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POV: Aegon Targaryen
The servant knelt, lifting the velvet pillow high, and upon it lay two dragon eggs. Their shells gleamed with polish, but no amount of care could disguise the faint scarring of heat and soot. Someone, at some point, had tried to wake them with fire—and failed.
I stepped closer, my boots ringing against the marble floor. My eyes lingered on each egg in turn. The first was a deep crimson streaked with veins of gold, as though molten metal had cooled across its shell. The second shimmered a dark jade, its surface mottled with flecks of black that caught the light like embers.
They were real. I could feel it—ancient, slumbering life, dormant but not dead.
Still, I held my tongue. Better they believe I am content with what was given than press for more and risk drawing their suspicion. If Tyrosh had these two, how many had they once possessed? How many had they cracked, shattered, or turned to ash in their fumbling attempts at mastery?
I considered, briefly, asking which merchant princes, which nobles, which petty vassals still hoarded dragon eggs in their vaults like curiosities. But the thought passed. Already I had been handed treasures beyond measure, and to press further would seem greed or worse, weakness.
I let silence stretch, the weight of my gaze on the Archon and his councilors. They shifted under it, uneasy, as if they too wondered what judgments I silently measured.
At last I inclined my head, one hand brushing against the cool, rippled shell of the crimson egg.
"This," I said, my voice low but carrying through the chamber, "is legacy. And legacy, Archon, is worth more than all the gold and gems in your coffers."
The Archon swallowed, masking his discomfort with a stiff smile. His advisors said nothing, though I could feel their eyes boring into me, as if wishing to peel back my thoughts.
But my thoughts were already far away, across the sea, in a world not yet born.
---
The Archon's solar had been stripped of its trinkets and silks, the gilded distractions swept aside to make room for war. A long table stood between us now, its surface covered by a great painted map of Essos.
Small carved markers crowded the waters and coastlines: ships for fleets, towers for cities, swords for armies.
One of the Archon's advisors leaned forward, scar crisscrossing his jaw, armor of mismatched plates clinking as he moved. He bore no rings, no fine silks, only the look of a man who had fought too many battles for coin and never stayed long in one place. A sellsword, I judged immediately.
"The Tyroshi fleet lies scattered, Lord of Dragonstone," he said, his voice blunt and unpolished. "Those not burnt now sit on the sea's floor. It will take months to build anew, weeks at least to scrape together what ships yet drift. If you wish to hasten it…"
He reached across the table, gathering a dozen carved ships and scattering them wide across the painted waves.
Then, with a scarred hand, he plucked up the small wooden dragon and dragged it across the map, sweeping the ships back together. "You might take your beast and hunt them down. Drive them here, to Tyrosh, where they can be reforged into a fleet worthy of the name."
I studied the board in silence for a long moment, letting the man's words hang in the air. My hand rested near the dragon piece, but I did not move it.
"No."
The word was calm, but final. The sellsword blinked, surprised, though he masked it quickly.
"I will not waste my strength chasing splinters on the tide," I said. "Let the sea have them. Ships may be built again. Men may be hired anew. What matters is not scraps but victories."
Slowly, deliberately, I reached for the dragon piece. Instead of sweeping ships together, I carried it eastward, beyond Tyrosh's painted walls, until it hovered over the jagged borderlands where three markers clashed. A stag, proud and defiant, stood braced against two others—a golden spear for Lys, and a striped banner for Volantis.
"My dragon will not scour the sea," I continued, setting the piece down with a firm click. "He will fly here, to the Disputed Lands, where King Argilac of the Stormlands holds the line against Lysene treachery and Volantene ambition. There, fire will turn the tide. There, we will show the Free Cities what it means to stand against dragon and stag both."
The sellsword leaned back, lips pursed, but said no more. The Archon's jeweled fingers tapped against the table, thoughtful, while his other advisors whispered among themselves, weighing this shift in the game.
The Archon leaned forward, jeweled fingers tapping against the map before pressing down on the striped banner of Volantis and the golden spear of Lys. Both toppled under his rings. Then, with a slow smile, he pushed the stag and the dragon piece eastward together, setting them atop Old Volantis.
"If Argilac is freed," he said, his tone smooth, "then with his host, and your… beast, we might march on Old Volantis within days. Strike swift, strike hard—break their back before they can recover."
He paused, letting the image linger before him like a victory already won. His sharp eyes slid back to me, and the smile curved sharper still. "But tell me, Lord of Dragonstone—are we seeking a quick victory, or a complete one?"
At this, the scarred sellsword straightened, seizing the invitation like a blade left unguarded.
"A quick strike leaves too much standing," he said gruffly, dragging more markers onto the board. "Ships, armies, treasuries—Volantis bleeds, aye, but she does not die. And when she mends, she will strike again."
He plucked up the scattered ships he had set aside earlier, dragging them back onto the map one by one. "Instead… you fly. Gather the remnants of the Tyroshi fleet. What still floats can be bound together. Tyrosh supplies ships, Pentos supplies men, and with your sister Visenya at their head, the host marches first upon Myr." He pushed a sword marker down upon the Lysene city, then placed the dragon piece beside it.
"Liberate Myr, and you consolidate the Free Cities' strength. Three united, with fleets and soldiers aplenty. Then—" he dragged the dragon and sword pieces west, "—together, you march to aid Argilac. And with all our strength combined, we descend upon Old Volantis as one. Not just a strike, but a conquest. A war ended clean. A victory that leaves Volantis ash."
