Three magical dragons circled high above, their piercing shrieks echoing across the sky before they slowly descended into the ash.
Rhaegar surveyed the collapsed ruins of Magister Dario's estate. Pockets of stubborn fire still danced among the shattered stones and charred beams. The destruction mirrored a miniature cataclysm, though the structural stonework remained largely intact. His gaze lingered on the blackened masonry, a silent comparison to the melted, twisted towers of Harrenhal forming in his mind. Dragonfire could reduce men to ash, but pure stone withstood the heat far better. Even Balerion the Black Dread had only managed to warp and melt Harrenhal's massive stones, not vaporize them entirely. For three hatchlings, the devastation they had wrought was staggering. In past eras, dragons under ten years of age rarely survived active combat. Yet, bolstered by runic magic, his young dragons possessed a lethality far beyond their size.
The dragons had strafed the estate repeatedly, turning the grounds into scorched earth. Blinding dragonfire had purged every corner of Dario's final stand, from the reception hall to the study, the kitchens, the granaries, and the stables. Dario had shown a sliver of foresight, having dismissed his servants beforehand. Only his most die-hard loyalists lay among the ash, their bodies locked in final, agonizing poses.
Rhaegar had not strictly needed to sweep the city with fire; a war of attrition would have sufficed. But the looming arrival of the Meereenese fleet demanded a swift, brutal end to the rebellion, a tactical necessity agreed upon by both Acting Archon Shireen and the High Priest.
"Fire brings warmth, but also ruin," Rhaegar murmured, his boots crunching over the blackened debris as he led the way into the ruins. The charred landscape stretched out like an ink-stained canvas. Crisped corpses lay strewn across the cracked earth, their armor fused to their blackened flesh. His jaw tightened. He held no love for the slaughter, but when war arrived at his doorstep, he did not hesitate to answer.
The Tyroshi nobility watched Rhaegar's back in absolute silence. The Dragonlord's wrath had painted the earth with ash and blood. Dario's gruesome fate served as a vivid, terrifying warning. The delicate balance between Tyrosh, Lys, and Myr had shattered; the surviving magisters now knew they had no choice but to tether their fragile ships to the Iron Throne.
Shireen was the first to step forward, her chin held high as she followed Rhaegar into the soot. The High Priest, the Commander of the City Watch, the Admiral of the Tyroshi Fleet, and the rest of the nobility quickly fell in line behind her.
Guards dragged a mangled corpse from the rubble. Dario was burned beyond recognition, identified only by the melted remnants of his magisterial rings.
"The Myrish fleet will arrive soon," Shireen commanded, her voice cutting clearly through the lingering smoke. "Search the estate immediately. Confiscate all wealth and slaves. Find the bodies of the Lyseni and Myrish envoys; we will need them for the negotiations. Furthermore, delay publishing the list of public enemies until the Myrish retreat." Her posture was rigid, her orders precise, wearing her new authority seamlessly.
"It is time to demonstrate the might of the Tyroshi navy, Admiral," she continued, turning to the armored man. "I order you to block the Myrish fleet from landing. The High Priest and I will follow."
"Yes, Archon!" The Admiral offered a sharp salute. His eyes were bloodshot from a sleepless night, but the imminent threat on the horizon left no room for exhaustion.
"Do not let fear take hold. The dance has begun, and the Stepstones fleet is already sailing this way!" Rhaegar declared, his voice carrying over the crackle of dying fires. With Tyrosh's fortified geography and the impending reinforcement from the islands, the Myrish and Meereenese armada did not pose an insurmountable threat. Through his magical flames, Rhaegar had already glimpsed the sails of Lord Corlys's fleet and Ser Salladhor closing in.
Shireen turned to the elder clergyman. "High Priest, you were a mentor to my father, and you are a mentor to me. Do you agree with this course of action?"
