Two days later.
The salty sea breeze blew through the city, gradually dispersing the thick smoke that had once choked Lys.
Eastern District, Port.
Countless slaves crowded the streets, clad in tattered rags, kneeling along both sides of the alleyways.
Among them were men, the elderly, and women—all with sorrowful expressions, huddled together in silent despair.
From a distance, it seemed as if every slave in the city had gathered there.
The stench of sweat mixed with the overpowering aroma of perfume and the acrid scent of burning ruins, turning the port into something akin to a vast slum.
A life of servitude and suffering had always been their fate.
But today, something was different.
A subtle shift had occurred.
A group of male slaves knelt in the front, their necks bruised from the iron collars that once restrained them. Their heavy shackles had been removed from their feet.
Behind them, the female slaves huddled together for warmth and security. Where once their skin had been left bare for the pleasure of their masters, they now wore rough linen garments, shielding themselves from the gazes of men.
The elderly whispered prayers, while children peeked out timidly from behind their mothers.
Tens of thousands of slaves—all waiting for a person or a sign.
"Puuuh-wooo!!"
A sudden elephant's trumpet shattered the tense silence.
Immediately after, a hundred elite warriors in full armor marched forward, clearing a path.
The slaves lifted their heads, pressing their hands together in prayer.
At the far end of the port, a massive gray-white war elephant, several meters tall, lumbered forward, swinging its trunk leisurely as it sprayed misty water into the air.
Atop the elephant, under the gaze of thousands, sat Rhaegar. He was young and strikingly handsome.
Gone was the black battle robe he had worn during the war. Now, he was dressed casually in a white shirt and a black skirt-like battle robe embroidered with the sigil of the Three-Headed Red Dragon.
It wasn't just a matter of style—it was a declaration.
The war in Lys had ended. The city was now under Targaryen rule.
"Screeeech—"
A sharp cry rang in his ears as a cool gust of wind flitted past his shoulder.
A small silver-and-black dragon, no bigger than a housecat, perched proudly on his right shoulder, its misty gray wings flaring wide in a show of defiance.
Rhaegar glanced at it and chuckled. "Slarax, settle down."
Silver-haired, violet-eyed, fluent in High Valyrian, and bearing a dragon on his shoulder—Rhaegar was the very embodiment of a true Targaryen, now riding through the streets of Lys.
The young dragon lifted its head, flashing its tiny but razor-sharp fangs. It wobbled slightly before plopping back onto its haunches.
Its head was disproportionately large compared to its body, making balance a challenge in its early stages of life.
Rhaegar stroked the small horns beginning to grow atop its head and let it be.
"Slarax"—a name drawn from ancient Valyrian mythology, a symbol of vitality, life, and the guide of souls to the afterlife.
Like "Morgul," it belonged to a niche pantheon of beliefs.
Rhaegar had hatched the dragon himself, named it, and now raised it at his side.
He was considering the possibility that if his own children—or Daemon's—failed to hatch a dragon egg, this "uniquely bloodlined" young dragon might be tamed for them instead.
The war elephant continued its slow, steady march into the alleyway, flanked by the elite warriors of the Second Sons.
The slaves gazed upon him with awe—their eyes filled with the desperate hope that this victor of war would be their savior.
"Prince, please help us…"
"Dragonlord of House Targaryen, don't let the slave masters return to Lys…"
"Your Highness…"
Halfway through his procession, the kneeling slaves suddenly prostrated themselves, their foreheads pressing against the ground, sobbing as they begged.
The ruling class of Lys had fallen. Most of its nobles and slavers had been captured, and all the slaves had been freed.
Yet even after days of newfound freedom, they remained anxious.
They feared their chains would be reforged unless their dragon-riding savior remained to protect them.
The streets erupted in chaos. The emotions of the enslaved had reached a boiling point.
Rhaegar surveyed the crowd, already anticipating their plea. He raised his arm and declared,
"I, Rhaegar of House Targaryen, will shatter your chains! The dragon will not permit slavery and oppression!"
Clang! Clang!
At the back of the procession, several Lyseni officials struck copper gongs, drawing everyone's attention.
Another group, lagging behind the main parade, had finally arrived.
A procession made entirely of former slaves marched forward, each carrying a wooden stake several meters tall.
Atop these stakes—either impaled alive or nailed through the hands—were the nobles and wealthy elite of Lys.
Each of them had once owned hundreds, if not thousands, of slaves.
They had worked men to death in endless toil, bought and sold women like livestock, and forced many into brothels.
Most importantly, they had refused to submit to Targaryen rule.
"Long live House Targaryen!"
"Long live the Dragonlord!"
Seeing their former masters humiliated and powerless, the slaves erupted in cheers, some so overjoyed that they nearly soiled themselves in their excitement.
Rhaegar cast a brief glance at the scene before riding his war elephant out of the alley.
Most of Lys' nobility had either fled or fallen. Those who remained were defiant to the last.
The political landscape of Lys was simple:
The wealthy elite—the problem had already been dealt with. Those who surrendered would be appeased.
The common folk—vast in number, but largely hostile to House Targaryen. They required close supervision by patrolling soldiers.
The slaves—a repressed and suffering class. Even after thousands had perished in the city's destruction, they still chose to side with the "invading liberators" who had granted them freedom.
By noon, the procession returned to the Governor's Palace.
The city had undergone preliminary cleanup. Most corpses had been removed, but many streets were still blocked by the ruins of collapsed buildings.
Through the scorched streets, the white stone tower of the palace came into view.
At its entrance, Johanna stood waiting, clad in a sheer gown, her graceful figure poised in anticipation.
The Sea Snake was still at the port, leading efforts to rebuild in preparation for an assault on Tyrosh.
Meanwhile, the Volantene soldiers had stormed the Perfumed Garden, indulging in plunder and debauchery.
