Myr was ready this time. They would not be caught flat-footed as Tyrosh had been, burned, broken, and left gasping beneath the shadow of a crimson dragon.
Geography favored them as well. Myr's tranquil inland sea formed a natural moat, and any fleet sailing for its harbors must first skirt past Tyrosh. A shield of water and distance, subtle yet potent.
If only my fleet had not grown so swollen after sacking Tyrosh…
Baelon exhaled through his nose, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. He sat at a broad oaken table within the tower keep on Tarth, maps and ledgers scattered before him like the entrails of some slain beast awaiting divination.
He shook his head, regret flickering behind his eyes.
Had I captains enough to sail them all, I would have struck at Myr long ago. But Claw Isle gave me few men who know the sea well enough to guide a fleet.
The men he had brought from his narrow, wind-beaten isle were fierce fighters, loyal, hard-muscled, eager for plunder. But sailors? True sailors were rare upon Claw Isle. What captains he possessed had already been stretched thin across the captured warships of Tyrosh.
After the city's fall, he had toyed with the thought of pressing on, carrying the same terrible momentum straight toward Myr. A storm does not pause once it has gathered strength; why should he? But reason had prevailed.
His soldiers were exhausted. His fleet lacked steady hands. And even on the return voyage, he had barely scraped together enough crew to keep his armada moving.
He tapped one finger against the map, thoughtful. Then he lifted his gaze to the man beside him.
"Send word to the governor's court in Myr," he told Brayden. The man bowed slightly, waiting. "Tell them I admire their wisdom. Tell them their… gifts… have quenched the Dragon's wrath. And that such keen judgment may yet spare Myr from ruin."
A flash of wry amusement crossed Baelon's face.
"Have them gather their treasures at once and dispatch ships to Harrenhal. Let them deliver what they owe. And warn them, if they delay, they will see the dragon's vengeance blaze above Myr."
He leaned back, folding his arms.
"And Brayden, write with as much arrogance as you can muster. I want them feeling small."
"Yes, my lord," Brayden said, though his lips twitched in a suppressed smile.
He bowed again and strode from the chamber, boots echoing down the spiral stair.
Baelon watched him go, then allowed himself a quiet chuckle.
Let us see how the Myrish stomach this.
*
The moment Baelon's reply reached Myr, the governors convened in hurried counsel.
All three factions, the hardliners, the appeasers, and the mercantile voices who worshipped coin above all, clung to a pitiful sliver of hope. They prayed the Dragon's answer, at the very least, left room to bargain.
A plump governor with rings on every finger sliced open the seal. The parchment unfurled to reveal the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Crimson wax gleamed in the torchlight.
"It bears the Targaryen mark," the plump man breathed. "It seems… perhaps… the young Dragon has agreed to our request?"
A sigh of relief swept the room like a soft wind. To them, any reply at all meant they still lived.
But as the parchment came open and the governor read aloud, the chamber soured.
The words dripped scorn... brazen, dismissive, and insulting. Their offerings had been reduced to mere tribute. Every line proclaimed contempt.
"Outrageous!" someone bellowed. "He wipes his boots on our faces!"
The armored governor, the hardliner, struck the table with a mailed fist. The wood shuddered beneath the blow.
"Compose yourselves," he growled, though anger darkened his own cheeks. "Dragonlords are arrogant by nature. This is hardly the first time the Free Cities have suffered their pride."
He leaned forward, plates creaking.
"Let the proud bring about their own downfall. Since he 'spares' us, we shall use the time he grants. We will raise troops. Reinforce the Stepstones. And as for the tribute, send him what he desires. Trinkets, tapestries, carpets, mirrors, lacework. Westerosi fools prize such things. They will please him well enough."
The plump governor winced. His jowls trembled as he swallowed.
But what choice did they have? A family with dragons could strike across the Narrow Sea at will. A single night raid could doom them.
If gold and handcrafts bought safety, even temporary, then gold and handcrafts would be given.
Another governor cleared his throat, uncertain.
"Er… well…"
The chamber filled with awkward silence. No one wished to speak first.
The plump governor's patience snapped.
"Stop clutching your damned coin purses," he barked. "Go. Hire soldiers from every neighboring city. The Stepstones are what matter now."
His voice climbed in pitch, every word sharpened by fear.
"Did you not see what befell Tyrosh? The dragon's red fire burned a fifth of the city to ash! And the so-called soldiers of that Bloodflame Dragon King slaughtered another fifth! Would you have Myr taste the same destruction?"
Faces paled across the table. No one dared contradict him.
He pressed on.
"We are fools if we ignore such warnings. Since the attack, the Tyroshi call the young Targaryen the Bloodflame Dragon King, and his crimson beast's sack of the city is now whispered of as the Coming of the Demon Dragon. Are those names not warning enough for you?"
The hardliner shifted, armored plates rasping.
At last someone muttered, "…Very well."
One governor after another nodded, grim and defeated.
Fear... true fear, had carved itself into their hearts. Even knowing that Baelon's dragon Tyraxes was smaller than the mighty Caraxes, they dreaded Tyraxes far more. For Tyraxes had come for them, not for legends.
Their handcrafts, treasures abroad, were mere goods here. Easily reproduced. Replaceable.
But gold purchased soldiers, and soldiers purchased survival.
The plump governor's voice softened, just slightly.
"Our fortunes are rooted in this city. If dragons burn Myr, no number of shiploads will restore what is lost."
He drew a slow breath, then straightened.
"Remember this humiliation. Our true battlefield lies in the Stepstones. Admiral Craghas falters there. Once we secure our borders, we must send more scorpions. More soldiers."
A governor to his right nodded. "Craghas has been hiding in caves for weeks…"
And with that bleak consensus, their plan was sealed.
*
A few days later, while resting upon the fair shores of the Isle of Tarth, Baelon received the Myrish answer.
He broke the seal, scanned the text, and let out a quiet hum.
"That is all I needed," he murmured. "Myr is hollow. Bare as old bone. Vulnerable."
He paced the length of the chamber, hands clasped behind him. Sunlight spilled across the maps strewn about the table, catching the red ink that marked the Free Cities.
"A pity," he said softly. "Tyrosh is shattered. And if Aunt Rhaenys speaks true, and Volantis truly intends to march into the Disputed Lands… then I cannot bleed the Three Daughters dry. Not yet."
He tapped a finger against the map, Tyrosh, then Myr, then Lys.
"Otherwise Volantis will sweep through them like a scythe through summer grass. A strong Volantis is far more troublesome than a battered Triarchy."
He paused, considering every road before him.
Myr was off-limits for now. Tyrosh must be secured fully beneath his rule. Lys… Lys might yet become the shield that stood before the tigers of Volantis.
He could arm them. Supply them, and hire sellswords on their behalf.
Not from kindness. But from calculation.
A wise ruler bent like a reed to the tides, long enough to redirect the flood.
He was a Dragon King, yes. But he was also a politician, one who understood that enemies could become allies if circumstances demanded it.
The Triarchy had been his foes. Now they might become partners of necessity.
And once the tigers of Volantis marched into the Disputed Lands, he knew, with absolute certainty, that the Three Daughters would come crawling for an alliance.
When he finally looked up from the map, his expression had hardened.
"Send the order," Baelon said. His voice carried the promise of flame. "Rally the men. We march for the Stepstones."
His eyes gleamed like embers.
"I have business with the Crabfeeder."
This is where the war truly begins.
---------
A/N: If you think you know what comes next… you don't.The answers are already waiting ahead.
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