The Flat-Topped Tower—an architectural marvel unique to Old Valyria.
It was said to be exclusively for the forty Dragonlord families, housing the most elite blood mages and fire sorcerers.
These blood mages and fire sorcerers studied magic tirelessly, guiding armies on their expeditions and teaching the Dragonlords' heirs.
Rhaegar's heart stirred, and he softened his voice. "Do you have blueprints for something like this?"
Though the Flat-Topped Tower appeared simple, its construction was an arduous and time-consuming endeavor.
For instance, the Hightower of Oldtown, built by House Hightower, was an architectural feat nearly impossible for the craftsmen of Westeros to replicate.
Varys' lips curved into a meaningful smile. "Essos has a long history, with much knowledge deliberately buried. Fortunately, I excel at uncovering such secrets."
Rhaegar pondered this for a moment before chuckling in agreement.
Both Westeros and Essos were lands steeped in legend.
Yet, the people rooted in these lands were often stubborn—preferring to bury knowledge rather than share it.
After a brief laugh, Rhaegar turned serious. "I am willing to employ you, but for now, you may only appear in Lys. You are not permitted to set foot in Westeros."
He was a cautious man who despised having potential threats close to him.
Rhaenys and the child in her womb were his everything, and he would not risk them by allowing a blood mage—a figure inherently dangerous—to remain on the same continent.
Varys knelt on one knee, his tone humble. "Thank you for your trust, Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen."
Rhaegar scrutinized him carefully and spoke plainly. "I intend to construct a Flat-Topped Tower to serve as a future political institution. You will be kept busy."
Glancing at Johanna, he added sharply, "The governor's political structure is incomplete. With the abolition of slavery, a new system must replace it, or disaster will surely follow."
Rhaegar was a gifted dreamer, one who had experienced countless strange and varied visions.
He understood, with absolute clarity, the cruelty and dangers of the slave system.
Moreover, the end of slavery meant the birth of monarchy.
The Targaryen Iron Throne was enough to rule the city, but the fate of former slaves and their survival posed an ongoing threat to those in power.
Under the rule of the slavers, slaves were oppressed, but at least most had food to eat.
Without the slavers, they lost their means of sustenance. Faced with desperation, they might attempt to overthrow their new "masters."
Johanna hesitated for a moment before speaking in a low voice. "I have recruited a large number of former slaves to help build the city. The demand for various professions will soon arise."
Looking at the Nine Free Cities, aside from a few inland cities without ports and the freezing northernmost city, the wealthiest were the port cities, led by Pentos and Braavos.
Braavos had a unique industrial system, a powerful fleet that ruled the seas, and the Iron Bank, which controlled the financial lifeblood of the world.
The city despised slavery and had no need for it.
In contrast, the other Free Cities—whether it was the three Daughters, Volantis, or even Pentos, which had been forced to sign a treaty abolishing slavery after defeat—relied heavily on slaves for labor.
The Free Cities operated on an electoral system, where equal citizens had voting rights.
However, their lands were limited, too small to be divided among every citizen.
As a result, slavery emerged and was widely utilized.
Slaves had no rights, no ability to vote.
They required no land—just enough food to survive—yet they performed over 80% of the cities' labor.
Over time, the number of free citizens in these trade cities dwindled, while the slave population continued to grow.
The only thing that remained unchanged was the small group of elites at the top of the pyramid.
Rhaegar had shattered that pyramid—dragging the wealthy down while pushing the slaves into the ranks of the commoners.
However, the city's land and jobs were not enough to support this massive new population. It was essential to generate wealth through maritime trade and efficiently utilize these new "commoners."
After some thought, Rhaegar joked, "If nothing else works, we can send part of the population back to Westeros to cultivate the unclaimed lands."
"You raise an insightful point. I will consider it carefully."
Johanna lowered her gaze, lost in thought.
She had never planned to completely abolish slavery—that would mean a radical purge and transformation of Lys.
And transformation meant danger. It could easily lead to the collapse of the ruling order.
However, since Rhaegar had already proposed developing maritime trade and industry, she was willing to take the risk.
