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The heart of the city of Myr, within the Grand Magister's palace, where the High Council had convened not long ago.
Jacaerys lounged brazenly in the central seat, his posture unruly and devoid of decorum. Behind him stood Stone and Rudy, silent yet imposing.
Dozens of Unsullied warriors lined the halls of the palace, stationed at every corner. None were permitted to enter without their leave.
Jacaerys said nothing. His silence weighed heavily on the chamber. Magister Moser and the ten other magisters dared not take their seats. They exchanged uneasy glances, like anxious servants before a mercurial master, standing still and awaiting his word.
"I will not waste time with unnecessary words," Jacaerys finally spoke, his voice calm but sharp, slicing through the tension like a blade. "From this day forward, Myr is part of my kingdom."
The moment the words left his lips, the ten magisters reacted at once. Expressions shifted. Eyes darted. They leaned toward one another, whispering frantically under their breath.
Magister Moser noticed their murmurs. He opened his mouth, perhaps to interject or calm the others, but ultimately closed it again. He was a man who understood when to hold his ground, though there would always be those who could not.
A portly, middle-aged magister stepped forward from the group. He wore a white turban and his belly protruded prominently beneath his fine robes. His face bore an eager smile, though it was strained by fear.
"Your Grace, we did indeed choose to surrender," the man began, his tone attempting to be respectful yet firm. "But that does not mean Myr must be absorbed into your kingdom. We are prepared to become your vassals. If the reparations we have offered do not satisfy you, we are willing to negotiate. Gold, beautiful women, slave soldiers, even large warships—anything may be given as compensation. We can become your greatest ally.
"From this day on, every merchant ship passing through the Stepstones to reach Westeros shall pay a maintenance fee to you based on the value of its cargo. Believe me, this will amount to wealth beyond imagination."
Jacaerys chuckled softly. "What is your name…?" he began, but immediately waved his hand dismissively. "No matter. It's not important."
He turned slightly and gave Rudy a look, a signal heavy with unspoken command.
Click! Click! Click!
Rudy stepped forward, each footfall steady and unhurried.
SLASH!
In a single, fluid motion, Rudy's blade tore through the man's neck with precise finality.
Hiss…
Blood surged from the magister's throat like a violent fountain, splattering across the stone floor.
Sigh…
Screams erupted from the others. One magister cried out in horror, while others reeled back, faces twisted in shock and fear.
Magister Moser only sighed and shook his head, a trace of helplessness flickering across his face. The remaining nine magisters stood frozen, their expressions gripped by raw fear.
"I do not think you truly understand," Jacaerys said, his voice cold as cracking ice. "This is not a business negotiation. You either become part of my kingdom, or you will burn like Tyrosh."
"Your Grace, we are willing! We are ready to become a part of your kingdom!" Moser responded instantly, his voice clear and steady.
"Yes, yes, so are we!" the others quickly chimed in, nodding fervently.
Now that the stick had struck, it was time for the carrot.
Jacaerys smiled, pleased with their submission. "Excellent. The ten of you shall remain as administrators of this city. I will not touch your personal wealth. And when I conquer Lys and Volantis in the future, I shall entrust those cities to your governance as well.
"However," he continued, his tone darkening slightly, "aside from the regular taxes you shall pay to me from Myr, you are to form a dragon-slaying force every month—no fewer than two thousand men."
"A dragon-slaying force?" Governor Moser blinked in disbelief. His voice trembled with confusion.
"Yes," Jacaerys replied. "Regardless of the means you use, every month, you must send a group of two thousand individuals who harbor hatred toward me. They will be sent to Lanark Island, to face the dragon… and me."
"Your Grace, assembling a force of that size each month should not pose a problem," Moser said cautiously after a moment of thought. "But… how are we to ensure these men bear hatred toward you?"
Jacaerys did not respond at once. Instead, he began to walk toward Moser.
Gulp.
The magister's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. He stood paralyzed as Jacaerys approached, his heart pounding.
He now deeply regretted having spoken at all. The corpse of the last man who had dared speak still lay nearby, the blood still slowly spreading.
"Give me your hand," Jacaerys commanded.
Trembling, Moser extended his left hand.
CRACK!
A sickening snap echoed through the chamber.
Jacaerys had grabbed Moser's index finger and twisted it back one hundred and eighty degrees until it lay flat against the back of his hand.
Muffled groans spilled from Moser's lips. He bit down hard, enduring the searing pain without a scream.
