Inside the grand mansion, two imposing sphinx statues stood guard as the tinkling sound of piano strings echoed through the halls, reminiscent of a babbling brook.
Regis glanced at himself in the mirror, barely recognizing the man staring back. He was no longer the robust figure he once took pride in. Dark circles framed his eyes, and his sunken eye sockets only added to the hollow look. Even his once-proud bald head seemed to have lost its shine.
"Cigarettes, wine, and women have made me so haggard... From today on, I'll quit smoking!" Regis declared with determination, viciously stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray. His gaze shifted to the woman lying next to him, her full curves and dark hair spread across the bed like storm clouds.
Regis had spent some time in Slaver's Bay, sent there by Viserys, and could be described as having had a blast. Still, the trauma lingered, he thought. Parties filled his days, and the fawning of the slave owners fed his vanity. His mission was clear—to pacify them on behalf of Viserys—but the real work was done by the Unsullied commander who accompanied him, Conwyra.
Returning to Astapor from the world of the Unsullied made Regis feel uneasy. His task was to approach the slave owners under the guise of "inspecting goods" and extol Viserys' supposed benevolence. Viserys aimed to remind the Unsullied of who their future master would be, planting in them a sense of duty—and perhaps even hope—through the example of living warriors like Conwyra. When Viserys eventually "capitalized on the opportunity," the Unsullied would be more inclined to fight for him.
"Lord Conwyra, you're here again?" The slaver paused in his training of the Unsullied upon seeing the commander approach. There were 400 Unsullied under his command. Though he called Conwyra "Lord," his disdain was thinly veiled, the smile on his lips tinged with contempt.
In Viserys' court, Conwyra was seen as a noble in the military, once a slave but now free, with an adopted son and family of his own. Yet in Slaver's Bay, many still viewed him as little more than a fortunate slave. A flicker of disgust crossed Conwyra's eyes, but he kept his emotions carefully in check.
"I've come to see how their training is progressing," Conwyra said.
"Don't worry, we'll weed out the unqualified ones," the slave owner replied casually. But Conwyra knew all too well that weeding out meant killing.
To manipulate these slave owners, Viserys could not rely solely on him and Regis. He had sent them with hundreds of thousands of gold dragons as a partial "down payment." This generous bribe allowed Conwyra unrestricted access to the Unsullied whenever he pleased.
He approached two Unsullied officers, noting the stark contrast in their eyes—one brown, the other black. "What are your names today?" he asked.
"My lord, my name today is Chariot."
"My lord, my name is Dagger today."
"Very well, Chariot and Dagger. His Grace Viserys will soon lead you in the retaking of the Iron Throne. You must train hard in the meantime. If you fulfill your duty, His Grace will restore your freedom and even reward you with land!"
Before Conwyra could finish, the slave owner interjected, his tone dismissive. "My lord, there's no need for all that... Sooner or later, they will belong to His Grace, and their fate will be decided by him."
Conwyra's voice remained resolute. "Their fate will indeed be decided by His Grace." Even the other Unsullied standing nearby could sense the firmness in his words.
...
Qarth.
The Hall of a Thousand Thrones.
This grand chamber was the very heart of Qarth's power. Here, descendants of the ancient royal family sat upon towering, magnificent thrones, passed down through the generations. From these high, arched seats, they ruled over the vast and prosperous Free City, surrounded by untold wealth—pounds of precious stones adorning the hall.
The thrones, carved from marble, ascended in a curved formation along polished steps, each level rising higher than the last. Above, the dome-shaped ceiling shimmered, adorned with elaborate paintings made from the finest gems and metals. Filigree, gold leaf, jade, and agate covered every surface—testaments to Qarth's wealth and opulence.
But today, the Hall of a Thousand Thrones was not just for royalty. The three great guilds of Qarth, which rivaled even the royal family in influence, had also gathered here. The Thirteen, the Guild of Spicers, and the Tourmaline Brotherhood—each held sway over the city in their own way. Although their attire varied, they shared one distinct trait: a red dragon scale embedded in their noses, a mark of status.
Xaro, the most powerful among the Thirteen, had paid a small fortune to the Warlocks to obtain one of these rare scales. Proudly displayed in his nose, it sparked envy throughout Qarth, and for a time, dragon scales became the city's most sought-after commodity.