As Rhaegar approached, Johanna curtsied slightly and smiled. "Prince, are you pleased with my masterpiece?"
She shifted aside, revealing a row of Lyseni officials, their heads bowed in submission.
These were the ones who had chosen to yield—the necessary tools for restoring order and governance in Lys.
Rhaegar dismounted from his war elephant and chuckled. "Well done. Many have willingly submitted to the Iron Throne."
The dramatic display of a triumphant parade and the brutal punishment of former nobles—it had all been Johanna's doing.
Crude, but undeniably effective.
It greatly won over a group of people.
The two walked into the Governor's Mansion, one ahead of the other, conversing along the way.
Johanna pointed to a mural of the Goddess of Desire on the wall and suggested, "Prince, faith is the best means of rule. Supporting the spread of a belief system will earn the trust of the common people."
Rhaegar raised an eyebrow and quickened his pace.
The religious beliefs in Lys were chaotic. Aside from the default worship of the Goddess of Desire, it was a complete hodgepodge.
The Faith of the Seven was the native religion of Westeros, but it wasn't particularly popular here.
Besides, he didn't want the Faith of the Seven to spread across the Narrow Sea and benefit the missionaries who sought to restrain the Targaryens.
After a moment of thought, he said indifferently, "Put it on hold for now. I'll consider it after we conquer Tyrosh."
With Myr and Lys fallen, two of the three Free Cities were already under their control.
Tyrosh had been under siege for days, and the final battle was fast approaching.
Rhaegar pressed his lips together, thinking to himself, Dorne and Braavos have yet to send troops. Something's off.
Deep in thought, he continued walking until he reached the loft for his meal.
Creak—
A guard pushed open the door, revealing a figure clad in red robes standing inside the room.
Rhaegar glanced at the figure, silently assessing him.
He was a tall man with pale skin, blue eyes, and a shaved head.
What stood out most were his deep-set eyes, filled with wisdom as if they could see through a person's soul.
His face was covered in various tattoos, the largest of which was a twisted black dragon sprawled across his left cheek.
"Who is he?" Rhaegar asked with displeasure.
He had no fondness for fanatics, especially those who dabbled in sinister sorcery.
Johanna, standing a step behind him, respectfully replied, "Varys, an outcast from the Temple of R'hllor, and a true blood mage."
Rhaegar's gaze fixed on Varys, and he asked bluntly, "Are you from Volantis?"
"I lived there for a time."
Varys forced a smile, his facial tattoos seeming to writhe as he continued, "I was born in Braavos, ended up in the Temple of R'hllor in Lys as a follower, and was eventually cast out."
Religious beliefs in Lys were diverse, and though there was a Temple of R'hllor, it was far smaller than the grand temple in Volantis.
Rhaegar strode toward the dining table and asked coolly, "What do you want, and what can you do for me?"
His demeanor was so cold it felt as if he were rejecting Varys outright.
Varys didn't seem to mind. With a sly voice, he said, "I've heard your sister is expecting a child. I possess skills in blood magic and fire sorcery—I wish to be your heir's teacher."
Rhaegar's eyes narrowed in alarm. "You think I'd let a stranger near my child?"
"Prince, many of the dragonlords in Old Valyria were blood mages and fire sorcerers. This is no secret."
Varys turned to face him, feigning pity. "Forgive me, but I do not purely follow the Lord of Light or any other god. I can only swear upon my own abilities. I mean no harm."
"I can't trust you."
Rhaegar remained unmoved, turning his gaze toward Johanna at the door.
Johanna smiled apologetically and stood obediently by.
Rhaegar narrowed his eyes, calculating inwardly.
Johanna, known as the "Black Swan," was highly skilled in political maneuvering and manipulating people.
She had handled affairs in Lys for him and now introduced him to this faith-driven "Varys."
She's eager to gain power, Rhaegar saw through her intentions immediately.
Hiss—
Srax let out a sharp cry, flapped his wings, and leaped onto the dining table, biting into a piece of roasted meat.
Varys didn't bother hiding his interest as he observed the young dragon. He recommended himself again, "Prince, you can see the future through fire. With the resurgence of magic, you need someone who understands its power by your side."
It was clear that he was very interested in the dragon.
Rhaegar stroked Srax's head, pondering. "Prove your abilities, and I'll consider it."
One thing Varys had said struck a chord with him.
The resurgence of magic was key.
Previously, he hadn't felt much change, only a slight increase in the magic in the air.
But after his bloodline transformation into a dragonkin, his sensitivity to magic had heightened.
Magic now surged like ocean waves, each crest higher than the last, churning ceaselessly.
With the conquest of the Three Daughters, dragons had once again set foot on Essos.
Rhaegar believed it was time for his family to engage with the concept of magic—to better protect themselves.
"Prince, most of my abilities have never been displayed. I hope you won't be disappointed."
Varys withdrew his hands from his sleeves, revealing fingers covered in strange rune-like tattoos.
With a sudden flick of his hands, wisps of flame flickered to life.
Squinting slightly, he picked up a half-eaten piece of meat that Srax had discarded and smeared its saliva onto a porcelain plate.
Then, he crushed the plate in his palm, rubbing the fragments between his fingers.
A few seconds later, he opened his hands to reveal a miniature dragon figurine, solidified from black dragonglass.
A sharp light flashed in Rhaegar's eyes. He confirmed, "You truly are a blood mage."
"A mere parlor trick. I secretly learned this blood magic from the Temple of R'hllor in Braavos. When I heard about Twinfort, I remembered it."
Varys pushed the dragonglass figurine toward the restless Srax and sincerely offered, "Prince, if you are willing to hire me, I can also help you construct a flat-topped tower like those the Valyrian dragonlords once lived in."
(End of Chapter)