Luciana stood at the second-floor railing, watching Aegon lead the twenty-odd soldiers out of the hall in single file.
The heavy iron-bound oak doors closed silently behind them, shutting out the daylight and the clamor of the harbor district.
In the depths of her pale-violet eyes a complicated ripple slowly stilled, settling into a fathomless calm.
Soft footsteps sounded behind her. A gaunt, sharp-eyed middle-aged man approached—one of the Haine family's minor chiefs in the Lysene underworld, overseeing the "business" in this warehouse quarter.
He glanced at the shut doors, then at Luciana's back, and lowered his voice, a hint of doubt in his tone: "Miss… is that man really trustworthy? After all, he's—"
He left the sentence unfinished, but the meaning was clear.
He was the one who had vanished without a word years ago, practically a deserter.
Luciana didn't turn. She kept gazing toward the door, as though she could see through the planks to the silver-haired, violet-eyed youth walking away.
Her voice was soft, yet carried an icy certainty: "Don't ask what you shouldn't."
The man's body stiffened; he fell silent at once.
"Everything that happened here today…" Luciana turned slowly, her pale-violet gaze sweeping across the great hall below where her people sat or stood, pretending to mind their own business while straining to listen.
Finally she looked back at the man; her tone was flat, but it made his heart shudder. "Including Lotte Haine's visit and every word I exchanged with him—keep it all secret.
For now, not a single syllable reaches the Rogare side."
She paused, the corners of her mouth curving in a smile devoid of warmth.
"If so much as a whisper leaks from any of you…"
She left the threat unfinished, yet the almost tangible chill that flashed across her lovely pale-violet eyes
made the man—and several below who had caught snatches of the conversation—shiver and quickly lower their heads.
"Understood!" the man answered, bowing, cold sweat beading at his temples.
Luciana dismissed him with a turn of her head and walked toward her own chamber.
The wager was placed.
Now it remained to be seen what surprise—or shock—the long-absent Lotte Haine would bring back.
Aegon led the Bloodsworn soldiers swiftly out of the secluded warehouse quarter and melted into the early-evening crowds of the harbor district.
Briny sea breezes carried the mingled noises of returning ships and the chants of dock laborers.
"Your Grace, where to now?" Henry asked at Aegon's side, voice low, eyes warily scanning the surroundings.
The heavy pouch of gold from Luciana in his bosom left him both elated and uneasy.
"Back to the ship." Aegon kept walking, voice steady. "Our business in Lys is done for now; we have a new objective."
They soon reached the quay where The Quiet and several other vessels lay moored.
Karl was already waiting on deck and hurried over the moment he saw them.
"Your Grace," he reported, "the tourney purse—five hundred gold—is counted and stowed." He hesitated, then added, "As ordered, everyone except the watch went ashore in shifts today—spirits are high.
The victuals are nearly loaded as well."
Aegon nodded, gaze sweeping across busy sailors and soldiers scrubbing the deck. "And those below—have they been seen to?"
Karl blinked, then realized Aegon meant the rescued "Silent Ones."
An awkward look crossed his face. "Ah… most of them refused to leave the ship, Your Grace. They say they're used to it now; land feels… wrong.
A few who wanted a look came back almost at once."
Aegon's eyes, calm yet heavy, rested on Karl. "They're Bloodsworn now, the reason we sailed this far.
They're maimed, their pride easily bruised.
Since they chose to stay, they've staked life and trust on this deck—on us.
You and Henry will watch over them: treat them fairly, give what help is needed.
Remember, they stayed not only because they had nowhere else, but because here, at least, they're still treated as men."
Karl's expression turned grave. "I understand, Your Grace. My lapse won't happen again."
"Good." Aegon said no more.
He knew that to bind a crew—especially one so mixed—respect and care in small things could outweigh gold or commands.
Just then Luke strode up, face tight with anxious hesitation.
He quickened his step when he saw Aegon, yet halted before him, unsure how to begin.
"Luke, what is it?" Aegon asked, noting his unease.
Since the Volantis affair Luke's loyalty had been beyond question, and he had grown steadier—rarely showing such alarm.
"It's not about my sister, Your Grace—" Luke waved a quick hand; his sister Dasha, rescued in Volantis, feared reprisals there.
At Luke's request Aegon had let her sail with them, giving her light duties helping to tend Ghidorah, away from the soldiers.
Luke caught his breath, pointed toward the after-cabin, and looked oddly troubled. "You… you'd better see the captain's cabin yourself.
Your… dragon…"
Dragon?
Aegon's brow furrowed; without another word he strode aft toward the great cabin.
Henry, Karl, Luke followed, puzzled and tense.
Outside the cabin door Dasha stood helpless, small face pale.
When she saw them she looked relieved but could only point at the door, lips trembling.
"What happened?" Aegon asked sharply.
"It… it woke up, and then… it… it's like this…" she whispered, stunned.
Aegon didn't hesitate; he grasped the handle and pushed open the heavy oak door—
The sight inside made even Aegon's composure twitch.
The great cabin was chaos: chart table, chairs, bookcase, lockers—all thrown about.
Solid oak furniture lay toppled; one chair leg looked snapped clean off.
Books and scrolls littered the floor, some trampled beyond repair.
