Six months had transformed the United Cities of Dragons Bay into something the world had never seen before.
Where once three separate slave cities had squabbled over trade routes and human cargo, now stood a unified nation that stretched across the eastern shores of Slaver's Bay. Astapor's forges burned day and night, producing weapons and armor that rivaled anything made in Qohor or Volantis. Yunkai's shipyards echoed with the sound of hammers on wood and steel, building vessels that would carry freedom to distant shores. And Meereen, crowned with the Great Pyramid that now flew the three-headed dragon banner, served as the beating heart of an empire in the making.
I stood on the pyramid's highest balcony, watching my armada prepare for departure in the harbor below. One hundred and fifty ships of war stretched across the bay—galleys converted from merchant vessels, warships built from stolen timber, and sleek dragon-prowed longships that could outrun anything on the water. Each one carried the finest soldiers I'd ever commanded: Unsullied with their bronze-capped discipline, Gondorians in steel plate that gleamed like mirrors, and former slaves who fought with the fervor of the truly faithful.
One hundred and fifty thousand men. The largest army assembled since Aegon's Conquest, and every one of them sworn to my service with bonds stronger than steel.
"The final reports, Your Grace," Missandei said, approaching with a leather satchel filled with documents. Even after six months as my chief administrator, she still marveled at what we'd built. "All three cities report full military readiness. Supply lines are established, governmental structures are functioning, and the transition to unified command is complete."
I nodded, accepting the reports but not bothering to read them. I trusted her competence absolutely—if she said everything was ready, then it was.
"And the rebellions?"
"Crushed entirely." Her voice carried no emotion, but I could see the satisfaction in her dark eyes. "The last of the noble families that refused integration were eliminated three weeks ago. House Ghazeen in Astapor, the Pahl remnants in Meereen, and the Zo Loraq survivors who'd been hiding in Yunkai's ruins. None escaped."
I smiled coldly. Some might call it brutal, but I called it thorough. When noble families rose up against my rule, I didn't just execute the ringleaders—I ended their bloodlines entirely. Men, women, children, cousins, servants who'd served them too long to be trusted. It was impossible to rebel when your entire house was ash and bones.
"Excellent. And the Fiery Hand?"
"Kinvara's last message arrived yesterday. They're positioned throughout Volantis, awaiting your signal. The Red Priests have been preaching your return for weeks—the slaves are ready to rise when you give the word."
Perfect. Everything was falling into place exactly as I'd planned.
"Your Grace," Boromir's voice carried across the balcony as he approached in full armor. Behind him came Grey Worm, his bronze cap freshly polished and his spear held at perfect attention. Both men had transformed over the past six months, growing from competent commanders into the architects of the most powerful military force in the known world.
"The final inspections are complete," Boromir reported. "Every ship is fully provisioned, every unit knows its assignments. The men are eager to sail—they've been asking when we march on Volantis for weeks."
"And they'll have their answer soon enough." I turned from the harbor to face my supreme commanders. "What's the status of our intelligence network?"
"Extensive," Grey Worm replied in his usual clipped manner. "We have assets in every major Free City, contacts among the sellsword companies, and detailed maps of Volantis's defenses. Malaquo Maegyr has indeed betrayed our original agreement."
I'd expected as much. Maegyr had been useful when I needed a foothold in Volantis, but men like him were ultimately driven by personal ambition rather than genuine loyalty. The moment my absence stretched longer than expected, he'd started making his own plays for power.
"He thinks he can play both sides," I mused. "Support me publicly while positioning himself to benefit regardless of the outcome. A classic political mistake."
"What are your orders regarding him?" Boromir asked.
"Death, obviously. But not immediately—I want him to see what he's chosen to oppose first. Let him watch his city burn before we put him out of his misery."
I walked to the balcony's edge, placing my hands on the stone railing. Far below, the harbor bustled with final preparations. Soldiers boarded transports, supplies were loaded onto cargo vessels, and the great war galleys tested their oars against the bay's gentle current.