Jacaerys nodded, satisfied. "Tell me, Magister Morsel. Do you hate me?"
Still clutching his broken finger with his right hand, Moser shook his head repeatedly. "No, Your Grace, of course not!"
Jacaerys chuckled. "It's not that you do not hate me. It's that you do not dare to hate me, because you are afraid. But deep in your heart, the hatred has already begun to grow, hasn't it?"
He turned his gaze to the others, his eyes gleaming with wicked insight.
"Pain and hatred—these are the simplest seeds of resentment. You may also tell those conscripts this: if they fail to slay either the dragon or me, I will unleash my dragon upon their families. Let them see the fire and understand the price."
"Yes, Your Grace," Moser replied, his voice trembling. "We will do everything in our power to organize this force."
"No. You still do not understand," Jacaerys said coldly.
He reached out and lightly patted Magister Moser's cheek. Then, his gaze swept slowly across the remaining nine governors. His voice was calm, yet laced with chilling certainty.
"This task is more important than anything else in Myr. If you fail to satisfy me, I will destroy this city just as I destroyed Tyrosh."
The weight of his words, spoken with such unwavering conviction, turned the atmosphere in the magister's palace to ice.
Moser and the others exchanged uneasy glances. Their eyes flickered, betraying the storm of fear and calculation brewing within.
The air in the palace had grown heavy and suffocating, like the stillness before a storm.
Then, all at once, Jacaerys broke into a sudden peal of laughter, loud and reckless, as if he had just pulled off a particularly cruel jest.
"Ha ha ha! Tell me… do you feel hatred now?"
He looked at them one by one, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous glint.
"Remember these methods. Use them well to help me raise my dragon-slaying force. That is all. You may leave."
Magister Moser forced out a dry laugh, attempting to match the King's mood.
"Ah… ha… Your Grace, then we shall take our leave."
The others echoed him in awkward unison, performing shallow chuckles, then turned and departed the palace without delay.
But the moment they stepped out, the forced smiles faded from their faces like snow melting under a harsh sun. None of them truly believed that Jacaerys had been joking.
His cruelty, his bloodlust, his utter contempt for diplomacy were no longer whispers or rumors.
In the span of a few brief moments, the image of Jacaerys as a ruthless, volatile, and dangerously unpredictable ruler had taken root deep in the hearts of the ten magisters. Already, some of them were beginning to regret ever choosing to surrender.
What they did not realize, however, was that the moment they exited the hall, Jacaerys discarded his façade like a mask.
There was no choice but to put on a show. The number of "trait points" he could harvest had become increasingly scarce.
Even after slaughtering nearly a hundred thousand people in Tyrosh, he had only managed to gain around seventy thousand trait points. The conversion rate was pitifully low, not even a tenth of the casualties.
By forcing Magister Moser and his peers to deliver two thousand men each month as dragon slayers, he could ensure a steady flow of twenty thousand trait points per month.
These desperate men, when faced with death, would resort to any means necessary. Let them handle the dirty work. All he needed to do was sit back and reap the rewards.
The terrifying persona he portrayed as a mad tyrant who burned cities and crushed opposition without hesitation served a single purpose. It was to generate more trait points.
Daenerys had tried to rule Meereen in peace and prosperity, yet she was still betrayed by the noble families she spared.
If he took on the role of a city-destroying madman, would the magisters of Myr not eventually betray him too?
And when they did, when their daggers inevitably turned against him, they would be delivering those precious trait points right into his hands.
Just imagining the influx of points made Jacaerys burn with anticipation.
The day after Myr's surrender, Jacaerys entrusted the administration of both Lanark Island and the affairs of Myr to Stone.
He then ordered Rudy to return to Astapor, carrying with him the wealth seized from Tyrosh and Myr, to purchase more Unsullied soldiers.
As for Jacaerys himself, he climbed atop Vermax and took to the skies, beginning his journey back to Dragonstone.
Now that he possessed the Gluttonous (Purple) trait, it was time to make full use of its effects. Vermax needed to devour high-grade lifeforms to enter a phase of explosive growth.
Lys and Volantis might have chosen to cease hostilities for now out of fear of wildfire pitch, hoping to recover and strengthen their forces.
But what they did not realize was that Jacaerys grew stronger with each passing day.
By the time he returned from Dragonstone, Vermax would bring with him a surprise so grand, it would shake the world.
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[Chapter End's]
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