With that, their discussion concluded, and Johanna and Varys took their leave.
Before departing, Varys hesitated, his brows furrowing slightly. "Your Highness, may your child be born safely."
His words were odd, and as he spoke, his eyes flickered over Rhaegar's face with an inscrutable expression, leaving an air of mystery.
Rhaegar was momentarily stunned, then immediately became alert.
Blood mages possessed knowledge spanning various disciplines—perhaps Varys had medical skills or the ability to foresee the future.
Losing his appetite, Rhaegar ordered the elite Second Sons stationed at the door to summon someone immediately.
In less than fifteen minutes, Syrio arrived.
A dozen figures clad in black robes followed him, their steps silent as they moved across the floor.
"Your Highness," Syrio greeted respectfully, raising a hand toward the black-robed figures. With a smile, he introduced them: "They are members of the Shadows. How may we serve you?"
Rhaegar gave them a brief glance before asking casually, "Any news from Dragonstone?"
Syrio Forel had once been the First Sword of Braavos, a Water Dancer skilled in the art of swordplay and assassination.
Over the years, Rhaegar had invested heavily in training dozens of "Shadows" who were now stationed across various regions as spies.
Hearing the prince's question, Syrio answered truthfully, "Dragonstone remains under the protection of the Dragonguard. The princess is safe, and her child is stable. However, Lady Lannell's condition is less than ideal."
"That's good to hear."
Rhaegar felt a slight sense of relief and then asked, "Has my aunt Rhaenys left?"
"Yes," Syrio replied. "The people of Myr are in constant turmoil. They need a Targaryen dragon to suppress them."
Unlike Lys, Myr had suffered attacks from dragons that did not distinguish between slave and freeman, fueling widespread resentment.
Once Lys was stabilized and Tyrosh was conquered, Myr's political structure would be the next priority.
Rhaegar had asked everything he needed to.
Sighing, he rubbed his forehead. "Keep an eye on Braavos and Dorne—I have an uneasy feeling."
An enemy lurking in the shadows was unsettling, even for someone with dragons.
Perhaps it was time for a trip back to King's Landing to reassert his dominance.
Sun Spear—the ancestral stronghold of House Martell and the political capital of Dorne.
Located north of the Greenblood River, it sat on the southeastern coast of Westeros, surrounded by the sea on three sides.
Built from sun-baked mud and straw, the castle was encircled by three concentric walls that twisted and curved around it.
The overall appearance of the city is imposing—it is a truly beautiful fortress.
At the center of the city, several towering structures stand side by side.
The Sun Tower.
Its exterior is magnificent, adorned with golden domes and tall spires of stained glass.
In the throne hall, two grand seats, carved with spears and sun motifs, are placed side by side.
A lone figure sat in the chair adorned with a carved spear, murmuring to himself, "Lys has fallen as well."
His voice was deep and magnetic, carrying the weight of a middle-aged man's experience.
Sitting upright, the figure revealed his striking appearance.
His long, jet-black hair flowed loosely over his shoulders, his bronzed skin stretched over a muscular frame, and his chiseled features bore the distinct exotic charm of the Dornish people, as if sculpted by blade and chisel.
He wore a loose, golden-brown robe, its low neckline exposing his broad chest, exuding a strong masculine aura.
This was none other than the reigning Prince of Dorne—Qoren Martell.
Qoren scoffed, leaning back in his chair with a sneer. "Bambarro, that fool. Does he really think taming a wild dragon is enough to challenge the Iron Throne?"
After more than a century of expansion, House Targaryen was at its peak.
There were six fully grown dragonriders—not counting the Velaryon siblings.
As the Prince of Dorne, Qoren himself was far from a passive ruler—he was an adventurer at heart.
After losing the first Stepstones War, he had once slipped into King's Landing under the guise of a merchant selling medicinal herbs.
Standing outside the Dragonpit, he had caught a distant glimpse of the young crown prince.
The boy had seemed youthful—just a handsome lad, and one who treated his subordinates with a surprising kindness.