"How long since we received word from Volantis?" I asked.
"Three weeks," Missandei replied. "Ser Jorah's last raven confirmed that Daenerys and her dragons remain safe under the Red Priests' protection. He's also gathered intelligence on the situation in Westeros."
My jaw tightened. Nearly a year since I'd seen my sister—too long by any measure. But the time hadn't been wasted. When I returned to her side, I'd bring not just an army but an entire nation dedicated to our cause.
"And Aserion?"
As if summoned by my voice, my dragon's roar echoed across the city. He'd grown magnificently during the months of conquest and rule—now nearly thirty feet from nose to tail, with wings that could span a warship and flame hot enough to melt castle gates. He perched atop the Great Pyramid like a living crown, his obsidian scales gleaming in the morning sun.
"Ready for war," I said, answering my own question. "As are we all."
I turned back to my advisors, decision crystallizing in my mind. "Signal the fleet. We sail with the evening tide."
-----
The armada that departed Dragons Bay as the sun touched the western horizon was unlike anything the world had seen in a thousand years.
One hundred and fifty warships stretched across the water in perfect formation, their dragon banners snapping in the evening breeze. The larger vessels—great war galleys with bronze-reinforced rams and multiple banks of oars—formed the core of the fleet. Around them sailed the converted merchant ships, now bristling with scorpions and catapults. And at the fleet's edges, swift longships served as scouts and raiders, ready to strike anywhere along our route.
I stood on the flagship's deck, watching Dragons Bay shrink behind us. The three cities glowed with torchlight and forge-fire, their pyramids rising like monuments to my conquest. Smoke rose from a dozen different sources—not the smoke of destruction, but of industry and growth. Even in my absence, they would continue to build, to grow, to serve the greater vision I'd planted in their hearts.
"Magnificent," Rhaenys said, joining me at the rail. She'd spent the months well, training with both sword and politics until she'd become as deadly in the council chamber as on the battlefield. "Father would be proud to see what you've built."
"This is only the beginning," I replied, letting the sea wind carry away my words. "Dragons Bay is the foundation, but Volantis will be the keystone. And after that…"
"Westeros."
I nodded, my hand instinctively moving to Blackfyre's hilt. The ancestral sword seemed to hum with anticipation, as if it too sensed the approaching battles.
"How long to Volantis?" I asked Captain Groleo, who'd been overseeing the fleet's navigation.
"Four days with favorable winds, Your Grace. The scouts report clear weather ahead."
Four days. After nearly a year apart, four more days seemed like an eternity. But it would give me time to finalize my plans, to ensure that when we arrived, every detail was perfect.
I had no intention of laying siege to Volantis. Siege warfare was for men who lacked dragons and divine authority. When I returned to claim my sister and my place as the rightful ruler of the Free Cities, it would be with fire and blood and the unstoppable tide of revolution.
The city would fall in a single day. And from its ashes, I would forge an empire that stretched from the Smoking Sea to the Wall.
-----
Four Days Later
The black walls of Volantis rose from the Rhoyne like the bones of some ancient giant, their basalt stones worn smooth by centuries of weather and war. The great city stretched for miles along both sides of the river, connected by the massive Long Bridge that spanned the water like a stone rainbow. Smoke rose from thousands of chimneys, and the harbor bristled with merchant ships from across the known world.
But it was the silence that struck me most. As our armada rounded the final bend of the river, emerging into full view of the city's defenses, not a single horn sounded. No signal fires blazed from the watchtowers. The great chain that could seal the harbor remained lowered.
They were expecting us.
"Signal the fleet to battle formation," I commanded. "But hold position—we go no closer until I give the word."
The armada spread out across the river mouth like a steel net, each ship taking its assigned position with mechanical precision. One hundred and fifty vessels carrying death and liberation in equal measure, waiting for their god's command.
