ASOIAF: Alyxander the Great IV

‘It was supposed to be a short war,’ Rhaenys thought as she circled Meleys high above the city of Lys, the cool air of the upper skies brushing against her face. Her dragon cut a regal figure against the horizon, her crimson scales gleaming in the sunlight. Rhaenys tightened her grip on the saddle as they descended in wide spirals, her mind awash with frustration and weariness.

An entire year. The campaign that should have ended swiftly had stretched into months of brutal fighting. It had concluded with the conquest of Myr, Lys, and what remained of Tyrosh.

Yet victory tasted bitter to Rhaenys. Her brother Alyxander’s rash actions against Tyrosh weighed heavily on her mind. True, the annihilation of Tyrosh had achieved its intended effect, prompting Lys and Myr to stage coups—supported by her brother—thereby ending the war and forcing both cities to surrender unconditionally. But the loss of life, and the message it sent to the other Free Cities, troubled her deeply.

Meleys landed gracefully near the sprawling Targaryen encampment, her claws digging into the ground with a thud. The Silvershields, her brother’s elite force, were assembled in disciplined rows, their silver armor glinting in the midday sun. As Rhaenys slid off Meleys, her boots hitting the earth with practiced ease, the dragon stretched her neck and let out a piercing cry, as though to remind all of Lys that the Red Queen had arrived.

The scent of perfumes wafted through the air even at this distance, mingling oddly with the smell of campfires and soldiers. Rhaenys adjusted her riding gloves, her expression calm but her thoughts racing as she mounted a horse and rode toward the city gates. The city’s leadership had been overthrown by a coup orchestrated by the Rogares, a powerful banking family whose loyalty her brother had cultivated for years. She was here to formalize Lys’s surrender and deliver the terms of its annexation into the Seven Kingdoms—or, as she mused, perhaps the Eight Kingdoms now.

As she rode into the city proper, the sight of Lys struck her anew. It was a place of opulence and artistry, its streets lined with marble buildings and adorned with delicate statues. She could see brothels filled with beautiful women.

‘Slaves,’ she thought in distaste. That, at least, was about to change.

The Silvershields, marching in precise formation behind her, drew the attention of onlookers as they made their way through the streets. Citizens and pleasure slaves peered from behind silk curtains, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and unease. Ahead rose the grand palace, its gilded domes and mosaic facades gleaming like a jewel set against the sky.

Rhaenys dismounted when they reached the palace steps, handing the reins to an attendant. She ascended with purpose, her crimson cloak billowing behind her. At the top, Nero Rogare, the leader of the faction behind the coup, stood waiting with several of his supporters. Their expressions ranged from reverent loyalty to uneasy hesitation.

As she approached, Rogare and those clearly aligned with him knelt at once, heads bowed in submission. Others, more reluctant, followed with only a moment’s delay, their deference tinged with resentment. The sight left Rhaenys with mixed emotions—a victory, yes, but one that would require careful maneuvering to secure.

“Rise,” she said, her voice steady and echoing across the marble courtyard. As the Lyseni leaders got to their feet, she allowed herself a faint smile.

Nero Rogare stepped forward, arms wide in a theatrical flourish. His robes of blue and gold draped elegantly around him, every inch of his persona exuding Lyseni extravagance.

“Welcome, Princess Rhaenys of House Targaryen! Sister to the great King Alyxander, rider of the majestic Red Queen,” he proclaimed, his voice carrying across the courtyard.

Rhaenys inclined her head slightly, though she found the excessive flattery distasteful. Still, such pomp was often necessary when dealing with men like Nero.

“Thank you, Lord Rogare,” she replied evenly, keeping any impatience from her tone. “We have much to discuss, and I have little time.”

“Yes, yes, of course!” Nero said, bowing deeply. “We’ve made every preparation for you. This way, Your Grace.” He gestured toward the gilded palace doors, and Rhaenys followed, the Silvershields close behind.

Inside, the palace was a dazzling showcase of Lyseni wealth. Intricate mosaics decorated the walls, depicting gods and old battles of the Freehold. The air was thick with exotic incense, and gold or polished marble shimmered on every surface. Rhaenys swept her gaze over the assembled crowd, noting the anxious faces of the city’s former rulers.

