The Iron Islands' Bloodbath

Night fell.

King's Landing, the Red Keep.

"Uncle, if we want to take Norvos, we need to move fast."

"We don't have enough men."

"But we have dragons!"

In the dim room, Rhaegar stood by the fireplace, warming himself in the flickering light.

Daemon sat at the table, using leftover lemon juice and salt to care for Dark Sister.

Uncle and nephew shared a room, speaking calmly for once.

They had little choice. The Small Council was full of useless drunks.

Courtiers accustomed to peacetime were ill-suited to the thorny path of conquest.

Rhaegar glanced sideways, ambition plain in his eyes. "Qohor commands vast forests, and Valantis blocks the southern bays. If we take Norvos in the northern mountains, the entire Golden Fields—the richest land in eastern Essos—will be within our grasp."

In the wavering firelight, his finger's shadow fell across the map on the table.

Daemon studied it impassively. Mountains and forests surrounded a vast plain.

Essos was many times larger than the Westeros Continent.

The eastern continent alone boasted three renowned great plains.

They were the barren plains within Pentos's borders, the great plain of the Disputed Lands, and the Golden Fields, beyond a range of the Andal Mountains.

Of them, the Golden Fields were the most fertile, spanning as much rich farmland as the Riverlands and the Reach.

In grain production and population, they far surpassed the other two plains.

Rhaegar continued, "The Disputed Lands are vast, but only the land along the rivers is useful. It's nowhere near enough to build the family's wealth."

The pioneering knights had founded more than a dozen minor noble houses, which barely managed to support themselves thanks to low taxes.

It would take at least another decade of hard work before they could collect substantial taxes.

That was too long.