Legend held that the Stepstones had once formed a bridge between two worlds- a jagged arm of land that reached from Dorne to the shores of Essos.
In those ancient days, before the Andals came, before the Targaryens ever dreamed of dragons, the First Men had crossed that natural bridge to claim Westeros for their own.
But the Children of the Forest, despairing at the ruin brought by men, worked their sorcery in vengeance. The greenseers sang to the earth and the sea, calling fire from beneath the waves and storm from the sky.
The Arm of Dorne shattered with a roar that shook the world. Mountains fell, seas rose, and when the waters calmed, only broken shards of land remained, a scattered chain of isles adrift in the Summer Sea. Thus were the Stepstones born, the graveyard of an age gone by.
To the east lay the Disputed Lands; to the north, the Broken Arm; between them, the Stepstones, a place of pirates, merchants, and exiles. Of the countless barren rocks that rose from the waves, only two bore names known across the Narrow Sea: Bloodstone Isle, largest and most fought over, and Grey Gallows, its pale cliffs haunted by seabirds and the ghosts of hanged men.
Bloodstone stood in the northwest of the chain, north of Grey Gallows, a place both cursed and coveted.
Since the year 106 AC, it had been claimed by House Velaryon, the Sea Serpent's bloodline, though the waves had washed that claim in blood more than once.
Now, on a humid morning heavy with the scent of salt and iron, a great ship cut through the swells toward Bloodstone's temporary harbor. She was a 'Free Trade ship', though once she had borne a grander name, Balerion. Built under the patronage of King Viserys himself, she was the mightiest warship ever to fly the banners of Driftmark: fifty-seven meters of oaken hull, with sails black as the wings of a dragon.
At her prow stood Ser Arryk Cargyll of the Kingsguard, his white cloak snapping in the wind. Two guards followed close behind as the gangplank was lowered.
The men on the docks, rough sailors, corsairs, and Velaryon men-at-arms, straightened at the sight of the white-cloaked knight, for few symbols in the realm commanded such respect.
Waiting upon the pier was Ser Vaemond Velaryon, eldest of Lord Corlys's nephews.
The sea wind tugged at his silver hair as he watched the ship draw in. He had received word from the Red Keep days ago and had made ready to greet the royal envoy.
"Long time no see, Ser Arryk," Vaemond called as the knight approached. His eyes darted toward the deck, eager yet cautious. "Where is the Prince? I have prepared a feast in his honor. We are ready to receive His Highness at any time."
There was politeness in his tone, but also a hint of tension.
Vaemond was no fool. The coming of Prince Aegon, Viserys's firstborn son, and now rumored to be gathering banners of his own, could mean opportunity or danger in equal measure.
Vaemond was one of the few Velaryons who favored the Greens, and his disdain for Princess Rhaenyra's bastard sons, those dark-haired boys the court called Strongs, was a thing of open record. The thought that one of them might inherit Driftmark made him clench his jaw in silent fury.
"His Highness will arrive soon," Ser Arryk replied, his voice formal as always.
Even as the words left his lips, the sky above them thundered.
A shadow crossed the sun. Then came the roar, ancient and primal.
Four dragons broke through the clouds like gods descending from the heavens: Sunfyre the Golden, Dreamfyre, Vhagar, and Tessarion.
Their cries rolled across the sea, echoing between the isles. The waves themselves seemed to tremble. The dragons wheeled once above the fleet, their wings beating the air into foam, before turning eastward in dazzling arcs of light and flame.
Vaemond shielded his eyes, watching the shapes grow smaller. "Is the Prince bound for Tyrosh?" he asked, a thrill of both dread and hope stirring in him.
Ser Arryk only shook his head. "I know not. His Highness commanded me only to take control of Bloodstone Isle."
Vaemond nodded slowly, though his mind raced. If he flies to Tyrosh, let him bring them ruin, he thought. Let those perfumed peacocks learn what true fire means.
*
The Port of Tyrosh
Tyrosh was a city of colors, garish and proud, its walls painted in pinks and greens, its towers gleaming like gemstones in the sun. Built upon a narrow island north of the Stepstones, it was small but well-defended. A ring of walls enclosed its every street, and its docks bustled day and night with trade and deceit alike.
The war in the Stepstones had barely touched its shores. Merchants still haggled, sailors still drank, and the scent of spice and sweat filled the air.
"Did you hear?" laughed a wiry man with hair dyed green and a beard of bright pink. He lounged upon a crate, tankard in hand. "That fat king in the west granted the Stepstones to some little princeling! Hah! A boy of what-? seventeen? Shall we all tremble?"
