Rhaegar strolled leisurely through the streets of Tyrosh. The Tower of Sighs loomed over the harbor, and within the city stood the Fountain of the Drunken God.
At dawn, he had arrived in Tyrosh aboard a handsome Velaryon trading galley. The sailors and guards on the ship were all loyal and trustworthy; they would never leak the news that the prince had left the Stepstones.
He had come alone. Tyrosh lay so close to Bloodstone that a single call would be enough for his dragons to reach him. He had already ordered his men to treat the dragons well—sometimes they would fly over to hunt and play in the nearby seas.
Tyrosh was far larger than bustling Sunspear. It could not quite compare to King's Landing, but its population was almost on par. Tyrosh, Lys, and Myr—the Three Daughters—each had their own subject peoples and vassal towns.
Here, Rhaegar was no longer a prince of House Targaryen; he had become Justin the Piper, and a simple wooden flute was now his only instrument. A harp drew too much attention and was too cumbersome to carry; a flute was light and inconspicuous.
He did not go to see Shireen—she was undoubtedly already at the end of her rope. Gold from Myr and Lys was flooding in to bribe the Archon and the rich men, turning them against the regent. The entire city was boiling. Rhaegar could help her better from the shadows; no one knew that a true dragon had slipped into Tyrosh unseen.
He soon learned that the city had split into two factions. One was the opposition, nostalgic for the past: reunite the Three Daughters and fight the Westerosi Iron Throne. At its core stood the slavers, who colluded with pirates and mercenaries, living off the gold they wrung from Lys and Myr. The other faction wanted to maintain the status quo, led by the regent and his allies. Their fear of the other two Daughters outweighed even their fear of the Iron Throne. Ever since the Kingdom of the Three Daughters had fallen, intrigue, disputes, and war had become their eternal theme, with the cities raiding one another at sea.
Rhaegar wore soft blue calfskin boots, fine blue wool stockings, and a pale blue silk shirt. His hair was dyed to match his clothes, topped with a Tyroshi cap—though his hair was cut too short, making it look a bit odd.
In Westeros, blue hair would earn a boy a hail of stones and a girl mocking laughter. In Tyrosh, however, blue was common; the city embraced every possible color.
Tyroshi loved bright colors, dyeing their hair and beards blue, green, chestnut, pink, purple, scarlet, and vermilion. Sailors and merchants wore forked beards, while hundreds of vivid dyes from the city's vats were shipped to distant markets.
Rhaegar's gaze was drawn to the inner wall—cast from black dragonstone. Tyrosh had once been a Valyrian outpost, and the Black Wall was its proudest relic. Volantis, Valyria's first daughter, possessed even grander walls. The evil and mighty Old Valyria was gone, but its remains still scarred the world.
Ships came and went from every corner of the world, laden with Tyroshi dyes and pear brandy.
Rhaegar wandered through the bustling streets of this ruthless trade city: noisy, pragmatic, and cruel. In contrast, Lorath, Qohor, and Norvos had all risen from faith—Norvos with its bearded priests, Qohor with its grim black goat. The Three Daughters shared a similar spiritual core: Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. Though the Lyseni resembled the Valyrians and the Myrish resembled the Rhoynar, the three cities mirrored each other in history, customs, politics, language, and commerce. All were slave-based trading hubs that valued coin over blood, trusted mercenaries over citizens, and elected archons or councils to rule. Lys and Myr had their own councils of Governors; Tyrosh elected its Archon from a similar body. All of them felt closer to dead Valyria than to Westeros.
And yet, Rhaegar thought, Westeros had one merit: it did not tolerate slavery on such a vast scale. He watched the people in the streets—pitiful souls. Someday, slavery would end.
Still, Rhaegar's keen eye noted subtle differences among the Three Daughters. Tyrosh, as a military outpost, radiated a harder edge. The Ninepenny Kings had only ever seized Tyrosh—something unthinkable in the other two cities. Even after their army's defeat on the Stepstones, the silver-tongued Alequo Adarys still ruled Tyrosh as a tyrant for six years, until he was finally poisoned by his queen.
His gaze slid over exotic temples and gardens, over chattering mercenaries, slaves, and hawkers. He ignored the men and women who winked at him in passing. Eventually, he chose a tavern near the Fountain of the Drunken God—well-located, clean, and decently kept—and quietly ordered his meal.
The food of the Daughter Cities was nothing to boast of. Tyrosh's signature dish was honey-garlic-chili sausage—acceptable in moderation, but cloying in excess. The drinks, however, were good: pear brandy, firewine, pepper liqueur.
In the din and heat of Tyrosh, Rhaegar savored flavors utterly different from those of Westeros.
He ordered honey-garlic-chili sausage, sweet-roasted sea fish, and a cup of honeyed pear water; he rarely drank wine when at leisure.
The hottest topic in the tavern, unsurprisingly, was Tyrosh's turmoil—the entire city had become a pot at full boil.
With Westerosi dragons on the Iron Throne, Tyrosh's value had soared; every faction wanted a piece. From the gossip, Rhaegar pieced together that Princess Shireen was under tremendous pressure. The struggle among the "Three Princesses" was as bloody and merciless as everything else in the Three Daughters.
"Why won't the Archon go to war with the Westerosi?" a fat slaver bellowed. "Have we proud Tyroshi forgotten the days when the Three Daughters stood side by side? If this goes on, I won't be able to buy slaves from Westeros!"
"That wasn't three daughters, it was thirty-three stubborn mules, each trying to pull ahead and grab more," an older Tyroshi replied coolly. "What was so great about those days?"
"You're all cowards—afraid of some upstart Targaryen brat and his three dragons!" the loudest slaver shouted.
"Are you going to fight him yourself?" someone shot back. "No? Then of course you're not afraid of dragonfire. War means hiring mercenaries and spending gold to buy more gold. Right now, the lanes are open, the coin is flowing, and life is good."
The argument raged on. Rhaegar listened to every word.
"Hey, handsome, sing us a song!" Two lounging Tyroshi mercenaries called over to him.
Even by Tyroshi standards, their outfits were outrageous—four or five colors at once. Their hair, lips, and forked beards were dyed blue, with the beard tips stained purple; their gaudy yellow coats were edged with Myrish lace, and their tight doublets were pinned with symbols of the goddess of desire, the Three-Headed God, and the Black Goat. They wore old-fashioned bronze knee-high boots.
"You two seem in good spirits—but my fee isn't cheap," Rhaegar said with a grin. From their build and gear, they looked like company officers, not common sellswords.
"What's your name? I've not seen you in this tavern before," the older one asked, curious.
"Justin the Piper, a wandering flutist," Rhaegar replied, still not rising from his seat. Even pipers had to eat.
"We'll cover your meal, and add this on top!" the younger mercenary joked, pulling out a tidy purse.
"For such a scrawny piper, you've eaten quite a bit," the older one remarked, eyeing Rhaegar's table with amusement.
It was true; runesmiths needed more fuel than most warriors. The mercenaries were paying well.
"In that case, I won't stand on ceremony," Rhaegar said, pocketing the coins without shame. He lifted his flute and began to play Until We Meet No More.
It was the perfect song for wanderers like them.
As the melancholy notes floated through the tavern, the two mercenaries continued discussing the looming Tyroshi civil war. The opposition had rallied around a powerful high mage, and for many mercenary bands, it was an opportunity too good to miss. Their own company, of middling size, was eager to test those waters.
When the last note faded, Rhaegar tucked away his flute and left the tavern.
Just as the song said, he vanished into the endless crowds of Tyrosh.