POV: 3rd Person
The surf rolled gently upon the sand, its rhythm a strange counterpoint to the weight of history that gathered on that quiet shore. Beyond the beach rose the gleaming walls of Lys, white and radiant beneath the noonday sun, the famed Pearl of the Free Cities.
Yet it was not the shining towers of Lys that drew the gaze of Aegon Targaryen and Argilac Durrandon. Their eyes were fixed upon the small galley that had just nosed ashore, its oars folding like the wings of a resting bird. Slaves spilled from its decks, forming neat ranks in the sand, their collars glinting dully. Armed guards disembarked behind them, their polished helms catching the light, and at last came the delegation itself.
At their head strode Zare Rogare, heir to House Rogare, the wealthiest magisters of Lys. Young and striking, his hair was pale as moonlight, his eyes an oceanic blue, his face crafted with the elegance that had earned his people the epithet Pearl of Valyria. But though the Rogare bloodline carried faint traces of Old Valyria, to Aegon's eyes it was thin, a pale echo of a power long lost.
Advisors and merchant lords flanked him, trailing silks and jewels. But when they halted, it was not the heir who spoke.
A slave stepped forward, his voice carrying across the beach with theatrical precision:
"Introducing the wise and benevolent Zare Rogare, designated heir to the Pearl of Cities, scion of the Rogare line, and rightful heir to the Magisters of Lys."
The words echoed over sand and sea.
King Argilac Durrandon's lip curled into open scorn. His disdain was mirrored by his Stormland commanders, men who saw no glory in a herald chained by iron. To Westerosi eyes, slavery was an abomination, long outlawed save among the raiding Ironborn. The very spectacle of it sickened them.
Aegon Targaryen, standing tall in black and crimson, kept his face neutral, though inwardly he too loathed the sight. He had schooled his features well, but his violet eyes betrayed the faintest glimmer of contempt.
From the Stormlands' side, a knight stepped forth in turn, his voice proud and unbowed:
"Introducing Argilac Durrandon, King of the Stormlands, and Lord Aegon Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone."
Steel and storm met pearl and silk upon that beach.
The air was heavy with the scent of salt and smoke as the two hosts faced one another across the beach.
Zare Rogare stepped forward, silk robes trailing across the sand, his blue eyes sharp and searching. He bowed not too deep, but enough to show respect. Behind him, his Lyseni advisors and merchant lords shifted uneasily, their faces carefully schooled into neutrality.
"Great King of Storms. Lord of Dragonstone, blood of ancient Valyria," Zare began, his voice smooth, the cadence rehearsed.
"Lys greets you both in peace. My city is a jewel of trade, a pearl upon the sea and it is our wish that this jewel not be shattered. To that end, I bring gifts."
At a clap of his hands, slaves came forward bearing chests heavy with coin, silks, and gems. Gold gleamed in the sunlight, jewels sparkled, silks of every hue fluttered in the wind.
"A token," Zare continued, "from the magisters of Lys to men of such strength. In exchange for friendship, and the promise that Lys shall not suffer siege, nor fire, nor sword."
Argilac Durrandon did not hesitate. With a wave of his gauntleted hand, he signaled his men to take the chests. The Storm King's storm-gray eyes glimmered with open satisfaction. "Gold and silk buy peace well enough," he said. "Your pearl remains unbroken… for now."
But Aegon Targaryen did not move.
He stood apart, tall in his black and crimson cloak, his violet eyes fixed upon the Lyseni delegation. His face was calm, almost unreadable, yet his silence grew heavier with each passing heartbeat until Zare's polished words faltered.
At last Aegon spoke.
"I have no need of your gold, nor your gems, nor your silks." His tone was soft, yet it cut sharper than any blade. "Dragonstone is rich in stone and fire. What need have I for baubles?"
Murmurs rippled through the Lyseni. Zare's smooth mask wavered; confusion flickered across his features, followed swiftly by calculation. He bowed again, more deeply this time, his voice respectful but strained.
"Then, my lord, name it. The Pearl of Valyria is yours to command. What we have, we can give. What you wish, we can find. Speak it, and it shall be delivered."
For the first time, Aegon's lips curved into the faintest of smiles. His violet eyes seemed to burn as he named his price:
"Dragon eggs."
The words fell like a hammer blow.
The Lyseni delegation reeled in shock. Gasps rang out, silk-robed advisors exchanged wide-eyed glances, and one old merchant lord nearly stumbled in the sand. Even Argilac's stern features betrayed a flicker of surprise.
But none reacted more strongly than Zare Rogare. His eyes bulged, his composure cracking as his mouth worked soundlessly for a heartbeat too long. When at last he found his voice, it was a whisper that barely carried above the crash of the surf.
"Dragon… eggs?"
The beach had gone utterly still.
Aegon Targaryen's smile lingered, faint and terrible.
"Yes. That is my price."
The silence after Aegon's demand stretched like a drawn bow.
Zare Rogare swallowed hard, sweat prickling at his temple despite the cool sea breeze. He bowed lower this time, his practiced elegance unraveling into something that looked more like supplication.
"My lord… dragon eggs are… exceedingly rare. Relics, almost. Many say there are none left, save those hoarded by the Freehold before its Doom. To ask such a thing—" He faltered, then rallied with a flash of inspiration. "But Lys has treasures of equal worth. Allow me to present to you something greater than gold or silk."
He gestured sharply, and one of his retainers stepped forward, bearing a long case wrapped in cloth of silver. With deliberate care, Zare unveiled it. The blade inside shimmered with a dark luster, etched in faint Valyrian glyphs that seemed to writhe in the sun.
