"Very well. We'll do as you say." Lysandro exhaled, surrendering the last remnants of his hesitation.
Drazenko was right.
In moments of true peril, the Rogare family could not afford softness or sentimental scruples. Survival demanded ruthlessness.
They exchanged grim nods and departed to make their preparations.
Left alone in the stillness of his study, Lysandro sagged heavily into the leather chair behind his desk.
For a moment, he simply sat, palms pressed to the armrests, staring at nothing. But the same image kept returning, vivid and impossible to banish.... the circling dragons above Lys. Their shadows drifting like winged specters across the marble avenues. Their roars carrying across the harbor, echoing among the domes and towers like celestial thunder.
The city's courtesans whispered of omens.
Sailors had thrown their nets back into the sea and fled. Even the brothel district had quieted, windows shuttered and lamps dimmed.
Lys was a city accustomed to excess, chaos, and indulgence, yet at the sight of dragons overhead, every voice had fallen silent. Even now, Lysandro could still feel that silence ringing in his ears.
Four dragons. Four.
Then, a soft voice came from the doorway.
"Father?"
He turned. Larra stood in the doorway, half-hidden behind the polished wood, her small hands gripping the frame. Only half her face peeked out, wide purple eyes shining with worry.
Lysandro beckoned, and she rushed into his arms. He stroked her pale silver-gold hair, so like his own, so like the ancestral portraits, and a bitter reluctance tightened his chest.
Valyrian blood still pulsed in their veins. Silver-gold hair. Purple eyes. And deep within the ancestral crypt, the preserved skull of a dragon their forebears had once claimed.
History was uncertain, fragmented by war and time, but Lysandro believed it with absolute conviction: the Rogare line had once known the Dragonlords' might, had once ridden beasts of flame and sky.
If only… if only that blood had not gone dormant.
With dragonriders among them, they would not now be trembling like mice before cats.
But reality allowed no such dreams.
No dragon meant no power.
Lysandro had seen what dragons could do. In his youth, he had traveled the western seas, observing naval battles from merchant decks. He had seen entire fleets break and burn beneath a single swoop of dragonfire. He had watched seasoned sailors scream as masts collapsed, sails ignited, and ships sank in minutes.
No army, no mercenary band, no Lysene ship could stand against that.
Men lied. Steel broke. Gold failed. But dragonfire...
Pulling away gently, he cupped Larra's cheek and forced a reassuring smile.
"Go rest, sweetling. Leave the worrying to me."
She nodded hesitantly, reluctant but obedient, and slipped out the door.
When she was gone, he pressed both hands to his face briefly.
Better to withdraw. Better to preserve what truly mattered.
Lys was wealthy, but wealth made one visible.
The Disputed Lands, by contrast, offered shadows to disappear into, fortresses in the wilderness, forgotten valleys, mercenary enclaves where coin bought silence more reliably than loyalty. If necessary, a branch of the family could vanish there for years. But their wealth must move first... quietly and invisibly. Gold, jewels, bonds, contracts, even the more dangerous assets like private guards and smugglers' networks.
He had to prepare for the world these dragon reshape.
Judging by what he had seen today, the raid had been a warning, not an act of war. Had they meant true destruction, it would not have been only the small blue dragon breathing flame.
But warnings seldom came twice.
He needed to act before the next shadow fell over Lys.
A sharp knock broke his thoughts.
"Enter."
A maid stepped inside, skirts swishing softly. Her head remained bowed as she spoke.
"My lord, Governor Myles and Governor Banbaro have sent envoys. They request your presence at a council. What shall I tell them?"
Lysandro's eyes narrowed in thought before he nodded.
"Tell Governor Myles I shall be there at once. Ask him to wait."
When she departed, he rose and adjusted his garments, a slow smile forming.
Perhaps the Third War for the Stepstones would prove an opportunity, his opportunity.
A perfect moment to unseat Banbaro Bazaan.
That wretched brute had plagued him since the day he won his seat as governor. But the Rogare coffers had grown deep enough to rival kingdoms, they had Myles' loyalty, and half the city's administrators danced on Rogare strings.
They did not fear Banbaro.
But "not fearing" was not enough. If fortune allowed, Lysandro intended to crush him outright and swallow every coin the man possessed.
When his sedan chair arrived at the Governor's Hall, Lysandro discovered he was the last to appear.
"How curious," he said lightly, allowing himself a smooth smile. "I left at my usual pace. Have I grown slow in my old age?"
Qalhanna, a courtesan and envoy for Uller, laughed softly, breathless in that deliberate way she favored.
"As expected of Lord Lysandro. Even with flames licking at your heels, you wear a smile."
He glanced around. "Where is Governor Uller? Don't tell me he has fallen ill again."
Qalhanna flirtily tilted her head, eyes glimmering with feigned coyness. "The weather has been unkind. He has been coughing for days, so he asked me to attend in his stead."
Lysandro's expression chilled instantly. He gave her a dismissive grunt and strode past her, taking a seat beside Myles.
Myles intervened diplomatically. "We're here to discuss how Lys should respond to what happened today. Four dragons appeared, yet only the smallest unleashed flame. Clearly, this was meant as a warning."
Even Qalhanna shed her coquettish airs, her tone turning solemn.
"I have received new information. The man newly granted dominion over the Stepstones is Aegon Targaryen, eldest son of King Viserys I. Rumor has it he suffered defeat in some courtly struggle. Thus the king sent him to rule the Stepstones, without even granting him the title of prince."
Banbaro gave a derisive snort.
"So he's a cast-off whelp," he scoffed. "Not even equal to Daemon Targaryen. And this is who frightened our city? Pathetic."
A fallen prince turned away from the capital... little more than a stray dog.
But Lysandro didn't laugh.
His eyes narrowed, his mind racing.
A cast-off could not summon four dragons. A political exile could not command such might.
Unless the Targaryens were far more fractured, and far more dangerous, than even the most sensational rumors claimed.
When the Targaryens first came to Westeros, they had possessed only five dragons.
And today… an exiled prince had nearly that many at his side.
A chill threaded down Lysandro's spine.
This was no mere political maneuver. No simple struggle over islands and tolls.
Something deeper was moving beneath the surface... something vast, fiery, and utterly unpredictable.
Something that could remake the balance of power in Essos and beyond.
And the Rogare family, whether they liked it or not, had just been noticed by dragons.
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A/N: The world is moving in shadows, schemes brewing, alliances breaking, and every soul chasing wealth or survival. No one knows what comes next…
Who wins? Who falls? Only time will tell.
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