Rod, the Magister of Pentos, broke the silence first. "Prince Rhaegar, now that Myr is under our control, it is time to discuss the division of territory and spoils."
Pentos had contributed significantly to the war effort, shouldering the financial burden of transporting Westeros' armies across the sea. The prince himself had led a formidable contingent of 5,000 men, supported by over 1,000 skilled cavalrymen. Given Myr's surrender, Pentos naturally expected a substantial share of the spoils.
Rhaegar looked at him coolly, displeased. "The war in the Triarchy is not over yet, and already you want to divide the spoils?"
He turned to his other commanders, including Sea Snake and Daemon, and continued, "I understand your wishes, but the war continues. Let's not be short-sighted."
The war had been waged for territorial expansion and control over lucrative sea routes. Sea Snake had invested heavily, offering up not only resources but also his family's blood. Now, he demanded clarity on the Iron Throne's position.
Daemon, silent till now, stared intently at the fluttering three-headed red dragon banner above the Magister's Mansion. The night before, he had negotiated strenuously with his brother Viserys over the dominion of the free city-states. Claiming Myr would be ideal.
Observers like Rhaenys, Laenor, and his family watched quietly, their expressions tense. They considered both Sea Snake and Daemon overly eager for gains.
Nearby, a diverse array of forces including Grey Worm, Robb, the Vale Cavalry, and the Fearless watched the unfolding power dynamics with mixed expressions.
Standing before them, Rhaegar's stance was resolute, his voice cold. "Let's end the war first, and then I will ask the Iron Throne for your rewards."
Looking Rod straight in the eye, Rhaegar continued sternly, "You can withdraw your troops from Myr immediately. The Iron Throne will compensate you. Or, if you prefer, you can stay and help us take Lys and Tyrosh."
Rod's face stiffened for a moment, then turned into a sardonic smile. "Prince, rest assured, Pentos remains committed to seeing this war through. There is no need to question our loyalty."
A storm of thoughts swirled through his mind. Myr was now under the control of the Iron Throne, and Pentos had invested heavily in the conflict, pitting it against other free cities. With the Unsullied, the Second Sons, and the Knights of the Vale implicitly undermining Pentos' standing, he knew that Pentos had to maintain a careful balance.
5,000 troops will be enough to hold Myr, and they cannot risk alienating the Iron Throne.
"The Prince is magnanimous. The Iron Throne values its allies," he added, masking his anxiety.
Rhaegar's reply was a calculated mix of threat and reassurance. He understood the strategic importance of Pentos' naval capabilities in the assault on the island city-states of Lys and Tyrosh.
Returning his attention to Sea Snake and Daemon, Rhaegar concluded, "When this war ends, the Iron Throne will duly reward you. Consider this promise carefully."
As the repairs began on the Magister's mansion, Rhaegar beckoned Aunt Rhaenys and Laenor to join him as they walked towards the main building in Myr. Ahead lay the arduous tasks of restoring the city's infrastructure, aiding civilians, and reintegrating freed slaves—essential groundwork before their next military move.
...
As four hectic days elapsed, the atmosphere at the northern gate of Myr teemed with chaos and noise. A thousand Dothraki cavalrymen had assembled, their horses neighing while whispers floated through the air.
A commanding Dothraki, his long braid adorned with bells, sat astride his horse at the forefront of the crowd, his expression solemn under a weathered, dark complexion.
Rhaegar, clad in black robes, approached on a white horse. Trailing behind him were hundreds of cavalrymen from the Second Sons Regiment, laden with chests brimming with riches.
Rhaegar held out his hand in a grand gesture. "Oskau, your tribe has recently formed. Accept this wealth as a gift from the Iron Throne."
Oskau's brow creased as he spoke in broken Common Tongue, "Pentos paid the bounty."
"I'm aware," Rhaegar replied, his smile undiminished. "Consider this chest a personal tribute from me."
Rhaegar held great admiration for the ferocity of the Dothraki in battle. He knew Oskau hailed from a vast tribe and had served as a commander within the khalasar to its Khal, who fell in combat and was replaced in a fierce succession battle.
The tribe splintered, leaving Oskau with over two thousand cavalrymen and their families to fend off constant threats from rival factions.
By offering aid, Rhaegar hoped to secure an alliance.
Oskau's expression softened, "Dragonlord, I accept your generosity, but the Dothraki will not cross the salt waters to fight."
"There is no need," Rhaegar reassured him calmly. "You have done enough. Take these treasures and go in peace. Should the future call for it, we may seek your help again."
After securing the Three Daughters, the remaining free city-states would likely retaliate. Allying with one of the most powerful Dothraki tribes on the continent of Essos was a far-sighted strategy. Rhaegar, now enriched by the looted wealth of Myr's merchant houses, was well-positioned to forge such partnerships.
"Thank you, generous prince," Oskau responded with respect, urging his warhorse forward and cautiously reaching out to pat Rhaegar's chest in a gesture of appreciation. His serious face lit up with admiration as he added, "Dothraki never wear armor, either."
Rhaegar returned the smile, "Nor am I accustomed to it."
With this exchange, a bond was formed. Oskau and his cavalrymen, their mounts laden with the gifted chests, erupted into a triumphant cry and rode off towards Pentos to settle their dues.
