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In the dead of night, four dragon eggs rested neatly on the hearth.
Dany checked on them every evening before bed, still hoping they would hatch one day. She had grown used to this quiet routine. Now there was simply one extra egg beside the original three.
Across the hall, Viserys sat at his desk, working through a stack of reports by lamplight.
The three Lorathi representatives had returned with their army, and the expected chaos followed right on schedule. The three princes refused to stay figureheads any longer. The Fisher Prince, convinced he had Viserys's full backing, launched a coup in Lorath.
"In the dead of night the Fisher Prince rallied captains and fishermen at the harbor," the report from the underground intelligence station read. "He shouted, 'March on Lorath! March on great Lorath!' Hundreds answered. They stormed the Magisters' Council, killing and wounding dozens."
The coup failed. The three princes did not win the night. The surviving nobles and merchants gathered their guards, formed an alliance, and pulled in part of the city garrison. Now the two sides fought openly in the streets, turning every shop into a fortress. They battled with spears tipped in bronze or stone, wooden clubs, and even strips of tough fish skin or seal hide lashed to poles. It looked less like civilized warfare and more like a brawl between stone-age tribes.
"Do we need to do anything, Your Grace?" Pointing-Rat-Calling-It-Duck stood with his hands clasped behind his back, waiting while Viserys finished the report. Beside him, Caramel-Cotton-Candy, head of the intelligence division, had been summoned to show his face.
"If the Lorathi were united against us, that would be neither good nor bad," Viserys said, letting the pages drift onto the desk like feathers. "But now that they're tearing each other apart, it's definitely good for us. Let them fight. Once they've drawn real blood, I'll split Lorath into two separate realms. They'll thank me for it themselves. Even if someone tries to glue them back together later, they'll remember the hatred we helped them rediscover."
Pointing-Rat-Calling-It-Duck and Caramel-Cotton-Candy exchanged glances. So… just sit back and watch the Lorathi beat each other bloody?
Viserys caught their look and tapped the desk in a steady rhythm.
"Send Groleo with part of the fleet to Lorath. Anchor in the harbor and make a show of force. Publicly back the three princes. Quietly back the Magisters' Council too. Don't favor either side. Let them fight for a few more days. When they're exhausted, they'll come crawling to me."
The two men nodded and slipped out. They already knew the rest of the plan. If the fighting ever looked like it might cool down, the players at the Lorath intelligence station would step in as "concerned citizens" and fan the flames again.
---
Lorath Archipelago
"You brought this war on Lorath!" supporters of the Magisters' Council shouted across the narrow street.
"The Magisters only ever gave us poverty!" the princes' supporters shouted back, hurling stones and makeshift spears. "Only the true rulers—the three princes—can bring Lorath real wealth!"
Inside a nearby house, two players crouched at the window, watching the shouting match.
"Think they'll ever actually settle this?" one muttered.
A third player, who had just logged in, opened his eyes and answered calmly. "Not our problem. Let them fight. Orders from the top. We just keep the fire burning. Finish this job and the rewards will be worth it."
The two window-watchers fell silent.
Inside the princes' palace, the Fisher Prince stood at the head of the table, eyes blazing as he rallied his followers.
"The evil Magisters' Council has shown its fangs! They mean to swallow all of Lorath! We three princes swear before the gods—we will never yield! With the help of our true friend, the Targaryen, we will destroy these parasites!"
His fist slammed the table. The man who had spent his life as a powerless mascot now burned with the certainty that he would rather rule half a kingdom for one day than remain a puppet forever.
When the sun rose, the street fighting exploded again. Shouting, charging, crude weapons clashing. After a full day of battle the two sides left seventeen or eighteen corpses behind and retreated to their barricades. The next morning they did it all over again.
Some of the intelligence-station players started wondering if this kind of war could drag on for a month and still only produce a thousand casualties.
That night the players decided to raise the stakes. They slipped out with jars of wildfire and a few satchel charges, blew apart a section of barricade held by the Magisters' supporters, and killed or wounded nearly a hundred men in a single stroke.
The princes' side used the chaos to seize more ground—only for the Magisters' elite guards to storm back in and retake it. So the players went out again the next night, blew another barricade, watched the princes' men surge forward, then watched the guards push them back. Night after night the cycle repeated.
Under the players' careful fanning, both sides began to fight with genuine hatred. The battles grew bloodier, the barricades more desperate, and the death toll climbed fast.