A few days later.
Myr, Dance Walk Corridor.
Located in the western district of the city-state, this cramped and narrow area housed the largest concentration of slaves.
A glance revealed densely packed, gray-white mudbrick buildings, resembling a chaotic beehive.
"Maintain order! No cutting in line!"
Approaching noon, hundreds of Unsullied stood in two rows, maintaining order over a long line of slaves.
The line stretched beyond sight, filled with raggedly dressed men, women, and even entire families.
Thanks to the loosely arranged layout of this slum, multiple similar lines had formed, each overseen by designated Unsullied soldiers.
At first glance, it looked like a charity food distribution.
But that wasn't the case.
At the front of one line, a dark-skinned slave clutched a square stone token, jumping up and down in excitement.
"I got a token! I got a token!"
His voice was loud, as if he wanted the entire world to hear.
The surrounding slaves didn't react with jealousy; instead, they looked at him with eyes full of hope and anticipation.
"Next! What's your trade?"
At the end of a stone table, an elderly slave dressed in coarse linen kept his head down as he routinely questioned the next person in line.
The man who stepped forward was small and thin, his sun-scorched skin peeling. He hesitated before answering in a humble tone, "Stonemason. I used to repair palaces for my master."
The elderly slave looked up briefly before reaching into a basket beside him and pulling out a triangular stone token. He then asked for the man's name and age.
The frail slave answered truthfully, also cautiously mentioning his homeland before he was sold.
"That's not important. From now on, you're a citizen of Myr."
The elderly slave's voice was hoarse as he wrote the details on the token with a special dye.
Then, he handed it to a group of craftsmen sitting nearby.
One of them took the token, picked up a chisel and knife, and carefully engraved the dyed markings.
Within moments, the finished token was returned to the frail stonemason.
Seeing his overwhelmed expression, the elderly slave furrowed his brows slightly and said, "Stonemasons are needed. Two meals a day, plus half a copper star. Will you take the job?"
"Yes!"
The frail man eagerly accepted, clutching his triangular token as he immediately joined the craftsmen engraving more tokens.
The elderly slave, unfazed by the scene, continued questioning the next person.
Stonemasons were assigned work, while literate individuals and healers were set aside. The elderly, women, and children were sent back the way they came.
The distributed tokens varied in shape.
Ordinary slaves received square ones, craftsmen got triangular ones, and healers were given round ones.
Each token served as an identification card—recording the bearer's name, age, and trade.
Only with one in hand could a person be officially freed from slavery and recognized as a citizen of Myr.
---
### Former Governor's Mansion
The ruins of the Dragonlord's Palace, now a gaping hole, were completely sealed off. In the surrounding debris, a large workforce—former slaves now freed—was tasked with clearing the wreckage.
In a garden estate, inside a white-stone pavilion—
Rhaegar leaned against a broad floor-to-ceiling window, holding a piece of stone in one hand and a carving knife in the other.
His slender, pale fingers moved skillfully, sending fine stone dust cascading down as he carved a simple square token.
Plop!
With a casual toss, the finished token landed in a nearby basket.
Without a change in expression, Rhaegar picked up another stone and continued carving.
Like a machine devoid of emotion.
Knock, knock…
From outside the lavishly decorated room, someone knocked on the door.
"Come in."
Rhaegar, feeling a slight soreness in his hand, responded absentmindedly.
Creak—
The door swung open, revealing Grey Worm in his black armor.
Standing upright, he adjusted his nonexistent collar in a display of formality before striding into the chamber.
Ever since the "Fish-Slaughtering Festival" a few days ago, Myr—once a bloated and rusted machine—had resumed operation. The city was flourishing.
Most notably, the slave population had shed their chains and, as free citizens, aligned themselves with the Iron Throne. A wave of optimism swept through the city.
Conquering a city, freeing slaves, and establishing a new order…
As a former slave himself, Grey Worm took immense pride in his role, grateful for the choices he had made. He had not followed the wrong leader.
Yet, he remained silent for so long that Rhaegar finally set down the finished token and quirked an eyebrow.
"If you have something to say, say it. If not, get back to work."
Does this guy have no sense? I'm over here working, and he's just posing?
Even though carving wasn't just about keeping busy—it was also a way to refine his skills.
"Ahem…"
Grey Worm's expression stiffened slightly. After a brief cough to cover his awkwardness, he finally spoke.
"Prince, a letter has arrived from Seagard. It's from Lady Jeyne of the Eyrie."
"Jeyne?"
Rhaegar was surprised and put down his carving knife.
Clink!
As the blade hit the marble floor, it let out a crisp, melodious ring. The sharp edge effortlessly left a faint mark on the stone.
Rhaegar clicked his tongue.
"Damn. Forgot how sharp this thing is."
He had been using it for days, yet it still had no special properties.
But the blade was swift and highly efficient.
Grey Worm stole a glance, pulling out a letter while kindly advising, "The city has recruited enough stonemasons. There's no need for you to do it yourself."
The identity stone plaque policy was proposed by the prince. At first, it seemed like a far-fetched idea—a troublesome and time-consuming endeavor.
There's an old saying in Tyrosh:
"Every word from a slave master means a slave should prepare to run until their legs break."
Unexpectedly, the introduction of the identity plaques caused a massive stir—especially among the former slaves, who scrambled to get one.
Even though Myr's slavery system had been abolished, those who had once been enslaved were still haunted by uncertainty. It would take decades—perhaps even fifty years—to break free from the shadow of their past servitude.
They couldn't shake off the stigma of their former lowly status.
