The skies above Tyrosh were a tapestry of smoke and screaming wind. Three dragons raked the city with tongues of living flame, their shadows sweeping over the panicked masses like the wings of death itself. After the initial paralysis of terror, the Tyroshi finally found their resolve. From the labyrinthine streets below, the heavy, rhythmic thrum of scorpions began to echo—the city was fighting back.
Yet, the great dragon-bolts mounted upon the high curtain walls had already been reduced to splintered timber and molten iron by the ancient fury of Vhagar. The defenders were forced to mobilize the hidden reserves sequestered within the city's interior. These engines of war, forged of weirwood and cold iron, were massive and cumbersome, designed for range and lethality rather than speed.
High above, Daeron Targaryen watched the slow, serpentine crawl of the scorpion crews through the narrow alleys.
"Hiss! Hiss!" Tessarion let out two sharp, vibrating roars, a warning translated through the bond of dragon and rider.
Upon hearing his brother's signal, Aegon did not hesitate. He leaned forward, pressing his chest against the warm gold scales of Sunfyre. "Higher!" he commanded.
The Golden Lady beat her wings with a thunderous crack, catching an updraft to climb toward the sun. Dreamfyre and Vhagar followed in her wake, their massive forms slicing through the thin air until they vanished into the velvet embrace of the clouds.
The world was silent above the grey-white sea of mist. Sunfyre hovered, his golden wings shimmering with a metallic luster. Aegon signaled to Helaena and the others, a sharp gesture of his hand. It was time to withdraw. Turning their backs on the smoking ruins of Tyrosh, the four dragons wheeled toward the east, soaring over the Myrian Sea—a vast, sapphire expanse that served as the shimmering shield for the City of Artisans.
Soon, the sprawling majesty of Myr rose to meet them.
Of all the Free Cities, Myr was a jewel of refinement, a place where the air smelled of salt and expensive oils. It was a city of scholars and masters, renowned for the delicate precision of its lenses and the peerless clarity of its telescopes. Here, weavers produced lace as fine as a spider's silk and carpets that told the history of the world in dyed wool. Their glasswork—mirrors that didn't distort and panes that glowed like frozen water—commanded prices that rivaled the rarest spices of Yi Ti.
"Roar!"
Sunfyre's voice shattered the morning stillness of Myr. The sound was a physical weight, a clarion call of Valyrian dominance that sent the bustling crowds scattering like ants beneath a falling boot. The peace of the artisan's paradise was broken in a single heartbeat.
Yet, Aegon held his hand. No fire descended. Sunfyre merely circled the city three times, a golden halo mirrored by the azure of Dreamfyre, the bronze of Vhagar, and the cobalt of Tessarion.
Aegon watched the terror below with a calculated gaze. Let them wonder, he thought. The contrast would be his sharpest weapon. When the survivors of Tyrosh spoke of the fire and the blood, and the Myrians spoke of the dragons that merely watched, the seeds of suspicion would take root. Why was Tyrosh burned while Myr was spared? In the game of shadows, a silent dragon was often more terrifying than a screaming one.
After finding a jagged peak in the Stepstones to allow the beasts to rest and gorge on mountain goats, the princes took to the air once more. Their destination: Lys.
Lys the Lovely sat upon her islands like a siren, controlling a third of the blood-soaked Disputed Lands. It was a city of alchemists and perfumers, though their most famous scents were those that brought the sleep of death—the Strangler and other subtle venoms. The blood of Old Valyria ran thick in Lys; the commoners walked the streets with hair of spun silver and eyes the color of the summer sky, echoes of a lost empire.
When the four dragons cresting the horizon above Lys, the citizenry froze. It was a moment of surreal silence. For years, the Stepstones had known the distant thunder of war, but never had the fire made flesh hovered directly over their pleasure houses and spice markets. They stared at the green behemoth that was Vhagar, a living mountain of scales that seemed to blot out the very sun.
Aegon guided Sunfyre in a low sweep, his eyes narrowing. He searched the battlements for the familiar, predatory shape of scorpions. He found nothing.
Tyrosh had been bristling with steel; even Myr had held its breath behind iron-tipped bolts. But Lys? The walls were bare. Only a few scattered patrols in silken tunics stood gaping at the sky.
"So lax?" Aegon muttered, a frown marring his features.
