a diplomatic disaster."
"What about merchant cogs?" Rhaegar pressed. "Large, ocean-going vessels. Capable of carrying hundreds of men. If they happen to be leased to a Westerosi merchant... say, a front for the Crown... then Tyrosh is merely conducting business."
Shireen smiled. "Now you sound like a magister."
They haggled. Shireen was a shark in silk. She knew the value of her ships, and she knew Rhaegar was desperate. They settled on a lease price for two massive Tyroshi carracks, usually used for carrying dye and spices. The crew would be "discharged" Tyroshi sailors, officially mercenaries for the duration of the contract.
The price was high, but the terms included a gambling clause: the faster the war ended, the lower the final payment would be.
"Done," Rhaegar said, offering his hand.
Shireen took it, her skin cool and soft. "You drive a hard bargain, Dragon Prince. My father will be pleased. He hates the pirates disrupting his trade, but he loves gold even more."
"A common affliction among rulers," Rhaegar noted.
"Indeed." Shireen lingered, her thumb brushing the back of his hand. "Negotiations are thirsty work. Perhaps we could share a cup of that brandy? My father sent a cask."
Rhaegar gently withdrew his hand. "I must decline, my lady. I have a war to plan. And a betrothed waiting in King's Landing."
"Ah, the Baratheon girl," Shireen said, a flicker of something—jealousy? pity?—crossing her face. "The Stormlander. They say she has muscles like a blacksmith. I suppose some men like that."
She stepped closer again, invading his personal space. Her blue-green hair brushed against his tunic.
"If I were a man," she whispered, her voice losing its playful edge, "I would be leading the Tyroshi fleet right now. My father wouldn't have to hide in the shadows. But alas, I am just a woman. A beautiful ornament to be traded."
Rhaegar looked at her. Beneath the perfume and the lace, he saw the same frustration he had seen in Roberta. The cage of gender was different in the Free Cities, but it was still a cage.
"You are no ornament, Shireen," Rhaegar said softly. "You just negotiated a fleet deal that will change the course of a war. Do not sell yourself short."
Shireen looked up at him, her eyes wide. Then, she smiled—a genuine, dazzling smile that lit up the room.
"You are dangerous, Rhaegar Targaryen," she murmured. "You make people want to follow you."
She turned to leave, her silks swishing around her ankles. At the door, she paused.
"A gift," she said. "For the Prince."
Before Rhaegar could react, she spun back, threw her arms around his neck, and planted a firm, lingering kiss on his lips. It tasted of pear brandy and promise.
She pulled away before he could push her off, laughing as she swept out the door.
"Good luck in the Stepstones, Dragonlord! Try not to get eaten!"
Rhaegar stood alone in the hall, touching his lips. He shook his head, a wry smile touching his face.
"Too many complications," he muttered.
Days later, the massive, pot-bellied Tyroshi carracks sailed out of the Bay of Crabs, their holds packed with Riverlands soldiers.
Above them, three dragons screamed their challenge to the wind.
Rhaegar sat atop the Silver Emperor, the ruby warm against his chest. He focused his will, looking south, looking toward the jagged rocks and blood-soaked waters of the Stepstones.
The pieces were moving. The Reach, Dorne, Tyrosh, the Crown. And at the center of it all, the Dragon.
Let the game begin.