The Small Council chamber of the Red Keep had seen its share of crises over the long, prosperous reign of King Jaehaerys, but never had the room felt so tense, so utterly devoid of air.
Two chairs at the long table stood empty; the carved wooden chairs of the Master of Laws and the Master of Ships. Prince Aemon and Prince Baelon were hundreds of miles away, entrenched on their respective war fronts, entirely ignorant of the geopolitical upheaval that had just taken place on the eastern continent. Grand Maester Allar had already dispatched ravens to the Stepstones and the Marches, but it would be days before the King's sons received the news.
Jaehaerys had presided over this table for nine-and-forty years. He had grown used to its manners. Aemon's careful silences before he spoke, Baelon's habit of tapping two fingers against the wood when he disagreed with something and was too polite yet to interrupt. Age had made sure that the Old King was all the more observant of the world.
Across from him, Septon Barth sat with his hands folded over a small stack of parchment, his eyes tired in a way that spoke less of the hour and more of the accumulated years of his service. He had sat at this table for only ten fewer years than Jaehaerys had sat on the throne above it. Beside him, Lord Lyman Beesbury was doing his level best to look composed, which for Beesbury generally meant not touching anything within arm's reach, for fear his hands would betray him. And at the far end sat Grand Maester Allar, barely two moons in his chain, after the passing of old Elysar, and already presiding over a war.
"Let us begin," Jaehaerys said, "before Allar faints where he sits."
"I would not faint, Your Grace," Allar said, with the particular stiffness of a man who was, in fact, rather afraid he might.
"No," Barth said mildly, chuckling. "You would simply turn the colour of a dead fish and say nothing useful for the better part of an hour. I've seen it happen before, in this very room."
That drew a hint of a laugh out of Beesbury, small and short-lived.
"So then, explain to me," Jaehaerys said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet rasp, "how three massive, fortified cities fall to a coup, and a fourth is swallowed whole, without us hearing a single whisper of it."
Grand Maester Allar swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously beneath his chain of office.
"The nature of the conflict, Your Grace," Allar said respectfully. "Since the tensions boiled over regarding the Stepstones moons ago, the Narrow Sea has been effectively blockaded. Merchant cogs and trading galleys ceased their routes. Essos does not use ravens, and even if they did, no bird can cross the expanse of the Narrow Sea without rest. We have been entirely reliant on ships from Braavos bold enough, or well-paid enough, to still make the crossing, docking in Gulltown for intelligence."
Jaehaerys's mouth thinned. "Which means whatever we know, we know because Braavos wishes us to know it."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Though," Septon Barth continued smoothly. "There are still many men of ours across the sea, particularly in Braavos, who can be relied on."
Allar unrolled one of the parchments before him with great care. "The most recent word, Your Grace. Already weeks old by the time it reached Gulltown. Older still by the time it reached us."
"Read it," Jaehaerys commanded. "Tell me exactly what this Myrman has done."
Barth picked the parchment from Allar's hand and adjusted his seating, his hands trembling slightly as he read the summarized reports.
"It began in Lys, Your Grace, but it did not end there. While Drahar personally led the slaughter of the Lyseni magisters, his loyalists executed simultaneous mutinies in Myr and Tyrosh. The dissenting lords and magisters were put to the sword. Those who bent the knee were spared. And reports suggest that Drahar had seized a significant part of the Triarchy's naval power long before."
"How does a single admiral command the loyalty to usurp three cities simultaneously?" Lord Beesbury asked, sounding entirely bewildered. "It requires a fortune in gold to buy that many sellswords, not to mention the planning."
"That remains the greatest mystery of all this, Lord Lyman," Septon Barth said, his brow furrowed in deep contemplation. "Drahar is a capable admiral, yes. But he possessed neither the wealth nor the political acumen to orchestrate a secret coup across three great cities. How he acquired the men, the gold, and the mind to pull this off... we simply do not know."
Silence settled over the table.
"All three cities," Jaehaerys said slowly. "In the same span of days."
"So it would seem, Your Grace."
Jaehaerys looked at Barth. Barth looked back, and for a moment neither man said aloud what both were plainly thinking.
"A man does not raise an army large enough to topple three cities in secret," Jaehaerys said at last. "Not without gold he should not have. Not without eyes and ears in places he ought not have them. Not without a considerable helping hand."
"No, Your Grace," Barth agreed. "He does not."