The High Priest slowly stroked his long beard. "You are the Archon. You need not seek my permission for such matters." His tone carried a subtle warmth, signaling his approval of her decisive leadership. He had only stepped into the fray to prevent a bloody civil war. At the High Priest's public endorsement, the remaining Tyroshi nobles lowered their gazes and fell silent.
Shireen's personal guard fanned out across the estate, tallying the surviving spoils. Dario had been a magister of high birth and vast mercantile wealth; without deep coffers, he could never have opposed the Archon for so long, nor secured backing from Lys and Meereen. Now, all that confiscated wealth would flow directly into the hands of House Dary.
"Come out! Out!" Shouts echoed from the remnants of the estate's garden. Beneath a decorative arrangement of massive boulders, the guards had pried open the entrance to a hidden cellar.
A middle-aged woman in soot-stained silks emerged into the daylight, clutching the hand of a small boy. In her other arm, she held a long, ornate wooden box. The purple-haired woman retained her aristocratic beauty, but her chest heaved with rapid, shallow breaths, and her hands trembled. To the victor go the spoils; to the loser, the executioner's block. As a highborn lady, she knew exactly what a failed rebellion entailed.
"That is Magister Dario's wife and child," one of the nobles muttered.
Dario had been officially declared a public enemy. The lives of his kin now rested entirely on the edge of Shireen's and the High Priest's blades.
Whispers rippled through the gathering.
"Dario is a traitor. Must his family share his sentence?"
"The wife is guilty by association, but the child is too young."
"Pull the weed out by the roots. If you let him live, in eighteen years he will return with a sword in hand, and you will curse your own soft hearts."
Arguments broke out among the Tyroshi elites, treating the mother and son as if they were already ghosts. They were lambs awaiting slaughter; Dario was dead, his loyalists decimated, and his entire legacy marked for confiscation.
"Spare our lives! Prince Rhaegar!" Dario's wife suddenly cried out. Seeing the dragons circling overhead and the silver-haired prince standing amidst the ruin, she dragged her son to the soot-covered ground, falling to her knees. "I offer this in exchange for our lives!"
Rhaegar stepped forward and accepted the heavy box. He flipped the latch and opened it. Inside rested a sword. It was a long Valyrian steel blade, drinking the ambient light, its dark metal rippling with smoky grey patterns. Unlike the massive greatsword Ice, this weapon was narrower, a perfectly balanced bastard sword designed to be wielded with one hand or two. It was a masterpiece of lethal artistry.
Orphan-Maker, Rhaegar realized, his fingers tracing the exquisite hilt. The perfect longsword. It was not Blackfyre, but an ancient Valyrian steel blade was a priceless artifact nonetheless.
"Show us mercy, Prince Rhaegar!" the widow pleaded, her eyes wide and frantic. She possessed sharp instincts; she recognized that Rhaegar held the ultimate authority of martial strength. Though he spoke little, his words carried the weight of dragons. Shireen and the High Priest hated Dario enough to demand blood, but they would defer to the Dragon Prince.
A man does not grow rich without a windfall, just as a horse does not grow fat without night fodder. Rhaegar accepted the blade. Orphan-Maker was the ancestral sword of House Roxton, but its previous masters had dragged its honor through the mud. Bold Jon Roxton had wielded it for the Greens during the Dance of the Dragons, using its dark edge to cut down Lord Footly and Hugh Hammer. Roxton had bedded Footly's wife before brutally murdering the man. Upon Roxton's death, the sword fell into the grasping hands of Lord Unwin Peake, a notorious schemer, before vanishing from the annals of Westerosi history.
House Roxton was now extinct, and House Peake remained infamous for its unyielding treason. They had staunchly supported the Blackfyre Rebellions, suffering repeated crushed uprisings until only one of their three castles, Starpike, remained. King Maekar I had even fallen in battle against them. Now, many of the surviving Peakes rode with the Golden Company, nursing ancient grudges against the red dragon of House Targaryen. Holding this reclaimed sword, Rhaegar felt a cold sense of righteous restoration.
