King's Landing, 95 AC
The Night following the King's Summons
The hour of the wolf had come and gone, leaving the Red Keep steeped in silence.
Rhaegar Targaryen sat alone in his chambers, the single lamp on his desk casting a long, flickering shadow of him against the stone wall.
Before him lay the ledgers of the Consortium.
He didn't need to open it. He knew the numbers by heart. He knew the manifests of the Sun of Yi Ti and the fleet that followed her. He knew the projections, the margins, and the sheer, staggering amount of wealth currently sitting in the vaults of Dragonstone.
It wasn't liquid yet. You couldn't just dump a mountain of saffron, silk and other spices onto the market without crashing the economy of the entire continent. It would take months, perhaps years, to sell it all off strategically, filtering it through the market to keep prices stable.
But the gold was there.
It was no longer a dream or a projection. It was real. The Consortium had generated a fortune that made the incomes of the Great Houses look paltry in comparison. Even after the Velaryons took their fair share, and it was a significant share, the Crown's portion was enough to change the definition of wealth in Westeros.
Rhaegar leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples.
To him, the power of the Iron Throne was a paradox. The King ruled the Seven Kingdoms, but he did not own them. If he wanted to wage war, he had to call his banners. Even with dragons at their back, he had to ask the Lannisters, the Baratheons, the Starks, the Tyrells and every other Lord Paramount to lend him their strength.
He was the head, but they were the limbs. And a head without limbs was just a talking skull.
But now, Rhaegar thought, his eyes drifting to the ledgers on the table, that could change.
Gold was the lifeblood of war. And for the first time, the House of the Dragon had its own heart. Pumping gold independent of the taxes and tithes of its vassals.
He stood up and walked to the large map of the Known World pinned to the wall. It was a beautiful thing. Carved out of wood and stone. A gift he received from his father for his twelfth name day.
He traced his fingers down the jagged coastline of Westeros, moving south to the Broken Arm of Dorne and the scattered islands of the Stepstones.
The Triarchy.
He had been slightly startled when he received the report from Melisandre.
They had formed early. A year or so ahead of the timeline he remembered from the memories of his old life.
My doing, he acknowledged, as a rueful smile settled over his lips. I pushed their formation forward by a year.
It wasn't a catastrophic shift, but it was a sign. He had pushed the world with the Consortium, aggressively dominating the trade routes, and the world had shoved back. The economic pressure he had applied to the Free Cities had forced them to abandon their petty squabbles and unite even before driving out Volantis from the Disputed Lands.
He had accelerated the creation of a superpower on his doorstep. But Rhaegar did not let it worry him too much. A slight tweak of his plans was sufficient.
He traced the line from the Stepstones to the coast of Dorne.
If they joined the Triarchy, the Narrow Sea would become a noose.
He looked at the sigils painted on the map, the Lion of the West, the Rose of the Reach, the Stag of the Stormlands.
The armies of Westeros were not weak, far from it. When the banners are called, the sheer martial power of the Seven Kingdoms is a force of nature. The knights of the Reach were highly skilled. The heavy infantry and cavalry of the Westerlands were disciplined and well-equipped. The Stormlanders were ferocious in battle. No matter the kingdom, they excelled in some aspect of battle.
In a conventional war, on a familiar terrain, Westeros had little to fear.
But this will not be a conventional war.
Rhaegar's finger tapped the Stepstones.
This would be a war of islands, choke points, and naval attrition. It would be a war of supply lines and blockades.
The feudal levies of Westeros were powerful, yes. But they were designed for land campaigns. They were farmers and retainers who answered the call for a period of time, fought their battles, and went home for the harvest. You could ask a farmer from the Reach for only so long, to sit on a rock in the Stepstones for years, fighting off Tyroshi galleys and dying of some unknown disease, while his crops rotted in the field back home.
That is why he wished the Triarchy to be aggressive and hostile. And why Dorne joining hands with the three cities was crucial.
If it were just the Triarchy, the lords of Westeros would never move their heavy arses to fight for a trade dispute. But if Dorne, the old enemy, joined hands with the Essosi slavers. If they entered an alliance with a hostile Triarchy. Now, that was a different prospect entirely.
The narrative would shift from it being a trade dispute to an existential crisis.
And that was exactly what he needed.
Rhaegar needed the Triarchy to be a nightmare. He needed them to be formidable. He needed them to close the trade routes and squeeze the windpipe of the Westerosi economy until every Lord from Oldtown to Gulltown was gasping for air.
He needed Lord Tyrell to see his grain rotting on the docks because no ships could pass the blockade. He needed Lannister to fume as his gold sat useless in Lannisport. And he needed every single lord in Westeros to feel the Dornish breathing down their necks.
And the only thing that would be left to do after is wait for it all to implode. Wait for the Realm to bleed itself dry trying to fight an atrocious war. House Targaryen would suffer losses as well, yes. But it was a price he was willing to pay.
He needed them all desperate.
Because only a desperate man would agree to the unthinkable.
Rhaegar made his way back to the chair. He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, a drawer that was always locked, and pulled out a specific set of scrolls, sealed in a leather case.
They were a blueprint of sorts.
He unrolled it carefully, weighing the corners with heavy iron ingots.
The details inked onto the parchment were not of ships or trade routes. They were of men and structures of war.
Detailed sketches of soldiers in standardized armour. Notes were scrawled everywhere, in a language that would be completely foreign to anyone but him, referencing military structures that did not exist in this world.
He had drawn from the memories of his past life. The engineering, logistics and discipline of Rome, the training and skills of Persia, just to name a few, and coupled them with the intelligence and organization of the more modern professional armies.
He had compared them with the lockstep legions of New Ghis, perhaps one of the only contemporaries in this world.
The Iron Legions, he mused, tracing the lines detailing all the information he had managed to gather about the Ghiscari force.
The lords will never allow a Royal Army in peacetime, Rhaegar mused, turning away from the map to look out the window at the sleeping city. They know it would be the end of their power. A King who does not need to ask for soldiers is a King who does not need to ask for anything.
So, the nobility of Westeros guarded their military monopoly with great jealousy. They would sooner see their own children bleed to death than hand the King a sword he could wield without their permission.
But in a crisis that would be as severe as this?
When their own forces are being run to the ground, when their coffers were draining, and their lands and their pride was in risk of being shattered?
That is when they would beg the Crown to find a solution. No, they would demand the Crown find a solution. Anything that didn't require them to bleed their own lands to death.
And Rhaegar would give it to them.
He would give them a True Army.
Not a levy of farmers, but a legion of professionals. Men whose only trade was war. Men who had no lands to return to, no harvest to reap. Men paid by the Dragon, fed by the Dragon, and loyal only to the Dragon.
Ideally, he would have waited a few more years. He would have built the Consortium's wealth up some more, slowly preparing. But the early formation of the Triarchy and the change in events had forced his hand. The world had shifted, and he had to shift with it.
The gold was there to pay for it. The DTC had solved the impossible logistical hurdle of funding a standing force.
Now, he just needed the permission.
Rhaegar rolled up the blueprint and placed it back in the drawer, locking it tight.
The pieces were set. Melisandre would fan the flames in Essos. The Consortium would fill the vaults. The Lords of Westeros were sleeping soundly, unaware that the ground beneath their feet was about to be pulled apart.
He blew out the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.
Let them come, he thought. Let the Triarchy blockade us. Let Dorne join them. Let them choke us until the Lords cry out for salvation.
And I will sell it to them, and with it, the beginning of their own obsolescence.