Beesbury looked between them, faintly lost. "You believe someone armed him."
"I believe," Jaehaerys said, "that a man who commanded and hunted pirates for sport most of his life does not wake one morning with the means to unseat three magistrate councils in a few weeks, unless someone considerably more patient than he is has been arming him for a great deal longer than a few weeks."
"However he did it, Your Grace, it is done," Allar interjected grimly. "And he did not stop to celebrate. Immediately following the consolidation of the Triarchy, Drahar marched his newly combined might north. To Pentos."
The name hung in the air for a moment.
"Pentos is not weak," Jaehaerys noted, his eyes narrowing. "They have a respectable army and high walls. A siege of that magnitude should have taken moons."
Allar's expression, already grim, found a way to grow grimmer. "Pentos did not see it coming, Your Grace. By every account, the city believed itself at peace with its neighbours, whatever the state of the conflict in the Stepstones. They did keep a navy. Not a match for the three cities combined, but no shameful thing, either. But it did not matter."
"Why not?" Jaehaerys asked.
"Because Drahar's men were already inside the walls before a single ship of his was sighted on the water." Allar let that sit for a moment. "However he managed it. Maybe Smugglers, bribed guardsmen, or agents planted moons or years in advance. By the time his fleet came into view, the gates were already being held open from within."
"Gods," Beesbury said in a small voice.
"The magisters were dragged from their manses and given a choice," Allar went on, quieter now. "Kneel, or die. Most knelt. Some did not, and were made an example of." He hesitated, glancing toward the king, and continued anyway, because it needed saying. "The Prince of Pentos was shown rather less courtesy than his magisters. His head was separated from his shoulders and paraded through the streets upon his own palanquin, so that none would mistake who ruled the city now."
No one spoke for a long moment. Even Barth, whom Jaehaerys had watched absorb four decades of grim tidings without so much as a change in his breathing, sat very still.
"And what does the man call himself now?" Jaehaerys asked, though something in his tone suggested he already suspected the answer would not improve his temper.
Allar consulted the parchment once more, as if hoping the words might have grown kinder since he'd last read them. "He has united all four cities beneath a single banner, Your Grace. Lys, Myr, Tyrosh, and now Pentos. He has declared them his sovereign domain. He names it the Kingdom of the Narrow Sea, the Tetrarchy, and himself its High Tetrarch and King."
"Tetrarch," Beesbury repeated, testing the unfamiliar word.
"Four rulers, in the fashion of Old Valyria," Barth said. "Except there is only the one ruler now, isn't there. He has warped the old name to suit him."
Jaehaerys said nothing for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice had gone very flat. "A Pirate King. He usurps his way to a crown, and dresses it in a Valyrian title for legitimacy."
"It is an old trick, Your Grace," said Barth. "Rarely a poor one."
"And Braavos," Jaehaerys said. "What does the Sealord have to say about this new kingdom suddenly appearing on their doorstep? Why did they not intervene?"
Allar's hesitation told Jaehaerys everything before the man spoke a word of it.
Septon Barth sighed heavily, reaching across the table to pick up a second scroll. "That is the most troubling part of all this, Your Grace. One would assume the Sealord would take immense offense to a rival empire swallowing Pentos. Instead, Braavos has officially recognized the Tetrarchy."
Beesbury's composure, thin as it was, finally cracked. "They recognize him? After Pentos? After what was done to its prince-"
Barth held up a hand to silence the Master of Coin, unrolling a more ornate scroll. "But there is a more... pressing matter."
Jaehaerys raised his brow, gesturing to him to continue.
"A letter had arrived at the Keep from Gulltown, marked urgent. Word from the Sealord. It seems he has decided to speak for himself."
"And what does he want?" Jaehaerys asked.
Barth looked at his King. "Braavos claims that the High Tetrarch is ready to put aside the burgeoning war and resume trade for the health of all economies. The Sealord is ready to vouch for his word."
Jaehaerys leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on the armrests. "Let us hear it then."
Barth cleared his throat and began, his voice carefully even, the voice of a man who had delivered bad news to the king for nearly forty years and had long since learned not to let his own opinion colour the reading.
"'To His Grace, Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, First of His Name, the Sealord of Braavos extends his hand in the service of peace, and offers himself as witness and guarantor between the Iron Throne and His Exalted Majesty, the High Tetrarch of the Kingdom of the Narrow Sea, who desires nothing so much as the swift and prosperous resumption of trade between our two great-'"
"Get to the terms, Barth," Jaehaerys interrupted.