He lifted Orphan-Maker, the dark ripples gleaming menacingly in the daylight. A rare, satisfied smirk touched Rhaegar's lips. He already possessed several Valyrian steel relics, but a king could never have too many legendary blades.
[System Notification]
Achievement Unlocked: The Collector
You have acquired multiple Valyrian steel weapons, fulfilling the criteria for this milestone.
Putting aside the ancestral relic of House Royce that required returning, Rhaegar now personally commanded three weapons of Valyrian steel: the True Dragon Spear, the Shadowblade, and the exquisite Orphan-Maker. He had never been so formidably armed. It was an incredibly promising start to his campaign.
"How did this come into your possession?" Rhaegar asked the widow, his gaze fixing on her trembling form.
"Years ago, House Peake backed the Blackfyre rebellions and suffered heavily," she stuttered, refusing to meet his eyes. "Even your ancestor, King Maekar I, died at the Peake Uprising at Starpike. During the chaos of the siege, a distant Peake cousin stole the blade and fled across the Narrow Sea to Tyrosh. He drank too much and boasted of his prize. An elder of my husband's family used unsavory methods to relieve him of it."
Rhaegar exhaled slowly. The cruelty of fate and the chaos of history had a way of shifting treasures. Had he not altered the currents of the world, Orphan-Maker might have sat in a lightless vault for another century. The endless wars and falling banners of Westeros had scattered too much Valyrian steel into oblivion.
Warriors inherently lusted after great blades. The Commander of the City Watch and Shireen's captain of the guard stared at the dark metal, their eyes hungry, practically salivating at the priceless steel. Even the High Priest's gaze lingered on the hilt. Yet, with the dragons rumbling in the ruins behind the Prince, not a single man dared to voice a claim.
"You beg me for mercy, and indeed, the boy is barely five. He poses no threat," Rhaegar said, breaking the silence. "However, the affairs of Tyrosh must be decided by the Tyroshi. I will defer to Acting Archon Shireen. Perhaps this blade should remain in Tyrosh as well."
Before the sentence even settled, the City Watch Commander shook his head vigorously. Anyone with eyes could see Rhaegar's firm grip on Orphan-Maker. No one possessed the suicidal courage to pry a Valyrian steel sword from a Dragon Prince's hands.
"Prince Rhaegar is our greatest ally. I agree that the boy is too young for the butcher's block. Captain Gael, escort the mother and child to the Temple of Trios. We will decide their ultimate fate later!" the High Priest announced, smoothly navigating the political current to save Rhaegar's face. Shireen offered no objection. She understood Rhaegar's diplomatic posturing; if the boy grew into a threat years from now, her blade would not hesitate. Captain Gael bowed and marched the prisoners away.
Rhaegar had cleanly walked away with the single most valuable spoil of the war. Shireen set about inventorying the rest of the plunder. The dead were stripped of coin and jewelry. Beyond this ruined estate, Dario's family possessed merchant cogs, trade shares, and vast estates across the Tyroshi hinterlands.
House Dary's guards tore through the rubble with feverish energy. But as they excavated a collapsed section of the cellar, an unexpected disturbance broke the rhythm of the looting.
"Who goes there! Come out, or we burn you out!" Shireen's captain of the guard bellowed at a pile of shifted stonework.
A heavy grating sound scraped the air as a massive slab of stone was shoved aside. From the dark crevice emerged a titan of a man. Standing six feet seven inches, the half-naked brute possessed dark, leathery skin crisscrossed with old scars and fresh, seeping burns. Coarse, red-black hair framed a wide, craggy face. His eyes were cold iron. He stepped forward, gripping a mud-caked shield and a thick, solid iron cudgel. The unmistakable brand of a Meereenese pit fighter marked his flesh.
Rhaegar's eyes narrowed with sharp interest. This man radiated a raw, ferocious power that eclipsed even the legendary Hugh Hammer. A true apex predator of the fighting pits.
