The Stepstones, Tyrosh, Purple Palace
Deep within the Purple Palace lay a secluded suite that had once belonged to one of Tyrosh's high-ranking Archons. After Mia Moses delivered the man to Jon, his status as a slave lord earned him a swift execution. The suite, expansive and riddled with secret chambers added for the previous owner's unspeakable proclivities, had been repurposed. It was now Jon's private laboratory—a place where the boundaries of biology were being systematically dismantled.
The facility spanned two floors. Eight rooms, originally built with the grim aesthetic of torture chambers, now served as holding cells. In the hierarchy of Jon's understanding, True Dragons—the Divine, the Demon, the Ice, and the Fire—were entities of such power that the laws of the world itself suppressed them, sealing their essence within Magestones. To build an army for the wars to come, Jon turned to a more malleable foundation: the Long-winged Dragons of Sothoryos.
Since Jon's return to Tyrosh, Salladhor Saan's fleet had been steadily delivering these captured beasts. Their arrival had caused a sensation throughout the city, but the true work took place behind the iron bars of this lab.
The Striped Long-winged Dragons, the smallest and most common specimens from Pterodactyl Point, had undergone grotesque transmutations under the radiation of Jon's Magestones. Some sprouted multiple heads; others grew superfluous limbs or a tangle of twitching tails. They looked like misshapen clay, kneaded by the careless hand of a child.
Yet, beneath the horror of their hides, their intellect and vitality had reached new heights. Nourished by Soul Energy, these once-dimwitted creatures now watched Jon with the focused intensity of hatchlings following a mother.
Following Jon into the depths was Jeyne—the ancient Dragonlord Jynnaera Velarys. She wore a Tyroshi gown of shimmering white silk that clung to her statuesque frame, radiating a beauty that was as exotic as it was dangerous.
"Aegon," Jeyne said, her voice a low, intimate chime. "You look no different from the Blood Mages of my era. I truly believe you are capable of forging a superior race of beings."
Jon met her gaze, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. He had grown fond of this relic of Valyria; her bravado and insatiable hunger for the unknown mirrored his own.
"Jon! You're here!"
A joyful shout cut through the gloom just before a small, solid weight slammed into Jon's chest.
"Easy now," Jon wheezed, steadying the girl as his breath caught. "Must you always charge like a rhino?"
Arya Stark pulled back, her eyes bright and defiant. She gripped his sleeve, her fingers twitching with restless energy. "You have the blood of a Dragonlord. How could I possibly hurt you? I came to find Bran, but since you're here, you have to check my training. I'm going to be a God-Touched warrior, just like your elite."
She glanced at Jeyne, taking in the woman's striking figure, and playfully stuck out her tongue.
Tyrosh had been kind to the "Little Wolf." Arya had not inherited Catelyn's conventional beauty, but in its place, the Stark and Tully blood had fused into a wild, magnetic charm. She wore dark leather, and at her hip hung Needle, paired with a Valyrian steel dagger Jon had personally retrieved from the Tyroshi vaults.
Bran, Arya, Rickon, and Sansa—all were now under Jon's wing. With the North mobilizing for war, Eddard had feared the Greyjoys might strike his rear, sending his children to Tyrosh to keep them beyond the reach of the Ironborn.
Jon had seen to each of them. Arya worked with Narsas, her movements becoming as fluid as a Water Dancer's. Rickon, a boy who was more wolf than man, trained with Garo. Sansa, haunted by the shadows of King's Landing, had surprised them all by demanding to learn the arcane.
And then there was Bran.
"Where is he?" Jon asked, ruffling Arya's hair.
"Rolling his eyes again," Arya said, her nose wrinkling. "Jon, why don't you look like that when you're in control? He looks like a ghost."
Jon's lips quirked. He remembered the spiritual weight and the rolling white eyes of his own early warging. Transitioning to a Dragonlord had smoothed the process, but Bran's path was different.
"His talent is purer than mine," Jon said quietly. "In the realm of souls, neither I nor Jeyne can touch him."
He led Arya to a chamber on the second floor. There sat Bran Stark, his posture rigid, eyes turned upward into a blind, milky white. In Jon's perception, he could see Bran's spirit weaving through the sinews and veins of a Long-winged Dragon, mapping its very biology.
Jon watched him with a trace of apprehension. He debated the path for Bran's future; a wrong choice of "class" could shatter a talent this profound. He also carried a darker worry, born of Jeyne's ancient tales. He suspected the Others were not mere monsters, but the product of a Skinchanger of terrible power—one who had lost their humanity to their own insatiable hunger.
Bran's breathing hitched. He blinked, the color returning to his eyes as he drew a long, ragged breath. He looked up at the three of them. "You're all here."
"The report, Bran?" Jon asked.
"I've finished the inspection," Bran said, his voice steadying. "The specimen has developed the organs you designed. But it will be a while before it can leave the vault."
The "specimen" was Jon's crowning achievement: a dragon mutated by Magestone and Soul Energy, successfully hatched. It was not a mere wyvern. This creature possessed the four limbs and wings of the true drakes of legend.
Jon called them Riding Dragons. Low intelligence, low cost, and low maintenance—they were the perfect aerial vanguard. The world would soon learn what happened when a Dragonlord stopped waiting for old eggs to hatch and started forging his own.