Chapter 142: The Dance of the Dragons in Tyrosh
The night was as dark as ink, a single lone lamp flickering.
Tyrosh lay beneath a deep night, sea breezes thick with the smell of fish and dye.
Rhaegar and the High Priest sat facing each other. On the rough wooden table of the tiny hut were only a few plates of Tyroshi seafood—small fish or shrimp, cured in coarse salt or grilled, and a bottle of Tyroshi pear-honey wine. The High Priest had shed his purple robe for a plain gray tunic.
Such fare was ample for commoners, yet for a High Priest it verged on meagre. Though he ranked as Tyrosh's supreme priest, the old man cared nothing for fine clothes or food; rough cloth and a humble room within this modest temple sufficed. Like the High Sparrow, he was clearly a puritan of the ascetic school. These self-denying, god-fearing zealots were far harder to sway than the fat, easily corrupted prelates of King's Landing.
"Prince Rhaegar, please!" said the High Priest.
"Thank you for the hospitality!" Rhaegar replied. The food was coarse but tasty and fresh, and he ate with relish, unbothered by the simple fare or setting.
"A very different sort of Targaryen indeed!" the High Priest marvelled.
"Good food must never be wasted. The one thing I can't eat much of is Tyrosh's garlic-honey sausage—far too rich."
"Slipping from thrift to luxury is easy; returning from luxury to thrift is hard. Born into privilege, you've known silk and sweetmeats all your life, yet you still stomach this old man's coarse fare—rare indeed." The High Priest sighed; raised in hardship, he knew how difficult belt-tightening could be for a prince.
Rhaegar merely smiled. The priest could never imagine a future without rigid ranks, where all were roughly equal and took pride in frugality and fairness.
"But, prince, you are no true child of nature. You and I differ: you are a man of many desires! Humble in face, yet inwardly ambitious, unwilling to stand below any. The fabled Dragonlord was ever fire's favourite."
Rhaegar gave an embarrassed laugh; Dragonlords were born grasping—for kingdoms, beauties, riches.
"May I dare ask your name, Your Holiness?" Rhaegar enquired, curious.
"Like the High Septon of the Faith of the Seven, I have forsworn all earthly names. When one begins to serve the gods, worldly things must be left behind. I hear this generation's High Septon is nicknamed the Fat One; mine is Thick-Brow. I was an orphan taken in by the Temple of the Three-Headed God—nothing of the world to cling to. So too the children of the Tyroshi Spears outside: surplus sons of poor families, or fruits of a sailor's dalliance with a whore. Tide in, tide out—only the Three-Headed God heeds our prayers."
Rhaegar fell silent; in this age religion was not merely belief but also welfare for the poor, producing such fervent warrior-priests.
Yet he wondered: banks existed, but no universities. By rights, universities should have arisen; why was knowledge hoarded in the Citadel? Banks and universities—both absent from King's Landing—would have to be founded in time.
"I enjoy dining and talking with you, Prince Rhaegar. Young priests court me for rank and power, young nobles to curry favour, hoping to pressure the Archon through me. You, for the moment, seem a friend without such cravings."
Rhaegar thought: I want far more than your average Tyroshi grandee—I want the whole city at my side.
As they continued, Rhaegar asked, "When the Ninepenny King declared himself king a few years ago, why didn't you speak against him?" It had long puzzled him.
The War of the Ninepenny Kings had been a momentous event for Tyrosh: Maelys Blackfyre of the Band of Nine seized control and ruled as a tyrant for years before being slain.
The topic was too sharp; the High Priest's thick brows knit, then relaxed. "Maelys was a Tyroshi too—he only wished to turn the Archon system into a monarchy, yet he had not yet made Tyrosh bleed, so I did not act. Tyrosh has always been a rather militarized city; usurping rule is hard to accept, but not unthinkable. The Archon already wields more power than the governors, yet Tyrosh still rejects hereditary kingship. I am but an old man, not a warrior or sorcerer. Intervening this time already invites great hatred."
"I cannot forget the destruction in Myr, nor the devastation of the Dance of the Dragons. I will not let Tyrosh fall into that. Better a strong ruler like Maelys than a shattered city." The Ninepenny King was no weakling, backed by the Golden Company, pirates, and merchants. Maelys had held power for years; the High Priest must have foreseen it. Now the Archon and Governor Dario were evenly matched—war would drown Tyrosh in blood.
Rhaegar understood: change in Tyrosh was acceptable, but not the destruction of its strength.
"Then you'll support friendship between Tyrosh and the Iron Throne?" Rhaegar's eyes lit up.
"Must we choose? Tyrosh will not dance with the Goddess of Lust, yet neither will we dance with dragons."
Rhaegar understood: the High Priest would maintain Tyrosh's neutrality, avoiding entanglement in war. For Westeros, that was welcome news.
"It will not be that simple. Tyrosh is the decisive piece; if it leans toward me, Lys and Myr fall. If it leans toward them, the Triarchy rises again. Tyrosh cannot avoid choosing."
"Tyrosh feels the wind, though I know not its direction. Whoever earns my friendship shall have my support." The High Priest drained his pear-honey wine, speaking enigmatically.
"An old fox," Rhaegar thought. The priest would support the victor—whoever prevailed would earn his blessing. Preventing civil war was already his boldest move.
Yet Rhaegar knew the High Priest could not suppress everything. Lys and Myr would provoke conflict at any cost. One speech could not bind them.
"And if I unleash a dragon?" Rhaegar asked.
"Then you lose my friendship, Prince Rhaegar. Though the great Three-Headed Eagle shields you, I serve the Three-Headed God and Tyrosh. Should I see dragons or fleets from Lys and Myr, I will call upon all believers to rise and fight."
By unspoken agreement, they dropped the subject of war and returned to food and drink.
Tyrosh simmered with tension, yet Rhaegar remained several days in the small Temple of the Three-Headed God.
Many sought an audience with the High Priest, but he claimed illness and refused them all.
A fine conversationalist, the priest shared customs, secrets, and lore with Rhaegar.
In his chamber, blue flames flickered in Rhaegar's palm—showing the location of Governor Dario's palace.
In recent days he used Fire Sight occasionally to observe Tyrosh.
Without Dario's blood, he could only view from afar.
At dusk, he saw fierce mercenaries burst from Dario's palace, racing toward the Archon's residence.
Shireen—what of her? Rhaegar's heart tightened, yet he could not reach her immediately.
"The Archon is dead!"
"The Archon is dead!" The cry spread through Tyrosh like wildfire.
War begins? Rhaegar's heart clenched as he rushed to the priest's chamber and found the old man furious.
"How dare they? Who struck first? I will make the traitors pay!" the High Priest roared.
"Worry about yourself first!"
"Protect yourself, Your Holiness!" Rhaegar urged.
The priest froze, face paling. If Dario's faction struck now, they would seize power, kill the Archon—and in the chaos, eliminate the High Priest as well.
Tyrosh's night of blood had begun; the Archon's palace and this very temple would be the first to fall.
A hundred leagues away on Bloodstone, the dragons stirred, sensing their master's call.
Roaring into the sky from Dragonstone Fortress, they sped toward Tyrosh.
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