“Princess, you must know the coup was entirely bloodless,” Nero said, a blend of pride and cunning in his voice. “The people were already broken after the… tragedy in Tyrosh. They had no will to resist. I daresay your brother’s actions worked in our favor.”

Rhaenys regarded him with a neutral expression, though her mind was anything but. She saw Nero for what he was: an opportunist. But men like him were often necessary tools.

Her gaze shifted to the former leaders who stood by, sweat glistening on their foreheads. Some dared to meet her eyes; others looked anywhere but at her.

“Step forward,” she commanded.

They approached one by one, each offering pleas that fell on deaf ears. She listened briefly, though she already knew their fates. Those who had led Lys against the Seven Kingdoms would be executed; their families exiled, so no seeds of rebellion could remain.

Nero Rogare’s face lit up with satisfaction as the sentences were pronounced. He bowed, murmuring thanks. “You are wise, Princess. Justice has been served.”

Rhaenys turned to the remaining nobles and wealthy merchants. Lifting her hand, she called for silence.

“Now, listen,” she said, her voice firm and unwavering. “King Alyxander demands one thing from you above all else: loyalty. In return, you will share in the prosperity of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Uneasy glances flitted among the nobles. Rhaenys continued, her tone sharpening.

“Slavery cannot—and will not—be allowed to continue.”

The room erupted into a clamor. Voices rose in protest, disbelief mingling with fury. A merchant wearing a jeweled turban pushed forward, raising his hands in frustration.

“Princess, with respect,” he said, voice trembling yet resolute, “Lys’s wealth—its very foundation—is built on slaves. To dismantle this practice would ruin us—”

“You would defy my brother’s mercy…?” Rhaenys warned.

A nobleman’s voice cut through, hot with anger. “You cannot simply strip away centuries of our culture and tradition, Princess! Slavery is more than an economic practice; it’s a core part of Lyseni life!”

Another, somewhat calmer, added, “Princess, surely you see the challenge. Our economy—our trade—relies on slaves. Dismantling it overnight would cause chaos.”

Rhaenys exhaled sharply, her patience thinning. “I’m not asking for an overnight change. You will have time—time to adapt, time to reform. But understand this: you will not have forever. My brother’s demands must be met.”

Again, the room broke into chaotic chatter, voices weaving into a cacophony of worry and outrage. Words like “unjust” and “impossible” rang out, along with objections about royal overreach. Holding up a hand, Rhaenys silenced them.

“Enough!” she barked, her voice slicing through the clamor like a blade. The room fell silent. “You know what happened to Tyrosh when they defied the dragons. Let that serve as your warning,” she said with a cold smirk. “You will obey.”

Sensing the tension, Nero Rogare stepped in smoothly, his tone oily and conciliatory. “Of course. These terms are most acceptable and fair. The transition will be handled carefully, and I will personally ensure that every demand is met.”

“Good,” Rhaenys said, her voice soft yet commanding.

The murmur of conversations resumed—subdued, filled with uneasy questions and concerns. Rhaenys pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaustion threatening to overwhelm her. She glanced at Nero, who was already weaving through the nobles, offering reassurances and promises.

“This is going to be a long day,” she thought.

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Rhaenys guided Meleys over the Great Lakes—two sprawling bodies of water that shimmered like mirrors beneath the sky. The larger of the two stretched endlessly, its surface broken only by small islands and the occasional ripple from a distant current. The winds were calm, carrying the scent of water and earth up to her as Meleys glided effortlessly through the air.

Her brother was somewhere along the coast of the largest lake. She scanned the shoreline intently, her eyes narrowing against the light. Then she saw it: a dark shadow against the landscape, unmistakable even from the sky. Balerion the Black Dread, the largest dragon in the world, sprawled on the ground, his massive form dwarfing the surrounding terrain.