Another Tyroshi, his own hair painted blue-green, snorted. "Even Daemon Targaryen failed to tame us, and the Velaryons bled their ships dry. What hope has a child?"
Laughter spread like wildfire through the crowd. The dockhands, corsairs, and traders joined in, oblivious to the shadows gathering in the sky.
Then the light dimmed. The wind shifted.
A single, terrible roar split the clouds.
"HISSSSS- ROAR!"
The laughter froze in every throat. Heads snapped upward. The sky seemed to burn.
Through the veil of stormclouds burst Sunfyre, his scales a blinding gold, his wings spreading wider than the city's gates. Fire danced upon his claws. Upon his back, Prince Aegon Targaryen leaned forward, eyes hard as Valyrian steel.
"Dracarys," he commanded.
Sunfyre opened his jaws and the world turned to flame.
A torrent of molten gold fell upon the docks, sweeping through wood and flesh alike.
The two mocking Tyroshi vanished in an instant, their laughter replaced by screams that melted into the roar of fire.
"Dragon! A dragon!" someone screamed. "Run!"
Chaos exploded. Men and women fled in every direction, tripping over one another as ships caught fire and the sea itself boiled red.
But the attack had only begun.
A shadow tenfold greater followed in Sunfyre's wake. Vhagar, descended with a roar that shook the stones. Her wings cast the harbor into darkness, her eyes burned green as wildfire.
Upon her back rode Prince Aemond Targaryen, his eyes gleaming with cruel delight. "Vhagar!" he bellowed above the wind, his voice exultant. "Dracarys!"
Fire unlike any mortal flame poured forth. The great walls of Tyrosh melted like wax. Towers crumbled, banners burned, and men turned to ash where they stood.
Vhagar's fury tore through the defenses while Sunfyre swept toward the city's heart. The air shimmered with heat.
From the east came yet another roar, shrill and keen, like a song turned to battle-cry. Dreamfyre, pale blue and beautiful, glided through the smoke. On her back, Princess Helaena clutched the reins, her hair streaming silver in the wind.
Together the dragons danced above Tyrosh, gold and blue twining like flame and sky, their fire raining upon the city below.
Through Sunfyre's eyes, Aegon beheld his target: the marble domes and glass towers of the Palace of the Three Daughters, seat of the Triarchy's High Council.
The Triarchy's power was born there, thirty-three Archons from Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh, eleven from each city, who ruled their alliance in greed and vanity.
Let them see their throne burn, Aegon thought.
He dove. Dreamfyre followed.
The two dragons streaked downward in perfect tandem, one golden, one pale as ice, their wings folded close to their sides. The air shrieked around them.
"Dracarys!"
Twin torrents of fire, crimson-gold and pale sapphire, struck the palace. Marble shattered, glass burst, and the grand council hall erupted into a sea of molten ruin.
Sunfyre's flame was heavy and liquid, like a river of molten gold, searing stone and steel alike. Dreamfyre's fire blazed white-blue, hotter than the forge, sweeping the upper towers clean of life.
Within moments, the proud Palace of the Three Daughters was gone... a blazing crater of fire and death.
The Tyroshi, who had once preened in their dyed silks and painted beards, now ran howling through streets of flame, their pride stripped bare.
From above, Aegon watched them scatter. He felt no pity. Only contempt...
Here, in this world of dragons and kings, he knew the true law.
Those without dragons are meant to burn.
To him, the First and Second Wars for the Stepstones had been petty games... skirmishes fought by men too small to grasp true power. But Aegon Targaryen would not waste years trading ships and swords with pirates and merchants.
He had come to end it.
"Let the Triarchy flee to their Disputed Lands," he murmured, his voice lost in the wind. "Let them burrow deep and pray to false gods. The skies belong to me now."
Sunfyre roared in answer, a sound that rolled across the sea like judgment.
That day, Tyrosh burned for hours.
When the flames at last began to die, the city's walls were blackened ruins, its harbor choked with smoke. The Triarchy's banners had turned to ash, and the once-bright domes of the Palace of the Three Daughters lay molten and broken.
From afar, the people of the Stepstones saw the glow upon the horizon and whispered of dragons.
Some called it vengeance. Others called it the beginning of conquest.
And so began the Prince's War... with dragons.
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A/N: The fall of the Three Daughters begins at last. Tyrosh stands in flames, and the first sparks of a greater war are catching across the Stepstones. If you wish to read ahead and see how the fires spread, you can find up to 19 advanced chapters on my Patreon. The first 2 are free to all readers.
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