Archon's Mansion, Tyrosh.
Archon Goldfyre burst onto the rooftop terrace in his gaudy, multicolored frills, staring wide-eyed at the outer city burning like a bonfire.
"Seven hells—the dragon's here?!"
Rage boiled over. He bellowed for his slave soldiers, ready to fight.
Fuck the dragon. Fuck the Dragon Prince.
So what if he had a dragon?
Invade Tyrosh's territory and even the Three-Headed God would lose a layer of skin.
"Arm up! Drag every soft-bellied coward out of the inner city and hold them at the dragonstone curtain wall!"
He grabbed a short spear and marched down the stairs, frills flapping like a startled lizard.
Then he stopped dead.
Cold sweat broke across his forehead.
In the grand courtyard—fountains splashing, statues gleaming—stood a massive crimson beast that had not been there a second ago.
Plop.
A gold-star sea fish flopped onto the tiles, still twitching.
"Hiss-graa—!"
Caraxes breathed a precise jet of flame, cooked the half-meter fish on the spot, and gulped it down.
Gulp.
The Archon's legs turned to jelly. He swallowed hard.
He took it all back. Having a dragon was impressive.
"Still hungry? Take your time."
Daeron stood in front of the red dragon, stroking the long, sleek crimson neck while tossing out a foot-and-a-half-long gold-star sea cucumber.
Caraxes devoured it happily. The two premium deep-sea supplements—both gold-star quality—worked fast. Strength flooded back into the young dragon's body. He belched a puff of black smoke, satisfied.
Daeron had hooked every one of these fish himself on his iridium rod. With maxed fishing skill and top-tier gear, the haul was ridiculous. Feeding one dragon wasn't even a strain.
"Damn it…"
The Archon tried to creep sideways on shaking legs, hoping to slip out of the dragonrider's sight.
Daeron turned his head and looked straight at him.
The Archon froze like a statue.
Daeron's gaze flicked to the short spear clutched in the man's white-knuckled fist. He patted Caraxes's neck once and started walking toward the mansion's tower without another word.
"Hiss-graa—!"
Caraxes settled, wings half-spread, serpentine tail swaying lazily as he followed his rider like an oversized guard dog.
The Archon stood rooted, drenched in sweat, unable to speak, unable to move. He very much wanted to live.
Tyrosh archons were elected through bribes, blackmail, and backstabbing. Only the greediest, cruelest bastards ever won. Their own people liked it that way—anyone too honest didn't deserve the title.
"Guard the door," Daeron said flatly as he reached the tower entrance. "Or die."
The Archon's face went corpse-white. He lowered his head and stayed silent.
"Hiss-graa—!"
Caraxes loomed behind him. Hot sulfurous breath washed over the man's back, singeing his fancy clothes and making his skin sting like fire.
Daeron didn't spare him another glance. He stepped inside to loot.
The Archon remained a living statue, pretending to be dead. He had no intention of testing a dragonrider's patience.
A short distance away, the mansion guards and slave soldiers watched their lord stand motionless in front of a giant red dragon, looking like an ant next to a mountain. They clapped hands over their mouths and breathed through their noses, terrified of drawing the beast's attention.
---
Dragonstone curtain wall, inner city.
Boom. Boom.
Lord Lucerys Velaryon's men slammed the battering ram home. The gates finally splintered open.
There were almost no defenders left inside. Caraxes had already swept the walls with indiscriminate flame.
The royal fleet poured through, rounding up the last broken remnants.
"Colonel Stannis, take two thousand men and sweep every rich merchant and noble house inside the inner wall," Lucerys ordered, face streaked with blood and breathing hard. "I'm heading to support Prince Daeron."
"Yes, my lord."
Stannis looked even worse—armor dented in half a dozen places—but he never complained. He simply turned and led the detachment away.
The royal fleet had brought three thousand men total. Add Lord Selwyn Tarth's few hundred and they still numbered only thirty-five hundred. Yet here they were, deep inside Tyrosh.
Stannis split off two thousand and began kicking in wealthy doors. Anyone who resisted died on the spot. They stripped the houses clean, down to the floorboards.
Lucerys caught his breath, downed a special crop to steady himself, and marched on the Archon's mansion.
It fell in minutes.
---
At the same time, Daeron strolled through the tower like he owned the place. He ignored the gold and silver plate, found the Archon's bedchamber, and swung Dark Sister.
Crunch.
One sword stroke shattered the lock on a heavy wooden chest.
Color exploded outward—hundreds of special gems glittering in every hue. The light was almost blinding.
Daeron counted at a glance. At least a hundred stones.
He swept them into his inventory, sorting them by type: red, yellow, green, amethyst, aquamarine, emerald, diamond. Dozens of each.
"Not enough."
He searched the bedroom for hidden rooms, found none, and headed downstairs.
Most Free City merchants kept their real wealth in underground vaults.
Sure enough, he found one.
Footsteps echoed outside. The mansion was now officially under royal control.
"Prince, we're here!"
Lucerys jogged up, still catching his breath.
"Find the Archon. Get the vault key," Daeron ordered.
Moments later a strangely shaped key rested in his palm.
Click. Clack.