Her lips curved into a faint smile as she guided Meleys lower. Her attention was drawn to the ruins spread along the coastline. From above, the site appeared hauntingly beautiful—crumbled towers and broken walls, their jagged edges softened by time and overgrown with greenery. The remnants of ancient stone buildings lay scattered like forgotten bones, half-submerged in the earth. From this height, it looked as though the city had been swallowed by the lake itself, its destruction seemingly wrought by water.

Meleys roared as they descended, the sound echoing across the ruins and sending workers below scrambling to clear her landing spot. Rhaenys dismounted smoothly. She adjusted her cloak, the red fabric billowing slightly as she strode toward the heart of the ruins.

The ruins were alive with activity. Workers and laborers moved about, their tools clinking as they unearthed ancient structures and artifacts. Nearby, a group of Silver Shields stood watch. One of them stepped forward and bowed.

“Princess Rhaenys,” he said. “The king is this way.”

She nodded and followed him through the ruined city. The path took her through what must have once been a grand plaza, now partially unearthed. Its ancient mosaics, depicting scenes of dragons and waves, caught the sunlight, their intricate designs still vibrant despite the centuries. Cracked pillars rose around her, and faint carvings could be seen along their bases—words and symbols in Valyrian.

As she walked, the sheer scale of the place struck her. This had once been a mighty city, its grandeur now reduced to shattered stone and faded memory.

Finally, she reached a building that was more intact than the others, its arched entrance framed by two crumbling statues. The shadow of a tall tower loomed above, its upper half broken off. She stepped inside, the air cooler within, and found her brother standing amidst the ruins. He was staring at a mosaic in deep contemplation.

“How was Lys?” he asked, his voice calm and measured, without bothering to turn around.

“They are now your loyal subjects,” Rhaenys replied as she walked closer, her boots crunching softly against the ancient stone floor.

“Ah, loyal,” he repeated with a chuckle, still not looking at her.

“Well, they are loyal as long as we have dragons,” Rhaenys said, crossing her arms. Her tone was sharp but not unkind.

At that, Alyxander turned to face her, his lilac eyes meeting hers with a faint smile playing on his lips. He gestured to their surroundings with a sweep of his hand. “What do you think?” he asked.

Rhaenys glanced around. “What is this place?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

“This, dear sister,” Alyxander said, gesturing to the ruins around them, “is one of the many lost cities of the Freehold.”

“A lost Free City?” Rhaenys asked, raising an eyebrow.

Alyxander’s expression soured, his lips curling in mock annoyance. “They were not so free then… Don’t you remember any of your lessons?”

Rhaenys laughed, the sound echoing off the crumbled walls. “Well, brother, you were the one who loved reading those dusty tomes on the Freehold.”

Alyxander smirked, brushing a hand over the faint mosaic beneath their feet. “True. And since I am the accomplished scholar between us, allow me to enlighten you. This was once the city of Oloria. Like Lys, Myr, and Volantis, it might have been one of the great Free Cities after the Doom, if not for its destruction.”

Rhaenys glanced around, her gaze sweeping over the drowned ruins. “It looks like it was…”

“Drowned… submerged… sunk,” Alyxander finished for her. He nodded, his tone growing somber. “Yes.”

“How?” Rhaenys asked, curiosity flickering in her lilac eyes.

“It was destroyed during the First Rhoynar–Valyrian War,” Alyxander began. “At the height of the conflict, this city stood as a stronghold for the Freehold. Garin the Fifteenth—one of the war’s heroes—brought his armies here. He was said to be the most gifted in Rhoynish magic.”

“Water magic?” Rhaenys said.

“Quite real… well according to my wife anyway,” Alyxander affirmed, his expression sharpening. “The Valyrians learned that too late. When Garin’s forces reached Oloria, he and his mages unleashed the fury of the lakes. The waters rose, sweeping away the Valyrian armies, drowning not only soldiers but the city itself. What you see now is all that remains of the great city.”

“Quite a story,” Rhaenys admitted, crossing her arms.

“Yes,” Alyxander agreed. “And I plan to build a new city here.”

“Here?” Rhaenys asked, taken aback.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “This is the perfect location—strategically central to govern our newly acquired lands.”

