Rhaegar wandered the streets of Tyrosh under the alias "Justin the Piper."
Tyrosh was a fortress city encased in massive walls, anchored at the northeast corner of the Stepstones. Its inner curtain wall was a marvel of fused black dragonstone, a legacy of Old Valyria. It was a bitter irony that modern Targaryens knew nothing of this craft. They were "illiterate" Dragonlords, descendants of a lesser branch that had lacked the core sorceries of the Freehold's zenith. Every time Rhaegar looked at Tyrosh, he was reminded of Sunspear across the water; the two cities were neighbors in geography but worlds apart in wealth. Had the Dornish not forsaken their fleet, Sunspear might have rivaled this splendor. The connection remained, however; for generations, the scions of Tyroshi Archons had been fostered in the Water Gardens of Dorne.
The Tyroshi were famous for being loud, flamboyant, and greedy. Rhaegar's blue attire allowed him to blend in, appearing merely as another exceptionally handsome and vibrant youth in a city of peacocks.
He observed the religious landscape. Like most Free Cities—save for the theocracies of Norvos and Qohor—Tyrosh practiced total religious freedom. The Trios of Tyrosh dwelt in a three-towered temple; one head devoured the dead and another brought the newborn, but the meaning of the middle head remained a mystery. Beside them were the followers of R'hllor.
The Red Priests kindled their night-fires, their rhythmic chants echoing through the plazas. Their robes were edged in yellow flame-satin, their prayers a desperate plea for light against the "long night" and the monsters that dwelt in the dark.
Rhaegar felt only disdain for these zealots. He was immune to most magic; what use had he for their gods? He detested them all—the Trios, the Seven, the Red God, and the Black Goat.
He was far more interested in hunting for "dragonseed" or any trace of the Blackfyre line. Daemon Blackfyre's wife had been Rohanne of Tyrosh, a noblewoman of high standing. When Bittersteel fled Westeros with Daemon's widow and surviving sons after the Redgrass Field, they had sought refuge here. Rohanne had been incredibly fertile, mothering seven sons and many daughters, most of whom reached adulthood—a feat of survival that ensured the Blackfyre threat would loom over the "Red Dragons" for a century. Rhaegar did not believe the line was truly extinct; he needed to find the sword Blackfyre and the truth of its heirs.
However, being too handsome was a distinct liability. Mercenary recruiters and "pleasure garden" owners constantly tried to poach him. The former saw a potential warrior; the latter promised that with his eyes and heroic face, he could become their most popular attraction even if he were a mute.
Rhaegar grew weary of the attention. He ignored the polite ones but dealt harsh beatings to the aggressive. Word soon spread of a wandering piper who was as cold and ruthless as he was beautiful. To maintain his anonymity, Rhaegar commissioned a Tyroshi smith to forge him a decorative silver mask—a common enough accessory in a city that loved ornate, bird-and-beast shaped helms.
He became the "Silver Fool," the "Silver Piper," the "Silver Flash of Tyrosh." If Shireen had guessed his identity, she remained hidden, likely buried under the weight of governance.
The city's internal schism was reaching a breaking point. Sellswords roamed like a rising gale, and the friction between old and new factions sparked into open violence.
"Lies! All lies!" a fat slaver with a forked blue beard roared in front of the Temple of Trios. "The treaty is a sham! Our Archon sold the Stepstones to the Westerosi! He is a puppet of dragons and fire! He is unfit to rule Tyrosh!"
The Tyroshi slavers were a desperate, fanatic breed, even venturing beyond the Wall to kidnap wildlings for coin. The Iron Throne's control of the shipping lanes had strangled their profits.
"Nonsense!" another Tyroshi with a purple beard retorted. "Have you forgotten the trade wars with Lys? What good is siding with them? The Lysene infested our fleet and left our widows cursing their names! Peace is better. The Stepstones are a wasteland fit only for pirates."
"Traitor!" the slaver shrieked, and the two began to brawling in the dirt.
Rhaegar watched with clinical interest. The slavers and pirates naturally wanted the Stepstones reopened to anarchy. The legitimate merchants, however, preferred the stability of the Archon's alliance with the Iron Throne.
The "Tyroshi Free-for-All" had begun. Incited by Lysene and Myrish gold, the city dissolved into a cycle of brawls, kidnappings, and assassinations. Rhaegar looked at the sky and felt as though the city were being bathed in blood-red light.
"War! War! We want war!" Near the Fountain of the Drunken God, a massive mob surged toward the Archon's palace.
At the front was Magister Dario, a high-ranking official and the Archon's chief rival. With neon-blue hair and a flared beard, he stood in ochre robes, screaming for blood. Dario had lost the last election and was now shamelessly using Lysene subsidies to incite a coup. Behind him were fellow magisters, disgruntled investors, and the heads of various slave-trading syndicates. Rhaegar even spotted Lysene and Myrish "merchants" in the crowd—the architects of the chaos.
"Brother, aren't you going to join in? They're paying for every throat that shouts," a mercenary whispered to Rhaegar.
"No," Rhaegar replied, shaking his head. He knew the Archon wouldn't remain passive.
"The Archon's Guard!" someone screamed.
A column of three or four hundred guardsmen charged into the plaza. They wore silver plate and helmets shaped like fantastic beasts, carrying longswords and crossbows. These were the Archon's personal retainers, paid directly from his private coffers.
"Disperse!" the captain shouted, his men hammering their swords against their shields. They formed a solid wall of steel and began to push.
Magister Dario did not flinch. He stripped off his silken outer robe to reveal a suit of fine mail. His personal mercenaries stepped forward, drawing steel to meet the guards.
The civil war had moved from the shadows to the streets.