The news of Lysa Tully's crimes was delivered to the Bloody Gate by raven. Upon reading the letter, Brynden Tully was overcome with shame—his niece had committed such a disgraceful act, yet he had been blocking the rightful heir.
Unable to face staying at the Bloody Gate any longer, he wrote a letter to Denys Arryn, formally resigning from his position as Knight of the Bloody Gate. Gathering what little belongings he could carry, he mounted a horse and departed for the Riverlands.
At Riverrun, the elderly Lord Tully was so enraged by the news that he fell ill. From his sickbed, he issued an order—send out knights along the Kingsroad to search for Lysa Tully.
Meanwhile, Robb Stark, accompanied by fifteen knights his father had assigned him, rode swiftly toward the Dreadfort. The horrors occurring there—the gruesome deaths of young girls—had escalated beyond even Roose Bolton's ability to suppress.
---
Deep beneath the Red Keep, on the fourth level of the black cells, Renly Baratheon took advantage of his position as Master of Laws to issue an order. Half of the prison guards were temporarily summoned to a meeting at the Gold Cloaks' barracks, leaving the dungeon's security severely weakened. Using invisibility magic, Renly slipped inside undetected.
He moved from cell to cell, searching carefully. Finally, he stopped at one—a prisoner convicted of rape and murder.
Silently, Renly used magic to unlock the heavy iron door. A wave of stench—urine, feces, and rotting rats—assaulted his senses.
He shut the door behind him and revealed himself, casting a silencing spell over the cell. A faint magical glow illuminated the chamber as he set down the cloth bundle he carried.
The prisoner squinted against the light. After being trapped in darkness for so long, even the dim magical glow was blinding. When his eyes adjusted, he saw a tall man in lavish noble attire standing before him.
In each hand, Renly held a long ice spike, and in his right palm, a large, scaled egg burned with a flickering flame.
"Ahhh—!"
The sharp ice spike plunged directly into the prisoner's eye, piercing deep into his skull. To ensure a swift death, Renly twisted the spike violently, turning the man's brain into a pulpy mess.
"Dragon blood, fire, soul… all that's left is blood! Wright said using one's own blood is best."
Lowering the dragon egg in his right hand, Renly clenched his left fist and conjured sharp ice needles. He drove them into his palm, letting his own blood drip onto the egg's surface.
If this were the world of The Elder Scrolls, dragon eggs would hatch naturally due to the presence of the Dragon God. But this world was separated from that one by time and space—no Dragon God had projected its will here. What Odahviing had given Wright was a secondary method of dragon incubation.
This process required more steps than traditional hatching, but without the blessing of the Dragon God, dragons would gradually weaken over generations. The decline might not be obvious after a few, but after dozens, the loss of magical power and intelligence would become significant.
Renly checked his pocket watch. One minute passed. Then two.
Crack!
The dragon egg twitched from within.
"It worked! It worked! Hahaha!"
Renly quickly wrapped the egg in cloth and vanished once more, meticulously erasing any traces of his presence in the cell. Then, slipping through a hidden passage, he returned to his chambers.
---
"Loras! Margaery! Come here!"
Back home, Renly placed the dragon egg on his bedroom table and sat beside it, his face brimming with excitement.
His brother and sister entered, their eyes immediately drawn to the egg.
Ser Loras, the Knight of Flowers, clapped a hand on Renly's shoulder and smirked. "What's this? After roasting your dragon egg in the fireplace for weeks, is it finally cooked? Are you inviting us to a feast?"
Margaery chuckled. "Should I fetch plates and cutlery?"
Ever since Wright had gifted him the dragon egg at the wedding, Renly had followed the instructions carefully. He had kept the egg in the fireplace, frequently turning it with tongs while reading beside the flames. Every day, he would take it out and hold it for an hour, until he finally sensed a faint magical connection. That was what led him to the black cells tonight.
Renly shook his head. "It's not for eating—the egg is about to hatch! Watch closely."
"A baby dragon?"
Margaery and Loras quickly pulled up chairs, their eyes fixed on the egg, eager not to miss a single moment.