Rhaenys’s brow furrowed. “A new city to rule a new kingdom, then?”

Alyxander shook his head, his dark gaze meeting hers. “No. This will not be a new kingdom. These lands can be an extension of the Crownlands.”

Rhaenys tilted her head. “And who will rule them?”

Alyxander’s expression softened. “I had planned for you and Viserys to oversee these lands. But recent... developments have made me reconsider.”

“What developments?” she asked.

She studied her brother’s face. He looked sad, concerned. “What happened, Alyx?” she pressed, her voice soft.

Alyxander exhaled slowly, his expression hardening. “It seems, dear sister, that my marriage to Myria has made me enemies—enemies who now plot my end.”

Rhaenys’s brows furrowed in confusion, then knitted into anger. “Who?” she demanded.

Alyxander hesitated for a moment before sighing heavily. “Cousin Borros.”

Rhaenys froze, her mouth parting in shock. “No,” she said vehemently, shaking her head. “Not Borros. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t.”

“Uncle Boremund died in Dorne, Rhae,” Alyxander said grimly, his tone sharp with frustration. “No one hates the Dornish as much as our cousin. And now my marriage to Myria—and my plans to fully bring Dorne into the Seven Kingdoms—have pushed him over the edge.”

“That doesn’t make sense!” Rhaenys protested. “He is family. He wouldn’t do this.”

Alyxander’s gaze darkened. “I wish you were right, but I have proof.”

Rhaenys stared at him, her breath catching in her throat. “What proof?”

Alyxander’s voice grew colder. “Daemon was approached. Lords from the Stormlands and some from the Reach came to him, seeking his support. Daemon came to me, of course, and I asked him to play along. Their plan was simple—kill me, marry him to Rhaenyra, and place him on the throne.”

Rhaenys staggered slightly, her mind reeling from the revelation. Rhaenyra… They dared to involve her ten-year-old daughter. Sadness twisted inside her, soon replaced by anger at the mention of Rhaenyra.

“He is family,” she muttered, almost to herself, as though saying it aloud might make it true.

“He is not family anymore,” Alyxander snapped, his voice cutting through her denial.

Rhaenys looked away, her thoughts spiraling. “What will you do?”

Alyxander’s jaw tightened. “I will make an example of them.”

Her head whipped back toward him, alarm flashing in her lilac eyes. “You cannot kill—”

“I will not kill him,” Alyx said, his voice deceptively calm. “I will send him to the Wall. And every male Baratheon will join him. I will end his line.”

Rhaenys’s eyes widened in horror. “Alyx, that is too much. Borros is a fool, but the Baratheons are—”

“A liability,” Alyxander interrupted sharply. “Storm’s End will pass to you and Viserys. I’m sure the Stormlands will be content with the daughter of Jocelyn Baratheon as their Lady.”

Rhaenys fell silent, her mind racing.

She opened her mouth to protest further but stopped when Alyxander fixed her with a determined stare. “I have made my decision, Rhae,” he said firmly. “Daemon will marry Corlys’s daughter and rule these lands. You and Viserys will rule from Storm’s End.”

The Crownlands, the Stormlands, and these newly conquered territories would all be under House Targaryen, giving them control of both sides of the Narrow Sea—turning it into their personal lake.

Alyxander’s voice broke into her thoughts, his tone lighter now, changing the difficult subject of their cousin’s betrayal. 

“Now,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “I wonder how Daemon would react if I named this city after myself.”

Rhaenys couldn’t help but snort, despite the tension in the air. “I imagine he’d have a few choice words.”

Alyxander chuckled softly. “Let him.” His gaze drifted to the ruins around them, his expression thoughtful once more. “Alyxandria. It has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”

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Excerpt from The Baratheons: From Orys to Borros by Jason Hightower

The death of Boremund Baratheon, the stalwart Lord of Storm’s End, during the Conquest of Dorne marked a turning point for both House Baratheon and the Stormlands. A fierce warrior and an unyielding defender of his family’s honor, Boremund met his end in the harsh deserts of Dorne, leading his bannermen in a charge against Martell forces. He was succeeded by Borros, his son and heir.