The gods worked in mysterious ways.
That same boy had tamed the largest wild dragon in existence at the age of six. And when the war turned against him, he led a dragon raid on Lys, burning the city-states of the Three Daughters to the ground.
Three great infernos in succession—tens of thousands burned to death.
The very thought sent a chill down Qoren's spine. He had no desire to provoke a "dragon-wielding executioner."
Tap, tap...
Light footsteps echoed from outside the throne hall as a young girl with raven-black curls dashed inside.
"Father~"
She smiled radiantly, her bronzed skin smooth and delicate, her features already showing an unnatural beauty beyond her years.
Qoren habitually crumpled the letter in his hands, smiling as he asked, "Who brought you here, my daughter?"
Aliandra Martell nimbly climbed onto the sun-carved throne, lifted her chin proudly, and declared, "I come and go as I please—no one can stop me."
Aliandra Martell, newly six years old.
Qoren's eldest daughter, his heir apparent—the future Princess of Dorne.
"Aliandra, you're quite the mischievous one," Qoren said indulgently, resting his chin on his palm. "That Targaryen boy has taken Myr and Lys. When will you seize a territory for your father?"
Aliandra, bold and fiery as ever, widened her sapphire-blue eyes and retorted, "Then why don't you marry me off to that Targaryen boy? My children will inherit all of Westeros and the Free Cities!"
Qoren froze for a moment before bursting into laughter.
That was his daughter, all right—her way of thinking was as cunning as ever.
It was hard to believe such words had come from a child.
Knock, knock...
The heavy doors of the throne hall swung open, revealing a tall figure with golden hair and piercing blue eyes.
Qoren's expression sobered as he recognized the man. "The fleet is ready?"
"Yes, Prince," the man replied.
Ignoring the wary glances from the guards, he strode confidently onto the marble floor of the hall.
He was a lean man of about forty, his skin weathered but his sharp blue eyes gleaming like those of a hawk poised for the hunt.
His white robes bore the sigil of a black portcullis on a field of sand.
The sigil of House Yronwood—the most powerful noble house in Dorne besides House Martell.
Qoren cast him a sidelong glance and ordered, "Count Olvy, ensure that the fleets at Sunspear's harbor and Plankytown are fully prepared for our assault on Stormlands."
Olvy raised his chin respectfully. "Braavos has delivered a vast supply of armaments—enough to deal the Stormlands a devastating blow."
"The Sealord of Braavos is a fool," Qoren remarked with amusement. "But at least he's a generous fool."
He then added, "Send word to the Vultures in the Red Mountains. Have them act swiftly—we can't let the Iron Throne take the Three Daughters so easily."
The Free Cities' greatest strength lay in their control of trade ports.
Now that the Stepstones had fallen to the Iron Throne and the Three Daughters were being seized one by one...
Sunspear, Plankytown, and the other southern ports along the Narrow Sea would soon be cut off from profitable trade routes, strangled by the shifting tides of war.
Olvy gave a slight nod and said solemnly, "Rest assured, Prince. The armies of the Reach have always been weak, and the Duke of Highgarden is an old relic. The Vultures will tear him apart."
With their preparations complete, Olvy departed.
Qoren watched his retreating figure, licking his lips before breaking into a grin. "Be careful, my friend—don't let the Stormlands' army take your head."
Dorne had been quiet for too long. And in that time, Qoren had amassed considerable wealth from Braavos and the Three Daughters.
Yet Dorne itself was far from united—there were always factions of radicals and conservatives.
The radicals believed they should strike the Stormlands and the Reach, plundering wealth to sustain Dorne's arid lands.
The conservatives thought the radicals were too timid—instead, they advocated for a full-scale alliance with Braavos and the Three Daughters to launch an invasion against the Iron Throne itself and carve out new, prosperous lands.
Qoren found himself caught between the two factions. His pragmatic decisions were often met with opposition, so he simply fanned the flames of war and let events unfold.
If there was no war, the noble houses under his rule would only grow stronger—eventually threatening Martell's authority.
And that was something he would not allow.
(End of Chapter)