3 Years Later
Dragonstone, 95 AC
The ancient fortress of Dragonstone brooded over the Narrow Sea, a jagged maw of black stone and sulfur. It was usually a place of ash and darkness, not commerce.
But today, the grim island was awash in gold.
Standing on the high sea-wall near the main harbor, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, now thirteen years of age, watched the Leviathan class - Sun of Yi Ti manoeuvre into the deep-water berth. She was a beast of a ship, her hull sitting so low that the waves of the Narrow Sea washed over her lower decks.
From one of the balconies, Prince Baelon Targaryen and his son looked down at the newly constructed ports. To the uninitiated, it looked like chaos, a bustle of masts and sails. To Rhaegar, it looked like one of his wildest dreams coming to life.
"Thirty ships," Baelon murmured, his eyes sweeping over the massive fleet that choked the river mouth. "When we signed the charter, Corlys said we would be lucky to fill ten. Now look at us."
"Thirty Leviathans left the Jade Gates," Rhaegar said, his gaze fixed on the lead ship, the Sun of Yi Ti. "Twenty-eight returned. We lost the Ivory Lady and Iron Hull in the storm."
"Two ships. A tragedy, truly." Baelon said, though his tone was that of a man counting costs, not corpses.
"Two ships are an acceptable loss," Rhaegar replied, sighing ruefully. "For a voyage of that distance, carrying that much weight... it is a miracle."
He watched as the Sun of Yi Ti began to manoeuvre toward its berth. She was sitting so deep in the water that the waves lapped perilously close to the shore rocks. Even from where they stood, one could tell that she was heavy.
"The draft is dangerously low," Rhaegar noted. "We need to deepen the ports again, Father. If the Sun sits any lower, she'll drag her keel through the mud."
"A good problem to have," Baelon chuckled, adjusting his tunic. "Come. Let us go down to the Counting House. Lord Beesbury sent a runner. He claims the saffron manifest is 'mathematically impossible.' I suppose we should go assure him he isn't dreaming."
The Royal Counting House was a stone fortress situated near the ports, heavily guarded by a mixed force of royal guards and the Consortium's own black-armoured men-at-arms. It was here that the wealth of the East was catalogued before being moved to the vaults.
The moment they stepped inside, the smell hit them. The thick, intoxicating cloud of cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and the metallic, bloody tang of raw saffron.
The main hall was a hive of activity. Dozens of scribes were frantically scratching quills against parchment, their fingers stained black with ink by the sheer number of ledgers being filled.
Lord Lyman Beesbury, the Master of Coin, was standing over an open crate, looking as though he had seen a ghost.
"Your Grace," Beesbury stammered as Baelon approached. He pointed a trembling finger at the crate. "Look at this. Just... look."
Rhaegar stepped forward and peered inside.
It was filled with Saffron. Pure, red-gold strands from the fields of Yi Ti.
"The manifest says there are twenty-five crates like this on the Sun alone," Beesbury whispered, his voice cracking. "Prince Rhaegar... a single pound of this saffron sells for more than its weight in gold in Oldtown. There is enough value in this one room to buy a Lordship in the Riverlands."
"And the silk?" Rhaegar asked, walking to the next table where a bolt of fabric had been unrolled.
It was shimmer-silk, a textile so fine it looked like liquid moonlight. It changed colour as Rhaegar ran his hand over it, pale blue, then silver, then violet.
"Four thousand bolts across the fleet," the Chief Steward reported, reading from a ledger as thick as a shield. "Plus two hundred crates of Jade statuettes, two tons of ivory, and a chest of rubies from Qarth."
Baelon picked up a jade monkey, weighing it in his hand. He looked at Rhaegar. "The breakdown?"
Rhaegar did the mental arithmetic instantly.
"The voyage took twelve months. We sent thirty ships. Operational costs, crew, provisions, and the bribes for the Qartheen toll-keepers came to roughly nine hundred thousand dragons."
He gestured to the room.
"The sale value of the cargo from the Sun alone is four hundred thousand. Multiply that by the twenty-seven other ships docking at Driftmark..."
Rhaegar paused, letting the number hang in the air.