Where Boremund had been steadfast and pragmatic, Borros was impulsive and hot-headed. His ascension to the lordship coincided with a period of great change in the realm under the rule of King Alyxander I Targaryen. The king’s marriage to Myria Martell, the former Princess of Dorne, was seen by Borros as a grievous insult to his family. To him, the union was not a symbol of reconciliation but an act of betrayal—a deliberate slight against the memory of his father and the Stormlanders who had died in the conquest.

Borros’s anger only grew as Alyxander implemented reforms that, while revolutionary for Westeros, began to erode the traditional power of the great houses. Borros surrounded himself with like-minded lords, primarily from the Stormlands and parts of the Reach, who shared his discontent with Alyxander’s rule.

The conspiracy that followed was both bold and reckless. Borros and his co-conspirators devised a plot to assassinate Alyxander and place Daemon Targaryen, the king’s cousin, on the throne. They believed that Daemon—known for his fiery temperament and thirst for glory—could be manipulated. Borros further rationalized his actions as a defense of the royal family’s blood purity, railing against Alyxander’s “polluted” union with a Martell princess.

However, the plot was doomed from the start. Daemon Targaryen remained fiercely loyal to Alyxander. It was Daemon himself who uncovered the conspiracy and brought it to the king’s attention. The betrayal cut deeply for Alyxander, as Borros was his cousin and the son of his beloved uncle.

The punishment was swift and merciless. The Baratheons were stripped of their lands and titles. The male members of the family were sent to the Wall, ending their line as Lords of Storm’s End. The other conspiring lords, similarly disgraced, shared their fate. Their families were either exiled or forcibly married into houses loyal to the crown, ensuring no resurgence of rebellion.

In a decisive move, Alyxander granted the lordship of Storm’s End to his sister, Rhaenys Targaryen, by virtue of her claim as the daughter of Jocelyn Baratheon. This marked the end of Baratheon rule over the Stormlands, as the ancient stronghold became a Targaryen seat.

Over time, even the Stormlands ceased to exist as it was gradually absorbed into the Crownlands—a process formalized during the reign of Alyxander III, the grandson of Alyxander I.

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Rhaenys dismissed the servant with a wave of her hand, her gaze fixed on Shipbreaker Bay. The horizon was darkening, clouds churning as the winds began to howl. A storm was coming, the kind that could only be born of these tumultuous waters.

Four years had passed since she had taken up the mantle of Lady of Storm’s End. Her brother had made an example of their cousin Borros, ending the Baratheon line. The lesson had been harsh but effective—the lords of Westeros had learned well that the Targaryens were not to be trifled with.

Her rule, thankfully, had been unchallenged. Storm’s End was now firmly under Targaryen control.

Her eyes shifted to the missives left by the servant on the table beside her. She sighed, knowing the weight of her duties would not ease. But before she could reach for them, movement caught her attention. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her husband walking toward her, hand in hand with their daughter, Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra was no longer a child. She was four-and-ten now, her posture elegant but still bearing traces of youthful exuberance. Her silver-gold hair flowed down her back in soft waves, framing a face that reflected the sharp beauty of her Valyrian heritage.

‘Almost a woman now,’ Rhaenys thought, her heart swelling with pride. But the thought brought with it the weight of responsibility. It would soon be time to think of matches for her daughter—alliances that would strengthen their family’s position. It was a daunting prospect, one she did not look forward to, despite its necessity.

She turned her attention to the first missive, breaking its seal and scanning the contents. It was from Daemon. The Valyrian Marches—what they were now calling the newly conquered lands of the Free Cities—were thriving under his rule.

Daemon had married Rhaelle Velaryon, and they had twins: a boy and a girl, named Aelor and Aelora. Corlys and Saera were overjoyed, no doubt. Their grandchildren would rule one of the wealthiest regions in the realm, now flourishing with Tyrosh rebuilding, and Myr and Lys slowly turning away from slavery. Alyxander’s reforms, radical as they had been, were bearing fruit. Westeros was prospering.