And the culprit—Ghidorah—was gleefully stretching its wings in the cramped space.
No—perhaps it could no longer be called "Xiao Laki."
Its pale-gold body had already ballooned several times larger than the "pony" size it had been when Aegon left.
Standing now, it almost scraped the captain's cabin ceiling, which was by no means low.
The three heads had grown longer and more powerful, the necks thicker, the scales denser and harder, catching the sunset that slanted through the porthole and flowing with a reserved, regal gold.
Six eyes like molten gold glittered with vigor and curiosity.
Finding the space cramped, the middle head was trying to "gently" nudge the bulkhead with its newly grown, sickle-shaped horn; the wood groaned, splinters drifting down.
The left head worried a thick leather logbook, flinging it about, while the right head nudged a rolling bronze inkwell, fascinated, sniffing it carefully.
The whole scene was an over-energetic whelp… demolishing the house.
A vein twitched at Aegon's temple.
But the next instant, that helplessness was swept away by a stronger surge—shock and exultation.
This size—this growth rate!
At this pace, riding it through the sky might truly be within reach.
And judging by the effortless way it moved, its strength had soared as well.
So the remnants of Dead Dragon energy absorbed in the Valyrian Ruins had been this effective?
Through their mind-link, Ghidorah sensed Aegon's entrance and "heard" the sudden, racing thought of "riding."
All three heads froze in mid-mischief and snapped around in unison.
Six golden eyes widened in disbelief, then flashed a mingled outrage and protest—"I treat you like kin and you want to mount me?!"—the thought slammed into Aegon through the bond.
Startled by the flood of emotion, Aegon blinked, then chuckled and reined in his thoughts.
He cleared his throat and forced his face back to calm.
Behind him, Henry, Carl, Luke and the rest were already petrified, gaping at the colossal, majestic three-headed dragon; their minds went blank. Dasha shrank behind Luke, only half a face daring to peek out.
"A-hem…" Aegon broke the silence, his voice jerking them from their daze. "Henry, take a few men and… tidy up."
"And that wall." He pointed to the bulkhead Ghidorah had butted, and to the now-obviously-too-small door. "Rip it wider, reinforce it—make sure it can come and go comfortably."
"Y-yes, Your Highness!" Henry gulped, nodding hard, eyes still sliding toward Ghidorah.
"Everyone else—back to work. Inventory, hull check, make ready to sail." Aegon's gaze swept them, voice brooking no argument. "Our time is short."
"Aye!" they answered, swallowing their turmoil and scattering to their tasks.
Aegon stepped into the wrecked cabin and stopped before Ghidorah.
The three heads lowered slightly; six golden eyes regarded him with reproach. The middle one snorted, spitting twin sparks of gold.
"Behave," Aegon said, stroking each cool, smooth, now-substantial head in turn, the order flowing mind-to-mind. "Soon you'll have far more room. Don't make trouble now."
Ghidorah, sensing the reassurance and the thread of command, rubbed heads together and rumbled a reluctant, grumbling growl.
But it settled, sprawling in the cleared space, only its six eyes still curiously tracking Henry and the others as they worked.
With Ghidorah calmed, Aegon returned to the deck and climbed to the aftercastle platform.
Sunset painted the sea crimson-gold; lights began to glimmer along the quay.
Bloodsworn soldiers and sailors moved with brisk efficiency, stowing the gangway, checking lines, trimming sheets.
The silent ones, now versed in their roles, worked without words; after weeks they had merged into the fleet's rhythm.
Aegon gripped the cold oak rail, gaze fixed westward where the horizon was being swallowed by dusk—the direction of the Stepstones.
One month: subtract the voyage out and back, and every single day left to find armor and recruit must be squeezed dry.
Recruits? The Disputed Lands teemed with lawless pirates, fugitives wanted from every city, penniless mercenaries with nothing left to lose.
Rather than waste time and coin slowly raising fresh troops in Lys or elsewhere, he would sail straight there and carve a bloody swath.
Absorb the small pirate bands—keep the fierce, the seaworthy, the willing; discard the irredeemable dregs.
Feed war with war, forge an army from bandits.
Such snowballing expansion was far faster than any normal levy.
Besides, these men already lived by the blade; a little shaping and discipline would turn them into a fighting force at once.
Their ferocity and experience were something no greenhouse-trained recruit could match.
Of course, hammering such lawless, savage outlaws into an obedient, loyal army was a greater test than finding armor.
But that was the true measure of Aegon Targaryen's mettle.
He had a core of loyal, hardened survivors from the ruins of hell, plenty of reward to offer—and, when needed, ruthlessness absolute.
Would he become the wolf that leads the pack, or be torn apart? Only deeds would write that answer.
Mind clear, he drew a breath of salty evening air, eyes sharpening once more.
"Captain, all is ready!" Carl shouted from the main deck below.
Aegon nodded and gave the order:
"Weigh anchor!"
"Set course for the Stepstones—!"
"Hoist sail—make way!"
The heavy capstan groaned; the great anchor rose dripping with weed.
White canvas unfurled, bellied by the onshore breeze.
The fleet stirred like waking beasts, slipping from Lys harbor toward the west, toward the pirates' twilight realm.
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