Daeron waited on the Stepstones while ship after ship brought in the Crownlands lords and their armies. He stayed patient. He had time.
Tyrosh did not.
The mutilated envoys stumbled back into the Archon's palace, bloody stumps still swinging from ropes around their necks. Silverhand nearly threw up at the sight.
"Dragon King Daeron the Third took the gold and cut off our hands," the lead envoy sobbed. "He wants war!"
The Archon's face went white, then red with fury. He slammed his fist on the throne and roared for more scorpions, more ships, more sellswords. Every company he could buy—Storm Crows, Brave Companions, even the Golden Company if they'd come.
He would drown the Targaryen brat in blood before he let dragons burn Tyrosh again.
---
On the Stepstones the royal fleet had grown to three hundred ships and forty thousand men. Bloodstone Island was packed.
Daeron stood in full silver armor, purple cloak snapping in the wind, helmet tucked under one arm. He looked every inch the king.
"The queen is pregnant," he announced, voice carrying across the command tent. "Our heir will be born into victory."
Cheers rose from the lords. Even the grim ones smiled.
Daeron set the helmet on the map table. "One dragonrider is enough. We sail for Tyrosh at first light. We end this."
---
Dragonstone
Jaehaerys pressed his back against the cold rock and tried to slow his breathing.
The bronze dragon—Valar—tore into a roasted sheep on the blackened grass below, black teeth crunching bone, blood running down its jaw. It had already chased off the smaller wild dragon that used to haunt the eastern cliffs.
Jaehaerys had watched it for weeks. He knew its habits.
He also knew his brother was about to sail for Tyrosh with only Caraxes.
Daeron doesn't have to fight alone. Targaryens have more than one man.
He stepped out from cover, heart hammering, and started down the slope toward the dragon.
One way or another, he was getting a dragon of his own.