She chuckled softly as she read the final lines of the letter in her hand. The sound drew her daughter’s attention.

“What’s so funny?” Rhaenyra asked, her voice curious.

“Is Daemon complaining about the city being named Alyxandria again?” Viserys interjected, laughing as he approached.

Rhaenys shook her head, a knowing smile on her lips. “What else? He wanted to name it after himself.”

“Ah yes,” Viserys said with a mock-serious nod, “Daemonholt, wasn’t it?”

Rhaenys laughed again, setting the letter down and picking up the second missive. She broke its seal, her eyes scanning the parchment quickly before her expression softened into a broad smile.

“Good news?” Viserys asked.

“Yes,” Rhaenys said, her voice warm. “Myria lives. And so does little Jocelyn.”

Viserys let out a sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing. “Thank the gods,” he murmured.

Rhaenys glanced at her daughter. Her sharp eyes didn’t miss the fleeting look of disappointment that crossed Rhaenyra’s face. It was there for only a moment before she schooled her expression into one of practiced neutrality.

“Myria’s pregnancy was difficult, fraught with complications and fears that both mother and child might not survive,” Rhaenys went on. “This is welcome news for all of us.”

“We’ll have to visit,” Viserys said, his tone eager.

“Yes,” Rhaenys agreed, folding the letter neatly. “But first, since you are both here…” Her gaze settled on her daughter, her tone growing more serious. “Your marriage, Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra’s face immediately darkened. “Am I to marry some Stormlord, then?” she asked, her voice sharp with indignation.

Rhaenys met her daughter’s defiance with calm resolve. “You have to marry, daughter. You are my heir.”

Rhaenyra crossed her arms, her violet eyes flashing. “Then I’d rather marry Uncle Alyx.”

Viserys burst into laughter, the sound filling the room. “Our king is happily married, daughter,” he said lightly. “You’ll have to set your sights elsewhere.”

But Rhaenys noticed what her husband seemed to miss—the lack of jest in Rhaenyra’s tone.

“Well,” Rhaenyra said, lifting her chin defiantly, “Aegon had two wives, didn’t he? And Uncle Alyx is a Conqueror as well. I think he could manage two wives.”

Viserys laughed again, still hearing only a jest, but Rhaenys’s smile faded slightly. There was something too deliberate in her daughter’s words, a seriousness she couldn’t ignore.

“Enough,” Rhaenys said firmly, her tone brooking no argument. “You are almost a woman grown now, Rhaenyra. this is no time for childish jests. You are my heir, and as such, you must marry. I am giving you the chance to choose your suitor, but choose you must.”

Rhaenyra glared at her mother, her jaw set in stubborn defiance. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the tension thick in the air. Then, without a word, Rhaenyra turned and strode away, her posture stiff with indignation.

Viserys called after her, but she did not stop.

Rhaenys let out a quiet sigh, her eyes following her daughter’s retreating form. She turned back to the open balcony, her gaze drawn once again to Shipbreaker Bay and the storm now looming on the horizon. The winds had picked up, and the waves crashed violently against the cliffs below. She watched the dark clouds roll in, their edges illuminated by flickers of distant lightning.

A sense of unease settled over her, as heavy as the storm itself. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming—that this peace would be shattered.

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The great chamber of the Sealord’s Palace was dimly lit, its shadows dancing to the flickering flames of the braziers and the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the stained-glass windows. A table made of weirwood sat at the center of the vast chamber.

At the head of the table sat Sealord Tormo Antaryon, his sharp gaze sweeping over the assembled figures. Never before had such a meeting occurred. Leaders of the Free Cities—Lorath, Qohor, Norvos, Pentos, and Volantis—were all present.

Yet there should have been three others seated among them, a glaring absence that was the very reason for this council. The independence the Free Cities had cherished since the fall of Valyria was now under threat. 

For Braavos, it was more than a political affront—it was an existential crisis. The fear of Valyria, quelled by the Doom, seemed to rise anew. The last of the dragonlords had set their sights eastward, their ambitions already causing Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh to fall to them.

