Though an ill wind coiled in his chest like a serpent, Nekania had to admit Fenrir's proposal was the only move left upon the board. The city trembled on the brink, its streets still slick with soot and blood, and hesitation would only beckon ruin faster.
"Very well," Nekania said at last. His jaw tightened as he gave a single, decisive nod. "We do it your way. And when you ride east, tell them the Targaryens mean to rebuild Valyria itself. Spread the rumor like fire in the wind. Let them fear."
Fenrir's lips curled into a mocking grin. "Rebuild the Freehold…and tear down every slave-city from the Rhoyne to the Basilisk Isles. Yes, let them hear that. The slavers of Essos rattle like crabs in a pot the moment someone threatens their chains."
It was a harsh truth, but truth all the same. To rouse the ancient rivals, Volantis with its Black Walls, Lys with its perfumed courts, and Myr with its weavers and glasswrights, they needed both enticement and terror. Pure plea would be ignored; pure threat would be met with silence. But fear mixed with opportunity had stirred cities to madness before.
Perhaps the city-states would not believe talk of a reborn Valyria. But if Prince Aegon Targaryen lent even a shadow of support to a slave revolt, then every slave-lord from the Summer Sea to Slaver's Bay would see him as a scourge to be cut out before he grew too bold.
And should he turn his back on the rebels, then Nekania could crush that ragged, hungry host whenever he wished. The uprising seemed fearsome to the common folk, but he knew better... it was a storm made of dust, loud yet fragile.
"I trust you," Nekania said quietly. "When do you depart?"
"Now," Fenrir replied. "Every hour we tarry gives the dragons longer to circle above our graves."
He bowed sharply and strode from the hidden chamber, two guards falling into step behind him. Only when their footsteps vanished into the twisting passages did Nekania exhale.
There was no time to waste.
"Elville!" he barked.
His lieutenant stepped forward at once, dusted in ash, the scent of burning rope still clinging to his cloak.
"Take men and tally everything," Nekania ordered. "Count our dead, slave and soldier alike. Mark how many fled, how many fell, how many remain bound. Gather every surviving soldier in the city and bring our stores under strict guard. Not a grain of barley goes unaccounted."
"Yes, chief."
"And another thing." Nekania's voice hardened. "Send criers into every market and alley. Tell the Tyroshi that I stand with them, that I will defend this city, this island, to my last breath. No dragon will find soft hearts here."
A small pause. Elville listened without blinking.
"Contact Myr and Lys. Tell them Tyrosh needs support at once. Not in a week. Not when convenient. Now."
"And Recharino? What of the fleet?"
"Recall him. He is to bring every ship back to Tyrosh and keep the rebels on the island under watch. They must not grow bold."
Elville bowed and was gone like an arrow loosed.
Silence filled the chamber, a silence so deep Nekania could hear the distant drip of water through the stone. He rubbed at his temples, trying to smother the unwelcome dread coiling in his mind. His thoughts raced down branching paths, searching for the threat that lurked behind the obvious.
What have I missed? Where does the danger truly lie?
Minutes passed. Or perhaps an hour. The flickering torch seemed to tremble as if holding its breath.
Then it struck him.
If he were Aegon Targaryen, armed with four dragons, unchallenged in the skies, he would never send all of them to strike a single blow. No, a commander with wits would divide them.
Two dragons to watch Tyrosh from dawn to dusk, choking the island's every breath of outside supply.
Two more to bolster the rebels, pushing them like wildfire across the straits, even into the fertile hinterlands the city depended upon.
Tyrosh lived by the sea. With its lifeline severed, the city would starve. And the Tyroshi, clever and vicious and greedy as they were, would tear each other apart long before the dragons ever struck a second time.
Realizing this, Nekania leapt to his feet and called urgently, "Fetch parchment! Ink! Now!"
His assistant scrambled in, breathless, and placed the writing tools before him. Nekania seized them without ceremony, writing with swift, angry strokes that splattered ink across the page.
Two letters, one for Myr, one for Lys.
When he finished, he thrust them into the assistant's hands. "You will deliver these yourself. No one else. Tell the councils our situation is far worse than any rumor claims. They must send men, ships, and coin without delay."
"And warn them that every vessel that sails must mount dragon-bolts. Aegon may already be moving to blockade the waters."