The thick alloy door swung open, revealing the Archon's private hoard—gold, silver, special crops, priceless artifacts.
"Empty it," Daeron said.
Soldiers swarmed in. It took them a full half hour to haul everything out.
Daeron went straight for the chests holding special gems and crops.
Hundreds more gems spilled out—every variety imaginable, plus dozens of Essosi crops he had never seen before. He swept the lot into his inventory. Red, yellow, and green stones—the most prized—now numbered well over two hundred each. Amethysts and aquamarines easily topped one hundred.
The mansion was stripped bare.
Archon Goldfyre still stood frozen in the courtyard, short spear in a death grip, sweat pouring down his face. He didn't make a sound while the Iron Throne soldiers carried off his entire fortune.
"Not bad," Daeron said as he walked past.
The Archon twisted his face into a desperate smile. "Most noble prince, I—"
"Hiss-graa—!"
Caraxes breathed a single jet of flame. The false smile vanished. Clothes, hair, skin—everything burned away in seconds. The Archon screamed once, then crumbled into charred pieces that splattered against the whitewashed tower wall.
"We're leaving, Lord Lucerys."
Daeron swung onto Caraxes's back. The red dragon launched skyward.
"Hiss-graa!"
Toothless popped up from the tower spire, black wings beating, and fell in behind his father and older brother.
One rider, two dragons wheeled above Tyrosh, torching any remaining garrison troops or merchant mansions that still stood.
Temple bells rang frantically across the burning city.
The Tyroshi would later call this day "Tyrosh's Lament."
---
Grey Gallows Island.
The fighting between Myr and the Tyroshi garrison had turned savage.
Lys, watching from the sidelines, smelled blood in the water. Their archons sent more ships, hoping both sides would bleed each other dry so Lys could swoop in and pick the bones.
Bloodstone Island.
A Tyroshi envoy climbed ashore and found the Golden Company.
"The Archon of Tyrosh wishes to hire the Golden Company to fight for us?"
Myles Toyne stared down at the man with open contempt. Towering, gold-plated armor gleaming, sword at his hip and short spear across his back, the sellsword captain radiated menace.
He had mastered life force years ago and, since the gem sequence appeared, had crammed twenty red rubies into his body—the current limit before the decisive twenty-first stone. He was on edge, temper short.
The envoy launched into flowery promises.
Myles cut him off. "Shut your parrot mouth. I don't want to hear it."
The envoy fell silent.
Myles glanced at the hard-eyed officers behind him and laughed coldly. "We turned down Myr's contract. You really think we'd fight for Tyrosh?"
The envoy upped the offer: one hundred special gems, with first pick of red, yellow, and green.
Myles's greed stirred for half a second—those three stones boosted strength, defense, and speed better than anything else on the market. But he thought of the lonely island they had just discovered and shook his head.
"The Golden Company refuses."
The envoy started to argue.
A tall, thin sellsword wearing a golden armband grabbed him by the collar, lifted him off the ground, and sliced off one ear.
"Viselek, enough," Myles snapped.
Viselek Peck tossed the screaming envoy to two of his brothers, who dragged the man away.
Myles didn't scold his lieutenant. "No side trips. Our goal is that island."
The Golden Company stayed united, well-equipped, and focused. They had no interest in Tyrosh's war.
---
Tarth, Evenfall Hall.
The royal fleet had returned and was still tallying the haul.
"Seven hells," Tyrion muttered, scribbling in his little ledger. "Did Prince Daeron loot the entire inner city in one night?"
Tygett wiped sweat from his brow, equally stunned. No one had ever seen the Iron Throne sail across the Narrow Sea and sack a Free City.
Stannis stood watch, arms crossed. "Finish the count quickly. We may sail again soon."
Tyrion nodded, too awed to talk back.
In the solar, Daeron washed his hands and opened his inventory.
Every gem type had broken triple digits. Red, yellow, and green—the big three—sat at over two hundred each, more than he had mined in all his life.
"Keep the red rubies, emeralds, and diamonds separate," he murmured. "They'll be useful later."
He still hadn't unlocked the Skull Cavern in the desert oasis. Once he did, those stones could be traded for Spicy Eel (luck +1, speed +1) and Staircases to reach deeper mine levels. A single serving of Spicy Eel would make Caraxes even faster in the air.
"Prince, Myr has sent an envoy asking when we move out," Lord Selwyn Tarth reported cheerfully.
Daeron dried his hands. "Stall them. We're not in a hurry."
They would fight, of course. He still planned to raid the rest of the Stepstones. One city sack wasn't enough.
He glanced at the little TV panel in his mind. The fortune channel had shown Blue Star days and Bat days for the past week—bad omens.
Blue Star: The spirits offer no guidance today. The day is yours to shape.
Bat: The spirits are restless. Misfortune stalks you.
Daeron's thoughts drifted to the massive storm that would strike the day his little sister Daenerys was born. The timing felt connected.
"Prince, the red priestess Melisandre requests an audience," Lord Lucerys announced, stepping inside with a grave expression.
Daeron's eyes sharpened. "Send her in."
The TV only gave vague fortune readings. Melisandre could pull actual visions from the flames. If anyone could confirm the coming storm, it was her.