"Prince Rhaegar, don't you think you're being overly aggressive?"
Quedo interjected from the side, his dark, chubby face tense.
Rhaegar glanced him up and down with disdain and sneered, "Myrman, in what capacity are you speaking to me?"
"I am the chief representative of the Three Daughters. This negotiation is under my charge," Quedo declared as he straightened his attire.
Since the conclusion of the Second Stepstones War, Myr had suffered a devastating blow, leaving only him as governor.
During the city's rebuilding, Quedo made a fortune and rose to become its wealthiest merchant.
"Heh, a 'chief representative,' you say?"
Rhaegar chuckled coldly, sweeping his gaze over the representatives from the Three Daughters before locking eyes with the dark, plump merchant. "I'll ask you only once—will you return Morgul or not?"
Under the piercing glare of Rhaegar's violet eyes, Quedo's nerves tightened. He swallowed hard despite himself.
Though uneasy, the thought of Myr gaining priority rights to tame dragons emboldened him.
A merchant's instinct is always to seek profit.
Quedo straightened his back, puffed out his chest, and said firmly, "The Morgul you speak of is a wild dragon without a master or rider. It now belongs to the Kingdom of the Three Daughters."
"Utter nonsense!"
Rhaegar's expression grew colder as he spoke deliberately, "My great-grandmother, Queen Alysanne, once rode Silverwing, who still resides on Dragonstone without a rider. Does that mean you can simply claim it by landing on the island and capturing it?"
Quedo gritted his teeth and stood firm. "House Targaryen has never had a dragon named Morgul. It's fundamentally a wild, unclaimed dragon."
"If you've truly decided not to hand over Morgul, then prepare to face blood and fire!"
Rhaegar's face turned icy as he lost all patience.
The negotiations between House Targaryen and the Three Daughters had completely collapsed!
The participants seated around the stone table braced themselves.
Helena clenched her fists nervously, while Aemond's eyes gleamed with excitement. Both glanced at the representatives of the Three Daughters before fixing their eyes on their older brother.
The air grew thick with tension, suffocating all in the room.
Ferego quickly stood up, laughing heartily. "Let's not get carried away. The ownership of a wild dragon is something we can discuss calmly."
Bang!
Before he could finish, Rhaenys slammed the table and coldly questioned him, "Sea Lord, House Targaryen will never allow any dragon to be lost, nor will we tolerate any scheming thieves who covet them!"
The temperature in the room instantly dropped to freezing.
Everyone knew the Sea Lord of Braavos was two-faced, secretly supporting the Three Daughters in their efforts to suppress House Targaryen.
They had even stooped to playing mind games with terms like "wild dragon" and "ownership."
Rhaegar turned his gaze away and asked bluntly, "Sea Lord, should I interpret your words as a declaration of war alongside the Three Daughters against House Targaryen?"
His piercing violet eyes locked onto Ferego. Though seated, he exuded the aura of someone looking down from a great height.
Ferego faltered, casting a glance at Quedo before stiffening his resolve. "Prince Rhaegar, wild dragons do not belong to House Targaryen."
"I wasn't aware there were dragons in this world that didn't belong to House Targaryen."
Rhaegar smiled faintly, his gaze sweeping across the room with a hint of amusement. Crossing his hands before him, he said calmly, "Very well, let the war begin."
He was done tolerating these merchant lords from the Free Cities.
If they wanted war, he would grant them a blood-and-fire song to be remembered in history.
"You're going too far!"
Quedo suddenly exploded in fury. "Do you think this is still the era of the Freehold? House Targaryen was nothing but a poor family of dragonlords back then. There were far more noble dragonrider bloodlines across Essos!"
At the same time, the representatives from Lys and Tyrosh stood up, turning the negotiation into a farcical confrontation.
Creak!
Rhaegar's chair screeched as it slid backward across the stone floor.
Quedo's face darkened as he watched the silver-haired prince slowly rise. His chest heaved with rapid breaths, his large belly quivering.