The Archon's silks rustled as he nodded in agreement, his eyes never leaving me. Around him, his other advisors murmured approval, some with eagerness, others with calculating calm. The sellsword stood firm, his scarred face betraying no more than cool certainty.
I said nothing at first, letting their words settle in the chamber. My gaze lingered on the board the dragon and the stag poised over Old Volantis in the Archon's vision, the dragon and the Pentoshi host striking Myr in the sellsword's.
It was not a bad plan. No, in truth, it was sound. Strategic. Thorough. The kind of plan born from men who had fought wars, and survived them.
But I knew why they pressed it.
My plan ends the war quickly. Argilac and I stand as the victors, the saviors of the Free Cities. When the peace is written, it will be by our hand.
The Archon's plan, the sellsword's plan—it stretches the war, ties victory to Tyrosh and Pentos. It ensures that when the table is set for peace, they will have seats, their voices loud, their hands on the quill beside mine.
That was the difference. Not victory, but who claimed it.
I tapped the dragon piece once against the map, the click echoing in the silence.
I let the silence stretch, the weight of their eyes heavy on me. Then, slowly, I inclined my head.
"The sellsword speaks wisely," I said, my voice even. "His plan has merit, as does the Archon's. But I would suggest… a union of both."
Their expressions shifted relief, suspicion, curiosity all flickering like candlelight. I reached for the dragon piece, my fingers steady.
"First, I fly," I said, sliding the dragon across the board to gather the scattered fleet markers. "I will rally what remains of your ships. Then–" I moved the dragon to the stag, setting them side by side upon the disputed lands. "–I march with King Argilac, breaking the Volantenes and Lysene stranglehold there."
The sellsword frowned, but I continued before he could protest.
"While I do this, Tyrosh commits its fleet." I pushed the ship pieces forward, then set the Pentoshi token and Visenya's dragon beside them. "Together with Pentos, and under my sister's command, they strike Myr. Liberate it. Secure it."
I shifted the dragon piece once more, this time placing it over Lys, opposite the stag. "When I am finished in the Disputed Lands, I will liberate Lys." Finally, I moved dragon, stag, and fleet all as one, setting them upon the Volantene banner. "And then, united, we march on Old Volantis. From east and west, by land and sea, dragonfire and steel."
The sellsword's scarred jaw worked as if to form protest, but the words died unsaid. He studied the map in silence, his expression betraying reluctant acknowledgment of the plan's strength.
The Archon, however, leaned back in his gilded chair, his many rings glinting as his hands came together. His smile was wide, but his eyes narrow and calculating. At length, he nodded.
"A compromise… but one I can accept," he said smoothly. "Tyrosh will have its glory, Pentos its prize, and Argilac his vengeance. And you, Lord of Dragonstone your victory."
Whispers rose among the advisors, but none dared challenge aloud. The Archon had spoken.
I met his jeweled gaze, my own face carefully neutral, though inwardly I allowed myself a small satisfaction.
The sellsword nodded in acceptance "when do we begin?" He asked and smiled.
"As soon as i set off gather what force you can muster," I say turning and leaving the chamber.
---
The mid day air was warm outside the palace, carrying with it the scent of salt from the nearby sea and the faint acrid tang of smoke that still clung to my armor.
The marble courtyard had quieted, though not entirely; I could feel eyes on me from shadowed balconies and shuttered windows. Tyroshi curiosity was strong, but stronger still was their fear.
Balerion had not moved from where he lay. The stones beneath him were spiderwebbed with cracks, his vast body coiled in an approximation of rest.
But as I approached, the massive head stirred, scales catching the torchlight like black glass. His lids lifted, and those burning eyes red as molten embers fixed on me.
The bond between us stirred, a sensation like heat pressing against my very soul. It was not words, not thoughts, but something deeper, primal. Recognition.
I smiled faintly, lifting a gauntleted hand to press against his snout. His breath was a furnace against my skin, even through steel, and yet it was not threatening. He was smelling me, tasting the air between us, and through the bond I felt… acceptance. Welcome.
"Easy, old friend," I murmured, though words were not needed. His eye blinked slowly, the sound of his low rumble vibrating through the courtyard stones.
I drew the velvet-wrapped bundle from beneath my arm and, with deliberate care, revealed the two dragon's eggs. Silver streaked with gold, and orange smoldering crimson—treasures older than any throne in this city.
I held them aloft so that Balerion could see.
The great beast shifted, nostrils flaring, the sound like a bellows drawn deep. His massive head lowered, eyes narrowing to slits as he studied the eggs. I felt the bond pull taut, something stirring within him that I could only half-understand. Curiosity. Possessiveness. Perhaps even a recognition of kin.
Did dragons know their young, even before life stirred within the shell?
No lore of Valyria gave me the answer. Perhaps no man alive truly knew. But as Balerion's gaze lingered, I felt certain of one thing: these eggs mattered to him.
And if they mattered to him… then they would matter to me all the more.
I let the moment pass in silence, his hot breath rolling over me as he exhaled. At last, I covered the eggs once more and held them close.
"They are ours now," I whispered, more to myself than to him. "The price of legacy."
Balerion's low rumble answered me, not unlike a laugh or a warning.