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POV: Aegon Targaryen
Balerion's wings shook the earth as he settled into the courtyard, the sheer weight of him cracking the stones beneath his claws.
The guards rushed to respond but hesitated those who had dared to hold their ground found themselves shrinking back anyway, spears trembling in their hands as Balerion glared at them.
"My name is Aegon Targaryen Lord of Dragonstone son of the last dragon Aerion Targaryen i have come at the call of your ally Pentos and now I wish to see the Archon of Tyrosh," I announced my voice carried across the courtyard evey guard, servants, man, and women heard my voice.
The guards stood froze, uncertain or simply unprepared for this turn of events.
One of them in more ornate armor ran into the palace a servant who happened to be standing in his way was pushed aside like a toy.
The sound causing the quite and frozen courtyard to have some movement.
Guards moved as their captain yelled out orders servants and maids quickly ran to start what preparations they could and most likely tell their patrons and lords of my arrival.
I made my way down off Balerions back, but my sense never faulted in analyzing my surroundings.
And I heard them the whispers and hushed words between hurried movements.
Even as my boots touched the courtyard grounds and walked toward the marble doors of the palace I listened.
I leaned names of lords and lady who where being awaken and informed.
I leaned of the glimpses of secret like seeing the flashes of daggers exchanging hands.
And in just the time it took to dismount Balerion and walk a few paces I got a image of the environment that was the Archons court.
The marble doors of the palace opened slowly and out came a group of guards but just a glance of them and I knew their intentions.
They were obviously ceremonial guards ment to look intimidating while also showing the Archon wealth, but at the same time show my or any other special guests importance as they would lead me to the Archon himself.
The troop marched in sync each foot fall amplifying the others so the courtyard was filled with the sound of armored footsteps.
As the troop aproched me finally coming to a stop Balerion who had at this point layed down to rest now began to rise.
His titanic head and neck loomed over the courtyard his black scales seemed to absorb the light if the sun while emphasizing his red accents making him look like a living black and red banner of war.
His burning red gaze scanned the troop of soldiers in front of me amd the sound of their marching was snuffed out replaced by the low growl of Balerion.
I smirked under my helmet as I watched the guards freeze in place. I walked forward, the weight of my Valyrian steel armor glinting in the light of the rising sun.
"I believe you are here to take me to your Archon," I said more as a suggestion rather than a question and they agreed quickly and quietly under my dragons gaze.
Through tall marble doors, they ushered me into the great hall of the Archon.
The chamber was high and gilded, walls painted in Tyroshi colors green, orange, and bright scarlet, as if the merchants' dyes themselves had been spilled across the stone. Incense hung heavy in the air, but even its cloying sweetness could not banish the acrid taste of smoke that clung to me.
The Archon of Tyrosh sat upon a seat of ivory and gold. Chains of beaten silver wrapped his neck, jewels glittered upon his fingers, and his silks were dyed in so many hues they seemed to mock restraint itself. His courtiers and councilors flanked him, merchant princes and sellsword captains and priests in saffron robes. All had shadows beneath their eyes — the weary look of those who had lived too long under siege.
Yet the Archon rose with an air of arrogance, his chin high, his voice ringing clear despite the tremor beneath it.
"You are the dragonlord who came in the night," he declared. "You burned the Volantenes upon the sea and broke their stranglehold. For that, Tyrosh gives thanks."
After a moment with deliberate calm, I lifted my helmet free, tucking it beneath my arm.
My face must be seen — not only the shadow of a dragon, but the man who commanded it.
"Yes, Archon I Aegon Targaryen Lord of Dragonstone am here to join you and our mutual ally Pentos in this war," I said calmly but the reaction was immideat.
Sellsword suddenly look far more interested in me then my Balerion advices exchanged glances and the lords and ladys around us mumbled and whispered.
Weather in approval or not it was mixed.
But I didn't care about them for now who I cared about was the Archon and he looked jubilant at the news.
I allowed myself a faint smile at the Archon's words, just enough to be polite without surrendering anything more. Then I inclined my head.
"I take your thanks, Archon," I said, voice even. "And I would speak of my further involvement in this war, and of other matters that concern us both."
The reaction was immediate. His council shifted like a school of fish disturbed in shallow water, whispers passing from one to another in hasty ripples before reaching the throne. A flicker of disquiet, a murmur of calculation—each man feeding words into the Archon's ear, each weighing how my presence might tip the scales of their own fortunes.
The Archon nodded at last, his grin never faltering. "But of course, Lord of Dragonstone. Let us retire to more suitable chambers, where such talk may be held with proper gravity."
He spread his arms, jewels glittering in the torchlight, and turned with the pomp of a man convinced of his importance.
I followed at a measured pace, but my gaze slid past him, past the gilded chair and the gaudy silks, to the shadows beyond the dais.
There they stood: merchant princes in heavy rings, priests with saffron hoods pulled low, captains scarred from sellsword campaigns. They had not flinched when the Archon smiled, nor when Balerion's name was spoken aloud. Their eyes were sharp, weighing, appraising.
The Archon sat the throne, but the power in Tyrosh stood behind it.
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The Archon lowered himself behind an ironwood desk, its grain dark and smooth, polished to a sheen. A rare piece, he must have thought it impressive. From the Kingdom of the North, if rumor held true — a natural wood as strong as forged iron, nearly unbreakable.
Useful, I mused, filing the thought away. Ironwood could serve more than ornament. Shields, perhaps. Spears. Warships.