Barth nodded, his eyes scanning ahead, and something in his face shifted before he had read a word of it aloud.
"First," he said. '''The Iron Throne is to recognize the Stepstones as falling under the sovereign dominion of the Kingdom of the Narrow Sea.'''
Jaehaerys's jaw clenched, but he did not speak.
Beesbury opened his mouth. Jaehaerys raised a single finger, and he closed it again.
"Second." Barth's voice, for the first time, lost a measure of its steadiness. '''House Targaryen is to cease all operations of the Dragon Tide Consortium on the continent of Essos, or, should the Crown prefer, transfer the entirety of its ownership and assets to the Kingdom of the Narrow Sea. In exchange, the Crown will be compensated with eight million gold dragons. Furthermore, the Iron Bank of Braavos, eager to see stability return to the Narrow Sea and all of its shores, has offered to forgive half of the Iron Throne's outstanding debt as an incentive.'''
Beesbury looked appalled. "Eight million. Your Grace, the Second Expedition alone brought us more than ten, and that was a single expedition-"
"I am aware of the figures, my lord," Jaehaerys said, very quietly.
"And the third condition, Lord Hand?" The Old King asked, his voice cutting through the shock of the Master of Coin.
Septon Barth slowly rolled the parchment shut. He looked at his King, a deep, profound sadness in his eyes, knowing what the words he was about to speak would unleash upon the world.
"A dragon egg, Your Grace. To be given to the High Tetrarch as tribute... as token of the Iron Throne's good faith and enduring friendship."
For a long moment, no one in the chamber said anything at all. The lords were rigid in their chairs as the sheer, suicidal audacity of the demand washed over them.
It was a mockery. A masterclass in diplomatic insult.
Any single one of those stipulations could have been taken as an insult of the highest order against the House of the Dragon. Ceding the Stepstones made the Crown look weak. Surrendering the Consortium destroyed their newfound economic power. But demanding a dragon egg, the sacred bloodright of Old Valyria, as tribute to a glorified corsair?
This new kingdom did not want peace. It was a pathetic, transparent attempt to rile the Targaryens into a frenzy.
"He does not want peace," Jaehaerys said finally.
"No, Your Grace," Barth agreed. "This is just a mummer's play, so that he may tell every lord and magister from here to Qarth that he offered us peace, and we chose fire instead."
King Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Conciliator, the man who had spent his entire life building roads, passing laws, and avoiding the bloody madness of his uncle Maegor, slowly stood up.
He placed his hands flat on the heavy table. When he looked up, the frailness of his age was all but gone. His eyes burned with fury.
"Draft the raven to Gulltown," the King commanded, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Tell the Sealord of Braavos that House Targaryen does not pay tribute to pirates. Tell him that if this High Tetrarch wishes to claim the Narrow Sea, he will find it boiling."
Jaehaerys turned to Grand Maester Allar, who was sweating so profusely that he could barely hold his quill.
"And send word to Baelon and Aemon. They will want to know precisely what manner of man now sits across the water from them, and precisely how little he must think of us, to ask what he has asked."
Barth nodded grimly as Jaehaerys left the room.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
The torches lining the corridors of the Red Keep flickered.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen walked through the dimly lit stone halls, his silver hair catching the flickering light. His face was a mask of cold indifference, but his mind was racing, tearing through every available piece of logic and discarding it just as quickly.
The news of the Small Council meeting had already reached him. Pentos had fallen. The Triarchy was now a Tetrarchy. And Craghas Drahar was sitting on the throne of four cities.
It was impossible. The man was a brute. A terror of the sea, certainly, but a man completely devoid of the horrifying, surgical intellect required to orchestrate a continent-wide coup and assassinate a witch. Someone else was pulling the strings. Someone who knew exactly what Rhaegar was doing, and exactly how to counter him. But who? And how?
But there was something much more intriguing at the moment. Ryon had informed him that someone had come a long way to meet 'The Patron'.
The man was currently housed in a manse in the capital.
The last time someone had crossed the sea specifically to find him, it had been Aeryna, a hand lighter than she used to be, with the broken pieces of a ruby.
Rhaegar was not at all certain he wanted to know who this one was.
But nonetheless, he had to say that he was intrigued.