“This cannot stand,” began Magister Varis Drakantos of Pentos, his voice low but sharp, slicing through the oppressive silence. “What has happened is an affront to us all. Today it is them; tomorrow, it could be us. The Dragon King’s ambitions have no bounds.”

“True,” murmured High Priestess Ylora Vyn of Norvos. “What can we do against the dragons? This was something we feared ever since the Doom. Aegon the Conqueror gave us a false sense of relief when he turned his gaze westward, toward the Sunset Kingdoms. Now his descendants look to rebuild Valyria, and they do so with fire and blood.”

The air in the chamber thickened as the assembled leaders exchanged uneasy glances.

“Fear does not suit us,” cut in Triarch Daevon Laenor of Volantis, leader of the Tiger Party, his voice dripping with disdain. Dressed in resplendent golden robes, he leaned forward, his words ringing with fervor. “We must not cower before them. We must fight! The old order must be restored! The Targaryens are but pretenders; their blood is impure…”

As he spoke, his voice rose. “They dare to ban slavery, an institution that is sacred. They seek to rewrite the order of the world, and we—”

The Sealord’s sharp gaze cut through Daevon’s tirade, his expression darkening. Braavos despised slavery—had always stood in defiance of it—but the urgency of the moment stayed his hand. He clenched his fists beneath the table, suppressing his anger at the Volantene’s words.

“To wage open war against the Targaryens is to invite ruin,” said Magister Serris Vayn of Lorath, his pale complexion and thin frame giving him an almost spectral appearance. His words carried a chill that matched his demeanor. “Look at what happened to Tyrosh.”

Sealord Tormo turned his sharp gaze toward the Lorathi magister. “And if we wait, what then?” he countered, his voice cold and cutting. “Do you think the Targaryens will stop with Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh? The Narrow Sea is fast becoming a Targaryen lake. If we do not act now, soon we will all be bowing to them.”

A murmur of agreement rippled around the table, though it was tinged with unease. The leaders exchanged wary glances, their discomfort at the Sealord’s words evident.

“And what do you propose, Sealord?” came the deep, resonant voice of Patriarch Orvyn Damaros of Qohor, a burly man with a thick beard streaked with gray. “You would have us march against the dragons without a plan?”

Sealord Tormo smiled coldly, leaning forward with an intensity that silenced the room. “We do have a plan,” he said. “Before Tyrosh fell, our agents managed to evacuate the mind behind their weapons—Saelena Morra, the alchemist. She is eager to continue her work… for us.”

High Priestess Ylora frowned, her dark eyes narrowing. “In what ways?” she asked, her tone skeptical. “What could possibly counter the power of dragons?”

Tormo’s gaze swept across the table, his voice steady but laden with menace. “Saelena is crafting a poison—one that, she claims, can kill even the Black Dread himself. But we will not stop there. We will strike at the heart of their power. We will kill Alyxander himself. Without him, the Targaryens will fracture, perhaps even descend into civil war. And while they fight among themselves, we will restore the old balance.”

The room fell silent as the weight of Tormo’s words sank in.

Triarch Daevon broke the silence, his golden robes shimmering as he leaned forward. “So you plan to hire the Faceless Men?” he asked, his voice tinged with approval.

Tormo nodded, a sly smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Exactly. Who better to deliver such a decisive blow? A blade in the dark, and the world will be rid of Alyxander Targaryen.”

“We can even use them to cripple the dragons with the poison,” Ylora murmured in agreement.

A murmur of assent spread through the chamber, the gathered leaders nodding their approval.

The Sealord rose from his seat. “I may not agree with any of you—we were all rivals a few years ago. But the Targaryens pose a threat to all of us—to our independence, to our way of life. Let us put our differences aside and work together for the survival of our cities’ independence.”

The leaders stood in unison, raising their goblets.

“To the death of Alyxander,” Daevon intoned, his voice reverberating through the chamber, “and to the end of the dragons.”

The Sealord’s lips curled into a dark smile as the leaders toasted, their goblets clinking together in a sinister harmony. The flames in the braziers flickered, as if responding to the unholy pact forged in their light. Essos had found its resolve to strike back at the dragons.