The Stepstones, Tyrosh, Purple Palace
Seeing that the crowd's fervor had reached its peak, Jon struck while the iron was hot. "Our vision is to transform the rainforests of the Stormlands into a dedicated breeding ground for these new dragon species. However, accomplishing this is a task that exceeds the current reach of the Chainbreakers alone. I invite our brother cities to join us in this endeavor!"
"The man speaks as if we are already kinsmen," Trig Omorren remarked to the crowd, his voice laced with wary surprise. He drained his pear brandy, his eyes narrowing as he studied the Long-winged Dragons pacing in their cages.
True dragons had been extinct for nearly two centuries. Few lived who remembered their true form. In the dusty scrolls and tapestries of the Citadel, descriptions varied wildly, though all agreed on two things: they were massive, and they flew.
"Lynesse," Trig said, turning to the woman at his side. "Do you remember the dragon in that ancient Valyrian scroll I showed you?"
"Give me a moment..." Lynesse Hightower replied, her gaze having been fixed on Jeyne Arryn with an almost trance-like intensity. She blinked, forcing her attention back to the Magister. "I remember. The dragons in those paintings had no foreclaws. They used their wings as front legs to crawl."
"Then why do these creatures have four distinct limbs and wings?" Trig mused, too preoccupied with the biological anomaly to notice Lynesse's distracted state.
Lynesse, however, was focused on Jeyne for a different reason. She had heard the whispers from her sister, Malora the "Mad Maid," regarding the legend of Jynnaera Velarys. The Hightowers, living in the shadow of the Hightower and its mysterious black stone foundations, had always dabbled in the arcane. Lynesse could feel a resonance in the hall—a hum of ancient, heavy magic emanating from the silver-haired woman. To her, the dragons were a sideshow; the woman was the real miracle.
The Merchant of Labor
Jon navigated the sea of silk and jewels, heading toward Omar Panama. Omar was a titan in Myr, owning three massive factories and several artisanal workshops. Unlike the Westerosi lords who looked down on trade, the Essosi elite were scholars of the ledger, keeping groups of Maesters on payroll to optimize their profits.
"Greetings, Magister Omar," Jon said, offering a hand. "I knew there were visionaries in Myr who would see the value in our path, but I am honored it is you who came."
Omar was a towering, heavyset man with the dark skin and thick features of the Summer Isles. He wore a crimson robe cinched with a belt of gold and sapphires. As they embraced, Jon caught the heavy scent of expensive perfume—masking the faint, industrial musk of a man who spent his days in workshops.
"Hahaha! Honestly, Aegon," Omar roared, his laughter deep. "I'm less interested in your lizards and more interested in those... summoned things of yours."
"Ah, the constructs," Jon replied. "As long as the price is right, we can supply the summoning rods in bulk. They are more loyal than any Unsullied and far more durable."
Jon realized Omar was a pure pragmatist. To a factory owner, a dragon was a luxury, but an undead laborer that never ate, slept, or revolted was a revolution.
"Good," Omar said, swirling his wine. "I care for profit, little else. The hawks in the Myrish Council waste resources fighting over the Disputed Lands. They've let that exile government into the city, thinking they can still harass your fleet. Fools. They don't realize the world has changed."
"Then do you support my Stormlands initiative?" Jon asked.
Omar rubbed the rim of his glass. "I've heard you are blessed by the gods. I will do my best to push the proposal through the Council. Just remember: I care about the future of industry, not the grudges of the past."
"I am not fighting the slave lords, Magister," Jon replied, clinking his glass against Omar's. "I am fighting the enemy of all living things."
Gelatin and Gods
As Omar moved back into the crowd, Jeyne stepped to Jon's side. "You chose well. He doesn't care about the opinions of other Magisters as long as his ledgers stay black."
"He's the key," Jon agreed, plucking a small, translucent dish from a passing tray. It contained a wobbling, semi-transparent substance with a rose petal suspended inside. He handed it to Jeyne.
"What is this?" she asked, poking the jiggly treat.
"It's Gelatin—a rose-flavored jelly. It took the Maesters months to stabilize it."
Jeyne took a bite, her eyes lighting up at the delicate texture. "You never cease to surprise me, Aegon. If you sold this to the noble ladies of the Free Cities, you'd have a monopoly in a week." She turned her gaze to him, searching his face. "Sometimes I wonder if you truly belong to this world. Your ideas... they are unlike anything I've ever seen, even in the height of the Freehold."
"And if I told you the gods whispered these ideas to me?" Jon asked with a faint smile.
Jeyne laughed, though her eyes remained sharp. "Then your gods are far more practical than the ones we used to worship."