He held confidence in the 500 Unsullied soldiers under his command and the alliance between Braavos and the Three Daughters.
That was the source of his arrogance in daring to insult the Targaryen heir.
Quedo's breathing grew heavier as he stole a glance at his ally Ferego, then proudly puffed out his chest.
Just as he turned back, a pale, jade-like hand shot toward him.
Bang!
Quedo's dark head smashed heavily onto the stone table. He tried to scream, but the sound got caught in his throat as a hand clenched tightly around it.
"Myrman, I must say I admire your courage," Rhaegar sneered, gripping Quedo's neck as though he were a helpless chick. He slammed the man's face repeatedly against the table.
Thud, thud, thud!
Each blow was harder than the last, blood splattering everywhere as Rhaegar vented his pent-up frustration without restraint.
A lowly slave-trading merchant daring to seek death!
"Stop!!..."
The scene unfolded too quickly, shocking the representatives from Lys and Tyrosh into shouting.
Swish!
Before the words fully left their mouths, Helena flicked her sleeve. A small, concealed dagger appeared in her hand, pressing directly against the temple of the Lys representative. Her voice trembled slightly, "Don't move."
Almost simultaneously, a manic gleam flashed in Aemond's eyes. He snatched up a porcelain cup from the table, smashing it with a sharp crack before pressing a jagged shard against the Tyroshi's neck.
Blood trickled down in thin rivulets, dangerously close to severing the man's throat.
The elderly representative from Qohor turned pale and panicked. "Let's talk this through, Targaryens."
As he struggled to stand on trembling legs, Aegon suddenly erupted, grabbing the old man's head and slamming it against the table. His voice turned shrill and mocking. "Old fool, do you still think you're somebody?"
In an instant, the meeting room had transformed into an execution chamber.
Every one of the four Targaryen descendants unleashed their pent-up aggression.
They had been waiting for this moment for far too long.
"Stop it! All of you, stop right now!"
Ferrego's face changed drastically. He glanced at Rhaenys, whose expression was cold, then at Rhaegar, who looked like an executioner. His anger flared.
The lean swordsman beside him immediately drew his blade, positioning himself in front of the Sealord to protect him.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Hearing the commotion, a squad of guards swiftly rushed into the conference room. Armed with spears and curved swords, they surrounded everyone in a tight formation.
Rhaenys, exuding arrogance, gripped Dark Sister firmly and fixed her gaze on Ferrego, who was now huddled near the doorway.
At the conference table, only the representative from Pentos and Daemon remained seated.
"Gentlemen..."
The Pentosi representative was stunned. He stood up, attempting to mediate.
Daemon, however, placed a firm hand on his shoulder, observing his nieces and nephews with interest. With a smirk, he said, "What? Are you still thinking of keeping us here?"
Ferrego's mind seemed to explode at those words. Suppressing his rage, he said through gritted teeth, "Prince Daemon, you openly attacked guests in my palace. Do you think Braavos is so easily bullied?"
"Oh?" Daemon stroked his chin and countered, "Weren't you the ones who thought House Targaryen was easy to push around?"
Ferrego was so furious that he let out a dry laugh. His thick beard trembled as he pointed a finger at Rhaegar, who was treating the situation like a game. "He's already committing violence!"
Rhaegar, who was in the middle of slamming Qaid's head into the floor, turned and warned, "If you don't want to lose that finger, keep it raised."
"You—!"
Ferrego was beyond enraged. He couldn't believe that the Iron Throne, usually so restrained, was acting with such aggression this time.
"Screeeeeech—!"
Suddenly, a deafening dragon roar erupted, shaking the very walls of the conference room as it pierced through layers of barriers.
In the next moment—
A shadow of pure darkness loomed outside the towering floor-to-ceiling windows.
Ferrego took one glance and immediately staggered backward, his legs giving out in terror.
A massive, pitch-black dragon head slowly emerged from beneath the stained glass, its green, slit-pupil eyes glowing with an eerie light—like a malevolent god peering into the mortal realm.
