The azure sea lay completely still. With the Myrish fleet and the Golden Company retreating in disgrace, Rhaegar turned his gaze toward the boundless ocean beneath Tyrosh's pristine sapphire sky.
Three dragons spiraled through the clouds, unleashing sharp shrieks that echoed over the water. They expelled bursts of fire, sending rolling plumes of steam rising from the sea before climbing higher into the atmosphere. Their blinding flames danced harmlessly across the gentle waves.
Rhaegar leaned into the saddle, staring at the vast expanse of the horizon. The Myrish warships and sellswords had faded from sight, but the quiet rhythm of the tides told him the war was far from over.
The magisters of Myr and Lys had poured immense wealth and manpower into supporting Dario's rebellion, bleeding their coffers dry to hire the Golden Company. Now they walked away with nothing. Myr had forfeited nine massive warships, surrendered Dario's faction to the executioner's block, and inadvertently cemented Tyrosh's absolute independence from the Triarchy. Such a catastrophic loss would inevitably drive the profit-obsessed merchants and sellswords of the Free Cities into a frenzy. Rival magisters would draw daggers in the shadows, seeking blood and scapegoats. The Narrow Sea was about to boil over.
"Chaos is a ladder," Rhaegar murmured, the wind carrying his words away.
Had the Kingdom of the Three Daughters not descended into this fractured chaos, the Iron Throne could never have reaped such a bountiful harvest. Naturally, the sheer firepower of the dragons served as the ultimate leverage. Might makes right, and dragonfire forged the purest truth.
[System Notification]
[Talent Unlocked: God of Strength and Beauty. The absolute union of martial might and aesthetic brilliance.]
[Destiny Claim Updated: Westeros. Conquer enemies, solidify royal authority.]
Rhaegar briefly closed his eyes, calling up his full array of talents and claims.
[Active Talents: Dragonlord's Grace, Dance of Water and Fire (Mastery of Both), God of Strength and Beauty (Paragon of Power and Elegance), Heart of the Sword and Lute, Awakened Dragon, Dragon Dreamer.]
The new addition confirmed his physical and martial condition had peaked into the realm of legends.
[Destiny Claims:
Westeros (High Tier): Hatched dragons, silver-haired and purple-eyed beauty, triumphant general, beloved by the smallfolk, city builder, conqueror of enemies. Still missing: Aegon the Conqueror's Crown, Blackfyre.
Old Valyria / Ruins of the Smoking Sea (High Tier): Legacy of the forty ancient Dragonlords, High-Tier Fire Blood.
Banks of the Rhoyne (Low Tier): Thin Rhoynar bloodline, Low-Tier Water Blood.]
His fingers tapped thoughtfully against the saddle horn. The absence of Aegon's crown and the ancestral sword left a lingering void. Without them, ambitious lords might still whisper that he was a hollow prince.
He shifted his focus to his achievements and collections. The list remained unchanged. The system had not registered Orphan-Maker as a standalone milestone. Valyrian weapons clearly did not trigger unique notifications unless combined, falling short of the arcane weight carried by runes.
[Achievements: Changer of Destiny, Game of Thrones (Advanced Player), Commander, Child of Fortune, Explorer, The Collector, Weapon Mastery (Swords, Blades, Spears, Bows, etc.), Precision Strike.]
[Arcane Achievements: Devourer of Ignition, Rune Combiner (Rune Crown), Dragon Pact, Chain of Blood and Fire, Dragonrider, Dragon Dreamer, Vision of Flames.]
[Collections: Dragonlord's Ring of Rhaegar Targaryen, Heart of Fire Dragon Nest, Stone of the Fiery Eye, Cursed Fire of the Iron Throne, Cursed Eye of Harrenhal.]
Once the dragons had stretched their wings sufficiently, Rhaegar guided them back toward the Narrow Sea Fleet. The Westerosi armada now boasted an additional six galleys extorted from the Myrish. Heavy banners snapped in the coastal wind: the red three-headed dragon on black of House Targaryen, Rhaegar's personal silver three-headed dragon on black, and the silver seahorse on sea-green of Admiral Corlys Velaryon.
