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Pat*eon : CaveLeather
Game of Thrones: The Dragon Who Remembers
Game of Thrones: What Must Be Done
"Hiss-graa—!"
Caraxes wheeled through the sky, circling every tower and reducing them to flaming rubble.
The Lysene garrison poured into the streets, took one look at the crimson dragon rampaging overhead, and immediately fell back.
One dragon. Who in their right mind would stand in the way?
Daeron burned several towers and noted only a handful of scorpion crossbows. The Lysene reserves were clearly thin—most of their heavy weapons had gone to the Golden Company.
What followed was a master class in "dragon in the enemy camp."
Arrows and spears flew up at him. None even brushed Caraxes's scales. Men died screaming in dragonfire.
"No—no—no!"
A sellsword company tried to bring the dragon down. Their bolts missed. Dragonfire answered.
Flames dropped from the sky, shattering market stalls along the street, then igniting brick and tile. The sellswords never had time to run. Hair ignited first. Skin blackened and cracked.
"Ah—!"
Screams echoed as dragonfire swept the streets like a tide. Only charred skeletons remained.
"We can't stay here. Move!"
Valarr snapped out of his shock, abandoned every shred of noble dignity, and bolted for the door.
"We're leaving too."
Tregar Ormollen's voice shook. He hurried after him.
In seconds the entire Council of Governors scattered, each man fleeing for his own life.
They all had safe houses or bolt-holes in Lys. Worst case, they could slip out of the city entirely.
Valarr burst from the Governor's Tower, stripped off his outer robe, rolled in the stables to dirty himself, then vaulted onto a warhorse and galloped away.
"Gods damn it—how the hell did Dragon King Daeron get here too?!"
Valarr cursed under his breath while his guards formed up around him.
Was the Targaryen boy insane? Did he think he could just fly a dragon into a Free City whenever he felt like it?
Couldn't they all just line up proper armies on the Disputed Lands and fight like civilized men?
Did he not understand that terror attacks only made the upper classes and common folk fight harder?
"Run! The Volantenes are coming!"
A mob of Lysene smallfolk rushed past, clutching whatever they could carry. Several tripped and were trampled.
Valarr yanked his horse around to take another street.
"Charge! Whatever you take is yours!"
Volantene soldiers burst from a side alley, cutting down civilians and looting everything in sight. They killed slaves who got in the way like wolves among sheep.
Valarr's horse made him an obvious target.
"Protect the lord!"
A dozen guards charged forward and clashed with the Volantenes.
The port had already fallen. Half the Golden Company and the Volantene fleet had poured into Lys itself.
Now fighting raged through half the city.
Daeron circled once more, watching the battle below.
Lys's defenses were weak, but they still had numbers—city garrison plus hired sellsword companies.
Once the Volantenes seized half the city, street fighting began. The Lysene forces managed to hold roughly a third of their ground.
"I've done what I came for. The rest is their problem."
Daeron had achieved his goal. He still had time to take one more leisurely loop over the beautiful city, admiring its rooftops from above.
Then he spotted a rundown district in the old quarter.
"Hmm?"
Something familiar tugged at him. He banked lower for a closer look.
The Disputed Lands.
East of Lys lay fertile inland territory—rich farms, orchards, and estates that had produced wealth for generations.
Western coast.
The Volantene fleet appeared without warning, sank every Lysene ship in sight, and stormed ashore.
"Push inland! Take every scrap of grain and every slave!"
Malacho Maegyr directed the landing parties.
The war against Lys now had two fronts.
Daeron and his dragon struck the city itself.
Malacho led half the Volantene fleet against Lys's holdings in the Disputed Lands.
Lysene estate guards fought back, but the numbers were hopeless. They broke and fled.
"The Triarchy always grabbed the best soil," Malacho said with satisfaction, plucking a bunch of grapes from a vine and popping one into his mouth.
Luck was with him.
The grape was silver-star quality—firm, sweet, and rich with life force that eased his fatigue.
Malacho grinned wider. Allying with the Targaryen Dragon King had been a brilliant move.
"My lord, we found a suspicious woman."
An officer approached, soldiers dragging a cloaked figure behind him.
Malacho looked her over and his interest sharpened.