"This is Truth," Zare announced, pride bleeding into his tone despite himself. "The sword of House Rogare, forged in Valyria before the Doom. It has drunk blood for generations. Let it be yours—a weapon worthy of a Dragonlord, finer than any egg."
Argilac's eyes flicked toward the sword with interest, but Aegon remained silent. His violet gaze lingered only a heartbeat on the weapon before shifting back to Zare, unreadable, unmoved.
That silence was louder than any rejection.
Zare's lips pressed thin. He tried again. "If not the sword, then Lys's fleets. Our ships are swift, our sailors unmatched—we could place them at your command. Or perhaps—"
The words died in his throat.
A shadow swept across the beach. The wind shifted with the beating of colossal wings.
All heads turned skyward as Balerion soared above, vast and terrible. In his jaws he carried the broken body of a whale, its blood trailing into the sea like a crimson banner. With effortless strength, the dragon banked and vanished beyond the cliffs, his roar echoing in his wake.
The delegation stood frozen. Some Lyseni fell to their knees. Slaves whimpered. Even hardened captains looked pale, clutching their cloaks against the sudden chill that swept the shore.
Zare's blue eyes darted back to Aegon, and what little defiance remained crumbled. His voice cracked as he bowed so low his brow nearly touched the sand.
"...Very well. Give me but a few hours, my lord, and they shall be yours."
Aegon inclined his head once no more. The audience was ended.
---
Hours later
As the Storm King's host prepared to break camp and march, Aegon sat within his tent of black and crimson. Before him, upon a table of oak, rested four new prizes.
One gleamed white as polished pearl.
One shimmered blue streaked with purple flecks.
One mottled brown and black, like earthen stone.
And the last, darkest of all, a grey so deep it seemed to drink the lamplight.
Aegon's hand lingered over them before moving to his notes, his expression unreadable, his thoughts his own as he wrote.
The parchment rustled faintly under Aegon's hand as he traced the lines of the Disputed Lands. Notes and sigils filled the margins—supply routes, and more. His mind worked in silence, turning over each piece of the game board that was future conquest.
Then the air shuddered.
RROOOOAAARRR!
Aegon paused, quill frozen mid-stroke. That was no deep, rumbling thunder of Balerion. His head snapped up, eyes narrowing.
He felt through the bond Balerions recognition of kin.
Aegon rose immediately, pushing past the tent flap. Outside, Stormlanders were already staring skyward, pointing with wide eyes. Above the camp wheeled a form green and bronze, wings slicing across the sunlight like the sails of some monstrous ship.
Vhagar.
And upon her back, proud and unbending, sat Visenya.
The dragon descended in a wide spiral, beating gusts of hot wind across the beach. Stormlander soldiers staggered, shielding their faces as sand and ash whipped about them. Awe and fear battled in their eyes, though none dared flee not with their king watching.
Balerion stirred nearby, his massive head lifting from the carcass of the whale he was devouring. Smoke curled lazily from his jaws as his red eyes fixed on the newcomer. The ground trembled with his growl, low and thunderous, though he did not rise.
Vhagar landed with a shattering impact only yards from the Black Dread. She was large by any measure, a beast to awe kings and terrify armies—yet beside Balerion she seemed a lesser sibling, younger, sleeker, almost modest.
Visenya dismounted with the grace of one long accustomed to the saddle. She ran a gloved hand down Vhagar's scaled neck, murmuring in Valyrian, before giving the dragon a firm pat along her bronze-hued jaw. Only then did she stride forward, her long braid snapping like a whip in the wind, her eyes sharp and unflinching as ever.
The Stormlanders whispered openly now.
"She's smaller than the Black Dread…" one man muttered.
"Not half the size," another added, emboldened. "That one—Balerion—he could swallow it whole."
Laughter, nervous but real, flickered among them.
Aegon, walking swiftly to meet his sister, let out a short chuckle of his own. His voice carried, smooth and deliberate, cutting through the whispers.
"Best hold your tongues, my Stormlander friends," he said. "Say such things within her hearing, and you'll find she's no less dangerous than her mount."
A ripple of uneasy chuckles answered, some men paling, others muttering apologies into the air.
Visenya's lips curved in the faintest shadow of a smile as she came to stand before her brother. She inclined her head no bow, no curtsy just the silent acknowledgement of equals.
"Brother," she said simply, her voice cool as the edge of a blade.
Aegon inclined his head in turn. "Sister." His eyes flicked to Vhagar, then back to her. "It seems the storm has gained another shadow."
Visenya's gaze swept the camp, noting the stares of hardened warriors reduced to children in the presence of dragons. Her smirk widened by a fraction.
---
Histories of Planetos: Notes Collected and Written by Historitor Aurther Hightower
After the capitulation of Lys, the coalition of Pentos, Tyrosh, the Stormlands, and the young primarch Aegon Targaryen with his sisters Visenya and Rhaenys turned their gaze upon Old Volantis.
For the first time in written memory, dragons flew above the Black Walls as foes, not guardians. The self-styled Emperor of the New Valyrian Empire urged his citizens, nobles, and soldiers alike to fight and burn in his cause.
Yet the Triarchs, with their council now firmly in the hands of the Elephants for the Tiger party had bled itself dry upon the battlefield saw only folly in resistance. They deposed their Emperor, and in an act both defiant and desperate, hung him from the walls for all the coalition to witness.
Hours later, the gates of Volantis were opened without further bloodshed, and with their surrender, the dream of a New Valyrian Empire crumbled into ash.
But from those ashes a spark of inspiration would survive in another future conquer.