Rhaegar dropped gracefully onto the flagship's deck. His senior commanders had gathered to receive him, save for those left guarding King's Landing and the Stepstones. Two distinct longswords hung from his belt. The surrounding soldiers cast curious glances at the double armaments, but no one dared question the Prince.
The silver-haired royal stood tall, his violet eyes sharp and commanding, radiating the absolute confidence of a descending god.
"Celebrate your grand victory, Prince Rhaegar. You have brought Myr to its knees," Lord Corlys Velaryon declared, clapping a heavy hand against his breastplate. Ser Gerold Hightower and the other knights echoed the sentiment with firm nods.
"All is well," Rhaegar replied, his tone measured. "But my second 'friend' has yet to kneel."
The commanders understood the implication immediately. He spoke of Lys, the island city famous for its poisons, passions, and peerless beauties.
"The Lyseni will bow, my Prince! They are renowned for their bed-slaves, not their warriors. Their martial history is practically barren," the handsome, silver-haired Lord Corlys boasted.
Ser Barristan Selmy let out a slow, heavy breath. "I fear it will not be so simple." The aging knight's pale blue eyes held a deep reservoir of caution. "Youth demands the tempering of years. Surrounding yourself with too many flatterers, even capable admirals like Lord Corlys, serves no Prince well. A thousand yes-men cannot match the worth of a single honest counselor."
"Speak freely, Ser Barristan," Rhaegar invited, gesturing for the knight to continue. The towering Kingsguard had grown older among the Prince's followers. His courage was absolute, yet he possessed a sharp, strategic mind that valued life and calculated risks over blind glory. Few men recognized Barristan's brilliance as a battlefield commander, content to parade him around merely as a symbol of honor.
"Lys and Myr are difficult to conquer, not merely due to their walls, but because they are the beating heart of the slave trade," Ser Barristan warned, his voice steady. "If we strike the Triarchy directly, the other slaver cities across Essos will likely dispatch fleets to their aid."
Rhaegar pictured the sprawling networks of Essos perfectly. The entire continent's economy ran on a river of blood and chains. Lys boasted the busiest, most lucrative flesh markets in the world, outsourcing all menial labor to chained hands. A massive disruption to the Triarchy would collapse that market, triggering a violent reprisal from every wealthy slaver from Volantis to Slaver's Bay.
Must I shatter the institution of slavery to conquer this world? Rhaegar pondered silently.
For thousands of years, the Seven Kingdoms had violently rejected slavery. Both the Old Gods and the New despised the practice. If he pushed deeper into Essos, the righteous lords of Westeros would demand abolition. Such a campaign would invite the wrath of every magister on the continent, and Braavos would never permit the rise of a new Valyrian Freehold. Those grand designs required patience. There was plenty of time to lay the groundwork.
"You possess the vision of a true marshal, Ser Barristan. Men of your caliber are far too rare," Rhaegar praised, offering a respectful nod. A thousand capable vanguard leaders could not equal a single grand strategist. A kingdom overflowed with brutes willing to charge blindly into the fray, but leaders combining courage, intellect, and foresight were scarce. Only Ser Barristan and Ser Brynden Tully possessed the acumen to command independent armies, while Ser Salladhor Saan barely qualified in naval matters alone.
A faint flush touched Ser Barristan's weathered cheeks. Most lords only praised his sword arm; few elevated his mind to such a prestigious level.
"A commander needs more than raw bravery. He requires the strategic clarity Ser Barristan just demonstrated. Fools commanding armies are a dime a dozen. I demand intellect, and you must train your officers to think likewise," Rhaegar instructed, sweeping his gaze across the assembled lords.
