Tap. Tap. Tap.
In the council hall of the Ghiscari temple, Baelon rapped a finger against the opulent table before him. The sound was small, almost polite, yet remained piercing to the few souls who heard it.
Seated at his side was the Green Grace, Zhayla. She did not speak, nor did she meet his gaze, but her body remained taut with tension.
Opposite them stood three figures.
They trembled openly, sweat slicking their brows, staining fine fabrics that had once been worn with pride.
These were the Radiant Council, the merchants who had ruled New Ghis through coin, leverage, and cruelty.
Baelon bit back a scoff.
Radiant. A council that had prospered on suffering and famine, on chains and brutality, daring to cloak itself in such a name.
And yet, as he regarded their bowed heads and shaking limbs, anger felt…excessive. Crushing such fools did not warrant fury.
"You…" Baelon said at last. His finger stilled. The hall fell utterly silent, even the faint crackle of braziers seeming to dim. "…have lost."
None of the three answered, nor did they need to. Their faces, ashen, contorted, hollowed by fear, spoke more eloquently than words ever could.
"I present you with a choice," Baelon continued evenly. "Submit to me. Not as equals. Not as valued courtiers. But as subjects." He paused. "Otherwise, you may freely choose to face dragonfire, should that be your desire."
The words struck like a physical blow as the trio collapsed onto their knees, their forms helplessly quivering.
Clearly, all three were aware of what fate met them should they refuse.
After all, they had watched for days as those two, winged monstrosities, flew overhead New Ghis.
They had watched how this young man bewitched the people, pushing them to storm the city gates.
Baelon wondered for a moment if any of this might have been avoided had they realised sooner.
But greed was a stubborn sickness. As long as men believed, even faintly, that victory was possible, they would gamble everything on it.
After all, should they win, they would gain undying glory, wealth beyond measure, and their names carved into history.
"W-we…" The woman among them finally spoke. Her voice shook despite her effort to steady it.
After hurried whispers and desperate glances exchanged between the three, she bowed her head lower. "We submit to you, oh mighty Dragonlord."
The other two nodded frantically, as though terrified he might miss the gesture.
"I can give you all my shipping lanes," blurted the pudgy man, words tumbling over themselves, "and all of my property in New Ghis."
The third, a thinner man, sharp-featured, eyes too calculating even now, hesitated. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding audibly before he forced the words out. "Likewise for me, Your Magnificence."
Baelon nodded once and rose to his feet. His chair scraped loudly across the stone, the sound jarring in the tense stillness.
"No need. If I desire your wealth, I will take it." He said, offering what might have been a kind smile. "Your permission is by no means needed."
Judging by how the three recoiled, shrinking back as if he were less a man and more some terrifying beast, it was clear his geniality had failed to land.
From his belt, Baelon drew a small dagger. It was an unassuming little thing, but it was forged Valyrian steel, its hilt wrapped in dark leather, and its blade twisted into a subtle curve.
He rolled it between his fingers as he approached, thumb tracing the edge. The blade caught the light as it turned, flashing briefly before disappearing again, his movements unhurried, almost thoughtful.
"Dragonlord," a voice called.
The Green Grace, Zhayla, rose from her seat. She approached him slowly, measured steps echoing softly, and bowed deeply, her forehead dipping toward the stone. "They have already submitted. I beg you, grant them amnesty."
Her words were firm, yet her hands were clenched tight at her sides, knuckles pale beneath silk.
The death of the three meant little to Baelon. But their fleets would descend into chaos the moment they passed. Trade would falter both here and beyond.
New Ghis would be dragged into a far deeper whirlpool than the one already churning beneath it.
Baelon knew this. He was no fool. It was why he was reluctant to stain Tolos red when he had first conquered it.
Still, inclined his head slightly toward Zhayla, acknowledging her plea, but offered no answer. Instead, the dagger stopped its idle dance.
Without ceremony, he turned the blade inward and drew it across his palm, from one corner to the other.
Blood welled immediately, seeping from the wound as a soft hiss escaped as it licked the open air.
He looked down at the kneeling merchants.
"If you truly wish to live," Baelon said quietly, "then I require an oath."
***
"…through blood and through fire, may this oath be held from this day till our last."
Zhayla watched with trembling eyes as the final words were spoken. The Dragonlord's blood, still warm, still faintly steaming, mingled with that of Zol of House Ghisran, dripping between their clasped hands and splattering softly against the stone floor.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then flame bloomed.
A thin ring of fire spiralled around their joined hands, no higher than a finger's breadth.
It danced like a serpent writhing before death's door.
Coiling, tightening, casting scant light across the merchants' horrified faces.
The heat washed outward in a sudden breath before the flames winked out as swiftly as they had appeared, leaving only the scent of scorched air behind.