My gaze drifted across the solar. The chamber was a shrine to wealth, every corner boasting another trinket or treasure meant to impress. Gilded bowls spilled over with gems, silks from Qarth and Asshai gleamed in tall chests, and golden candelabras lit the walls with soft flame.
All of it, gaudy and hollow, like a mask painted too brightly.
I caught the way their eyes slid to me instead — to the ripple of my armor, gleaming with the sheen of stormlit silver-grey, forged in Valyria before fire consumed it. Against their finery, it looked almost alive, drinking and returning the light in shifting hues.
The Archon leaned forward, eyes narrowing with something between envy and fascination.
"Your armor…" His voice was measured, but his gaze gave him away. "If I know my metals right — Valyrian steel."
He posed it like a question, though we both knew it was not.
I let the silence stretch just enough before granting him the smile he sought. "Your eyes do not deceive you, Archon."
I straightened, the movement deliberate. The light caught the steel just so, turning its dark sheen to a gleaming silver. A ripple passed over the courtiers — whispers, sharp intakes of breath, the sound of envy given voice.
"This armor," I continued, "is an heirloom of my House. Forged when my ancestors fled the Freehold, in the days when fire and smoke devoured Valyria. They escaped the Doom with dragon, steel, and blood."
I let the words hang in the air, heavy with the reminder: jewels tarnish, silks rot, but Valyrian steel endures.
"But we are not here to discuss my armor and equipment we are here to discuss rewards and strategy," I say waving off a servant who offers a chair.
The archon smiles "yes, yes of course lord of Dragonstone for saving Tyrosh by breaking the siege please tell me what do you want what treasures can I offer?" He gestures to the chests of gold and silk, the gold and silver porcelain bowls with gems inside and many other riches but I smile slightly and shake my head.
"I thank you archon for your offers but i am a practical man gold and gems have their uses but for me they have little value," I say humbly suprising the archon and his advisors.
"Then lord of Dragonstone what can I offer for a reward perhaps a trade agreement or shipping and fishing rights in my seas," he suggests truthfully and I nod slightly they were good offers but not what I want.
"I thank you again archon and would very much love to discuss those things after the war is won..." I say with complete certainty of our victory "But i must refuse those as a reward as well," I say humbly inclining my head slightly.
The archon cuffs but nods "then what is it i can offer you lord as a reward you can accept?" He ask but I noticed a few advisor eyes straining to see what im after.
A daughter perhaps?
a marriage pact?
Maybe to conquer Tyrosh himself?
They think but they are wrong.
"What I want are dragons eggs," I say simply causing everyone to pause even the servants stop in there tracks.
The word hangs in the air like a sword suspended by a hair.
The Archon's smile falters, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as whispers ripple through his advisors. Some glance at one another in disbelief, others shift uncomfortably in their seats. Even the servants stand frozen, pitchers of wine left half-poured, trays trembling in their hands.
"...Dragon's eggs," the Archon repeats slowly, his tone careful, weighed down with curiosity—and suspicion.
I incline my head once, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Yes. That is my reward. Nothing more, nothing less."
One advisor leans forward, his silken sleeves brushing against the desk as he speaks hurriedly into the Archon's ear. Another shakes his head violently, clearly urging against whatever is being whispered. The Archon listens with half an ear, his sharp eyes never leaving me.
"You ask for... rare things," he says at last, folding his hands before him. "Things not easily given—or even found. Treasures of legend, some might say."
"Yet Tyrosh is a city of trade," I answer smoothly, my tone respectful but firm. "You pride yourself on bringing the rarest goods of the world through your harbors. Surely dragon's eggs have passed through these docks once... or twice."
His smile returns, but it does not reach his eyes this time. "Perhaps. But dragon's eggs are not silks, or spices, or even Valyrian steel blades. They are power itself. Power that has been lost since the Doom. And power, lord of Dragonstone you and your already have."
Silence follows his words, heavy and sharp. The advisors murmur again, this time with fear edging their voices. The Archon studies me, his jeweled fingers tapping against the ironwood desk, his smile hiding teeth now.
For a heartbeat, silence weighed heavy across the chamber. Then, slowly, the Archon inclined his head.
"So be it," he said at last, his jeweled fingers drumming once upon the ironwood desk before stilling. "If dragon's eggs are what you desire as your reward… then dragon's eggs you shall have."
Immediately his advisors erupted, some in protest, others in disbelief. Words like madness and folly hissed in the air, but the Archon lifted a single hand. At once, the protests died, swallowed back into uneasy silence.
"Fetch them," he commanded.
The order rippled out like a stone cast into water, servants bowing and scattering at once.
Moments passed long enough for the tension to coil tight in the chamber. The scent of incense hung thick, mingled with the faint tang of sweat from nervous men.
At last, the doors creaked open. A servant entered with slow, reverent steps, bearing a crimson velvet pillow upon which rested two great eggs.
They gleamed beneath the torchlight, polished as though they were jewels.
One was a shining sliver, its surface mottled with streaks of pale yellow that caught the light like veins of living gold.
The other was a rich, burnt orange, scales darkening to near-crimson at the ridges, like smoldering coals frozen in stone.
Gasps whispered through the chamber. Even the courtiers, so gilded and jaded, could not hide their awe.
The servant lowered the pillow onto the desk before the Archon, who regarded the eggs with a calculating eye before pushing them forward ever so slightly.
"Rare treasures," he said, voice measured. "Lost for a century, yet preserved. Now, Lord of Dragonstone, they are yours."
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Hope you like this extra chapter.