A small boat was already approaching from the harbor—a simple fishing vessel that seemed almost comically insignificant against the backdrop of our war fleet. But I could see the figure standing in its bow, red robes whipping in the wind.
"Kinvara," I said, recognizing her even at this distance. "Right on schedule."
As the boat drew alongside our flagship, a rope ladder was lowered. The High Priestess climbed aboard with graceful efficiency, her red silk robes and golden jewelry marking her as one of the most powerful religious figures in the known world. Behind her came two other passengers—figures I'd been yearning to see for nearly a year.
Ser Jorah Mormont looked older than when I'd last seen him, his bear-marked armor showing the wear of long service. But his eyes were sharp and alert as he scanned the assembled fleet, calculating numbers and capabilities with a soldier's instinct.
And beside him…
Daenerys Targaryen had grown more beautiful than memory could capture. Her silver-gold hair fell in waves past her shoulders, and her violet eyes held depths of power and wisdom that hadn't been there when we parted. She wore a gown of deep blue silk that complemented her coloring perfectly, with the three-headed dragon of our house emblazoned in silver thread across her chest.
But it was what I saw behind her that made my breath catch. Two shapes moving in the boat's shadows—dragons, smaller than Aserion but unmistakably his kin. Green and cream scales caught the sunlight as they shifted restlessly, their eyes fixed on me with predatory intelligence.
The three heads of the dragon, reunited at last.
Jorah was the first to step forward as they boarded, moving with the measured pace of a man approaching his liege lord. But before he could speak, before he could kneel or offer his report, Daenerys pushed past him with an expression of barely contained emotion.
Her hand came up fast—faster than I'd expected—and the slap echoed across the deck like a gunshot. The sting across my cheek was sharp and immediate, but I barely felt it. Because in the next instant, her arms were around my neck and her lips were pressed against mine with desperate hunger.
The kiss was everything I'd dreamed of during the lonely months of conquest—fierce and passionate and tinged with the salt of tears I hadn't realized she was crying. She tasted like wine and honey and home, and when she finally pulled back to look at me, her violet eyes were blazing with emotions too complex to name.
"Don't you ever leave me for that long again," she whispered, her voice shaking with the effort to contain herself. "Not ever."
"Never again," I promised, cupping her face in my hands. "I love you, Daenerys. More than conquest, more than crowns, more than life itself."
"I love you too," she breathed, and the words were like victory bells in my ears.
I was dimly aware of the crew around us, of advisors and soldiers watching their leaders with expressions ranging from approval to discomfort. But most clearly, I could see Rhaenys at the rail, her face carefully neutral but her hands clenched into fists. Jealousy and longing warred in her violet eyes—emotions she tried to hide but couldn't quite suppress.
Later. That conversation would come later, when we had privacy and time to address the complications of our twisted family dynamics. For now, I had more pressing concerns.
Jorah approached again, this time waiting for acknowledgment before speaking. When I nodded, he dropped to one knee on the deck, his fist pressed to his chest in salute.
"Your Grace," he said formally. "I bring word from Westeros, and confirmation that your message was delivered as commanded."
The message to Varys. I'd sent it months ago through Jorah's contacts—a simple declaration that any further assassination attempts against my sister or myself would result in consequences that would echo through history. The Spider needed to understand that the game had changed, that he was no longer dealing with exiled children but with a force that could reshape the world.
"What news from the Seven Kingdoms?" I asked, helping him to his feet.
"King Robert is dead, Your Grace. Killed by a boar while hunting, though there are whispers of poison. Lord Eddard Stark is also dead—executed on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor by order of the new king."
My eyebrows rose, pretending to be surprised by information I already knew. I had known all of this from the start.
I was slightly worried that my existence—and meddling in Essosi politics—might completely change the timeline, but thankfully, it hadn't.
If anything, it made things easier for when I eventually landed in Westeros.
"The new king?"
