Rod, the minister of Pentos, was the first to speak. "Prince Rhaegar, now that Myr has been conquered, I believe we should discuss the post-war distribution."
In this war, Pentos participated as an ally, spending a great deal of money to transport Westerosi troops.
The prince himself had hired an army of five thousand, including over a thousand fierce and battle-hardened Dothraki riders.
Now that Myr had fallen, it was only natural that he wanted a share of the spoils.
Rhaegar cast him a glance and said with displeasure, "The war of the Three Daughters is not yet over, and you are already thinking about rewards."
He then turned his gaze to the Sea Snake and Daemon, saying, "I know what you both want, but the war is still ongoing. Don't act so shortsighted."
The Sea Snake's expression darkened as he said in a low voice, "The sacrifices of House Velaryon are plain for all to see. I lost two nephews in the battle of Lys."
This war had been waged for new territories and maritime trade.
He had even risked his family's wealth as bait, sacrificing men in the process. Now, he needed to see the Iron Throne's stance on compensation.
Daemon nodded in agreement and looked back at the three-headed red dragon banner hanging over the governor's mansion, making his intentions clear.
On the eve of the war, he had had an unpleasant negotiation with his brother, King Viserys.
The deal was simple: any Free City he conquered would become his personal principality.
Myr was an excellent prize.
Nearby, Rhaenys and Laenor stood by, observing in silence, their brows slightly furrowed.
To them, both the Sea Snake and Daemon seemed far too impatient.
Meanwhile, Grey Worm, Robb, the Vale cavalry, and the Dothraki warriors had also gathered in the garden, each with their own expressions, watching this power struggle unfold.
With so many eyes upon him, Rhaegar remained firm, responding coldly, "If you want rewards, fine. Withdraw from the war first, and I will petition the Iron Throne to grant you wealth as compensation."
He then turned to Minister Rod of Pentos, showing no mercy. "You may withdraw your troops from Myr immediately. The Iron Throne's compensation will follow—unless, of course, you wish to continue the war against Lys and Tyrosh."
Rod hesitated for a moment before forcing a smile. "Prince, the princeps of Pentos is committed to seeing the Narrow Sea War through to the end. You need not question Pentos' loyalty to its allies."
Countless thoughts flashed through his mind in that instant.
Myr had already fallen under the Iron Throne's control, and Pentos had placed its bets on this war in the Narrow Sea. The other Free Cities now saw it as an enemy.
Moreover, Rod discreetly glanced at the Unsullied, the Second Sons, and the Vale knights.
With nearly five thousand troops holding Myr, Pentos did not have the power to turn against them.
"The princeps is generous, and the Iron Throne does not mistreat its allies," Rhaegar said, striking a balance between pressure and reward, offering a vague yet reassuring promise.
He needed Pentos' support.
Lys and Tyrosh were island strongholds, meaning they couldn't be attacked overland as Myr had been.
Pentos had both wealth and a fleet, making it a valuable ally under the banner of internal conflicts between the Free Cities.
Rhaegar then turned his attention back to the Sea Snake and Daemon, asking directly, "When the war is over, the Iron Throne will grant rewards. Consider your options carefully."
Neither man was a fool blinded by short-term greed. They would weigh the pros and cons.
Meanwhile, the Unsullied were busy cleaning and repairing the governor's mansion. Rhaegar called upon his aunt Rhaenys and Laenor, and together they entered the political heart of Myr.
There were many matters to resolve.
The restoration of Myr's walls, the repair of city districts, relief efforts for civilians, and the resettlement of freed slaves—
Only once these domestic issues were handled could they set sail again.
Four Days Later
Myr, North Gate
"Whoooa..."
Nearly a thousand Dothraki riders gathered outside the city gates, their warhorses neighing amidst the murmurs of the warriors, creating a chaotic and noisy scene.
At the front of the group, a strong Dothraki man sat atop his steed, his long braids adorned with several small bells. His dark, weathered face was solemn.
Clip-clop…
Rhaegar, clad in a flowing black robe, rode toward them on a white horse.
A hundred cavalrymen of the Second Sons followed behind him, carrying chests filled with wealth.
With a grand gesture, Rhaegar declared, "Khal Oskho, your tribe is still newly formed. This gold is a gift from the Iron Throne."
Oskho's brow furrowed tightly. In clumsy Common Tongue, he replied, "Pentos has already paid us."
"I know," Rhaegar said with a smile. "This chest is my personal gift to you."
Rhaegar deeply admired the Dothraki for their wild ferocity in battle.
From what he knew, Oskho had once belonged to a great Khalasar with over ten thousand riders and had served as a bloodrider to its former khal.
However, that khal had been wounded in battle and was challenged and slain by another bloodrider.
According to Dothraki tradition, the victor became the new khal.
But many in the khalasar did not accept him, and the tribe splintered.
Oskho led over two thousand Dothraki riders, along with women and children, into exile, struggling to survive while avoiding attacks from rival tribes.
Rhaegar intended to extend his hand and win their loyalty.
Oskho's expression softened slightly, though his voice remained gruff. "Dragonlord, I will accept your gift, but the Dothraki do not cross the poison water to fight."
"There is no need," Rhaegar responded with a hearty laugh. "You have already done enough."
He waved his hand toward the wealth-laden chests. "Take the gold, and you are free to leave. Should the need arise in the future, we may contact each other again."
Once the war for the Three Daughters was over, the other Free Cities would not sit idly by.
Securing the loyalty of some of the most powerful riders on the Essos continent was a strategic move for the future.
Besides, he was not short on wealth. The merchants of Myr had already "contributed" plenty of gold and silver.
"Thank you, generous prince," Oskho said respectfully.
He nudged his horse forward, somewhat hesitantly, and placed a firm hand against Rhaegar's chest—a traditional gesture among the Dothraki.