Rhaegar had studied history extensively and understood the concept of a sense of belonging.
Through fragmented glimpses in his dreams, he conceived the idea of the identity stone plaques.
Issued in the name of the Iron Throne, the plaques granted their holders official citizenship. Any former slave who obtained one could proudly and publicly declare themselves a free and lawful citizen.
Though, in essence, it was just an unassuming piece of stone, it filled the void of inferiority that lingered in the hearts of the former slaves.
At the same time, the plaques fostered an unimaginable sense of unity—similar to how Westeros' standardized currency system immediately indicated its origin when used.
When former slaves held their plaques, they were eager to proclaim, "I am from Myr."
Because they were no longer slaves.
Rhaegar listened to Grey Worm's advice, paused for a moment, and without refuting him, murmured, "Tell the stonemasons to speed up production. We need enough plaques for everyone as soon as possible. Double their pay from half a copper star to a full one."
The plaques were important—but only in the short term.
To sustain their impact, people needed full stomachs.
Myr was in ruins and needed reconstruction. Creating jobs would allow the working class to earn a living.
After all, food was provided by the Iron Throne, and the wages would eventually circulate back into the economy.
This way, not only would the city's economy start moving again, but the former slaves' enthusiasm would also increase.
Having witnessed the effectiveness of the prince's policies, Grey Worm had no objections and immediately responded, "I will issue the orders."
"Make sure to recall all miscellaneous currencies and standardize transactions using copper stars and copper pennies."
Rhaegar took the letter and added this crucial reminder.
The problem with the Free Cities was their chaotic currency system. The coins issued by each city often weren't useful beyond their borders.
As a major trade hub with merchants coming and going from all directions, this was understandable.
But now, during the rebuilding phase, encouraging the use of Westerosi currency would help foster a stronger sense of national identity.
Once the port was fully redeveloped, he could even consider establishing a small bank under the Iron Throne's control.
This would help alleviate pressure from the Iron Bank.
Being financially strangled by Braavos time and time again was becoming unbearable.
Grey Worm nodded immediately, committing the instruction to memory.
Rhaegar smiled, breaking the red wax seal on the letter. "No need to be so tense. Things are going well right now."
As a child, he had seen the chaos in King's Landing and always wanted to impose some kind of order.
At the very least, he wanted to prevent waves of displaced people from flooding into the city, leading to overcrowding and a surge in crime.
Unfortunately...
Westeros was steeped in prejudice and rigid traditions, leaving him with no room to implement his ideas.
Myr, on the other hand, was different. Here, he could do whatever he wanted.
The identity plaques gave the people a symbol of belonging while effectively keeping out outsiders.
The information on the plaques was equally crucial, categorizing individuals as craftsmen, healers, priests, and more.
These people had been overlooked talents, but now, they could contribute to the new system.
Grey Worm exhaled slightly, though his expression remained stern as he continued reporting on city affairs.
Rhaegar planned to use this transitional period to establish a new governing system in Myr.
His preliminary goal was to strengthen central authority.
Westeros operated under a feudal system, where power was as scattered as a bowl of spilled porridge.
But Myr was just a single city-state. He believed he could achieve centralized governance here.
Listening attentively to Grey Worm's report, Rhaegar absentmindedly scanned the contents of the letter.
The last time he saw Jenny was in Gulltown.
Back then, he had burned the Braavosi fleet, slapped Aegon, and reorganized the city's defenses...
And in between all that, he and Jenny had found time to be intimate.
As he silently read through the letter, Rhaegar's expression gradually shifted.
"Braavos has hired another fleet, this time in alliance with Qohor. They have also bribed a Dothraki horde, preparing to invade Pentos."
"Braavos still refuses to give up," Rhaegar muttered, furrowing his brows.
Ever since their last ambush had failed, Braavos had switched to working from the shadows—supplying Dorne with weapons and provisions, inciting uprisings in Myr, and hiring mercenaries to provoke the Stepstones...
All of this had made ending the war significantly more difficult.
"If they dare come, they will die," Rhaegar scoffed, continuing to read.
At the bottom of the letter was a personal note from Jenny—just a few simple lines.
Rhaegar froze for a moment before his eyes widened.
He read the delicate handwriting over and over again.
Meanwhile, Grey Worm continued his report.
"The port has been fully repaired. Lady Carl has restored her dye factory and submitted a request to develop port trade."
For now, Myr's population was divided into three representative groups:
One for the former slaves, one for the commoners, and one for the old noble class.
Lady Carl was a representative of the subdued noble faction. Her wealth stemmed from Myr's famous textiles and lace industries.
As he spoke, Grey Worm noticed Rhaegar's distant expression and cautiously asked, "Prince, are you alright?"
As usual, he lacked awareness.
Rhaegar suddenly lifted the letter and burst into laughter. "I'm more than alright. I'm fantastic!"
Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the thin sheet of paper, making the inked words appear almost translucent.
Rhaegar kept flipping it over, rereading it with an uncontrollable grin.
Grey Worm, ever blunt, asked directly, "Good news?"
"No shit."
Rhaegar snapped impatiently, "Get down there, contact Pentos in advance, and send a message to the Tyroshi."
Braavos was preparing to attack Pentos, a so-called "good ally" of the Iron Throne.
However, he had no intention of getting involved.
The spies reported that Daemon had finally subdued the Tyroshi rebels, so he could handle the reinforcements.
They shouldn't think they could take a city-state without putting in any effort.
Grey Worm nodded repeatedly, looking dejected as he left the room.
(End of Chapter)