Crack!
A tiny fissure split the shell from the inside.
"It's out!" Little Rose shouted.
Crack! The cracks on the eggshell spread wider until the entire top shattered. The dragon egg toppled to one side, and a small dragon with a white base color, speckled with red and yellow, tumbled out unsteadily.
"Stand up, stand on your own!" Renly called excitedly in High Valyrian.
The little dragon's limbs were uncoordinated, and it took deep breaths of fresh air, stretching its legs haphazardly. It took nearly a minute to adjust before its small wings helped it stand. Lifting its chicken-sized head, it looked at the three people before finally locking eyes with Renly.
"Hiss~"
The dragon spread its short wings, letting out a hoarse cry—neither bright nor clear—but a warm breath puffed against Renly's face.
---
After returning to Tyrosh, Wright took a day to rest before diving back into work. In the warehouse office, he summoned Gunthor Hightower.
Tyrosh couldn't follow the old path of development—its location was critical, but its land was limited. Wright planned to focus on high-precision, cutting-edge manufacturing industries that required minimal space. He intended to import raw materials from various places, process them in Tyrosh, and then sell high-value-added products.
Pointing at the blueprint, Wright explained to Gunthor:
"Move all the workshops out of the inner city. The inner city should be reserved for residential areas, entertainment, dining, and port supply facilities. We should also plan for more reservoirs—once we attract more traveling merchants, selling fresh water will become a lucrative business. I've already ordered a large shipment of materials for the outer city, where we will set up metal processing industries."
Gunthor asked, "Are we forging weapons and armor?"
"Ordinary blacksmiths will make ship nails—those are always in demand. Tyrosh has no price advantage in weapons and armor, so we'll focus on high-end, premium products: low volume, high price. And I've also relocated my pocket watch workshop from Storm's End."
After discussing with Renly, Wright had decided to split their watchmaking business again. The cheapest pocket watches produced in the citadel were now under Wright's control, securing a steady stream of bulk orders to be sold across Essos for quick profits. Storm's End would continue producing mid-range and luxury watches, while Tyrosh would manufacture the finest custom models.
Currently, Wright was the only one who had mastered the craft of watch springs. He had also moved his spring workshop to Tyrosh, turning it into a private enterprise. Both Storm's End and Citadel would now rely on Tyrosh-made watch springs.
Gunthor frowned. "Lord Wright, selling armor to Essos is illegal!"
"Who said I was selling to them? I'm importing steel from Essos, forging armor, and selling it to the Seven Kingdoms!" Wright hadn't considered that issue, but upon hearing Gunthor's concern, he quickly reworded his explanation.
"Ah, that's good, that's good." Gunthor had genuinely worried that Wright, being the king's brother, might overstep. If such a thing were discovered, the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms would unite against him.
Wright smirked. "I also plan to craft Valyrian steel swords—one per year—to be auctioned in Tyrosh."
Gunthor was shocked. "My lord, you can forge Valyrian steel?"
Wright tapped his temple with a finger. "I have a dragon. I have magic. Making Valyrian steel is only a matter of time. But it's a painstaking process—I can only forge one sword a year."
Each Valyrian steel blade required a soul to be sacrificed for enchantment, and Wright had to restrain his own greed. Besides, if too many were produced, they would lose their value. A single sword auctioned per year might earn more than a hundred sold in bulk.
Gunthor's initial shock gave way to understanding. Wright Baratheon was already no different from the Valyrian Dragonlords of old—if they could forge Valyrian steel, why couldn't he?
"Lord Wright, a messenger from Lys arrived recently. When they heard you had traveled to King's Landing, the bankers and merchants decided to form a delegation to visit Tyrosh in a month."
"A month?" Wright frowned. "By then, some of our officials still won't be back. That means more work for the two of us."
Gunthor chuckled. "Seeing Tyrosh thriving is reward enough for me."
Wright sighed. "Tell the workers to start clearing out the port warehouses. A lot of goods will be arriving soon. I need to fly to Braavos—they still owe me a fortune!"