The assistant nodded vigorously. "At once," he said, and fled up the stair.
Nekania leaned back, breath easing for the first time since dawn. The letters were not merely pleas, they were warnings. No... more than warnings. Threats.
He had written without softness:
If Tyrosh falls, he will lead every Tyroshi man, woman, and child to Myr and Lys. They will come by the thousands, refugees and warriors alike. And he himself will stand for governor.
If the cities denied them refuge or blocked his candidacy, then the Tyroshi would become a scourge of the sea, pirates preying upon Myrish and Lysene merchants, mercenary hosts raiding manors across the Disputed Lands, seizing fertile fields with fire and blood.
We will be homeless, he wrote, and thus fearless. Tyrosh excels at plunder.
Let them think twice before delaying.
Since the Triarchy's founding, since Volantis was driven from the Disputed Lands, Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh had never stopped tearing at one another beneath the polite mask of alliance. Without an outside threat, their so-called unity was a hollow shell.
He knew them too well. Had he been governor of Myr or Lys, he would have made the same cold calculations.
Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys were not partners. They were wolves circling the same carcass.
*
Bloodstone Isle
Morning broke in pale gold across the dark waters of the Narrow Sea, casting the rocks of Bloodstone Isle in sharp relief. The air still tasted of salt and ash as Sunfyre burst through a bank of cloud, spiraling downward. His golden scales caught the sun, blazing so brightly that the island seemed momentarily lit by a second dawn.
Behind him came Vhagar. Her wings beat a slower, world-weary rhythm, yet every stroke shook the air.
Aemond slid from the saddle with a wince. Whatever fire had kindled in his eye during the night's battle had drained away, leaving the prince pale and exhausted. He had pushed himself far past prudence.
Vhagar lumbered a few paces before folding to the earth with a long, weary groan. Within moments, the great she-dragon was snoring, deep, rumbling breaths that echoed across the campsite.
Aegon watched her, a faint, rueful smile tugging at his mouth.
For all her terrible majesty, Vhagar was old, one hundred and seventy summers, perhaps more.
Age had given her unmatched size and power, but had robbed her of the endless stamina she once possessed. Had she been thirty years younger, she might have stood unrivaled, even by Balerion in his twilight.
Dragons never ceased to grow, not until death stilled them. But strength was another matter.
In Aegon's reckoning, a dragon's true prime lay between one hundred and twenty and one hundred and fifty years, when their bodies had reached nearly full might, but vigor still coursed through muscle and bone. During the Dance, Vermithor had proved it. Though decades younger than Vhagar, he had been only a fifth smaller, and far more enduring in the air.
Aegon's eyes drifted to Sunfyre, tall, radiant, and restless.
He still could not explain the dragon's unnatural growth. Nor the way his own mind slipped into the Dragon Soul state without his consent. At times, he awoke breathless, unsure whether he had dreamed or wandered through Sunfyre's soul while asleep.
This should not be happening, he thought. Power should bring mastery, not chaos.
He had scoured Valyrian scrolls, ancient grimoires saved from the fires of Old Valyria, even fragments of lore stolen from old magi. Yet all yielded nothing.
Perhaps one day, after the Rebellion ends, he might fly to the Fourteen Flames themselves, or farther still to the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai. Some claimed dragons were born in the shadow, not Valyria. Others called such tales lies.
He would discover the truth in time.
But exhaustion pressed upon him like a mountain. The night's battle had driven him beyond his limits. His limbs trembled faintly; his eyelids felt carved from lead.
He stumbled back toward his tent and summoned Ser Arryk Cargyll.
"Last night, Aemond and I struck at Tyrosh," Aegon said, voice rough with fatigue. "While I sleep, no sword is drawn without my leave. Keep watch along the coast. All else waits until I wake."
Arryk bowed. "As you say, my prince."
He had already placed the camp under tight patrol before the feast last night. If so much as two pigs escaped the encampment, much less two dragons, he would know.
Aegon managed a faint nod before collapsing onto his cot. Sleep claimed him in moments, deep, and dreamless.
Above the tent, Sunfyre settled beside Vhagar, curling his golden wings close and lowering his head. Two dragons slept upon Bloodstone Isle, their breath a slow, smoldering rhythm beneath the rising sun.
And across the sea, trouble sharpened its knives.
------
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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