Dozens of Tyroshi guards instantly closed the ring. A thicket of drawn swords, leveled spears, and loaded crossbows aimed directly at the massive gladiator's chest.
"Who are you?" Rhaegar demanded.
"Noble Prince Rhaegar! Great Acting Archon Shireen!" The giant's voice was a deep, grating rumble. "I am a eunuch pit fighter of Meereen, the undefeated legend, Revas the Iron Fiend. It brings me boundless joy to look upon your exalted faces." Without hesitation, the behemoth dropped his iron cudgel and shield, falling to his knees before the Prince.
"I have survived a hundred bloody bouts without defeat. I possess the strength of an ox, the speed of a courser, and the ferocity of a manticore. I offer my life in your service! I beg you, spare me! I was purchased by the Lyseni and gifted to Magister Dario. Now that the Magister is ash, I am unbound. I will serve you! Prince! Archon! I only wish to live a little longer!" The giant pressed his forehead to the soot-stained earth, pleading with startling eloquence.
Rhaegar suppressed a smirk. It was jarring to hear such poetic flattery flowing from a scarred, brutalized gladiator. His shameless adaptability broke the grim tension in the air. Rhaegar, Shireen, and the High Priest exchanged amused glances.
"How did you survive the dragonfire?" Shireen asked, stepping closer.
"When the dragons roared, I stood by Magister Dario until the very end; the gods themselves would sing of my loyalty!" Revas declared without taking a breath. "Alas, the Magister lost his mind. He forced his wife to reveal the hidden cellar, drove me away, and barricaded himself inside. I was forced to flee to the edge of the gardens and dig a trench under the stones to survive the inferno!"
Rhaegar appraised the kneeling giant. There are bold pit fighters, and there are old pit fighters, but there are no old, bold pit fighters. Revas was clearly as cunning as he was lethal. Meereenese eunuch guards were renowned for their absolute loyalty once bound to a new master, making him a highly valuable asset.
"Stand up!" Rhaegar commanded, his hand resting on the hilt of his newly acquired blade. "You say you wish to live, but you must prove your worth. Attack me!"
Revas hesitated for only a fraction of a second. He snatched his heavy iron cudgel from the dirt and launched himself at Rhaegar with terrifying speed. Rhaegar smoothly drew his longsword, meeting the charge.
The impact shuddered up Rhaegar's arm. The gladiator's strength was monstrous. The thick iron cudgel tore through the air with a horrific whistling sound, crashing down like a collapsing mountain of iron. But Rhaegar did not flinch. His footwork remained fluid. He parried and redirected the brute force, gradually increasing the speed and weight of his own counter-strikes. Within moments, Revas found himself retreating, desperately struggling to deflect the Prince's relentless assault.
Driven back step by step by the flurry of Valyrian steel, Revas finally threw down his iron cudgel, panting heavily as he raised his empty hands in surrender.
"Your Grace, you are no mortal man," Revas gasped, sweat cutting tracks through the soot on his face. "Your strength rivals the wyverns and elephants of the great arenas. I will walk through fire for you!" He spoke with absolute, defeated sincerity.
"You fight well," Rhaegar praised, sheathing his blade. Revas's technique and endurance were indeed formidable. Had the giant not been burned, suffocated by smoke, and starved in his stone hole, he would have been a much harder opponent to disarm. "But you will not serve me."
Rhaegar turned toward the Acting Archon. "Since you wish to live, I gift you to Lady Shireen. You will guard her, and you will be prepared to lay down your life for hers."
Shireen's eyes widened in surprise before a grateful smile touched her lips. She desperately needed a bodyguard of this caliber; apex fighters were a rare commodity.
"I thank you for this generous gift, Prince Rhaegar," Shireen said, her posture straightening with newfound confidence. She gestured to her men. "Take Revas to the rear. Have the healer-slaves tend to his burns at once."