Yet today's gathering was not about Xaro flaunting his prized dragon scale. The noble families and the guilds had come together with only one matter on the agenda—whether to eliminate Viserys.
Viserys, after conquering the Dothraki, had opened a land route between East and West. With the backing of the Golden Company and Caggo, he had established a secure trade network across Essos, dubbing it the "Spice and Silk Road." At the time, this land route had unparalleled advantages—safer passages, fewer risks—and merchants from all corners of the world flocked to it.
This new development was a direct threat to Qarth's dominance. The city's three merchant guilds owned no fewer than 4,000 ships, and combined with the noble families' fleet, Qarth boasted over 7,000 vessels, both merchant and warships. Their maritime supremacy had long secured their position as the gatekeepers of trade between East and West.
But the rise of Viserys had disrupted their influence, violating the interests of too many powerful factions. Now, they debated how to handle this unforeseen threat to their wealth and power.
"Have you considered the impact on Qarth of assassinating an emperor who not only wields great power but also commands a dragon?" asked a member of the Pureborn, his voice cold and measured. A blue dragon scale gleamed from his nose, matching the rich blue silk and gemstones that adorned him. His name was Mathos, and his appearance alone marked him as a cautious man.
"But this powerful emperor is far from us," interjected Xaro, leader of the Thirteen, his sharp gaze sweeping the room. "And he has no heirs, no family to carry on his will."
Xaro was known for his keen eye for opportunity. In the past, he had seen the potential of Daenerys, the Mother of Dragons, recognizing that her young dragon would eventually grow into a force of nature.
An adult dragon, he knew, could secure dominance over trade, providing unparalleled protection to his caravans and fleets. In the original story, despite his lack of romantic interest, he had proposed to her repeatedly, hoping to harness her dragon's power and use it to control Qarth.
Now, he saw a similar opportunity—and threat—in Viserys. The emperor's slave policies and dominance over the "Spice and Silk Road" had already disrupted the interests of Slaver's Bay and Qarth. Xaro was convinced they had a narrow window—three to five years at most—before Viserys solidified his rule. In that time, it would be their last chance to stop him.
Viserys may have risen rapidly, but his greatest flaw is glaring: He has no heirs. Without children to inherit his power, everything he has built will crumble the moment he dies. There will be no one left to seek vengeance, no lasting dynasty to fear.
Seeing that the room was still filled with hesitation, Xaro spoke again, his tone firm.
"Everyone, there can be no more doubt. I personally own 84 ships. By this time of year, at least 70 should be out at sea, earning gold. But this year, fewer than 60 have set sail. I suspect the rest of you are facing a similar situation."
He swept his gaze across the twelve other powerful figures in the hall, letting his words sink in. "And mark my words, the situation will only worsen from here. It's not just us—the Spicers Guild has suffered great losses as well. Viserys controls the trade routes now, and with that, he dictates the pricing of many goods. The lucrative spice trade that once filled our coffers is starting to collapse."
Xaro paused for effect, then added, "Viserys' ambitions likely extend far beyond reclaiming his ancestors' Iron Throne."
Another Pureborn member, dressed in a deep scarlet robe with a red tourmaline embedded in his nose, spoke up. His name was Egon, and Xaro had bribed him well before this meeting.
"Consider this," Egon began. "House Targaryen once had more than ten dragons, even as they weakened themselves during the struggle between the 'Blacks' and the 'Greens.' If their line of succession had remained stable, they would have already begun expanding into the Free Cities. Their dragons, combined with their power, would have been unstoppable—like a boulder rolling down a mountain."
The others shifted uncomfortably at the thought.
The gods have granted them a rare chance. But they have also granted Viserys a chance. Will he repeat the mistakes of his ancestors, or learn from them?
His words resonated deeply. Viserys was only 18 or 19 years old. Even if he lived to see 50, that gave him over 30 years—plenty of time for his seven existing dragons to reach adulthood, breed, and lay eggs that could hatch even more.
"Westeros can barely handle the threat of ten dragons," Egon said, his voice rising with urgency. "But what happens when there are thirty, forty, or fifty?"