As the dust kicked up by the departing riders settled, Rhaegar's gaze sharpened. He turned to observe the Unsullied patrolling the city walls. Lacking cavalry, the Unsullied's strength lay in infantry, led by Grey Worm who trained the formidable Fearless.
This newfound alliance with the Dothraki held promise. Though the Targaryens were historically known for their dragons, not their horsemen, this partnership could very well be a game-changer in future conflicts.
...
The harbor bustled with activity as dozens of warships, their sails emblazoned with the three-headed red dragon and seahorse flags, prepared for departure. Pentos mercenaries, clad in vibrant uniforms, boarded the ships in an orderly fashion.
Above them, Meleys roared, her scarlet scales gleaming in the sunlight as she hovered gracefully in midair. On the ground, Cannibal and Sea Smoke lay in repose, their massive forms coiled and ready, awaiting their riders.
Grey Worm, leading a contingent of Unsullied, worked diligently to maintain order and manage the dispersal of the gathered slaves.
Rhaegar approached Rhaenys with a calm demeanor. "Aunt, Myr will now be governed directly as a royal territory, and you will oversee its management temporarily."
With a firm expression, Rhaenys replied, "Don't worry. With Meleys and me here, no one will reclaim Myr."
Rhaegar nodded in agreement. "The Fearless and the Vale Knights will remain as well. They will give you ample support to secure the city-state."
He gestured to Grey Worm, outlining his duties, "Stay vigilant and protect the Master of Dragons."
The upcoming battle would shift to the Stepstones Islands, requiring fewer troops at the front. Maintaining control in Myr was therefore of the utmost importance.
Rhaegar continued to issue brief orders to ensure the stability of the city. "Distribute congee to the suffering civilians and keep the slaves working on reconstruction in exchange for food. Keep everyone busy; idle hands often lead to trouble."
Satisfied that all was in order, Rhaegar, accompanied by Laenor, climbed onto the back of his dragon, ready to take flight.
...
In the attic of the Perfume Garden in Lys, harsh curses shattered the silence.
"Are the Myrmen just pigs? How could the Iron Throne be breached so easily?"
"Reggio of Pentos, collaborating with the Iron Throne to usurp Essosi lands? I swear I will sever his head and throw it into a tar pit..."
The news of Myr's fall had only recently reached Bambaro, the Magister of Lys. The loss of two allies in such a short span was a bitter pill for Bambaro, who hailed from humble origins.
"How could the Magisters of Myr have been so careless?" he seethed, convinced that their minds were only on profit and the slave trade.
In a rage, Bambaro bellowed through the door, "Fetch the Roth Priest, I need this wild dragon subdued immediately!"
Outside the room, a delicate figure with dark hair caught every word before disappearing quietly down the corridor.
Johanna hurried along, her movements swift and deliberate. She returned to her private chamber and quickly locked the door behind her. Her expression was thoughtful as she retrieved pen and paper to write a letter.
The soft cawing of a raven echoed in the room as she placed the letter in its cage and opened the window to release it into the night.
Once finished, Johanna adjusted her low-cut bodice and regained her composed and graceful demeanor.
A knock at the door announced the arrival of a discreet figure. Johanna handed over a key, her voice low and steady, "Transfer all funds from my pleasure house to Volantis."
She was anticipating the imminent arrival of the Targaryen dragons in Lys. The wealth she had amassed over the years, along with her vast network of connections, were her most valuable assets in the tumultuous times ahead.
...
In Braavos, deep within the Hall of the Sealord, an underground chamber exuded a quiet emptiness, its silence broken only by faint, audible breaths.
Oil lamps clustered along the stone walls emitted a soft glow, casting shadows that danced lightly across the surfaces.
"Priestess, how much time remains until the moment you have foreseen?" Sealord Ferrego's voice carried a tinge of impatience as he stood on a grand, elevated platform.
"The descent of the Red Comet, heralding the magical tidal wave, awaits only the alignment of the right moment," replied a dignified woman draped in gray robes. Her silver hair fell straight, and her pale skin seemed to glow in the dim light.
In her hand she held a wooden scepter topped with a delicately carved moon, the symbol of Braavos' revered Moonsingers.
Ferrego's brow furrowed further as he continued. "Priestess, Myr has fallen. I need a timeline."
His alliance with the Triarchy against the Iron Throne had selfish motives, but as the conflict escalated, the great houses of Westeros-White Harbor, Gulltown, and Claw Isle-had united to blockade trade across the Narrow Sea. This stranglehold threatened to cripple Braavos' economy if it lasted more than a year.
As the Sealord of Braavos, he felt the weight of possible assassination if he failed.
After several reminders, the priestess remained unfazed. "The stars indicate it will be soon. I cannot be more specific.," she said with an unsettling calm before turning to leave, ignoring the Sealord.
In Braavos, the Moonsingers held considerable sway, often commanding more respect than even the Sealord himself.
Ferrego's face darkened with frustration. "Damn bitch, you just avoid answering me," he muttered under his breath.
Suddenly, a gust of wind stirred, causing the bonfire on the platform to flare dramatically. The bright orange glow revealed the remains of a colossal dragon. Its massive, pitch-black bones seemed to swallow the light around it.
Ferrego's gaze was drawn inexorably to the spectacle. His blue eyes sparkled with a mixture of awe and greed.
Beneath the imposing skeleton, nestled in a bed of straw, lay three dragon eggs, each a different color and intricately scaled, hinting at the power that lay within.
(Word count: 1,925)