Time at sea passed without meaning, the hours folding into one another as the fleet of forty large vessels cut through the Gulf of Grief, leaving Slaver's Bay behind.
Few pirates dared challenge them; a handful of rickety ships would have little chance against this convoy.
Those who were prudent understood that recklessness would only end in their ruin.
Soon, evening had settled aboard their ships. The sun had long sunk beneath the horizon, leaving streaks of molten gold fading into deep indigo clouds over the waves.
Within the cabin, the faint scent of oil lamps mingled with the lingering tang of salt.
The pair had eaten a modest meal. With prior preparation, the fleet had sufficient food stocked for its journey.
Beyond that, supplies would run perilously low.
The cabin itself was small but serviceable: wooden walls reinforced with iron bands and narrow windows shuttered against the wind. Against the rear wall, a large cot served as their bed.
Tonight, they shared its warmth, sitting side by side with a jumble of loot sprawled before them.
"It seems these are the main things we found…" Baelon hummed, tilting his head as he surveyed the assortment. Parchments and maps were strewn across the bed, alongside the glittering edges of Valyrian steel blades, whilst gold and jewels lay in small piles.
Helaena's lips pursed as she picked up one parchment, her eyes scanning the grim numbers. A sorrow lingered on her face.
"Throughout the Century of Blood, Astapor alone contributed at least 150,000 slaves in raiding the ruins…" She murmured.
One hundred fifty thousand people. Not animals. Not objects. Human lives, extinguished in the shadows of ruins, most likely never to be remembered.
Baelon reached over, brushing a hand against hers. "It's fine, Helaena… Look, we've caused a riot in Astapor. You could consider it a measure of late justice. If any were lucky, they may have escaped after the looting."
Helaena forced a small, uncertain smile. "Perhaps…" Yet even her brief comfort betrayed knowledge.
Any escaped slaves were likely to be hunted and returned, caught in the sweep of the Dothraki or other opportunists.
There was little they could do; to attempt to liberate every slave would have been folly.
Maintaining order in a slave city without slaves was impossible, and governing the arid lands beyond required more than good intentions.
Baelon sought to lift the mood. "On the bright side…look at this." He tapped a map spread across the bed. "It details the majority of the land routes in the ruins of Valyria, even warning of dangers."
Even from the safety of the deck, Baelon shivered at the thought.
The ruins were hostile in ways no human army could fully anticipate: volcanic fissures that could swallow men whole, treacherous beasts that prowled the ashen land, and sulphurous gases that were both toxic and highly flammable.
Even their pyromancy would be a double-edged sword, the flames dangerous if they managed to ignite the gases.
"The wildlife…" Helaena added softly as she looked through the parchment.
They had been prepared to deal with Valyria's dangers, but the wildlife was not something they had considered.
"Mutated from the Doom. Ash Wolves roam the plains, hunting anything alive. And above, the sky… Corpse Crows, scavengers circling endlessly." Helaena whispered. "Some say dragons, rogue and abandoned from old eggs, still survive there."
"Thankfully, we learned all this beforehand," she sighed, pressing a hand to her chest.
Baelon smiled as he turned his attention to the blades among their spoils. A long sword, a greatsword, an arakh, and four daggers, all forged from Valyrian steel.
He lifted the heaviest of them, a greatsword, and held it under the flickering oil lamp.
The ripples in the steel shimmered, faintly catching the golden lamplight, making the blackened patterns dance along its edge.
"I suppose House Targaryen has a few more Valyrian steel blades now," he said, eyes gleaming.
Nearby lay a flexible suit of armour from Qohor, suitable for him as he grew into it. And, now, he had a suitable sword to replace the one his father gave him all those years ago.
A frown creased his forehead. "I'll need a larger sheath…"
Helaena chuckled. "Rather than heirlooms for House Targaryen, might they not serve better as heirlooms for our children?"
"I suppose you're right." Baelon considered her words, then grinned. "They can keep Blackfyre and Darksister, I am sure they will be glad of it. Whilst they cling to the past, we can look forward to the future."
"Still…" Baelon glanced at her sidelong, a faintly sly curve to his lips. "It seems you're quite taken with the idea of us having children."
To his surprise, Helaena did not blush. She simply nodded, her expression earnest. "Of course. I would like to have them… and show Father as soon as we can. After all—"
She exhaled softly, the rest left unspoken. They both understood. Viserys' death still clung to them like some relentless shadow.
To let him see their children. His grandchildren. It felt like a small defiance against fate.
