The air trembled as she folded her wings and dropped into a steep dive. Below, the sea boiled with movement, pirate ships circling like wolves around the battered convoy bound for the Stepstones.
Screams rose at once, mingling with wild shouts of hope.
"It's a dragon! Gods help us- run!"
"Prince Daeron! Prince Daeron has come with the Blue Queen to support us! Kill them! kill the bastards now!"
The pirates, bold only in their numbers, faltered as Tessarion's shadow swept across their decks. They had no scorpions, no heavy bolts, no precious engines meant for dragon-hunting. Their courage cracked like rotted timber.
On the dragon's back, Daeron Targaryen leaned forward in his saddle, round cheeks drawn taut with uncharacteristic solemnity.
"Dracarys."
The word was scarcely out before Tessarion opened her jaws. Cobalt flame roared forth, bright as a forge-blast, and a pirate galley vanished beneath the torrent.
The ship's mast curled like parchment, its timbers bursting apart. Men leapt shrieking into the sea, some already aflame, others rolling frantically in the waves only to be seized by something vast and dark beneath the surface. Their screams fell away, drowned beneath the roar of the sea.
Tessarion climbed sharply after the pass, her wings beating hard as she returned to the sky. Daeron drew a steadying breath, then cast his gaze over the chaos below. Smoke curled upward in dark plumes; the fleet's supply vessels struggled to break free of the ring of pirate ships.
He had begged Aegon for this patrol, begged him for a chance to prove himself. He had expected nothing more than a lonely circuit around the isles, another dull flight above an empty sea. Instead, he had found this, a convoy bound north to reinforce his brother, ambushed by raiders fat on plunder.
This isn't recklessness, he told himself fiercely. If they seized the supplies meant for Aegon, that would be unforgivable. I came only to protect him.
The excuse steadied him. His fear melted into exhilaration. He shifted his weight, guiding Tessarion back toward the sunlit heights. She responded with a delighted trill, banking sharply until her wings caught the light at just the right angle, so that the sun itself would blind the pirates below.
A heartbeat later, she folded her wings again.
"Dracarys!"
The second blast came smoother than the first. Daeron felt no tremor in his hands now; only a sharp, clear focus. Tessarion spiraled through the spray of arrows that rose to meet her, none coming close to her swift, darting form. Below, the pirate formation collapsed into chaos. A few ships with crude ballistas tried to turn their engines toward the sky, imagining themselves dragon-slayers.
Tessarion answered those fantasies with fire.
Each ballista ship she passed erupted into a storm of smoke and flame. Their bolts never came close; the Blue Queen was too quick, her movements too sinuous, her wings slicing through the air with serpentine grace.
The battle could have gone on longer. Daeron could have chased them until the last hull vanished beneath the waves. But he was no fool, and neither was Tessarion. Once the convoy had broken free and the pirates scattered, he signaled her to rise.
The Blue Queen leveled out above the largest of the supply ships, Lighthouse, the massive cargo vessel whose deep hull could have carried half a town's grain. Tessarion hovered with a powerful sweep of her wings, winds buffeting the deck below until sailors clung to rails and rigging to keep their feet.
Daeron shouted down to them, exchanging brief signals. Kraken, captain of the escort, waved vigorously, urging him onward. Their fleet was safe now; his task was done.
Daeron patted Tessarion's warm neck. She banked gracefully and turned southward, gliding toward Bloodstone Isle.
She left behind drifting smoke, broken masts, and the wild cheers of sailors who would sing of the Blue Queen for seasons to come.
Far to the south, unaware of the clash upon the waves, Aegon sat beside a map-strewn table in the keep on Bloodstone Isle. The afternoon light slanted through the windows, catching in his silver hair as he spoke with Arryk, his closest adviser in these new, hard-won lands.
"Unless the rebel host surrenders to Your Highness," Arryk was saying, voice firm, "I cannot advise aiding them. Today they fight Tyrosh. Tomorrow they may turn their blades against you."
Aegon leaned back, tapping one finger gently against the carved wooden arm of his chair. His expression remained mild, but Arryk knew that distant look in his eyes, the look he wore when thoughts raced far ahead of any man's guessing.