He closed his eyes, slipping into the primal consciousness of his dragon, using Sunfyre's keen, predatory sight to scour every turret and barbican. Still, there was no threat. No hidden engines, no sharpened death.
Satisfied, Aegon brought Sunfyre alongside Tessarion and gave Daeron the nod.
The Blue Queen dove.
Tessarion screamed as she plummeted, her cobalt flames licking across the stone walkways of the North Gate. At twenty-four years of age, her fires were not yet hot enough to crumble masonry, but they were more than sufficient to turn men into ash. Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond kept their dragons high, circling like vultures to ensure no hidden trap was sprung, while Daeron painted the walls in blue fire.
The North Gate became a charnel house. The screams of the dying rose in a sickening chorus, a brutal reminder of the Targaryen price for defiance. Aegon looked down at the distant throngs of Lysene nobility watching from their balconies, their pale faces ghostly with fear.
Enough.
Sunfyre let out a final, deafening roar. As one, the four dragons veered away, their massive wings beating a rhythm of retreat. They swept over the towering spires of the Rogare Bank, their shadows momentarily eclipsing the seat of the world's greatest wealth, before vanishing into the golden haze of the horizon.
On the highest balcony of the Rogare Bank, Lhara Rogare clutched the marble railing until her knuckles turned as white as her hair. Her voice was a fragile whisper. "That blue one... it would not stop. It just kept burning."
Beside her, Lysandro Rogare, the patriarch of the wealthiest house in the known world, stood motionless. His face was a mask of cold fury and colder fear. The unease that had been gnawing at him for days now settled in his gut like lead.
Only two days prior, word had reached him that the Iron Throne had granted the Stepstones to a prince of the blood. He had expected a diplomat; he had received a cataclysm.
"Lys is no longer a sanctuary," Lysandro murmured, his voice tight. He reached out, stroking Lhara's head with a trembling hand before turning abruptly. "Fetch my brother Drazhar and my son. Tell them the High Magister demands their presence in the solar. Immediately."
The solar was thick with the scent of old parchment and expensive wine, but the atmosphere was stifling. Lysandro paced the length of the room, his shadow flickering against the tapestries.
Drazhar burst in, his breath coming in short, jagged bursts. "Brother! Was the vault struck? Did the dragons bring the fires here?"
"The bank stands," Lysandro said, turning to face his brother and his son. "But for how long? Today was a message. Tomorrow will be the execution."
He leaned over the heavy oak table, his eyes burning. "The Rogare wealth is the heart of this family. I will not see it cut out. We shall divide our holdings into three. One part shall be sent to the Iron Bank of Braavos for safekeeping. My son, you shall oversee the transfer."
The younger Lysandro bristled, his brow furrowing in a scowl. "To the Iron Bank? Father, we are their rivals! For years we have bled them of their influence. If we crawl to them now with our gold, we become the laughingstock of the Narrow Sea."
Drazhar nodded in grim agreement. "Taking a portion to Sunspear is wise—the Martells understand the value of a golden alliance. But to Braavos? It signals weakness. Our depositors will flee if they think the Rogares fear a few dragons."
Lysandro Rogare paused, the weight of their words slowing his frantic pacing. He looked at the maps spread across his desk. "Perhaps you are right. Pride is a poor shield, but reputation is our currency."
Drazhar stepped forward, his voice lowering. "A different path, then. I shall take the Dornish portion to Sunspear as planned. But let the second part be moved to the secret estate deep within the Disputed Lands. It is a fortress in all but name, hidden by the canopy and stone."
"And the third?" the elder Lysandro asked.
"Use it," Drazhar sneered, a predatory glint in his eyes. "Buy every bushel of grain, every barrel of salted beef, every bolt of cloth in Lys. Drain the markets. Transport the supplies to the stronghold. And then... we send word to Astapor. We shall buy a legion of Unsullied. Let the dragons come then; they will find a city of starving ghosts and a fortress of iron-willed eunuchs."
Lysandro considered the ruthlessness of the plan. "The prices in the city will skyrocket. The smallfolk will starve in the streets."
Drazhar gave a hollow, cold laugh. "Let them. As long as the House of Rogare breathes, Lys survives. If the poor cannot afford bread, they are welcome to find their feast in the Graves."