She was beautiful, deliberately keeping her head down, yet even wrapped in a heavy robe she radiated quiet nobility and allure.
"Anyone recognize her?"
Malacho wasn't a lecher, but he enjoyed breaking proud women.
One soldier spoke up. "My lord, her name is Natalya. She runs the largest brothel in Lys and sits on the Council of Governors."
Natalya squeezed her eyes shut, teeth grinding.
She owned extensive holdings in the Disputed Lands—estates, orchards, plantations. Harvest season had brought her here to oversee the overseers. She had not expected Volantenes.
"I'm a governor of Lys. I have money."
She tried to bargain.
Smack!
Malacho seized her chin and squeezed hard, smiling. "Lady, Lys is suffering. Your money means nothing now."
He shoved her toward his personal guard. "Bind her and bring her along."
Capturing a Lysene governor would make for excellent leverage with the two Elephant Party archons.
"Kill every soldier. Round up the slaves and put them to work harvesting."
Malacho had no intention of burning the estates. He meant to occupy them.
He and the Targaryen Dragon King had struck a deal.
Daeron attacked Lys and kept whatever loot he took.
Malacho attacked the Disputed Lands and sent grain, furs, and medicines to the Iron Throne.
In return, Daeron claimed a stretch of the Stepstones. Volantis claimed the Disputed Lands.
Each side took what it wanted. No interference.
"Grain is something you can just buy with coin," Malacho muttered, shaking his head.
He assumed Daeron had too few men and was simply being generous.
The concept of a Long Summer existed on the eastern continent too, though the geography kept the seasons milder than in Westeros. Ten-year summers and ten-year winters were rare here.
For the eastern lands, a Long Summer meant steady rain and multiple harvests—a blessing from the gods.
Half a month later. Grey Gallows.
Daeron landed Caraxes in a swirl of sand.
Two Kingsguard knights waited at attention and escorted the young king into the open command tent.
"Your Grace. You finally came."
Malacho stepped forward, all smiles and eagerness.
Of course he was eager.
Volantene troops had seized half of Lys, looting over a million gold dragons' worth of treasure and more than five thousand strong slaves and bed-slaves. If the Lysene had not fought to the last, the entire city might have fallen.
Even so, Malacho had walked away filthy rich.
On top of the treasure and slaves, he had won military glory and the title of "visionary." His prestige inside Volantis now eclipsed both Elephant Party archons.
Some were already calling him the greatest archon since the Bleeding Years.
Daeron got straight to business. "The royal fleet will take delivery of all grain and supplies. Your people keep the Disputed Lands."
For the first three years, Volantis would hand over seventy percent of everything the Disputed Lands produced.
"You have my word. No problems at all."
Malacho looked pleased with himself. He had no intention of welshing, and his fear had eased.
As long as the other side wanted something, there was always room to negotiate.
Daeron's expression stayed calm. He saw straight through Malacho's swagger.
But he had no need to comment.
The eastern continent's slave-capitalist system was nothing like Westeros's feudal order of nobles and smallfolk.
Volantis was the poster child of the Free Cities—greedy, war-profiteering, slave-trading. Any archon they elected was bound to have character flaws.
Westerosi nobles weren't saints either, but at least they pretended to care about appearances and kept the smallfolk from outright starvation. The Free Cities had no such restraint.
What was half-slave, half-capitalist?
It meant pushing society forward through trade while refusing to abandon slavery. They could never redistribute wealth once slaves became free smallfolk, so the social classes froze. They could only extract wealth from outside (by grinding slaves) and never create an internal cycle of growth (industrial revolution, expanded production).
In the end they were stuck in limbo—neither fully feudal nor truly capitalist. The so-called "Free Cities."
In truth, their system was no more advanced than Westeros's. It actually held them back.
"The dragon egg."
Daeron held out his hand.
Malacho's smile faltered. He glanced at Daeron's palm, then turned to his lieutenant with obvious reluctance. "Go fetch His Grace's property."
He looked like a man forced to keep a promise he hated.
The lieutenant had soldiers carry over a wooden crate and set it down carefully.
A crowbar pried the lid open. Dry straw filled the inside.
Daeron brushed the straw aside and saw a flash of brown.