"I have something to return to you, Lord Yohn," Rhaegar said, shifting the subject. He unclasped one of the scabbards from his waist and held it out. Having claimed the legendary Orphan-Maker, he no longer required a secondary blade, especially after fully extracting and studying the arcane runes etched into its steel.
Ser Gerold Hightower's breath caught loudly in his throat. "Is that... Lamentation?" The Lord Commander's face flushed with sheer disbelief. Lamentation had been the ancestral dream of House Royce for generations, lost to the mud and blood of the Dragonpit.
"Such boundless generosity is impossible to repay," Bronze Yohn Royce rasped, his voice trembling under the weight of his emotion. He sank heavily to one knee, wrapping his massive, scarred hands around the hilt. "House Royce swears its eternal loyalty to Your Grace!" The recovery of a lost Valyrian steel sword was the stuff of legends, a deed bards would sing of for centuries.
A roar of approval erupted across the flagship's deck. The knights cheered the return of the blade and toasted the Prince's incredible magnanimity. Valyrian steel longswords were peerless treasures. House Lannister had once spent the equivalent of half an army's wages in a failed bid to purchase one.
Whispers rippled through the ranks. Prince Rhaegar was undeniably blessed by the gods, a giant walking among mortals. He had hatched stone eggs and miraculously recovered two lost Valyrian swords as if plucking them from the air.
Watching the profound reverence etched into Lord Yohn's features, Rhaegar felt satisfied. He had successfully bought the absolute devotion of the Vale's most powerful martial house. He still possessed three Valyrian weapons of his own. If he could commission a set of plate armor, he would walk the battlefield entirely encased in spell-forged steel. If he stumbled across another lost blade, perhaps House Hightower's Vigilance, he fully intended to keep it for himself. He harbored nothing but distaste for that secretive, plotting family that had orchestrated the Dance of the Dragons.
"House Royce has its sword back, yet ours remains missing," Rhaegar noted wryly. Both Blackfyre and Dark Sister were still lost to the winds of history.
"You will find them, Prince Rhaegar. You are the star guiding the world's fate," Ser Salladhor Saan declared with a flamboyant bow.
The surrounding lords murmured their absolute agreement. The Prince carried the spirit of the Conqueror; it was only right that he wield Blackfyre.
Rhaegar offered a faint, enigmatic smile. His mind was already mapping out his intelligence network, tracing the last known footsteps of the lost Targaryen blade.
Across the Narrow Sea, he had planted a dense web of informants: Ratcatcher Loken in King's Landing, Garin of the Orphans of the Greenblood at the Planky Town, Quickfinger the Lyseni thief, Triarch Lysandro Malaqo in Volantis, and now the great Acting Archon Shireen Dary in Tyrosh. Yet, despite this vast net, not a single whisper of Blackfyre had surfaced.
His suspicions zeroed in on Pentos. If the remnants of the Blackfyre loyalists lurked anywhere, the sword likely rested in their shadow.
Reclaiming Blackfyre was paramount. The blade itself acted as a conduit for destiny. He pulled up his personal status one final time.
[Rhaegar Targaryen]
[Identity: The Last Dragonlord, High-Tier Fire Blood, Low-Tier Water Blood.] (Without visiting the Rhoyne, his water magic would remain stagnant.)
[Titles: Prince of House Targaryen, Customs Supervisor of Bloodstone, Acting Warden of the Narrow Sea and the Stepstones.]
[Aliases: Silver Dragon Triumphant, The Victorious Prince, Rhaegar the Fortunate of Summerhall, The Silver Prince, The Dragon Prince, Breaker of Spears, The Unburnt, Father of Dragons, Butcher of Maidenpool, Silver Dragonrider, Tyrant of the Narrow Sea, Shipburner, Wallbuilder.]
[Charisma: Child of Destiny (Unparalleled silver prince, precocious, triumphant general, dragonrider, friend to dragons).]
Rhaegar closed the interface. He was pleased with the foundation he had built, but taking Blackfyre in hand would make his claim truly unassailable.