"We are not unable to crush Tyrosh ourselves," Arryk continued. "Why strengthen another force that may trouble us later? You'd be raising a tiger only to have it bite your hand."
Aegon shook his head slowly.
"If they swore allegiance, they would no longer be a slave rebellion. Their usefulness lies in their name and nature. Once they cease to be rebels, the slave cities would unite against us with perfect justification."
He spoke the words calmly, but there was a flint-hard edge beneath them.
"It is the idea of a slave uprising that serves us best. Let them bleed Tyrosh. Let them scour out the slavers' nests. We need not waste our strength where theirs will suffice."
Arryk fell silent. He understood that look as well, the moment when Aegon's logic slid beyond his own. He could advise on ships, on arms, on tactics in the field. But strategy, true, sweeping strategy... was Aegon's realm alone.
Aegon stepped to the map and tapped at the Stepstones.
"Have you looked closely at the isle that holds Tyrosh?"
"Of course," Arryk replied, leaning forward.
Aegon traced the chain of islands with his finger. "Bloodstone is largest, thirty thousand square kilometers, perhaps more. Grey Gallows not far behind. And then Tyrosh's own island, near equal to the latter."
"So it is," Arryk agreed.
"When those slaves fled northwest," Aegon asked, "where do you think they went?"
Arryk closed his eyes briefly, picturing the maps he'd studied. After a long moment, he answered, "The Lango Highlands. High land, only one true road, easy to defend. Difficult to storm. If I were fleeing pursuit, I would choose it."
Aegon blinked in surprise.
"The Highlands?" he echoed. "Yes, well-defended indeed, but full of noble manors, many more than ten years old. No rebellion has ever seized the Highlands. They'd need to take it before they could hold it. And without engines, without support, how?"
"You speak of the past, Your Highness," Arryk said gently. "Times are changed."
"How so?"
"In the past, Tyrosh struck from the city while the Highland lords pressed from the heights. A pincer. Rebels would starve within days without supply. But now… can Tyrosh spare such strength? They are still rebuilding their walls, reforging their chains. They fear the slave host as much as the slaves fear them."
Aegon's eyes sharpened. Understanding broke across his face like dawn.
"Of course," he murmured. "Tyrosh dares not march out. If they leave their gates, the rebels might strike at the city itself."
"Just so," Arryk said. "With no pressure from Tyrosh, even terrain like the Highlands cannot withstand ten thousand desperate men. If the slaves are brave enough, or desperate enough, they will carry the heights. And if they do…"
He paused.
Aegon finished for him, voice low and pleased. "Tyrosh will choke on that for a long while."
For once, Arryk permitted himself a small, proud smile.
"The Highlands feed the city," he said. "A tenth of Tyrosh's grain grows there. And there is water, a lake large enough to sustain thousands. Should the rebels seize it, they gain food, safety, and time."
Aegon crossed his arms, considering the shapes of land and power on the map before him.
"How long could they hold?"
"A while," Arryk admitted. "Only a while. In the end they cannot win without allies across the Narrow Sea. Only Braavos or Pentos could preserve them. And Pentos…" He grimaced. "Pentos ended slavery only because Braavos forced their hand. The slaver class still lingers beneath the surface."
Aegon exhaled softly, tapping again on the carved wood of his chair. His mind churned with possibilities, lines of consequence spiraling ever outward.
And then he stood.
A sudden purpose gleamed in his violet eyes.
"I must go to Tyrosh's island," he said. "I need to know where the rebel host has settled. If they truly march on the Lango Highlands, I will help them take it, and secure the water source for ourselves."
Arryk bowed his head in acceptance. There was no stopping him now.
Outside, the gulls wheeled above Bloodstone's dark cliffs. The wind carried the scent of salt and smoke, signs of a hundred struggles across the Stepstones.
And somewhere far above the southern seas, a young prince on a sapphire dragon winged homeward, unaware that his brother's next decision would set the whole chain alight.
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A/N: Aegon's ambition has begun to stir.As his power grows, so do his foes, traitors, and enemies rising with blades already drawn.
Will he truly succeed… or be crushed before he can claim it all?
If you want to find out, read ahead on Patreon. 19 advance chapters available, the first 2 are free.
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