A dragon egg.
He lifted it, turning it slowly in his hands.
The egg was pale brown overall, the upper half copper-bronze, with red and dark-gold streaks where the colors met. The pattern was intricate.
"Gradient coloring. Interesting."
Daeron flicked a glance at Malacho and the others but kept his face neutral.
He was satisfied.
The brown-copper egg was not petrified. A faint spark of life still pulsed inside. It was a live egg, ready to hatch.
"Your Grace, this egg came from the Flack family inside the Black Walls. They're a fallen noble house that likes to call themselves dragonlord descendants. They even use a red dragon's head as their sigil."
Malacho introduced the egg with forced politeness, then sneered. "Anyone with real family history knows Valyrians never used sigils."
"Even House Targaryen's three-headed dragon was something Aegon the Conqueror invented after taking the Seven Kingdoms—so he could fit in."
Daeron filtered out the chatter and asked the important question. "Why did they have a dragon egg?"
"No idea."
Malacho looked genuinely puzzled. "Probably stolen by an ancestor and hidden away. Or bought. Or found."
The Flack family were Valyrian nobles, but they were certainly not true dragonlords.
If they had been, the egg would have hatched long ago.
"I see."
Daeron filed the information away. He would keep an eye on Volantis's Black Wall nobility.
If they still had dragon eggs, what else were they hiding?
"Your Grace, there really was only one egg."
Malacho reacted quickly. "I used a convenient excuse to bankrupt the Flack family and searched their estate. This was the only one."
The family had brought it on themselves.
At some noble banquet they had let the secret slip. Malacho had remembered.
Daeron thought for a moment. "Volantis calls itself the Daughter of Valyria and sits right next to the Smoking Sea. They must have ancient legacies or buy relics from adventurers. They're bound to have collected other treasures over the years."
He stressed the word "treasures."
Malacho broke into a cold sweat. The other man could say it. He didn't dare repeat it.
Because Volantis did have "treasures."
But those treasures were kept very well hidden—never shown to outsiders. Every Black Wall family guarded them like family heirlooms.
Daeron stroked the smooth scales of the egg. "Lord Malacho, you are the Tiger Party archon. The voice of Volantis."
"I have a small request. In your spare time, keep an eye out for news of dragon eggs. If you find even one—or reliable information about one—the Iron Throne will consider you a friend."
Malacho forced a smile. "I will."
Daeron gave him a few more reminders, then turned to leave.
Suddenly his steps slowed. The fingers resting on the egg curled slightly.
"Lord Malacho, my word is always good. If you ever find yourself in trouble, bring the egg to me."
With that, he strode back to Caraxes and climbed into the saddle.
Ginger Island.
Tyrion stood with his little ledger, recording every crate the royal fleet had taken aboard.
The fifty-mile radius around Ginger Island now belonged to House Targaryen.
Three-headed red dragon banners flew from every island in the zone, warning every pirate, slaver, and smuggler in the Stepstones to stay away.
"Hiss-graa—!"
Caraxes returned, circled the beach once, then landed on the western farm.
Crack—crack-crack—
The moment Daeron dismounted, he put the brown-copper egg away and took out the yellow one instead.
The shell was already splitting, thin cracks racing across the surface.
This egg was ready.
"Little one, you're a little late."
Daeron smiled and set the yellow egg on the ground, waiting.
"Hiss-graa—!"
Caraxes stretched his long neck, golden eyes fixed on the egg with clear curiosity.
Crack—crack-crack—
The yellow egg suddenly rocked hard. The shell split in four directions and a small dragon head pushed through.
"Hiss-graa~~"
A hatchling broke free, slick with egg fluid, and wiggled out of the shell.
Daeron's grin widened.
The hatchling flopped onto the sand, shook off the last of the fluid, and revealed its true colors.
Not yellow like the shell. Its scales were bright, shining gold that glittered in the sunlight. Its wing membranes were a soft pink—strikingly rare.
The body was slender, the wings slightly oversized, clearly built for long-distance flight and agility.
"Hiss-graa~~"
The golden hatchling had barely emerged when it opened its bright gold eyes, spotted the silver-haired boy standing guard over its birth, and let out a defiant little hiss.