While Rhaegar bathed in fire, devouring the kindling of power, on the other side of the world, in Lys, there sat a Perfumed Garden.
Lys enjoyed a cool climate and fertile soil, teeming with palms and fruit trees. In ancient times, it had been a summer resort for the dragonlords. Today, however, it was famous for two things: slaves and poison.
The Perfumed Garden had once been the private domain of House Rogare, but that was history now.
The power struggles in a Free City like Lys were as brutal as any in Westeros.
Many Magisters met untimely ends.
After the fall of Rhaegar's maternal ancestor, Lysandro the Magnificent, the first First Magister for Life, no subsequent Magister of Lys had ever again harbored ambitions of dictatorship. Rumor had it the Faceless Men of Braavos had murdered Lysandro, for Braavos would not tolerate another dominant power rising in Essos.
In a secret chamber somewhere within the Garden, there were no slaves, male or female. Only a group of masked figures. None showed their faces. Yet, from their hair colors and accents, one could tell these masked men hailed from different city-states.
The Lyseni possessed blue eyes, platinum-blonde curly hair, and smooth, fair skin. Slender and unsuited for heavy labor, they were the quintessential slave masters. The Myrmen, by contrast, closely resembled the Rhoynar, with dark hair, dark eyes, and olive skin.
Most striking were the Tyroshi, with their green hair and distinctive hats. Tyroshi loved bright colors, dyeing their hair and beards in garish hues. Of course, there were also visitors speaking with Braavosi accents and others.
Their only commonality was the badge pinned to the chest of every masked figure: "The Dragon is Dead."
A banner hung on the chamber wall: inside a cave deep within a hill, a warrior in golden armor, his beard and hair wild with fury, pierced an evil black dragon with a spear. Blood gushed from the dragon's eye socket, pooling on the ground. The dragonslayer stood triumphant over the beast.
"My blood is linked, my iron is cast; we are one, solely to slay the dragon."
"My blood is linked, my iron is cast; united we slay the dragon!" the crowd chanted in unison.
"I assume you all know the news from the Citadel. The glass candles flickered and died, signaling someone is attempting to revive magic. Perhaps the dragonspawn in King's Landing have begun another mad experiment," said the leader. He wore a silver mask and silver robes, with multi-colored hair, speaking with a Lyseni accent.
But none of the visitors knew his true origin; his accent was Lyseni, his hair Tyroshi, and his dress like a foreign traveler.
"Bad news indeed. The Lyseni do not like dragons, and they certainly don't like those arrogant peacocks who call themselves dragonlords."
"The Tyroshi feel the same."
"Nor do the Braavosi."
They were united by a single will: to eliminate dragons and create a world without them. When dragons had raged, they brought years of bloody slaughter to Essos.
The Kingdom of the Three Daughters had fought House Targaryen, defeating the dragonlords multiple times and even killing members of the royal family.
"But this feels like an overreaction. Summoning us for such a trifle? We didn't fear the dragonlords when they had dragons, let alone now. We have scorpions; we have assassins. Now that dragons are thoroughly extinct, there's no need for such tension. Perhaps it's just false information from the Citadel. You know the maesters spread countless lies," a Myrish visitor replied coldly.
"I hope you remember that when you killed that dragon in the Battle of the Gullet, it was under the command of our Lyseni admiral. You Myrmen just fiddled with crossbows; flies hiding in dark corners," the Lyseni visitor sneered.
"Fuck you, Lyseni dog. I wonder if your mother serves as comfortably as those bed-slaves in the Perfumed Garden," the Myrish visitor exploded, shouting curses.
The situation turned ugly fast. What was supposed to be a gathering of the Brotherhood of Dragon Slayers devolved into insults between visitors from Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr, the Three Daughters.
During the Dance of the Dragons, the Kingdom of the Three Daughters had suffered heavy losses. Later, seeing that most dragons were dead, they began to squabble among themselves, eventually falling apart. The hatred persisted to this day.
