*Tap, tap, tap…*
A series of footsteps echoed as Rhaegar and Rhaenyra walked into the hall.
Viserys' eyes lit up, and he waved them over. "Rhaegar, come to your father."
Rhaegar smiled as he approached, catching a glimpse of Mushroom and the others hastily retreating in the corner of his eye.
Viserys beamed, instinctively placing his hand on the armrest of the Iron Throne.
The moment his palm touched the blades forged into the throne, a sharp edge cut deep into his hand, drawing blood.
"Hiss! Damn it!"
Viserys sucked in a breath, shaking his hand in irritation.
In his haste, he had forgotten to be careful around the throne's sharp edges.
"Father…"
Seeing this, the siblings' expressions changed.
Rhaegar quickly stepped forward, ascending the throne's steps to stand before his father.
"Are you alright?"
He examined the wound with concern.
A relatively small cut, but the blood seeped out in thin streams, soon covering his entire hand.
Viserys clenched his bleeding palm, forcing a smile. "It's nothing. I'll have the maester bandage it later."
Rhaegar remained silent, troubled.
It was never "nothing."
His father's wounds never fully healed— not even the Ouroboros' treatments could completely cure them.
Rhaenyra pulled out a handkerchief and carefully maneuvered through the jagged swords beneath the throne.
"Alright, alright, it's just a small cut. No need to make such a fuss."
Feeling his children's concern, Viserys chuckled, shaking his head as he took the handkerchief and pressed it against the wound.
He was the father, yet they treated him as if he were fragile.
A part of him felt slightly amused by it.
"Rhaegar, do you think we should accept Dorne's marriage proposal?"
Viserys' gaze turned serious as he shifted to the main topic at hand.
This was the decision weighing most heavily on his mind.
"Father, I don't think we should," Rhaegar replied without hesitation, having already thought through his stance.
"Dorne is waging war against us while simultaneously proposing an alliance through marriage. They show no sincerity."
"I understand that. The kingdom and Dorne are like fire and water— irreconcilable."
Viserys sighed heavily.
First, the Three Daughters had ignited the Stepstones War.
Then, Dorne had backed them, further entangling itself in the conflict.
Now, Qoren was sending an envoy to propose a marriage. There were only two possible motives:
1. Marry a Targaryen princess, withdraw their troops, and temporarily maintain peace.
2. Be rejected and escalate the war even further.
"Ah… I'll need to think this through carefully."
Viserys exhaled, rubbing his forehead in frustration.
---
**Somewhere in the Red Keep**
A pair of dark-skinned hands extended out of an open window, cradling a raven.
"Go now. Deliver this message to Sunspear."
The hands released the bird, and it flapped its wings, soaring into the sky, heading away from the Red Keep.
Sether leaned out slightly, glancing cautiously left and right before shutting the window.
He had already learned of the Three Daughters' crushing defeat.
Over the past few days, he had closely observed the attitudes of the Small Council.
Most of them harbored deep resentment toward Dorne.
The marriage proposal was practically dead in the water.
He needed to send word to Prince Qoren so they could plan their next move wisely.
---
**Beyond the Red Keep**
The raven glided through the sky, making its way toward Dorne.
Suddenly, a small stone shot up from the ground.
*Thud!*
It struck the raven's wing with a heavy impact.
"Caw! Caw!"
The bird let out a pained cry, tumbling to the ground.
A young man with curly brown hair stepped out of the shadows, a smirk playing on his lips.
He knelt, grabbing the struggling raven and pulling the message cylinder from its leg.
"Tsk, just as I thought— sending a message," he muttered.
Taking out the scroll, he swiftly snapped the raven's neck and tossed the lifeless body into the moat.
---
**Tyrosh – The Perfumed Garden**
Inside a high pavilion surrounded by exotic flowers, a group of men sat around a circular table.
Among them was the Archon of Tyrosh, a distinguished elder clad in fine silk robes.
Seated beside him was a young Myrish man with black curls and olive-toned skin.
At his side were three other individuals:
- A tall, heavyset man with dark skin and extravagant clothing.
- A lanky old man with golden hair.
- A seemingly unremarkable young man with short black hair.
Opposite them sat Lyseni brothers, Sandro Rogare and Lysandro Rogare.
Their gathering was only the beginning.
**Lissandro Rogar** had silver hair and blue eyes, with a kind expression and a faint smile at the corners of his mouth.
At first glance, he looked like a promising young philanthropist.
An elder in a brocade robe patted the table, his face grim. "The mercenaries at the front have been completely wiped out. We've lost the Stepstones."
"This is all your fault for being careless! The army was burned to ashes by the dragon's fire."
A heavyset, dark-skinned man from Myr scowled, his anger unrestrained.
He had invested a fortune in hiring those mercenaries.
"Now that the army is gone, we've lost the war!"
A frail elder from Myr, leaning on his staff, spoke in a hoarse voice.
"So what now? Should we just lower our banners and slink away, abandoning the Stepstones in disgrace?"
Lissandro's expression darkened—he needed to make a decision, fast.
If this argument continued, the Tri-City Alliance would fall apart.
As soon as he spoke, the loft fell into silence.
The wealthy magnates seated around the room lowered their heads, calculating their potential gains and losses.
The last war had ended in disaster, and the Tri-City Alliance had suffered devastating losses.
Back then, many of those present weren't yet the lords or governors of their respective city-states.
The defeat had driven the previous rulers into ruin—bankruptcy and violent overthrow followed.
In the bloody and ruthless power struggles that ensued, the upper echelons of the Tri-City Alliance were completely reshuffled.
