The night was as black as spilled ink, with only a solitary, flickering lamp to pierce the gloom. Tyrosh lay shrouded in darkness, the sea breeze carrying the heavy scent of brine, drying fish, and the acrid tang of the dye vats.
Rhaegar sat across from the High Priest in a small, sparse room within the temple. On the rough wooden table between them sat a few platters of Tyroshi seafood—small fish and shrimp cured in coarse salt or lightly charred over a brazier—and a flagon of pear-honey water. The High Priest had shed his formal purple robes for a simple grey wool tunic.
For a commoner, this would be a feast; for a High Priest, it was practically asceticism. Like the High Sparrow of legend, this old man was a puritan, indifferent to fine silks or delicate meats. Such disciplined, god-fearing zealots were far harder to sway than the bloated, corrupt septons of King's Landing who traded piety for gold.
"Prince Rhaegar, please," the Priest invited.
"My thanks for the hospitality," Rhaegar replied. The food was simple but fresh, and he ate with genuine appetite, unbothered by the humble surroundings.
"You are a very different sort of Targaryen," the Priest remarked, watching him.
"Good food should never be wasted. The only thing in Tyrosh I struggle to finish is the garlic-honey sausage—it's far too greasy for my taste."
"It is easy to move from frugality to decadence, but the return journey is treacherous," the Priest sighed. "You were born to silk and sweets, yet you eat this old man's scraps without complaint. That is rare in a prince."
Rhaegar smiled thinly. The priest could not imagine a world without rigid hierarchies, but Rhaegar's mind was already elsewhere.
"You are not a simple child of nature, Prince. You are a man of many hungers. Humble on the outside, yet possessed of an ambition that refuses to kneel. The Dragonlords were always the favorites of the flame."
Rhaegar gave an embarrassed laugh. Dragonlords were born greedy—for kingdoms, for beauty, for legacy.
"May I ask your name, Holiness?" Rhaegar inquired.
"Like your High Septon, I have abandoned my name. To serve the God is to shed the world. In the streets, they call me 'Heavy-Brow.' I was an orphan raised by the temple—I had nothing, and I belonged to no one. The boys in the Tyroshi watch are the same: surplus sons of the poor, or the accidents of sailors and whores. The tides rise and fall; only the Trios answers our prayers."
Rhaegar fell silent. In this era, religion was the only social safety net for the desperate, which birthed these fiercely loyal warrior-priests. Yet, he wondered: Tyrosh had banks, but no universities. Why was all knowledge locked away in the Citadel? One day, he vowed, King's Landing would have both.
"I enjoy our talk, Prince Rhaegar. The young priests flatter me for my mitre; the young nobles fawn for my influence over the Archon. But you sit here as a friend without an agenda."
I want more than a noble's favor, Rhaegar thought. I want the whole city.
"Tell me," Rhaegar asked, "years ago, when Alequo Adarys the Silver-Tongued declared himself King, why did you not oppose him?"
The era of the Ninepenny Kings had seen Alequo depose the Archon and rule as a tyrant for six years until his queen poisoned him.
The Priest's thick brows furrowed. "Alequo was Tyroshi. He wanted a monarchy instead of an Archonship, but he did not let the city bleed out. I am an old man, not a warrior. I intervene only to prevent the slaughter of my people. I saw the sack of Myr, and the atrocities of your own family's Dance of the Dragons. I will not let Tyrosh become a ruin. Better a strong tyrant like Alequo than a pile of ash."
Rhaegar understood: a change in leadership was tolerable; the destruction of the city's strength was not.
"Then will you support the friendship between Tyrosh and the Iron Throne?"
"Must we choose?" the Priest asked, finishing his pear water. "Tyrosh will not dance with the Goddess of Desire from Lys, but we will not dance with your dragons either."
Rhaegar caught the meaning: the Priest would maintain Tyroshi neutrality. For Westeros, a neutral Tyrosh was victory enough.
"It won't be that simple," Rhaegar countered. "Tyrosh is the decisive piece. If it falls to me, Lys and Myr are finished. If it falls to them, the Kingdom of the Three Daughters is reborn. Tyrosh cannot choose between victory and defeat."
"Tyrosh feels a wind, but I know not its direction. Whoever wins my friendship shall have my aid," the Priest said cryptically.
Old fox, Rhaegar thought. The priest would only back the winner.
However, Rhaegar knew the Priest could not suppress every spark. Lys and Myr were determined to provoke the Archon. A single sermon could not restrain the gold flooding into the city.
"And if I bring a dragon?" Rhaegar asked.
"Then, Prince Rhaegar, you lose my friendship. I am a slave to the Trios and to Tyrosh. If a Targaryen dragon or a Lysene fleet appears in our harbor, I will call the faithful to the walls."
They ended the night on a precarious truce of understanding. Rhaegar remained in the small temple for several days, while the Priest turned away all other visitors, claiming illness.
In his guest quarters, Rhaegar summoned the [Fire Sight]. Blue flames danced over his palms, showing him glimpses of Magister Dario's palace. Without a drop of the Magister's blood, he could only see the exterior, but it was enough.
At dusk, he saw it.
Heavily armed mercenaries surged out of Dario's gates, galloping toward the Archon's residence.
Shireen—what of her? Rhaegar's heart tightened.
Suddenly, a cry went up in the streets, echoing even into the silent temple.
"The Archon is dead!"
"The Archon is dead!"
The shout was like boiling water poured over the city. War had begun. Rhaegar rushed to the Priest's room and found the old man looking ashen.
"How dare they? Who struck first? I will make these traitors pay!" the Priest roared.
"Worry for yourself first, Holiness!" Rhaegar urged. If Dario's faction was moving, they would kill the Priest to remove the only voice that could stop the coup.
A night of blood was coming to Tyrosh.
One hundred leagues away on Bloodstone, the dragons felt their master's sudden spike of adrenaline. They began to stir, their roars echoing through the Dragonroar Keep as they took to the sky, racing toward Tyrosh.