"Twelve million dragons," Beesbury breathed. "Total revenue. At least"
"Conservatively," Rhaegar nodded. "Though we will lose some on the bulk sale to move it quickly. Let's call it Eleven million net."
Hearing that, Lord Beesbury looked like he might weep. It was an amount of money that made the Lannisters look like paupers. It was enough to build a new fleet, a new city, or a new war.
"It is... obscene," Baelon murmured, staring at the saffron.
"It truly is," Rhaegar agreed softly.
He walked over to the main desk, where the Master of the Port was organizing the docking schedules. The Castellan of the island stood beside him, going over the ledgers.
While Beesbury and Baelon marvelled at the saffron, Rhaegar slipped away towards the Castellan.
"The Sea Swift?" Rhaegar asked, his voice barely a whisper amidst the clamour.
"Docked at the secret cove on the north side an hour ago, my Prince," The Castellan replied quietly. "The cargo was unloaded immediately."
"And the... guests?"
"The 'specialized artisans' and their heavy equipment have been moved to the Drum Tower. They are... complaining about the damp, but they are secure."
Rhaegar nodded, a knot of tension loosening in his chest. The Myrish glassblowers were safe. It was an ambitious and risky endeavour. The spices were just money. The ability to manufacture clear Myrish glass in Westeros? It was an act of industrial theft that would have seen all his precious guests assassinated if the Magisters of Myr knew where they were.
Offering those enslaved workers freedom and sneaking them on one of the ships to Dragonstone. He was getting greedier by the day, he realized. And he had no plans to stop.
And just like that, the seed that could break the Myrish monopoly was sown.
"Good," Rhaegar replied. "Keep them safe."
He turned to leave, but the Castellan slid a small, sealed scroll across the desk.
"This came with the captain of the Sun," the man murmured. "He said it was handed to him by a mute beggar in Volantis just before they set off. It is marked for your eyes only."
Rhaegar frowned. He took the scroll, breaking the plain wax seal.
He unrolled it. It wasn't a trade report. It was a single strip of parchment, smelling faintly of smoke. The handwriting was elegant, sharp, and unmistakably High Valyrian.
The Three Daughters have stopped their quarrels. They are sharing a bed.
Rhaegar went still. The sounds of the Counting House, the clinking coins, the scratching quills, all of it faded into a dull buzz.
He knew it was coming, but it had happened sooner than he anticipated.
Melisandre was precise. If she said they had stopped fighting, it meant the inevitable had happened. Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh, cities that had watered the Disputed Lands with blood for a century, had set aside their hate.
The Consortium's dominance had terrified them into unity. Rhaegar had squeezed them too hard, too fast.
He looked closer. There was a second line, scrawled near the bottom, as if added in haste.
They seduce the Spear.
Rhaegar's hand tightened on the parchment.
The Spear. Dorne.
He slowly rolled the parchment back up, tucking it into his tunic. His face remained a mask of calm, but his mind was racing.
If the Triarchy formed a year early, that was a problem. If they allied with Dorne, it was a catastrophe. It meant a blockade of the Stepstones. It meant the twenty-eight ships currently sitting in the water, heavy with gold, might be the last convoy to make the run freely.
"Rhaegar?" Baelon asked, noticing his son's stillness. "Is something wrong?"
Rhaegar looked up at his father. He looked at Lord Beesbury, who was practically fondling a bolt of silk. He looked at the mountain of wealth that surrounded them.
It was just the beginning of a Golden Age. And it was already the greatest House Targaryen had ever seen.
But as Rhaegar looked at the map of the Known World hanging on the wall, his eyes lingered on the narrow, dangerous chain of islands in the south.
"Market fluctuations, Father," Rhaegar said. "A major hike in the prices of Lace from Lys. Unnatural, if you ask me."
"So they are finally awake," Baelon remarked as he straightened. Then immediately he smiled, gesturing to the gold. "I think we can afford it."
Rhaegar chuckled despite himself. "Let us hope so."
Baelon turned back to the ledger, picking up a quill to sign the release forms. Then turned and gestured to his son. "Come. Let us get back to the capital."
Rhaegar nodded and followed him out as they left a sexually aroused Lord Beesburry still drooling over the cargo.
War was coming.