Zol screamed.
Not loudly, the man's pride strangled the sound, but his wiry frame convulsed as if his bones had been plunged into boiling water.
His fingers tore free from Baelon's grip, skin blistered red and angry, the flesh along his palm smoking faintly.
He staggered backwards, clutching his hand to his chest, teeth chattering uncontrollably as though he had been branded by some foul magic. Though Zhayla did not think that was far from the truth.
She swallowed, yet fear remained lodged in her throat, reluctant to budge.
There was no doubt now. Zol had been burned. Burned by blood.
Burned by the blood of a man.
No…perhaps not a man.
Her gaze drifted to Baelon, his own wounded palm already beginning to mend. Perhaps the Dragonlord had never been merely human to begin with.
Legends of the Valyrian Freehold surfaced in her mind. Sorcerer-lords. Blood rites. Vile practices. She winced.
Yet as suddenly as it had begun, the magic ended.
Moments later, the former members of the Radiant Council were hauled to their feet and escorted from the hall by half a dozen Unsullied, their bronze armour gleaming dully as spears guided trembling bodies toward the exits.
The great doors closed behind them with a final, echoing boom.
Silence returned.
Zhayla found herself alone with him.
She drew in a steadying breath, refusing to let fear crack her voice. "Thank you, great Dragonlord, for your mercy. The people of New Ghis will not forget this."
Zhayla, whilst not certain of the Dragonlord's motive, knew that by preserving the lives of the three, New Ghis would remain stable. Both internally and externally…for now.
She bowed her head, eyes lifting just enough to study him.
He looked impossibly young. Barely five-and-ten, she would have guessed, were it not for the casual certainty with which he carried himself.
Baelon sauntered back to his chair and dropped into it with little ceremony, slumping slightly as he regarded her with idle curiosity.
"Thank me all you want," he said, rolling his eyes, "it won't change what's coming." He waved a dismissive hand. "You may continue your faith. I have no interest in gods who demand empty reverence. But your secular authority is finished, irrelevant though it already was."
The words stung more than she expected.
Mockery. A sharp, clear mockery. It was a reminder of her place. Zhayla opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again.
Was he wrong?
Had her voice ever truly mattered within these walls?
In her own temple, consecrated to the Great Masters of Ghis, she had been a mere symbol. A mouthpiece for men who counted profit while preaching virtue.
What bitter irony.
She pressed her lips together behind her veil and nodded once.
"Good," Baelon said. "Because we'll need you."
Her head lifted slightly.
"Slavery ends," he continued flatly. "Not gently. Not in name. Completely." He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. "The economy will be centralised under my authority. The fleet's answer to me. The army answers to me. And New Ghis' grain imports will come from Dragon's Bay alone."
"That will anger many," Zhayla said carefully.
"I know."
"Merchants will starve the city before they surrender control in such a manner."
"They won't," Baelon replied as he gave a soft chuckle. A chuckle Zhayla was certain was void of any and all mirth. "Not once they realise starvation will cost them everything."
Zhayla hesitated. "The people are afraid. Change imposed too quickly—"
"—will turn fear into violence," Baelon finished. "Which is why I want you." He tilted his head. "You have their trust. Or at least the illusion of it. Guide them. Speak for these reforms. Help me make this bloodless."
A pause.
"You ask much of a priestess whom you stripped of power," she said quietly.
"I ask you to save lives," he countered. "Decide which matters more between that and your pride."
Zhayla's lips twitched, hearing the man's audacity. Stripping her of any semblance of power and then forcing her to help consolidate his rule.
Alas, what could she do? Resist? Don't be ridiculous. Zhayla had little wish to meet her gods any time soon.
"…Very well," Zhayla said at last. "I will do what I can."
Baelon nodded once, satisfied. "One more thing."
She stilled.
"Those who opened the city gates for me," he said, almost casually. "They'll be rewarded. Grain and coin. And, we ought to compensate the fallen."
Zhayla's breath escaped her in a long, quiet sigh of relief. The tension she had been holding finally loosened its grip. A faint smile touched her lips beneath the veil.
Perhaps…perhaps she truly had made the right decision.
New Ghis was changing.
And for the first time in generations, it might be changing toward something better, toward a future without chains, without hunger born of greed.
A future forged not by councils and coin.
But by fire.
***
Perched upon the Iron Throne, Viserys found himself ensnared in yet another troubling audience, the cold steel pressing into his back and shoulders.
His head rang dully, a familiar ache blossoming behind his eyes.
'Perhaps,' he thought wearily, 'this will at least distract me from the feckless acts of my firstborn.'
His head swelled as he thought of Rhaenyra still holing up in Dragonstone with Daemon in exile.
Did she have even the slightest air of a ruler?
"…the situation is dire, Your Grace."
Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, knelt before the jagged steps of the throne, silver hair bound neatly back. "Pentos and Lys have initiated a new war. Volantis is in chaos from Dothraki advances, but they will surely turn their blade upon the pair in time. Meanwhile, Tyrosh and Myr have been desperately seeking an alliance with Dorne."
Viserys listened in silence.
"I have heard Prince Qoren Martell is rather taken by their offers," Corlys continued after a pause. "A marriage has been proposed between the Tyroshi Archon and Princess Aliandra Martell."
Before Viserys could respond, Otto Hightower stepped forward, hands folded within the long sleeves of his green robe.
"Pardon me, Lord Corlys," Otto said smoothly, cutting in with practised ease. "Surely you jest. The princess Aliandra is barely past her eighth nameday. An unflowered maiden such as she, can Dorne truly be bound by such an alliance? Every day that marriage remains unconsummated will stretch their mutual goodwill thinner."
A low murmur spread through the gathered courtiers, nods exchanged, brows furrowed in agreement.
Viserys barely withheld a groan as he listened to them.
'Since when did he gain such influence?' He wondered bitterly, though he knew the answer well enough.
Still, he held little fear. What could Otto do with this power as long as he remained on the throne?
Nothing.
The man would not dream of rebellion, even should he be possessed by something foul.
After all, the end result would be obvious.
Failure. Complete and absolute failure.
If Westeros could kneel under Aegon's three dragons, it would prostrate itself under House Targaryen's now dozen.
'Thankfully,' he reminded himself, 'no matter what Otto schemes, Rhaenyra still holds the edge. More dragons. More men. More legitimacy than Aegon.'
…Of course, that was assuming those two did not involve themselves.
"Ahem."
Viserys cleared his throat sharply, the sound cracking through the murmurs like a whip.
"The Hand raises a fair point," Viserys said. "Are we truly to throw ourselves headlong into another bloody war? The realm has barely recovered from the last."
"His Grace speaks wisely," Otto said at once, bowing, a thin smile playing upon his severe features.
Viserys turned his gaze away.
Out of mind, out of sight.
He had little desire to play these ugly games today, or any day for that matter.
"With respect, Your Grace," Corlys said, teeth clenched just enough to betray his frustration, "such a war would strangle trade across the Narrow Sea. Shipping lanes will be seized. Ports closed. Driftmark—"
"We can always redirect trade elsewhere," Viserys interrupted. "Word has already been sent to Dragon's Bay. Through them, Westeros would gain access through the Summer Sea. Grain, spice, silk, routes stretching from the Gulf of Grief to Asshai, even Yi Ti beyond."
Corlys' jaw tightened visibly.
"Prince Baelon is at war with the Ghiscari," he said flatly. "Such agreements will take time to be met, if they are met at all. And that is assuming the prince even wishes to maintain ties with his homeland."
The words lingered in the air.
Homeland…
'Is this truly their home?' Viserys wondered. 'Our home?'
He remembered all too clearly why his children had left. Even now, he was confused as to whether call this home as he constantly remembered the glory days of his ancestors. Of the Valyrian Freehold.
Otto broke the silence. "Do you too doubt the young prince's victory, Your Grace?"
No one spoke.
The hall seemed to hold its breath.
At last, Viserys exhaled slowly. "No. I do not." His voice hardened just a touch. "But that does not mean Westeros must bleed too."
He straightened as much as the throne would allow. "We will not involve ourselves in war, any war..."
Corlys' face darkened, anger flashing behind his mask of feigned composure.
Otto, by contrast, inclined his head with barely concealed satisfaction.
"However," Viserys continued, cutting cleanly through both reactions, "we will strengthen our ties with Volantis. They will soon be in desperate need of even a verbal ally, and we would be fools to ignore that."
Both Otto and Corlys stiffened.
For the first time, their expressions mirrored one another: displeasure, thinly veiled.
It was clear enough. Viserys wished neither to enter the war nor to allow Westeros to become isolated, its trade strangled by Essosi ambition.
And yet, this pleased neither man.
Corlys wanted banners raised and fleets unleashed. Clearly, the man was not taken by the idea of remaining passive.
After all, the realm was finally enjoying the benefits of peace; why should they watch this prosperity dwindle due to the ambition of foreign, lesser men?
Otto would rather shutter the realm entirely and wait out the storm. To him, remaining passive was good.
Westeros should ignore external affairs, strengthen itself, and seek to take action once all the involved forces have weakened.
Viserys looked upon their faces and felt his old wounds begin to tingle beneath silk and bone.
'Just like before,' he thought bitterly.
Even as king, his life was riddled with compromise. With half-measures.
Aiming to please all.
Yet, winding up pleasing none.
Such was the quiet tragedy of a weak king.