The Sea Serpent glided silently into a small, unassuming fisherman's village nestled along the coast of Myrosh. The air, thick with the scent of salt and drying fish, was far warmer and softer than the icy winds of the Wall or the humid bustle of Pentos. The villagers, a sparse handful, eyed the unexpected cog with wary curiosity, their faces etched with the hard lines of a simple life.
Maegor stood on deck, his silver hair once more uncovered, Balerion perched on his shoulder. The dragon, no longer merely crow-sized, was indeed now the size of a large adult cow, his obsidian scales gleaming, his dark eyes sharp and intelligent. Hiding him was no longer an option. Let the world see. Let them know.
"Captain Jorah," Maegor commanded, his voice clear. "You have served me well. For now, your duty here is complete." He paused, then extended a heavy pouch of Gold Dragons. "Take this. Two thousand Gold Dragons. Continue sailing. Expand your trade. Upgrade the Sea Serpent, or acquire new vessels. Buy and sell as you see fit. You are now my eyes and ears on the seas, my network. In the future, I will call upon you again. Be ready."
Jorah's eyes widened at the sight of the gold. Two thousand dragons was a fortune. He bowed deeply, a rare, genuine respect in his gaze. "As you command, my lord. We will be ready. You have my word."
With that, Maegor gathered his expanded company on the quay. Ser Barristan, grave and unwavering. Ser Kaeto, astute and observant. Ryker, Gor, Kael, Torr, and the ten former slave guards, now his Royal Guard, their new freedom etched in their resolute stances. And finally, Daenerys, fragile but with a flicker of nascent hope, and Viserys, still sullen but thoroughly cowed.
"Kaeto," Maegor ordered, "take a few of the guards. Find us wagons or carriages, and twenty strong horses. Any horses. We need to transport our belongings with ease as we move inland. Acquire what we need, quickly and discreetly."
"As you command, my lord," Kaeto replied, already selecting four guards and striding purposefully into the small village.
Maegor then turned to the rest of his company. "We will make camp here for the night. Tomorrow, we move inland. To Myrosh, to meet our destiny."
As Jorah and his crew began the preparations to cast off, Balerion stirred on Maegor's shoulder. Maegor lifted him gently. "Go, Balerion," he commanded in High Valyrian. "Fly free. Hunt. Make your presence known. But stay within sight of the coast. Do not stray too far."
With a powerful beat of his great, leathery wings, Balerion launched himself into the sky. He circled once, a black silhouette against the morning sun, then soared higher, disappearing into the clouds. A faint, distant shriek, almost celebratory, echoed from above. Maegor felt the thrill of it, the freedom of his dragon, a clear signal to any who would watch the coast that a true power had returned.
It was late in the afternoon when Kaeto returned, leading a motley procession. They had acquired two sturdy wagons and a small, somewhat battered carriage, pulled by a collection of twenty horses of various breeds and dispositions. It wasn't the most impressive convoy, but it was functional.
"They're not the finest steeds, my lord," Kaeto reported, a faint smirk on his face, "but they'll get us and our supplies where we need to go. The villagers were… amenable, once they saw our numbers and our coin."
"Excellent work, Ser Kaeto," Maegor acknowledged. "Load the wagons. We depart at first light."
As the Royal Guard began securing their gear, the valuable dragon eggs from Illyrio carefully packed, Maegor turned to his cousins. He approached Viserys first, who flinched, still wary of his powerful kinsman.
"Viserys," Maegor stated, his voice devoid of scorn, but firm. "You spoke of dragons. You claimed their legacy. Now, prove your worth." He produced the "weak" dragon egg he had received from the Game of Chance – plain, dusty, unremarkable. "This is a dragon egg. A living prophecy. Take it. Learn to care for it. Tend to it. Perhaps, if you are worthy, it will one day hatch for you."
Viserys stared at the egg, his eyes wide, a flicker of something akin to awe, mixed with his perpetual fear, on his face. He cautiously took the egg, cradling it like a fragile bird. "A… a dragon egg?" he stammered, his voice thin. "It will hatch for me?"
"That is for the dragon to decide," Maegor replied, his gaze unwavering. "And for you to earn."
Then, Maegor turned to Daenerys. She watched him with a quiet intensity, her violet eyes holding a depth that belied her youthful fragility. He could sense the untapped potential within her, a quiet fire. He took one of the three larger, more vibrant eggs from Illyrio's cache – the shimmering green one, pulsing with a faint, internal warmth.
"And for you, Daenerys," Maegor said, his voice softer, "a true legacy. This is your birthright. Hold it. Protect it. Feel the power within. If the gods deem you worthy, and if you are truly a daughter of the dragon, it will answer your call."
Daenerys reached out, her hand trembling slightly as she took the green egg. Her fingers brushed its smooth, surprisingly warm surface. A small gasp escaped her lips, and her eyes, wide with wonder, fixed on the egg, then on Maegor, a spark of understanding, of hope, igniting within them. It was the first true emotion he had seen from her.
As Daenerys clutched her egg, a familiar hum resonated in Maegor's mind, and the System interface appeared.
[ Item Acquired: Mount (Uncommon) ]
[ Activating now. ]
From the distant, rolling hills to the east, a magnificent creature appeared. It was a stallion, pure Arabian, its coat the color of sun-baked sand, its mane and tail like spun silk. It moved with an effortless grace, its hooves barely seeming to touch the ground as it galloped directly towards Maegor, its head held high, its eyes intelligent and wild.
The Sand Steed, born of the Game of Chance, came to a halt directly before Maegor, snorting softly, its breath warm on his face. Its eyes, deep and knowing, seemed to recognize him as its master. Maegor reached out, stroking its powerful neck. The horse nickered softly, nudging his hand. This was no common beast of burden. This was a warhorse, swift and loyal.
"A gift from the gods, my lord?" Ser Barristan inquired, his eyes filled with professional admiration for the magnificent beast.
"Perhaps," Maegor replied, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips. "Or perhaps simply the right tool, appearing at the right moment."
The sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery streaks. To the east, in the distance, a faint plume of smoke rose. Myrosh. Drogo was already at work.
"Myrosh awaits," Maegor announced, his gaze fixed on the smoke. "And our destiny begins."