Three dragons tore across the skies above Tyrosh.
One moment the sky was clear-the next, wings blotted out the sun and fire rolled across the rooftops.
Screams rose. Bells clanged.
After the first wave of chaos, the city finally stirred itself to action. On the battlements, men scrambled for the dragon-slaying scorpions… only to find charred metal and shattered wood. Vhagar had smashed them hours earlier into smoking wreckage.
All that remained were the heavy machines hidden deeper within the city.
But weapons forged to kill dragons were immense, unwieldy things, difficult to move even in peacetime.
Daeron, sweeping his gaze over the maze of streets below, soon caught sight of the sluggish caravan.
Within the city, the hidden engines groaned to life. Massive, iron-banded, slow as dying oxen. Dozens of slaves dragged them through the streets in panic.
Tessarion hissed twice, sharp and urgent.
With the warning ringing in his ears, Aegon did not hesitate. Sunfyre banked sharply, golden wings beating hard as he climbed toward the clouds. Dreamfyre and Vhagar followed, vanishing into the white veil above.
Above the cloud line, the world grew quiet.
Sunfyre hovered, wings beating in steady rhythm. Aegon raised a hand toward Helaena and the others, signaling them to withdraw.
The four dragons wheeled in formation and turned eastward, leaving Tyrosh behind as they swept toward Myr, crossing the pale blue waters of the Myrish Sea.
The bay lay wide and tranquil beneath them, sheltering the city it had guarded for centuries.
Soon the spires and domes of Myr rose within Aegon's sight.
Myr, arguably the most advanced of the Free Cities.
Celebrated for its artisans and scholars, famed for the precision of its craftwork. Its exports ranged from carpets and lace to the finest lenses and telescopes in all Essos. Screens, mirrored glass, and delicate panes were sold at prices rivaling the spices of the East.
Their paintings and miniatures were prized for their vivid detail. Their workshops forged three-shot crossbows and delicate stiletto blades. Even their meads and wines were distinct, pale green mead, firewine, and the medicinal gunpowder-grass used for treating wounds.
...But none of it mattered when a dragon roared.
"Roar!"
Sunfyre's cry split the sky.
Below, the streets of Myr erupted into panic. One dragon's roar shattered the city's calm like glass beneath a hammer.
Yet Sunfyre did not loose his flames.
Instead, he circled the city three times with Vhagar, Dreamfyre, and Tessarion, casting long shadows across plazas and rooftops before turning away.
Aegon wanted contrast. Let Tyrosh burn, and let Myr stand untouched. Then the whispers would spread as intended.
Why had only Tyrosh suffered dragonfire, while Myr remained unscathed?
Leaving Myr behind, the four riders found a lonely mountain peak where the dragons could rest before they continued toward Lys.
Like Tyrosh, Lys sprawled across a scatter of islands, controlling a third of the Disputed Lands. Its alchemists were infamous, the Strangler among their deadliest creations. Lysene beauty was equally famed, blue eyes, pale smooth skin, and hair of silver-white curls, much of it a remnant of old Valyria.
When Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, Vhagar, and Tessarion descended upon the city, the Lysene froze for a heartbeat... then fled screaming.
Years of war across the Stepstones, yet never had four dragons darkened the skies over Lys.
And even from high above, the emerald-green bulk of Vhagar was terrifying to behold.
Aegon rode Sunfyre in slow circles, studying the walls below. To his astonishment, Lys had prepared nothing- no scorpions, no ballistae, not even common defensive engines. Only scattered patrols stood watch.
"So lax?" Aegon muttered.
He sank into Sunfyre's consciousness, searching again. Still- nothing.
Once he was certain there was no danger, he signaled Daeron.
Tessarion dove like a falling star. Cobalt flame spilled from her jaws, washing across the northern walls. At twenty-four years old, the Blue Queen's fire lacked the destructive force of her elders. It could kill men, but not topple stone.
For their purpose, that was enough.
Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond flanked Daeron, shielding Tessarion as she unleashed her fury. Soon the north gate became a churning hellscape. Hundreds perished beneath her blue flames.
When the screams began to carry across the harbor, Aegon judged the message delivered. At his command, Sunfyre roared. The four dragons swept low over the Rogare Bank, their shadows passing over its marble roof before disappearing into the distant clouds.
On the top floor of the grand banking hall, Larra Rogare stared at the vanishing dragons, terror whitening her face.
"That blue one…" she whispered. "It breathed fire without end."
Beside her, Lysandro Rogare, the family patriarch, said nothing. His face was stone, but unease coiled in his chest.
Two days earlier, he had received word that the Iron Throne had granted a new royal lord dominion over the Stepstones. Today, that same lord had delivered his message astride a dragon.
"Lys is no longer safe," Lysandro murmured.
He brushed a hand over Larra's hair, then turned away.
"Send word to Lysaro and Drazenko. Tell them to come to my study at once. No delays."
"Yes, my lord."
The attendant hurried off.
Lysandro paced his study in tight, anxious strides. He did not wait long.
"Brother, what's happened?" Drazenko burst through the door, breath uneven. "Did the dragons strike the bank?"
"Father, why the urgency?" Lysaro asked, equally perplexed. "Nothing seems amiss."
"Nothing has happened yet," their father said sharply. "That does not mean nothing will."
He drew a slow, steadying breath.
"I intend to divide our wealth into three parts. One portion will be deposited with the Iron Bank of Braavos- Lysaro, that will be your charge. Another will go with Drazenko to Sunspear in Dorne. The last will remain here in Lys, reserved for emergencies."
Both men stared at him, stunned.
"Is that truly necessary?" Lysaro asked. "We could fortify the bank, line the walls with scorpion bolts. How costly could it be?"
He clearly hated the thought of entrusting coin to their greatest rival. The Rogare Bank stood so high that some whispered it now rivaled Braavos itself. To deposit wealth with the Iron Bank would invite ridicule.
Drazenko frowned as well.
"Sending one share to Dorne is sensible," he allowed. "But giving another to the Iron Bank… brother, that is reckless. We are their foremost competition. If word spreads that we rely on them for safety... our reputation will suffer."
Lysandro fell silent, troubled. He had not considered that consequence.
"What, then, do you suggest?"
Drazenko thought for a moment.
"I will take one portion to Dorne. Let Lysaro carry another to our hidden estate in the depths of the Disputed Lands. And do not leave the last portion idle, use it to purchase supplies. Send them all to the estate for storage."
He paused.
"And lastly, dispatch men to Astapor to buy a company of Unsullied to guard it."
The so-called estate was no estate at all... only a fortified refuge concealed in dense jungle, built for moments such as this.
Lysandro nodded slowly. "A sound plan… though prices in Lys may surge again."
Drazenko shrugged.
"And let them. If the city starves, let the starving perish. What matters is that we remain secure after all."
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A/N: The fall of the Three Daughters begins at last. Tyrosh stands in flames, and the first sparks of a greater war are catching across the Stepstones. If you wish to read ahead and see how the fires spread, you can find up to 19 advanced chapters on my Patreon. The first 2 are free to all readers.
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