Chapter 44: The Dragon Slayer Brotherhood
As Rhaegar was immersed in fire, devouring the kindling—
On the other side of the world, in Lys, within the Perfumed Gardens.
Lys enjoyed a warm, temperate climate and fertile land, filled with palm trees and fruit groves. In ancient times, it had been a favored retreat of the Valyrian Dragonlords. Now, however, it was infamous for its bed slaves and poisons.
The Perfumed Gardens had once been the private estate of House Rogare, though that glory belonged to the past.
Power struggles in the Free Cities—especially in places like Lys—were no less brutal than those in Westeros.
Many Archons of Lys had met untimely ends.
After Lysandro Rogare, the first Archon of Lys for life, fell like the setting sun, no later Archon ever again dared to pursue absolute power. Rumors claimed that the Faceless Men of Braavos had murdered Lysandro, for Braavos tolerated no rising hegemon in Essos.
In a hidden chamber deep within the gardens, there were no bed slaves—neither male nor female—only a group of masked figures.
None revealed their faces, yet from their accents and hair it was clear they hailed from different Free Cities.
The Lyseni bore pale skin, silver-gold hair, and blue eyes—beautiful, slender people ill-suited to heavy labor, and thus the greatest slaveholders.
The Myrish resembled the Rhoynar, with dark hair, dark eyes, and olive skin.
The most flamboyant were the Tyroshi, their hair dyed bright colors, green being the most common, their beards oiled and styled beneath wide hats.
There were also visitors with Braavosi accents, and others harder to place.
Yet all shared one thing in common.
Each wore a badge upon their chest, engraved with words:
"The Dragon Is Dead."
Upon the far wall hung a banner:
In a cavern deep among the hills, a golden-armored warrior with wild hair and beard drove a spear through the eye of a black dragon. Blood poured from its skull and pooled upon the stone as the dragon fell. Victory belonged to the slayer.
"My blood of blood, my iron of iron, united to slay the dragon."
"My blood of blood, my iron of iron, united to slay the dragon!"
The chant echoed through the chamber.
"I trust you have all heard the news from the Citadel," said the man at the head of the table. He wore a silver mask and silver robes, his accent Lyseni, though his hair was dyed in Tyroshi fashion.
"The glass candles flickered—if only briefly. Someone is meddling with magic. Perhaps the dragonspawn in King's Landing have begun another bout of madness."
"Grave news," someone muttered.
"Lys has never loved dragons, nor those who call themselves Dragonlords."
"Nor Tyrosh."
"Nor Braavos."
They were bound by a single creed: a world without dragons.
When dragons ruled the skies, Essos burned. Cities fell. Blood soaked the seas.
"But this is an overreaction," said a Myrish voice coldly.
"When dragons ruled, we fought them. When they died, we endured. We have crossbows. We have poison. We have assassins. The dragons are gone—what reason have we to panic over a Maester's candle?"
A Lysene scoffed.
"Do you forget who slew a dragon at the Battle of the Gullet? It was under Lysene command that Prince Jacaerys Velaryon fell. You Myrish hide behind bolts and gears like rats in the dark."
"Curse you, Lysene dog!" the Myrish man roared.
"I wonder if your mother worked these gardens as well!"
The meeting instantly soured.
Old hatred resurfaced—Lys against Myr, Myr against Tyrosh.
During the Dance of the Dragons, the Triarchy had bled heavily. Once the dragons were gone, unity shattered, leaving only resentment.
"Silence."
The silver-masked man struck the table and produced a relic: a darkened crossbow bolt.
"This bolt tasted dragon blood," he said calmly.
"It struck Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, heir to Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen. His dragon Vermax was blinded and fell screaming into the sea. The prince followed soon after—shot through the neck while clinging to wreckage."
The room fell quiet.
"Remember why we exist," the man continued.
"To ensure dragons never return. To erase not only dragons, but the blood that summons them."
"But rumors are not cause for war," a Lysene objected.
"And your focus is flawed. The Iron Throne is weak. Aegon V Targaryen burned at Summerhall. Without dragons, they are nothing."
"Exactly," another agreed.
"Why provoke Westeros?"
"Because now is the moment," the silver-masked man said softly.
"The Targaryens are few. Their blood is thin. With Tears of Lys, their line can end forever."
"You're mad," someone hissed.
"Fail, and Essos burns again."
"If the blood dies, the dragons die with it."
"But dragonseeds are scattered," a Braavosi voice countered calmly.
"Kill the royal line, and others remain. Dragons have slept a century."
"For now," the silver-masked man replied.
"When magic stirs, they will wake quickly."
Still, none moved.
The Free Cities were fractured by design—no dynasties, only elections and knives. Without dragons, most believed the threat long gone.
"If a dragon truly appears," the Braavosi scoffed,
"we will hire the Faceless Men."
"And if we act rashly, Westeros will unite against us."
In the end, the brotherhood dispersed in discord.
The silver-robed man watched them leave, smiling beneath his mask.
Cowards. Fat with comfort.
The Targaryens numbered scarcely more than half a dozen.
Poison. Steel. Shadows.
If they would not act—
He would.
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