The carriage rolled to a measured halt before the gates of Drakoncrest.
Sea wind swept in from the narrow waters, sharp with salt and the chill of stone. Before them rose the stronghold men had begun to name the heart of a new power. Its walls were dark and unadorned, hewn from stern rock that drank the winter light. Square towers stood at disciplined intervals along the curtain wall, their banners stirring in the wind with restrained dignity rather than gaudy display.
Lysandro leaned slightly forward within the carriage, studying the fortress through narrowed eyes. For several heartbeats he said nothing, and in that silence his thoughts turned like a blade being tested for balance.
"So this is Drakoncrest," he murmured at last.
He glanced toward Felix and Johanna. "It is far inferior to the splendor of the port."
True Dragon Port, ever swelling with ships, merchants, and shouting dockhands, possessed the restless breath of ambition unbound. Drakoncrest felt altogether different. It felt more Restrained. As if every stone had been set not to impress, but to endure.
"It scarcely resembles a city," Lysandro continued. "More a fortified estate."
His fingers tapped once against the carriage door, a small, thoughtful rhythm. He was not disappointed, yet something in him remained unsettled. Power that flaunted itself could be measured and weighed. Power that concealed its full extent was another matter entirely.
The gates did not open at once.
Questions came first, names, titles, intent. The guards listened with disciplined attention, neither cowed nor arrogant. Their armor was plain but well kept; their spears were steady. Even their silences felt purposeful. By the time the heavy gates groaned wide and the carriage passed within, curiosity had given way to alert caution.
Drakoncrest was not loud.
They were escorted through vaulted corridors of cool stone into the audience chamber. Tall windows admitted pale winter light that pooled across the floor like watered silver. A long table stood near the center, strewn with scrolls and sealed letters. Ink glistened darkly where it had only just touched parchment.
At the head of the table sat Prince Aegon.
He did not rise when they entered.
He did not even look up.
Quill in hand, he continued to write, breaking seals with measured movements, sand falling in soft whispers over fresh ink. The silence stretched.
Johanna moved first.
She stepped forward with practiced grace, skirts whispering against stone, and sank into a flawless curtsy. Her smile was soft as summer light.
"Your Highness," she said, her voice sweet as honeyed wine, "it is an honor to meet you."
The only answer was the faint scratch of quill upon parchment.
A subtle chill rippled through the chamber.
Felix's jaw tightened. Lysandro did not shift his stance, yet something in his gaze hardened.
The insult was not accidental.
If the prince had no wish to see them, he could have refused the audience. To summon them only to ignore them... this was a message.
Lysandro stepped forward, boots echoing against the stone.
"If you had no wish to receive us," he said coolly, "why summon us to Drakoncrest?"
The quill paused.
Unhurried, Aegon set it aside. He pressed sand over the ink, brushed it away with calm precision, then at last lifted his gaze.
His eyes were not angry.
They passed over Lysandro first, measuring and weighing. Then Felix. Then Johanna. Finally, they settled upon the small figure half concealed behind Lysandro's cloak.
The little girl stiffened.
When his gaze fixed upon her, she instinctively shrank back, fingers clutching at her father's sleeve.
Aegon's expression shifted by the smallest degree.
"You must be Lord Lysandro," he said mildly. "I have heard of you. Though I was unaware you had the habit of bringing your daughter wherever you go."
The tone was courteous. The warmth was absent.
Lysandro did not glance down at the child. His eyes remained locked upon the prince.
"Larra is my finest child," he replied evenly. "I cherish her greatly. That is why I keep her close and raise her carefully."
For the briefest instant, something flickered in Aegon's gaze, recognition, perhaps. Or amusement.
His lips curved faintly.
"A devoted father," he said.
Lysandro did not return the smile. Yet his hand tightened around Larra's fingers in silent reassurance.
Larra could hear her own heartbeat, loud as a war drum in her ears. She remembered her father's instructions before they departed: Stand straight. Speak clearly. And do not tremble.
She swallowed and forced herself to step forward from behind him. Her shoes scraped softly against the stone floor.
Then-
The chamber doors burst open with a resounding crash.
The sound struck like thunder beneath a clear sky.
Larra startled and stumbled back at once, retreating into the shelter of her father's cloak.
A young man rushed in, breathless, dark hair disheveled from haste. His cheeks were flushed, eyes bright with barely restrained excitement.
"Brother," he called out, hardly containing himself, "Dreamfire has laid two dragon eggs. One black, one white. Would you like to come see?"
The words spilled out before caution could catch them.
Only then did he notice the guests.
His expression faltered. Excitement gave way to sudden awareness.
"Oh," he said, blinking. "My apologies."
He straightened awkwardly and took half a step back toward the door. His eyelids twitched as realization settled upon him.
Seven save me.
In his eagerness over Dreamfire's clutch, he had forgotten himself. To interrupt his brother during council was ill judged. To do so before foreign lords was worse.
Perhaps the news would soften whatever reprimand awaited him.
He began to retreat.
"Stop."
The single word cut cleanly through the chamber.
The young man froze mid-step.
Slowly, he turned back, shoulders already tense.
