Malachor Megear surveyed the hall with a smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. His eyes gleamed with shrewd calculation and undisguised greed. Slowly and deliberately, he spoke:
Malachor:"In addition to the land, gold, and materials you've already promised... I want more. Tyrosh and Myr will cede two towns in the Disputed Lands to Volantis. Your maritime trade routes will be tax-exempt for ten years. And your armies—when they march—will fight alongside Volantis under my command. Completely. No exceptions.Otherwise, there's nothing more to discuss."
His words dropped into the hall like a thunderclap, exploding into a storm of outrage. The Myrish governors erupted first.
A corpulent governor surged to his feet, face flushed, forehead veins bulging.
Myr Governor 1 (shouting):"Seven hells! This bastard-born vulture is insatiable!"
Another, equally bloated and red-faced, slammed a fist on the table.
Myr Governor 2:"Volantis is nothing but a nest of greedy jackals! They'll never be satisfied—not until they swallow us whole!"
Myr Governor 3:"We can hire more mercenaries if we must! Why bow to this tyranny? It's humiliation!"
The Tyroshi delegates muttered their discontent as well, their gazes flicking toward Lord Theron. His face was dark with fury, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed his teeth might crack. He stood silent for a moment, eyes darting between Malachor and his own council, thoughts racing behind his furrowed brow.
Malachor watched the chaos unfold, unimpressed. Inwardly, he scoffed—these merchants and petty nobles always bickered when coin or control were threatened.
He rose to his full height and addressed the hall, his voice commanding.
Malachor:"My lords of Myr, and Lord Theron...Discuss it amongst yourselves. Take your time. I am in no rush. You may send your answer when you're ready."
Without waiting for a response, Malachor turned and strode from the hall, his robes trailing like the banners of a victorious general.
Behind him, the Tiger Cloak guards fell in with military precision. Their armor clinked rhythmically, sharp and cold as steel. They marched out with him, leaving behind a room trembling with suppressed fury.
Inside, the governors of Myr and the lords of Tyrosh stood frozen, eyes fixed on Malachor's retreating back. Rage and helplessness warred on their faces.
Prince Theron exhaled slowly, suppressing his anger.
Theron (measured):"Enough. We must calm ourselves—and find a solution."
Voices rose again as hurried arguments resumed, the chamber thick with tension and desperation.
Evening fell. In the warm amber glow of dusk, Lord Theron arrived at Malachor's quarters.
He was stopped by Tiger Cloak guards who searched him thoroughly—a humiliating display, yet one he bore in silence. When at last he was allowed entry, he approached Malachor, who lounged with practiced ease.
Theron gave a stiff bow, forcing civility into his tone.
Theron:"Archon Malachor, we accept Volantis's proposal.But in return, we ask for your fleet to join the war effort. And once the campaign ends, we expect your aid in reclaiming Lys Island."
Malachor stroked his beard in silence for a moment, then answered smoothly:
Malachor:"Agreed.But understand this—Volantis will take half of Lys Island."
Theron's jaw tightened, his voice low and bitter.
Theron:"So be it. We'll abide by your terms."
Malachor's eyes gleamed, satisfied.
Malachor:"Good. Then muster your forces at once. No delays. And don't try anything clever, Lord Theron—I know exactly how many troops you command."
Theron (curt):"Of course. I'll inform the governors."
He turned briskly and left, unwilling to remain a moment longer.
Malachor sat back, a barely perceptible smile tugging at his lips. Victory tasted sweet.
Before departing Volantis, Malachor had already conferred with the other Archons of the Tiger Party. The rise of a so-called dragon king in the Disputed Lands had alarmed them all. A Targaryen with a living dragon posed a threat too great to ignore.
When Theron of Tyrosh sent envoys to propose an alliance, the Tiger Party had seen an opportunity—one that could not only neutralize a threat but expand their influence.
Whatever lands or bribes Tyrosh and Myr offered, the answer from Volantis would be yes. But now... now the terms were far more favorable than anyone had dared hope.
This alliance would not only yield land, gold, and sea routes, but it would further solidify Volantis's supremacy among the Free Cities. The Tiger Party's position would be unshakable.
Malachor had already begun to envision the future—dividing the Disputed Lands, establishing new Volantene colonies, and enshrining the Tiger Cloaks as peacekeepers of a "liberated" region.
Above it all, beneath a sky of clear blue and drifting white clouds, a golden dragon soared.
Its wings stretched wide like the arms of a titan, casting a shadow over the world below. Every beat of its wings resounded like thunder. Power rippled with every movement—grace wrapped in raw destruction.
On its back sat Gavin Belerion, gripping the reins tightly, his body poised and alert. His dragon, Syndor, rode the thermals with ease, a living weapon in the sky.
Below him stretched the Volantene encampment. Thousands of tents crowded together, flags snapping in the breeze. Soldiers bustled between them—organized, alert, and too many.
Gavin's eyes narrowed.
He had scouted two other camps earlier. Based on the layout and known movements, he estimated over 20,000 Tiger Cloaks now mustered at the border.
Two days earlier, after returning to Lys and securing Daenerys, Gavin had mounted Syndor and flown swiftly to recon the borderlands. What he found disturbed him.
Volantis had arrayed its forces in battle formation—this was no show of strength. It was preparation for war.
And it wasn't just Volantis. Gavin had learned that Malachor Megear had accepted Tyrosh's invitation and traveled directly to Myr. Mercenaries flooded into the region. Myr's long-standing contract with the Golden Company was still active. Rumors now placed even the Second Sons, far from Slaver's Bay, being courted to join the alliance.
Tyrosh had gone further still—employing pirates to reinforce their fleet. Their ships were motley, ragged vessels—some converted from merchant ships—but they were numerous. Gavin had seen their sails crowding the harbors like a swarm of vultures.
Thankfully, no one had moved yet. The armies were still gathering, still aligning.
But time was running short.
Malachor had likely only just arrived in Myr. That meant Gavin had a small window to act.
Sensing the urgency, he leaned forward and gave Syndor a sharp pat.
The dragon turned, tilting its massive wings, and began its descent toward Lys Island.
Preparations had to begin—now—before the storm fully broke.