The elder in the brocade robe had assassinated the former Archon, bribed officials with vast sums of money, and secured his own election.
The same was true for several of Myr's governors.
As for the former Governor of Lys, he had been branded a traitor and war criminal, his house stormed by an angry mob, and his head severed in public.
Lissandro Rogar had never intended to run for governor.
But he was simply too wealthy.
The elite of Lys trusted no one but those richer than themselves.
Reluctantly, he accepted the position.
Now, every person in the room was someone who had profited from the last war's failure.
And all of them understood the dire consequences of another defeat.
This was the brutal reality of the Free Cities' electoral system.
"Fight! We've come too far in this war to back down now."
The dark-skinned fat man slammed his fist on the table, the first to take a stand.
He had poured his entire fortune into the war effort—if they lost, he'd be ruined.
A younger Myrman frowned. "How do we fight? The mercenaries are all dead. No amount of gold can buy more now."
"We don't need to hire more."
Lissandro remained composed, his voice calm and rational. "Mercenaries are unreliable. We should look to Slaver's Bay instead."
"Buy slaves?"
The dark-skinned man's scowl deepened—he was always sensitive about spending money.
"No, not just any slaves. We buy the Unsullied."
Lissandro explained, "I've already contacted the Good Masters of Astapor. For the right price, we can purchase three thousand Unsullied—enough to counter Westeros' remaining forces."
Slaver's Bay was home to three great cities:
Yunkai, Astapor, and Meereen.
These cities were infamous for their thriving slave trade and vast armies of mercenaries, forming the largest slave empire in the known world.
Astapor, in particular, was renowned for its elite eunuch soldiers—the Unsullied.
Each Unsullied warrior was taken as a child, beginning training at the age of five.
Through brutal trials, they were stripped of emotion, pain, and personal will.
As a result, the Unsullied were among the most disciplined and elite warriors in existence.
They did not steal, pillage, or rape.
They obeyed orders without question, demonstrating absolute loyalty to their masters.
There was even a legendary battle where three thousand Unsullied triumphed against fifty thousand Dothraki screamers.
With this new proposal on the table, the men in the room each began weighing their own interests.
"The Unsullied are extremely expensive. Even I would have to sell off assets to afford three thousand of them."
The elder in the brocade robe mused.
Lissandro remained indifferent. "Quality comes at a price. We can split the cost."
The Myrish youth remained reluctant. "Against dragonfire, even the Unsullied are just slightly tougher insects waiting to be burned."
No one doubted the devastating power of dragons on an open battlefield.
No number of soldiers could stand against dragonflame—it would only end in charred corpses.
"After the battle at Bloodstone Island, Westeros' remaining forces number less than five thousand. The Unsullied can land at Grey Gallows under the cover of night, using the terrain to prolong the conflict."
In Lissandro's eyes, only a fool would engage dragons head-on.
During the last Stepstones campaign, the Crabfeeder had taken full advantage of the terrain, dragging out the war endlessly.
House Velaryon and Prince Daemon Targaryen's forces had nearly been ground down to nothing.
If not for Daemon's daring solo maneuver—luring the enemy out—followed by the sudden charge of the Three Daughters' pirate fleet, the battle might have ended very differently.
"This plan has merit, but the Targaryens have multiple dragons. We're still at a disadvantage."
The elder in the brocade robe clearly feared the dragons.
Lissandro took out a letter and casually tossed it onto the table.
"This is a personal letter from Qoren Martell. He's willing to send forces to the Prince's Pass, threatening the Targaryen rear."
"Excellent. The Dornish always love meddling in wars."
The elder in the brocade robe thought for a moment before making his decision.
"Then it's settled—we buy three thousand Unsullied and recruit additional mercenaries."
"What's the battle strategy?"
Lissandro was unwilling to see their costly soldiers wasted in vain.
"The mercenaries will launch a surprise attack on Grey Gallows and await word from Dorne."
The elder broke it down step by step. "If Dorne commits to the war, we deploy the Unsullied. If they hold back, then the Unsullied serve as our shield."
Above all else, they had to protect their wealth and their lives.
The others pondered for a moment and generally approved of the proposal.
Among them, some were wealthy enough to maintain their status even if they were defeated in battle.
Others had bet everything on this, and losing would cost them their lives.
The plan devised by the elderly man in the brocade robe and Lysandro was acceptable to both sides.
...
**King's Landing, The Dragonpit.**
Several dragonkeepers wielding wooden staffs and whips urged Dreamfyre out of the cavern, speaking in High Valyrian.
Dreamfyre crawled forward at a leisurely pace, her sleek body gleaming like jade, and her long tail swaying gently.
"Dreamfyre, I'm here!"
Helena stood on her tiptoes, calling out to the dragon.
Dreamfyre turned her head, her slit-pupiled eyes locking onto the familiar little girl.
Today, Helena looked very different.
Gone was her usual fluffy white dress, replaced by a loose-fitting blue gown.
With a determined gaze, she approached the elderly dragonkeeper and spoke in hesitant High Valyrian: "Prepare a saddle for Dreamfyre."
"Princess, Dreamfyre has not yet been tamed. She cannot be ridden."
The elderly dragonkeeper advised humbly.
Helena clenched her small fists, her tone firm and undeniable: "I will tame Dreamfyre. Prepare the saddle."
She had left the Red Keep early in the morning with the sole purpose of taming Dreamfyre.
She had finally mustered the courage—she couldn't let this opportunity slip away.
The elderly dragonkeeper paused briefly before bowing respectfully. "As you wish, Princess."
(End of Chapter)