"Brother," he said quickly, lowering his wide eyes in transparent appeal, "I still have sword practice. I must hurry back."
Aegon regarded his brother without expression.
"Enough," he said at last.
"No training today. Take little Larra and show her around."
He inclined his head slightly toward the girl, as though the matter were already decided.
Silence settled over the chamber.
Daeron blinked, clearly unprepared for such a command. His gaze shifted from Aegon to Larra and back again, confusion writ plain upon his face.
"You are my little betrothed?" he blurted.
His brows shot upward in undisguised astonishment. "Wait, did you not say I would not need an arranged marriage?"
The words rang far louder than his earlier enthusiasm about dragon eggs.
Lysandro's gaze sharpened at once. Felix's attention snapped toward Aegon. Johanna's smile did not falter, though her fingers tightened ever so slightly within the folds of her sleeves.
For a fleeting moment, Aegon closed his eyes.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and drew in a slow breath, as though mastering an irritation long practiced. When he exhaled, it was with deliberate restraint.
"My mother mentioned it in passing," he said flatly. "The boy chose to take it far too seriously."
He opened his eyes and fixed Daeron with a look that promised consequences yet to come.
"Say another word," he added quietly, "and I will sew your mouth shut."
The threat was delivered without heat, which made it all the more convincing.
Daeron swallowed.
Color crept higher into his cheeks. He glanced toward Larra and offered her a tentative, sheepish smile.
"Would you… like to see the dragon pits?" he asked, his voice softened now, stripped of earlier bravado.
Larra hesitated. The word dragon stirred both awe and fear within her breast. She looked up at her father.
Lysandro bent slightly toward her. His expression remained composed, but his tone carried quiet insistence.
"Go," he said gently. "Observe carefully."
It was not merely permission. It was instruction.
Larra nodded.
Darren extended his hand with awkward courtesy. After a brief pause, long enough to steady her racing heart, she placed her small fingers into his.
Together they turned toward the doors.
When they closed behind them with a muted thud, the chamber seemed to expand in their absence, as though the air itself had shifted.
Lysandro's expression changed almost at once.
He stepped forward, drawing a measured breath.
"You presume much, Your Highness," he said.
There was no raised voice, no outward anger, only steel wrapped in silk.
Aegon regarded him steadily.
He did not immediately reply.
From the side, Felix watched in silence, his thoughts racing far faster than the exchange of words. The arrangement had not been denied. Not truly. It had been brushed aside, diminished... but not rejected.
Whether jest or stratagem, the implication lingered in the air like smoke.
As Daeron and the girl's footsteps faded down the corridor, understanding dawned upon Felix with uncomfortable clarity.
Tyrosh was not the true objective.
Nor even Lys alone.
The Three Daughters. The Disputed Lands. Influence that crept not with banners, but with roots.
If Lysandro continued along this path, it would not be long before Lys followed Tyrosh's fate, subdued not merely by force, but by inevitability.
A cold coil tightened in Felix's stomach.
If that hour came, he would have to choose swiftly.
Myr could burn. The slave masters could fall. So long as his House endured, it mattered little.
Their wealth did not rest upon chains.
Spices carried on warm southern winds. Gemstones cut to brilliance. Fine works of craftsmanship traded across seas and courts. Luxury goods sought by princes and magisters alike.
Slaves were currency for others.
They were not the foundation of his house.
There were alternatives.
Volantis. Slaver's Bay. Even Meereen. He imagined their banners transplanted beneath foreign skies, their counting houses reopened in distant ports.
Yet the vision sat ill with him.
The Bowers had stood in Myr for centuries. In foreign cities they would be newcomers, their influence reduced to coin and little more.
No.
Better to remain, if remaining were possible.
His gaze drifted back to Aegon.
Perhaps survival did not lie in resistance.
Perhaps it lay in timely surrender.
Johanna, for her part, stood silent and watchful.
Her face betrayed nothing; her smile remained serene. Yet behind her composed gaze, thoughts moved with the precision of an abacus.
Myr and Lys could not stand alone. Not for long.
Once their support for Tyrosh faltered, the balance would tip decisively.
She had not come to Drakoncrest for sentiment. She ran a house of pleasure; she understood the currents of power better than most lords who fancied themselves statesmen.
If Drakoncrest rose, she would establish herself here.
If not here, then upon Grey Gallows. Or even in Tyrosh itself.
Her survival did not depend on banners or oaths. It depended on foresight, and adaptation.
Let cities burn, if burn they must.
So long as she secured her foothold before the flames reached her own door.
Across the chamber, Aegon resumed his seat.
He folded his hands upon the table, studying each of them in turn. His posture appeared relaxed, almost casual, yet nothing in him suggested carelessness.
"You have seen Drakoncrest," he said at last.
His gaze settled on Lysandro.
"Tell me, my lord. Do you still believe it inferior?"
Lysandro met his eyes without hesitation.
The faintest smile touched his lips, not warm, but acknowledging.
"In stone and splendor?" he replied evenly. "Perhaps."
His gaze shifted briefly toward the closed doors through which his daughter had gone, where dragons now waited beyond mortal stone.
"But in other matters," he added, "I am beginning to perceive its strengths."