The Stepstones, Tyrosh, Purple Palace
The Purple Palace was alive with a feverish energy tonight. Jon had spent weeks orchestrating the atmosphere for this gathering, planting seeds of rumor across the Narrow Sea to ensure that every major power felt the pull of Tyrosh. While the guest list was dominated by the magisters of Myr and Tyrosh, the presence of envoys from Dorne and Pentos proved that the world was watching.
Inside the Great Hall, the long tables groaned under the weight of a magnificent feast. There were golden roasted chickens, succulent joints of meat dripping with herbs, platters of vibrant fruits, and delicate pastries paired with the finest vintages. These weren't just signs of wealth; they were proof of Jon's systemic reforms. The quality of the local farm produce had skyrocketed, and his introduction of modern food-processing techniques—pickling and canning—had revolutionized the city's food security.
The hall itself was a fortress of soft power. High upon the walls hung sprawling tapestries depicting the heroic deeds of Jon and the Chainbreakers. They served as a silent, looming reminder of his military might to the guests below.
Above, a massive crystal chandelier shimmered—a masterpiece of Tyroshi glasswork that used mirrors to amplify the glow of whale-oil lamps until the room was bright as day. Below, the floor was covered in a new style of thick-pile carpet that felt like treading on clouds. Jon had designed every detail to broadcast one message: Tyrosh was evolving at a speed the rest of the world could not match.
Jon had also implemented his "Garden City" initiative. Flowerbeds and aromatic trees were placed in every corner of the hall, replacing the stale mixture of perfume and filth common in Essosi cities with a fresh, floral scent.
As the banquet commenced, the nobility of the Free Cities filed in. Unlike the lords of Westeros, who favored steel and tradition, these magisters wore their wealth. They were draped in silks and hung with enough gold and gems to make Tywin Lannister sneer—a man who, having been a mercenary in his youth, viewed these merchants as nothing more than gilded cowards.
"Ladies and gentlemen, let us welcome the Dragonlords of Tyrosh: Lord Aegon Targaryen and Lady Jynnaera Velarys!"
The herald's cry drew every eye to the center of the hall. There, Jon had constructed a grand staircase and a viewing platform, a vertical display of hierarchy designed to make the guests feel as though they were looking up at deities.
Jon emerged in a tailored black military dress uniform of his own design—sharp, disciplined, and distinctly different from the soft doublets of the merchants. Beside him, Jeyne Arryn (Jynnaera) was a vision in shimmering silver silk, her presence radiating the timeless, haunting allure of old Valyria.
They did not descend immediately. They walked slowly, allowing the guests to absorb their presence. Jon scanned the crowd, his mind already calculating the coming negotiations. He had brought these people here to see his products, but his real weapon was yet to be revealed.
"First, welcome to Tyrosh," Jon's voice projected clearly across the hall. "The Chainbreakers seek only to build friendships. Let us drink!"
"To the hosts!" the herald barked.
A sea of crystal glasses rose in unison. As the potent Tyroshi pear brandy flowed, the atmosphere loosened, and the conversation turned toward the rumors that had brought them all here.
Omar Panama, a man of mixed Myrish and Summer Isles descent and a key neutral player in the Triarchy's politics, stepped forward. "Lord Aegon, we have all heard the tales from Pterodactyl Point. Many have tried to tame the Long-winged Dragons and failed. I must ask—has your gamble truly paid off?"
Jon smiled—a thin, predatory curve of the lips. "The Chainbreakers have mastered the art of domestication. And tonight, we shall show you the fruit of that labor."
At a signal from Jon, Garo stepped to the Great Doors and gestured.
A squad of Chainbreaker soldiers pushed in several iron cages on iron casters. Inside were Long-winged Dragons the size of large hunting hounds. The hall erupted into gasps of shock and awe.
"Are those... truly the dragons of Sothoryos?"
"They look exactly like the drakes of the old scrolls..."
"Do they stay that small, or is this just the beginning?"
Jon raised a hand for silence. "What you see are our newest breed. Like hunting hounds, they require meticulous breeding and decades of effort to perfect."
"Can... can they be bought?"
The question came from the daughter of a Lysene merchant, her voice small but piercing the sudden silence. Everyone leaned in, breaths held.
"Of course," Jon replied without a second of hesitation.
The hall descended into absolute chaos. For ten minutes, the magisters argued, shouted, and theorized. Some were skeptical—realizing these weren't the fire-breathing terrors of legend—but the prospect of a flying mount, even one that didn't spit flame, was a prize that could rewrite the power balance of the world.