"Whether he's a stray dog or not, what we're discussing is whether to continue the war."
Myles' voice cut through the room, sharp and weary.
"The North Gate is now a sea of fire. It's clear that this Aegon Targaryen is not like Daemon Targaryen." He rested his palms on the lacquered table, knuckles pale. "He will attack our homeland, and he does not care whose corpses lie beneath dragonfire."
"Which dragon is he riding?" Lysandro asked suddenly. His tone was mild, almost casual, but everyone felt the shift. "The blue one?"
Qalhanna shook her head slightly, bracelets chiming. "The blue dragon should belong to Aegon's younger brother, Daeron Targaryen. Aegon Targaryen's mount is the gold one."
She paused before adding, as if savoring the absurdity, "Daeron Targaryen is only six years old this year… and the blue dragon is over twenty."
A few governors murmured. Even Myles' jaw tightened.
Qalhanna went on, "What's more interesting is this, Aegon's gold dragon is less than twenty years old, yet its size is two to three times that of others its age. Exact measurements are unknown, but it's unprecedented."
A hush settled. Even Banbaro, who loved the sound of his own voice, raised his brows.
Lysandro lowered his gaze, but his mind raced. Six years old… Daeron Targaryen is only six.
And Larra Rogare- his Larra... was five.
A coincidence… or an opportunity?
Qalhanna's eyes, sharp as needles hidden beneath silk, caught the flicker of calculation in his purple gaze. Her posture straightened ever so slightly.
Among all the governors, only one truly unsettled her.
Not Myles, whose ambitions were predictable. Not Banbaro, whose stupidity was so reliable it was almost comforting.
No... Lysandro Rogare was the one she watched. The one whose mind she could never quite read.
"Does Lord Lysandro have any thoughts?" she asked sweetly.
Lysandro chuckled, spreading his hands. "I'm just a humble banker. What thoughts could I have?"
Nothing he could say, certainly.
He had been thinking, just moments ago, about betraying Lys if it meant a chance to marry his bloodline into House Targaryen. But such things were not spoken aloud, not when the sands of war were still shifting, not when the future remained so uncertain.
A wise merchant never commits too early. He studies the tide. He waits for the right price.
"It's just four dragons," Banbaro snorted, rudely cutting in. "And we still have the blueprints for the dragon bolts. What are we afraid of?"
He puffed out his chest like a rooster and pulled a parchment list from his robe.
"I already have a plan! These are the materials needed to build three hundred and ninety dragon bolts. Once we have enough, next time the demon dragons dare attack Lys, we will be dragon slayers once more!"
Lysandro exchanged a small, tight smile with Myles.
Ah yes... the origin story Banbaro loved to brag about. Once, generations ago, a branch of his family helped kill a Valyrian dragon and rider who fled the Doom. Ever since, Banbaro had deluded himself into believing the entire glory of Lys rested on the shoulders of his coarse-blooded ancestors.
He didn't crave the power of dragonriding. He craved the glory of dragon-slaying.
The exact opposite of Lysandro's quiet, lifelong hunger.
Curious how men wore their obsessions differently.
Lysandro took the list. Myles leaned over to read with him.
Barely a heartbeat passed before a short laugh escaped Lysandro.
"So…" he said slowly, "the raw materials for one dragon bolt cost three thousand gold dragons?" He lifted a brow. "And that's not including labor, man-hours, maintenance…?"
Qalhanna rolled her eyes so hard she nearly toppled back.
"You might as well say you want to drain the entire public treasury."
A proper dragon bolt cost maybe three hundred gold dragons, including maintenance. Converted into Lysene gold, about seven hundred.
Banbaro's numbers were pure fantasy. Or theft, more accurately.
Prices had indeed risen, but not tenfold!
"Prices are rising!" Banbaro insisted. "And this is already generous. If you all agree today, I can provide four hundred dragon bolts within half a month. We'll protect Lys!"
His eagerness was almost pathetic. Almost.
Lysandro's amusement grew. So that was the game. Banbaro must have already constructed hundreds, waiting for panic to inflate his profits.
Classic Banbaro, overconfident, grasping, and transparent as thin glass.
Had Aegon Targaryen meant to kill Lys today, the city would now be ash and bone. But dragons had burned only the North Gate. A warning, nothing more. Time was still theirs, if they used it wisely.
Meaning… there was no need to buy Banbaro's overpriced stockpile.
"How about this," Myles said smoothly. "Each of us takes responsibility for one hundred and thirty-five dragon bolts. The public treasury will subsidize one thousand Lys gold coins per bolt."
Lysandro nodded immediately. So did Qalhanna.
It was fair and profitable. And most importantly- shared. No single house would grow too powerful or too rich.
And each governor would pocket a tidy sum.
"Very well," Banbaro said, forcing what he thought was a graceful nod. "I will deploy my one hundred and thirty-five bolts in the east of the city. You can distribute the rest."
He looked suspiciously pleased.
Lysandro could already guess why.
Banbaro likely had far more bolts than he admitted. Perhaps five hundred originally. Maybe he'd sold a hundred to Myr already. And some, Lysandro would wager dearly, were tucked away at Banbaro's personal estate in the Disputed Lands, ready to be used for extortion or personal profit.
If the Council accepted buying at his inflated prices, Banbaro would profit extravagantly.
If they didn't, he could deploy the rest to his private holdings and demand defense reimbursements from Lys later.
A win-win.
A typical brute's cunning, relying on greed rather than strategy.
The meeting should have ended there, but the atmosphere in the hall felt heavier now, thick with suspicion, greed, and unspoken ambition. The governors shifted in their seats, each calculating what war would cost them, and what it might earn them.
Lysandro drummed his fingers on the table absently.
Aegon Targaryen...
A boy nearly exiled by his own court. A boy who arrived with four damn dragons.
Every instinct he possessed screamed that this was no cast-off princeling.
If this Aegon suffered defeat in some Westerosi court intrigue, perhaps he now intended to carve his own empire south of the Narrow Sea, far from prying lords and court politics.
And what empire does not need gold?
What empire does not need alliances?
What empire does not require wives?
His gaze drifted to the door. Larra's tiny hand still clutched at his sleeve in his mind.
A new Targaryen power rising in the Stepstones could be a threat…or the greatest opportunity of his generation.
But this time, Lysandro forced himself to silence.
Let the others rant about dragon bolts and war.
He would watch. He would analyze. He would wait.
And when the winds shifted, when the dragons returned, Lysandro Rogare would already know which path led to survival…
…and which to power.
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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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