Atop the crimson pyramids of the Red Temple, the thirteen apostles personally chosen by the Lord of Light exchanged what they knew.
"Even if that's true, all of our temples and shrines across the Free Cities have already been destroyed.
We have no armies left. What can we possibly do now?"
A Red Priestess from Tyrosh spoke up.
Her temple in Tyrosh still stood—for the moment.
She had managed to preserve it by using her beauty to navigate the city's powerful elite.
Even so, it was no more than a lone skiff caught in a storm, liable to capsize at any moment.
"So what?" another voice replied. "We still have believers!"
"The governors and triarchs may be able to destroy our temples, but can they kill every follower of the Lord of Light?
Aren't those believers also their subjects?
As long as their hearts still yearn for the Lord of Light's guidance, we are not without hope."
Though they had just suffered devastating losses, the knowledge that the Lord of Light himself now stood behind them rekindled their determination.
Then an older, steady voice broke in.
"My friends, I believe I have a solution."
Everyone turned.
The speaker was a Red Priest well past sixty years of age.
His beard and hair had both turned gray, yet his eyes still gleamed with confidence.
"I believe this campaign against the followers of the Lord of Light throughout the Free Cities was orchestrated by Viserys.
The governors and triarchs merely acted to win his favor.
Of course, many were also tempted by the wealth we accumulated in the Lord of Light's name.
But in the end, the root of the problem is Viserys.
If we can join forces with those rulers and eliminate House Targaryen, our current predicament will immediately improve."
The man speaking was Zhulte, High Priest of the Red Temple in Braavos.
Everyone remembered his name.
"Braavos has always been tolerant of every faith," Zhulte continued. "That proves Sea King Freygo and the Braavosi nobility hold no particular hostility toward us."
"If we can display genuine miracles, convince them that we are worthy allies, and most importantly make them believe that standing with us means standing with the gods themselves...
Then the faithful of the great R'hllor will surely reclaim their former position."
The discussion soon came to an end.
The scenery around them shifted at incredible speed before returning each person to the place where they had first entered.
Benerro listened to the rushing sound of water and realized he was once again standing on the banks of the Rhoyne.
Or perhaps...
He had never actually left.
Just then, Moqorro stared at him in astonishment.
"High Priest... High Priest... your..."
Benerro lowered his head.
The magnificent crimson robe had returned with him.
The surrounding Red Priests and Hands of the Sacred Flame dropped to their knees in unison.
They, too, had entered R'hllor's heaven.
They knew that their High Priest had been chosen as one of the thirteen apostles.
Across the Free Cities, every governor and powerful noble now knew that House Targaryen was preparing for war to reclaim the throne their ancestors had once ruled.
Because the coming campaign would be nothing less than a war of conquest, every member of Viserys's court had thrown themselves into the preparations.
Gold poured out of the royal treasury like floodwaters bursting through a broken dam.
Each day's expenditures brought the Old Crab close to tears.
Fortunately, Gerold had returned from Volantis with an enormous haul of spoils.
Those riches became a thick protective shield, preventing Viserys's treasury from bleeding dry too quickly.
The gold was swiftly transformed into armor, weapons, and military equipment.
The warhorses grew stronger with each passing day.
Everything was steadily falling into place. Yet before marching to war, there remained one lingering concern.
Pentos.
To prevent Pentos from threatening the rear of his army during the campaign, Viserys had resolved to bring the city under his control first.
Unfortunately, he lacked a suitable pretext.
Moreover, Audro had complained more than once that the ruling magisters maintained absolute control over the city's garrison and harbor forces.
No matter how hard he tried, he simply could not place his own people in those positions.
Just as Viserys was growing troubled by the problem, a mercenary company sought an audience with him.
The Windblown.
Viserys received its commander in his private chambers.
The man was known as the Ragged Prince.
He was already well into his sixties. Heavy bags drooped beneath his eyes, making him appear even older.
His title came first from his distinctive appearance.
His horse, his armor, and even his clothing were decorated with countless strips of cloth.
According to the man himself, every strip had been torn from a defeated enemy.
As for the title of Prince...
His family had once been one of Pentos's forty ruling magister families.
Like Audro's house, however, it had been a minor one.
Before Viserys arrived in Essos, the Prince of Pentos possessed virtually no real authority.
He served merely as a ceremonial figure—and a sacrifice.
Whenever drought struck...
Or floods came...
The Prince was offered up to appease the gods.
If Pentos lost a war... The Prince was sacrificed once again.
To escape that fate, the man who had been chosen as Prince fled Pentos. His own escape, however, came at a terrible cost.
His family suffered in his place.
Ever since then, the Ragged Prince had lived for a single purpose:
To conquer Pentos and destroy the magisters who had ruined his family.
"Your Grace," he said earnestly, "if you will lend me soldiers and help me capture Pentos, I swear I shall become your most loyal ally"
"When you wage war to reclaim the Iron Throne, I will stand firmly at your side."
Watching the man's solemn expression, Viserys found himself unable to suppress a faint smile.
"Commander," he said, "may I ask you a question?"
"Of course, Your Grace."
"Do you seek revenge... Or do you seek the throne of the Prince of Pentos?"
As the founder of a mercenary company numbering more than two thousand men, the Ragged Prince understood immediately what Viserys truly meant.
He also recognized Viserys's ambition to annex Pentos.
In his own dreams, he would first lead an army to seize the city, slaughter the magisters to avenge his family, and then rule as a prince with genuine authority.
But now he was already over sixty years old.
Without Viserys's help, he would probably never have another chance to achieve his vengeance.
Still, he commanded a mercenary company. He could not accept becoming nothing more than a puppet prince.
After a long silence, he finally answered.
"Your Grace... I seek revenge."
Hearing that, Viserys relaxed.
He stood, clasped the old man's hand, and smiled. "I'll discuss the matter with Audro."
"When the time comes, we'll secretly bring your men into the city first. I'll provide the weapons.
We'll strike from both inside and outside the walls and take Pentos together."
A considerable portion of Pentos's population was of Andal descent.
Once the city fell, Viserys could incorporate its people into his realm with remarkable speed.
All he needed to do was announce that every commoner's debts had been canceled.
The people themselves would gladly carry the Targaryen army through the city gates.
With Pentos absorbed, the civilian population under Targaryen rule would rise to well over three million, approaching four million.
As for the immense wealth of the magisters...
It would become the financial foundation for Viserys's war against Robert.
And with Gohor and Pentos under his control, the Free Cities would effectively be split in two.
Capturing Pentos would accomplish three objectives with a single stroke.
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