"All of you, leave! I wish to be alone; the Fountain of the Drunken God loathes the scent of the blood and fire you leave behind." The High Priest swept his heavy purple robes, scaring both factions into a hasty retreat.
The Archon of Tyrosh and Magister Dario led their men away, their eyes smoldering with hatred. They carried their fallen mercenaries under a Tyroshi sky that seemed stained with gore. Both harbored a desire to drown the city in a sea of blood, yet neither dared defy the authority of the High Priest of the Trios. Even when he called upon the faithful to lay down their arms, they were powerless to resist; the weight of faith proved stronger than gold or steel.
"Whether we speak it or not, each of us still carries a deep love for our motherland." The Priest pulled a cloth from his robe and began to gently wipe the blood from the stones.
The street of the Fountain fell silent. No one dared disturb the High Priest; only the metallic tang of blood and the salt of the sea breeze remained. He scrubbed the stones with pious devotion, ladling water from the fountain to rinse the stains. "One of the three heads is Death—no one escapes its grasp."
As the water splashed, he spoke without looking up. "You have watched long enough—come out!" He dried a stone and addressed a deep shadow in the corner.
A piper stepped into the light. "You saw me," Rhaegar noted.
"Young man, there is no need for fear. I possess neither magic nor mastery of the blade—I have only the alertness granted by the Trios to those who offer daily, sincere prayer."
Rhaegar studied him: there was no trace of danger about the man. His life-fire was as thin as a candle flame, but his eyes were clear and brimming with ancient wisdom.
The Trios, Rhaegar thought of his [Golden Three-Headed Eagle] flame. Only its blessing could have granted him such heightened vigilance.
"Young man, you are no piper; you are of the dragon-blood of House Targaryen."
Rhaegar remained silent. The old priest's mind was sharp. Even in a fading world, fragments of magic remained, and some still knew how to grasp them. In Rhaegar's view, the Faceless Men held the deepest arts of concealment, but this priest saw through his "Justin" persona with unsettling ease.
The High Priest scrubbed until every stain was purged. Rhaegar could not help but admire such single-minded devotion.
As the night turned obsidian, they walked toward a weathered temple of the Trios. Outside stood small, archaic statues of the deity.
"Why is it so dilapidated?" Rhaegar asked. He saw the desolate shrine, guarded by a squad of dull-eyed, muscular soldiers in purple cloaks, pacing with spears and torches.
"Faith lives in the heart, not in the stone," the Priest replied. "And as for them—they have given their voices and lives to the God. Whether deaf or mute, they obey without question and leak no secrets."
Slave-soldiers of the faith, Rhaegar mused. Every temple has them—the Norvoshi axemen, the Warrior's Sons, the Poor Fellows. He felt a flicker of gratitude toward Maegor the Cruel and Jaehaerys the Conciliator for disbanding such orders in Westeros; otherwise, they would still be a knife at the throat of the Crown.
Inside a hidden alcove, Rhaegar found a wall crowded with small idols of the Trios, layered over centuries. Their forms shifted through history, eventually settling into the three-headed figure worshipped today in Tyrosh.
"My vigilance comes from the Eagle God; I feel its resonance in you as well, Prince. The Three-Headed Eagle was the first of all the Trios." He pointed to the highest idol: a weather-worn, green-bronze three-headed eagle.
From that relic, Rhaegar felt a surge of ancient, steadfast piety—the devotion to the First God.
"In the beginning," the Priest recounted, "the faith of the Trios originated with a small tribe in Essos. They worshipped the Three-Headed Eagle, who watched over them. They forged a golden eagle statue that grew in legend until it sparked the greed of the Valyrian Dragonlords. The Dragonlords of House Belaerys destroyed the tribe and seized the golden eagle. The survivors could not resist; their priests fell in battle. In exile, the rituals of the Eagle faded into secrecy. Only later did the faith evolve into the Trios we see now."
The Priest lifted the bronze eagle and chanted: "Great Eagle God, the beginning of all things."
"Do the gods truly exist?" Rhaegar asked, skepticism clear in his voice. If the Eagle were so mighty, how did the dragons crush it into dust?
"Gods are like magic; they dwell in the hearts of men. If you believe, they are real. If the gods were as manifest as kings, there would be no blasphemers in the world. You, Prince Rhaegar, should understand this better than I. Your own ancestors were the ultimate blasphemers—the Dragonlords who set themselves above the divine."
"You mean to say divine power waxes and wanes with the fervor of the believers? The more devoted the followers, the more likely a miracle?" Rhaegar pressed.
"It is my theory. In Westeros, the Seven have the most followers, yet they rarely show their hand. In the distant corners, miracles still manifest. The blood of the First Men is old, tied to legendary gods or heroes. The Starks carry this blood; they may become skinchangers. The Ironborn believe the blood of the Drowned God and the Storm God flows in the sea-beasts and the skinchangers among them. The gods seem to favor the blood."
Faith and Blood. Rhaegar weighed the words. Magic was bound to them. High lineages like the Starks birthed skinchangers. Devoted priests awakened sorcery.
"But it was the Dragonlords who destroyed the Eagle-folk," Rhaegar said, curious about the priest's calm. "Do you not hate them?"
"All is the will of the God. Had the Eagle-folk not fallen, the Trios would not have flourished here. Every path is directed; every choice is determined."
The Priest's eyes shimmered as he looked at Rhaegar. "After so long, the flame of the original Three-Headed Eagle can finally be relit. It is destiny. Perhaps you are the favored of the Trios, its shield in the world of men—the world's lucky son and savior."
Rhaegar waved a hand dismissively, unsettled by the old man's talk. "Spare me the halo." He harbored no affection for any deity. If an Eagle God existed, it wouldn't have watched its own golden image be melted down.
"Perhaps," Rhaegar replied vaguely. "May I examine the idol?"
He touched the green bronze. It was the root of all the three-headed imagery, the purest source of the faith.
[Explorer: Congratulations—You have discovered the original idol of the Three-Headed Eagle God; the Eagle's blessing is now purer.]
Rhaegar felt his senses sharpen further. He could sense danger within a specific radius before it even manifested.
"Prince, you have gained the favor of the Trios. It took me thirty years to earn the God's protection; you have done so in a single night."
Rhaegar said nothing, though he knew it was because he carried the [Fire Seed].
"You could choose to trust the Trios," the Priest suggested. "You could even send your younger sons or bastards to be raised in our temple. I do not interfere in politics, but most Tyroshi are my believers; I could summon a million soldiers with a single word."
"Thank you, but Dragonlords do not believe in gods," Rhaegar said coldly.
The Priest laughed. "Truly a descendant of blasphemers. Believe me, I am not the first priest to seek you out, nor will I be the last. Out of goodwill for the original Eagle, I will let you go. The servants of other gods—like R'hllor—are far more fanatical than I."
"I will not force you, Prince. For now, we are merely friends."
"That is enough," Rhaegar's voice was like iron. "Tyrosh needs my help, and you, priest, do not wish to see it bleed. Let us focus on the war, not the altar."