Dragon's flame

[The March to Tyrosh]

A procession of soldiers, their armor glinting in the pale sun, carried the proud banners of Westeros' most powerful houses: House Targaryen, House Velaryon, House Redwyne, House Baratheon, and others. Their march reverberated through the cobbled streets of Tyrosh, a city now gripped by dread and awe.

Slaves, merchants, nobles, mercenaries, and magisters crowded the streets, their faces a mixture of fear and reverence. Every head tilted upward as the shadow of a massive green dragon, as vast as the city itself, darkened the skies. Beside it flew a smaller, sleeker dragon, their scales shimmering ominously in the light. The sight was unforgettable—terrifying, beautiful, and utterly humbling.

The magisters of Tyrosh, once considered invincible behind their gilded walls, now stood trembling. These men, who had spent their lives in schemes and bribes, bowed their heads in submission as they led the King of House Targaryen toward the house of the former Archon.

[Outside the House of the Archon]

"Y-Your Grace, please," stammered one magister, beads of sweat glistening on his brow. "Wait here. I will send someone to retrieve the eggs for you." His voice cracked, betraying the fear he tried to mask.

King Viserys Targaryen, seated atop his horse with regal ease, let a sharp grin spread across his face. His eyes burned with a dangerous glint.

"No need," he said, his tone dripping with quiet menace. He turned to Aelyx, his eldest son. "Go, my son. Retrieve the eggs—and everything of value."

The magisters exchanged nervous glances. Their plans to divide the Archon's fortune among themselves were now ash in their mouths. It was clear: House Targaryen would claim it all.

Aelyx, flanked by Ser Erryk and a contingent of knights, strode into the mansion with calculated precision. Before stepping inside, Aelyx nodded subtly to one of his spies, hidden in the crowd. The man had uncovered the location of the Archon's illicit wealth, hidden away from his "legal" fortune.

The halls of the mansion were eerily quiet, their opulence tarnished by the lingering scent of desperation. Aelyx descended into the dimly lit basement, where a colossal vault door loomed. The magisters hurried to open it, their hands shaking as they fumbled with the locks.

When the door creaked open, a dragon's hoard of wealth greeted them. Coins and gemstones glittered like stars, sculptures of unparalleled craftsmanship lined the walls, and among it all sat three dragon eggs, pulsating faintly with warmth, as if alive. A Valyrian steel sword rested beside them, its blade dark and rippling like liquid shadow.

Aelyx's eyes narrowed with determination. He motioned to the knights, who began filling sacks with treasures. With reverence, he picked up the Valyrian steel sword, its weight and balance perfect in his hands. He fastened it to his waist, beside his own Valyrian blade, Dragonclaw.

Finally, he approached the eggs. Their heat radiated through the air, and for a moment, Aelyx felt an almost primal connection to them. Gently, he placed them into a box and handed it to Ser Erryk.

"These are back now," he murmured, his voice firm with conviction.

When they emerged from the mansion, Viserys met them with an approving smile. The army of Westeros, which had entered Tyrosh with calculated might, departed just as swiftly, boarding their waiting ships.

As Viserys prepared to leave, he cast one final, chilling command over his shoulder:

"Burn all of their scorpions."

His grin, dark and satisfied, bore an unsettling resemblance to Daemon's. Aelyx and Daemon exchanged glances, their expressions mirroring Viserys' dangerous amusement. Without a word, they turned to their dragons.

Moments later, Caraxes and Vhagar roared into the sky. The inhabitants of Tyrosh, frozen in fear, watched as the dragons unleashed their wrath.

"Dracarys!" Daemon and Aelyx bellowed in unison.

Fire engulfed the city's scorpion-filled towers, melting even the stone walls under Vhagar's searing breath. On his ship, Viserys observed the destruction with quiet amusement, his expression unreadable.

Ser Harrold Westerling watched the king carefully, his heart heavy with unease. In all the years he had served Viserys, he had never seen him like this. The death of Queen Aemma, the poisoning of Prince Aelyx, and the king's prolonged illness had changed him—or perhaps they had only revealed his true nature.

Now, on the throne of Westeros sat not a man who sought peace, but a king who smiled at the burning walls of a city.

[Dragonstone]

[Rhaenyra's Point of View]

They are an absolute disaster!

Aemon, Aemma, Joffrey, Helaena, Rhaena, and Gaemon have all started walking—and they never stay in one place! Led by Aerion, they sneak through Dragonstone's hidden pathways, some of which even I didn't know existed. Viserys and Aegon have joined their cousins in their mischief, and when I sent Helaena and Joffrey to stop them, they joined as well!

With Aelyx, Daenerys, and Rhaenys away, I have been left alone to care for the young Targaryens.

Jacerys, Lucerys, and Baela have run off to explore the dragon caves and visit their dragons.

"Gaemon, don't crawl there!" I called out, exasperated.

At this moment, I wish Syrax was a war dragon. War would have been easier than this.

My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King—or as Daemon calls him, Otto the Cunt.

"Princess," he said with a smirk, "be mindful. They are the future of House Targaryen."

Since arriving on Dragonstone, Otto had been a constant presence, either locked in the Painted Table chamber or roaming the castle, speaking to workers and no doubt attempting to plant spies.

But he will fail. Here on Dragonstone, we Targaryens are revered as gods. None will betray us.

Aelyx and Daenerys have transformed Dragonstone into an impenetrable fortress. Villages are now surrounded by fortified walls, farms thrive within the castle's rear defenses, new smithies hammer away day and night, and the network of caves has been expanded and heavily guarded.

They are building more than a castle—they are building a legacy.