"ROAR!"
The dragon's maw split open, revealing interlocking, razor-sharp fangs before spewing a billowing jet of smoky, green-tinged fire.
CRACK!
The intense heat shattered the stained glass instantly, sending searing waves of scorching air flooding into the chamber.
Even from over ten feet away, Ferrego could feel his hair and thick beard singeing, the acrid scent of burning filling the air.
Rhaegar stood unfazed before the dragonfire, his silver hair billowing in the heat, his violet eyes gleaming.
In one hand, he clutched Qaid, who was barely alive, his bloodied face unrecognizable. Dragging him like a lifeless dog, Rhaegar approached Ferrego.
"Stop right there!"
The lean swordsman barked, his voice trembling as his eyes darted between Rhaegar and the monstrous dragon.
Compared to him, the surrounding guards completely broke down. Some collapsed in terror, others soiled themselves, wailing in agony under the oppressive heat.
Rhaegar halted midway, his brow furrowed with murderous intent. His voice was cold and resolute: "I said—war."
Without hesitation, he clenched his fist and smashed Qaid's throat, then twisted his hand, driving his fingers into the mangled flesh. With a sickening rip, he tore out a section of the man's windpipe.
"Ghh… ghh…"
Qaid couldn't even scream. His face contorted in agony as his bloated body convulsed like a dying maggot, his life slipping away in excruciating pain.
Rhaegar cast a contemptuous glance at Ferrego. "Sealord, the first blood of war has now been spilled."
Raising his blood-drenched hand, he flung the severed windpipe aside like trash.
It landed with a wet splat, skidding across the polished white stone floor, leaving behind a vivid crimson trail—coming to a halt right at Ferrego's feet.
Ferrego stared in shock, his chest rising and falling violently. Rage and terror warred within him, leaving him utterly speechless.
Rhaegar, unfazed, knelt beside Qaid's corpse and pulled a silk handkerchief from the dead man's pocket, using it to wipe the blood from his hands. As he strode toward the exit, he casually remarked, "The Black Dragon will descend upon Lys first. Look forward to it."
His words seemed to spark a chain reaction among his younger siblings.
Helena, timidly glancing at the Lysene delegate, clenched her chubby hand into a fist and shoved forward. Her small, razor-sharp blade pierced straight through the man's temple, skewering his skull.
Slice!
Aemond was even faster—he slashed the Tyroshi representative's throat with a shard of porcelain, sending a spray of blood three feet into the air.
Not to be outdone, Aegon grabbed the elderly Kohoric delegate by the head and prepared to smash his skull against the table.
The old man immediately lost control of his bladder, sobbing as he pleaded, "I'm not with them! I swear!"
"Huh?"
Aegon hesitated for a moment, glancing at his siblings who had already finished their work. Clicking his tongue in disappointment, he let the old man go.
With that, following Rhaegar's lead, the four young Targaryens strode out of the room.
"Heh. That was quite a show," Daemon chuckled as he got to his feet, dragging the stunned Pentosi representative along with him.
War should be fought like this—the bloodier, the better.
His brother's children had more fire in them than his brother ever did.
Rhaenys frowned slightly but remained silent, neither approving nor condemning the actions of the younger generation. Without another word, she turned and left the chamber.
Once the Targaryens were gone, Ferrego stood frozen, staring at the bloodied corpses and the groaning, half-dead guards.
He gasped for breath, his chest heaving, then turned toward the hallway where the silver-haired figures were disappearing. He was on the verge of cursing them out.
Swish—
As if sensing his hostility, the Targaryens stopped in unison.
All six turned their heads at once, their silver hair gleaming in the dim corridor.
The dim lighting cast eerie shadows against the white stone walls.
Six pairs of violet eyes—ranging in height—shimmered coldly in the darkness, like six predators watching their prey.
Ferrego's breath hitched. The words caught in his throat, and he swallowed them down with difficulty.
A single phrase flashed through his mind in panic—
"Fire and Blood!"