"Silence!" "Silence!" The visitor in silver robes rapped on the table and pulled a crossbow bolt from his robes.
"This bolt was once stained with dragon blood. It belonged to Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, son of Queen Rhaenyra and heir to the Iron Throne. The young dragon Vermax was shot in the eye and crashed into the sea; the prince leaped from the dragon's back, clinging to wreckage, only to be pierced through the neck by a crossbow bolt. Poor child, poor dragon," the silver-masked visitor said, raising the bolt as if displaying a precious trophy.
Everyone remembered those scenes: the smoke of war on the sea, the turbulent waves, the prince clinging to the smoking, shattered ship, blood flowing like a stream, prince and dragon dying together without hesitation.
"Do not forget, we gathered here for one purpose only: to exterminate dragons, and incidentally, the evil dragonseeds. To stop dragons from returning and destroying all we possess. Should dragonseeds be superior simply because dragons exist?"
As the silver-masked visitor's words fell, the room went silent.
"That being said, we cannot act rashly based on a rumor from the Citadel," the Lyseni muttered. "Besides, Leader, you have the wrong focus. Our main goal back then was to slay dragons. Dragons are long extinct; what is there to fear from that iron chair in King's Landing?"
"Exactly. Without dragons, dragonlords are nothing to fear. Aegon V burned himself to death years ago; why should we bother?" the Myrman agreed.
"But the dragon bloodline is at its weakest now. With just the Tears of Lys, we could exterminate the dragonspawn completely. The dragonlords are neither warriors nor strategists. If we are to strike, now is the best time, better even than during the Dance of the Dragons." The silver-robed visitor stared at the tip of the bolt, eyes glinting cold. The royal family was few in number; it was the time to act.
"Are you mad, my lord? We cannot act on a maester's misjudgment. If we fail, the dragonlords will wage a fierce war. War will break out again." The others were stunned; the plan was madness, the risk extreme.
"As long as the legitimate Targaryen dragonseeds are wiped out, dragons cannot be revived. It is a permanent solution," the silver-robed man insisted, trying to rally morale.
"Why such fuss? Your plan won't work anyway. Dragonseeds are scattered all over the world. Even if you kill the Targaryens, there are others. Dragons have been gone a hundred years and haven't revived; the Brotherhood need not worry." The visitor from Braavos was the calmest, for they were the strongest.
"Now is our best chance. Once the number of dragons increases and magic surges, they can revive quickly." The silver-robed visitor was the most hardline, struggling to convince the others.
The organization of the Free Cities remained too loose, rife with internal conflict. Since power was not hereditary, there were no lasting dynasties. The Sealord of Braavos, the Prince of Pentos, and the Magisters of Lys were all elected or selected, which only intensified internal strife.
The dragonlords had no dragons to dance with, and the Brotherhood members cared more about their own power struggles than fighting paper tigers. Many believed dragons were extinct and the Brotherhood's mission was effectively over.
"I think we should calm down and not be superstitious like those castle plotters. If a real dragon appears, we can hire a Faceless Man to deal with it," the Braavosi snorted, proud and provocative. What did the Sealord have to fear?
"True. House Targaryen still has the people's support. If we truly wipe them out, whoever does it will face the wrath of Westeros."
"We just need to add fuel to the fire. Dragonlords are born mad; better to push them to lose the people's hearts and destroy themselves."
In the end, no one was willing to take action against King's Landing, and the meeting ended in discord.
The silver-robed man looked around the room. Instead of anger, a faint smile surfaced in his heart. Still nothing. They all thought that without dragons, House Targaryen was no threat, their power gone.
But this is a golden opportunity! The royal family numbers only six or seven people, weak and vulnerable. A few assassins, some poison, and it would be done.
But these idlers... their comfortable lives, fine wine, and beautiful women will eventually lead them to ruin.
Let them squabble.
If you don't act today, there will be no chance tomorrow. When the dragon returns, you will die more miserably than anyone.
Since none of you are willing to do it, what do I have to fear doing it alone?
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