"Joffrey Baratheon, though many suspect he's actually the bastard son of Queen Cersei and her brother Jaime. The realm tears itself apart over the question of succession. Robb Stark has declared himself King in the North and marches south with thirty thousand men. Stannis Baratheon claims the Iron Throne by right of blood and gathers support on Dragonstone. Renly Baratheon has also declared himself king and commands the loyalty of the Reach and the Stormlands."
I pretended absorbed this information, mind already calculating the implications. A fractured Westeros was exactly what I needed—by the time I was ready to cross the Narrow Sea, the Seven Kingdoms would be weakened by civil war and ready for reunification under Targaryen rule.
"Excellent," I said simply. "And here in Volantis?"
Kinvara stepped forward, her golden jewelry chiming softly as she moved. "My lord," she said, inclining her head in respectful greeting. "The Fiery Hand awaits your command. Five thousand Red Priests and temple guards, positioned throughout the city and ready to strike. The slaves grow more restless by the day—word of your victories in Dragons Bay has spread through every quarter and tunnel. They need only see their god to rise as one."
"And Malaquo Maegyr?"
Her expression hardened. "The treacherous tiger has indeed chosen his side. He's convinced the other triarchs that you represent an existential threat to the Free Cities' way of life. They've hired every sellsword company they could afford and called in favors from Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. The city bristles with soldiers—perhaps forty thousand men, all told."
"Do they think to stop a god with mere numbers?" I asked, letting divine arrogance color my voice. It was partly an act for the watching crew, but partly genuine. I had come too far and built too much to be stopped by frightened politicians and their hired swords.
"They hope to," Kinvara replied. "But hope is a poor substitute for faith. The slaves know their deliverer has returned. They wait only for the signal."
I looked out over the city that had sheltered Daenerys in my absence, noting the defensive positions, the harbor fortifications, the great temples that dominated the skyline. Somewhere in those streets, half a million slaves dreamed of freedom. Somewhere in those palaces, the triarchs plotted my destruction.
Both would get what they deserved.
"ASERION!" I called, my voice carrying across the water.
My dragon had been circling high above the fleet, a black shadow against the afternoon sky. At my summons, he folded his wings and dove toward the flagship like a falling star. The crew scattered as he landed on the deck with earth-shaking force, his obsidian eyes fixed on the city beyond.
He was magnificent—thirty feet of muscle and scale and barely contained destruction. When he opened his maw and let loose a roar that echoed off Volantis's walls, I could see people on the distant ramparts pointing and shouting in terror.
"The signal," I said, climbing onto Aserion's back with practiced ease. "The Dragon God returns to claim what is his."
I urged my mount into the sky, rising above the fleet until all of Volantis spread out below me like a map made real. The great city, the mighty walls, the temples and palaces and markets—all of it would be mine before the sun set.
We soared toward the Temple of the Lord of Light, the great red pyramid that dominated the eastern bank of the Rhoyne. It was there that Kinvara had built her power base, there that the Fiery Hand waited for my command. And it would be there that I would announce my return to the world.
Aserion landed atop the temple's highest spire with enough force to crack the ancient stones. His wings spread wide—a span of sixty feet that cast shadows across the plaza below. His roar split the afternoon air, a sound of such primal power that it seemed to shake the very foundations of the city.
And in that moment, as the Dragon God stood revealed atop the holiest site in Volantis, the revolution began.
Temple bells began ringing across the city—not the measured tolls of ceremony, but the wild, desperate clanging of uprising. Red-robed figures poured from buildings throughout Volantis, their torches and weapons gleaming in the afternoon light. The Fiery Hand had revealed itself at last, five thousand fanatics ready to die for their god.
But it wasn't just the Red Priests. From the slave quarters came a sound like distant thunder—the roar of half a million voices raised in desperate hope. Chains rattled and broke as bond servants threw off their shackles. Overseers fell beneath improvised weapons wielded by hands that had never known freedom.
The slaves of Volantis were rising. And their god had come to lead them.