He could only hope that should they ever return to Kingslanding, that frail yet stubborn figure would be there waiting for them.
***
Night gave way to dawn, and by the time the sun crested the horizon, the fleet was already drawing close to the coast of the Valyrian peninsula.
Below deck, the planning cabin sat deep within the ship's belly. At the room's centre stood a large, sturdy table, its surface scarred by years of use.
A massive map was stretched across it, weighted down by daggers, tankards, and smooth stones marking positions. Chairs ringed the table, bolted to the deck.
The room shifted with the waves with a steady, rhythmic sway that reminded all present they were still at sea.
Baelon sat at the head of the table, hands braced on the wood. To either side sat Rhevos, Grey Fist, and Silvo.
Helaena was notably absent.
Such meetings held little appeal for her, and she had taken to the skies atop Dreamfyre, circling the fleet with wild abandon. Baelon exhaled softly. 'I will have to catch her up later, it seems.'
"I have a rough idea of our next move," Baelon said, clearing his throat. "But an idea alone is worth little without refinement. That is why I need the three of you."
Rhevos, a Myrish sailor who had once commanded a merchant fleet before pirates reduced it to wreckage, brought with him a lifetime of naval knowledge.
Grey Fist, commander of the Unsullied, carried deep knowledge of war and conflict.
And Silvo, once a slave of Astapor, possessed a sharp mind, adaptable and dangerous in ways no battlefield training could teach.
"I intend to take Tolos first." Baelon extended a finger and tapped the map. "A port city, perched atop the Black Cliffs. Its volcanic soil makes it unusually fertile, enough to resolve future food shortages. Once Tolos falls, Elyria will follow through with diplomacy. As an island city, it depends heavily on Tolos' grain."
The plan earned nods, but none mistook it for simplicity.
"So Tolos is the crux of the matter," Silvo said carefully.
"Yes," Baelon replied. "And preferably with minimal casualties. Every man we have is too valuable to waste."
"I can neutralise most mounted defences with the dragons," Baelon continued. "Ballistae. Archer towers. But Tolos' greatest strength is not in its walls."
He paused.
"The slingers."
At that, Rhevos' expression darkened.
"Tolosian slingers are infamous for good reason," the Myrish captain said. "The Black Cliffs are rich in volcanic stone and lead. For generations, their youth have been trained to sling from the high ground to sling rocks that strike harder and farther than arrows. From those cliffs, they can outrange bows and shatter shields. Against men disembarking from ships…" He shook his head. "It would be a slaughter."
"If we land under fire," Rhevos continued grimly, "we may never even reach the docks."
"We can manage," Grey Fist said after a brief silence. "The Unsullied are trained for such conditions. Shield walls. Advance formations."
Baelon turned to him, his expression softening. "I do not doubt your discipline. But discipline does not make stones less lethal. It is no victory if half of you fall before setting foot in the city."
Silence fell.
The group fell into deep thought, leaving only the churning waves outside to break the stillness occasionally.
Can they take Tolos. Of course they. None doubted that.
But how? How can they do so without massive casualties?
Nevertheless, it seemed a plan was soon in sight.
"My lord," Silvo interjected hesitantly. "During our escape from Astapor, I observed your… dragons."
He swallowed.
"When you destroyed the pursuing ships, portions of dragonfire struck the sea itself. Where fire met water, mist rose." He hesitated, then pressed on. "Could such a thing be done deliberately? A rolling fog, created by all three dragons, to mask our approach?"
The cabin fell silent.
Baelon's eyes lit up.
That's… ingenious.
"We will test it," Baelon said after a breath. "But if it can be done, if we can blind them even briefly, then they cannot organise a proper defence. Even then, we would have to account for wind direction to execute the idea…"
His thoughts raced.
Dragons generate mist.
Mist conceals the landing.
Mounted defences were destroyed from above.
Troops land unopposed.
Yet even as the plan took shape, Baelon felt something missing.
His gaze slid to Silvo and Grey Fist.
That's right.
"Tolos is not ruled by a king," Baelon said, tapping the map thoughtfully. "It is governed by a Merchant Council. Every three years, a representative from the chambers of commerce is elected as president. Gold moves Tolos more reliably than loyalty."
He turned to Silvo.
"You will take your men and secure the merchants. Quietly. While the Unsullied pacify the streets, you will ensure the council cannot rally resistance."
The men exchanged glances and nodded in unison.
Baelon leaned back, satisfaction settling into his bones.
For the first time in generations, the Dragonlords had returned to the Valyrian Peninsula.
Not to flee.
Not to hide.
But to rule.