His stern face showed a hint of admiration as he added, "Dothraki do not wear iron clothing."
Rhaegar smirked. "Neither do I."
A bond of friendship was formed, and soon after, Oskho and his riders set off on their way.
The Dothraki cavalry hoisted dozens of crates filled with wealth, let out wild cries, and galloped out of Myr, heading to Pentos to collect debts.
Watching the dust rise behind the barbaric riders, Rhaegar's eyes gleamed slightly as he turned to glance at the patrols of the Unsullied on the city walls.
The Unsullied had no cavalry; Grey Worm could only train formidable foot soldiers.
The Targaryens lacked a proper cavalry force for open-field battles.
…
Bay Harbor.
Dozens of warships, flying banners of the three-headed red dragon and the seahorse, were lined up as colorfully dressed Pentoshi mercenaries boarded in order.
Hiss—screech!
Up above, Meraxes let out a sharp cry, her well-proportioned crimson body spiraling gracefully.
Below, Devourer and Sea Smoke lay on the ground, waiting for their riders.
Grey Worm led a group of Unsullied, maintaining order and driving away nearby slaves.
Facing Rhaenys, Rhaegar spoke patiently, "Aunt, Myr will be a direct royal territory, and for now, you will oversee it."
Rhaenys nodded solemnly. "Rest assured, with me and Meraxes here, no one will take Myr back."
Rhaegar nodded. "The Unsullied and the Vale knights will all stay behind—that should be enough to hold the city."
He gestured for Grey Worm to step forward and instructed, "Your duty is to protect the royal dragonlords closely."
The next battles would spread to the Stepstones, and for the time being, such a large force wouldn't be needed there.
Maintaining order in Myr was the priority.
Rhaegar gave a few more simple orders—
For example, providing porridge for displaced civilians and allowing slaves to earn food by performing manual labor to help rebuild structures.
In short, the people of Myr couldn't be left idle.
Idle hands always caused trouble.
After confirming everything was in order, Rhaegar and Laenor climbed onto their dragons.
…
Lys, the Perfumed Garden.
In a certain loft, a sudden outburst of crude curses rang out.
"Are Myrmen nothing but pigs and dogs? How could they let the Iron Throne take their city so easily?!"
"Regio of Pentos—he dared to side with the Iron Throne to seize Essosi land? I'll have his head dipped in a latrine pit…"
…
Days later, the news of Myr's fall had finally reached the ears of Lys' governor, Bambaro.
In the blink of an eye, one of his two allies was gone.
For Bambaro, who had clawed his way up from the bottom, this was unacceptable.
How could Myr's two governors be so utterly incompetent?!
Had they wasted all their brains on hoarding wealth and trading slaves?
Through a wooden door, Bambaro roared, "Summon the Ros Priest! I want someone to tame that wild dragon immediately!!"
Outside the door, a graceful figure with long black hair listened carefully, not missing a single word, before silently walking away.
Johanna moved quickly, her fair, toned legs flashing beneath her gauzy dress, her curvaceous figure swaying with each step.
Bang!
Returning to her private chamber, she shut the door tightly.
Furrowing her delicate brows, Johanna took out a pen and paper and began writing a letter.
Caw, caw…
A raven perched in a cage inside the room. She slid the letter into its message tube, opened the window, and released the bird.
Once everything was in order, Johanna adjusted the neckline of her low-cut dress, regaining her composed and elegant demeanor.
Knock, knock…
A knock sounded at the door as a striking woman entered with her head lowered.
Johanna handed her a key, her red lips parting slightly. "Transfer all the money from my brothel to my estate in Volantis."
She foresaw that the true dragons of House Targaryen would soon descend upon Lys.
The wealth she had accumulated over the years was her only treasure aside from her network of connections.
…
Braavos.
Sea Lord's Palace, Underground Chamber.
The dimly lit chamber was vast, where even the faintest breath could be clearly heard.
Torches lined the stone walls, their weak flames casting flickering light.
"Priestess Lani, how much longer until the time you predicted?"
Atop a massive stone platform, Braavos' Sea Lord, Ferrego, wore a grave expression, his tone impatient.
"The arrival of the Red Comet has stirred magical tides. We need only wait for the right moment."
A mature woman with silver hair falling straight down her back, clad in a gray-white robe, responded calmly. Her skin was pale, and she held a wooden staff, its top carved into a crescent moon.
She belonged to Braavos' unique religious sect—the Moon Singers.
Ferrego's brows furrowed deeper. "Priestess, Myr has already fallen. I need an exact time."
The Iron Throne was at war with the Triarchy, and for his own reasons, he had sided with the latter.
Now that war had begun, White Harbor, Gulltown, and Crab Isle had joined forces, forming a fleet to blockade the northern half of the Narrow Sea's trade routes.
In the short term, it was manageable, but if this dragged on for a year or more, Braavos' economy would collapse.
And when that happened, he would be assassinated in no time.
After several more prods, Priestess Lani's face darkened in displeasure. She said coldly, "Observing the stars, I estimate it will be soon. That is all I can say."
With that, she turned and left without another word, showing no deference to the Sea Lord.
In Braavos, the Moon Singers had always held great influence.
Ferrego's expression soured as he inwardly cursed, Damn wench, always so evasive.
Whoosh!
A sudden gust of wind swept through the chamber, causing the fire atop the platform to flicker violently, the flames flaring up.
Within the orange glow, a massive dragon skeleton, dozens of meters long, emerged, its pitch-black bones seeming to absorb the surrounding light.
Ferrego's gaze was drawn to it, his blue eyes brimming with irrepressible greed.
Beneath the dragon's bones, three dragon eggs of different colors, their surfaces covered in scales, nestled within a straw nest.
(End of Chapter)