"Peace!"
Rhaegar's tone was firm as he continued, "What needed to be conquered has been conquered. Those who should have surrendered have bowed their heads. The kingdom needs time to recover and flourish."
Daemon frowned, unconvinced. "There are still many rebels in Dorne, and Braavos is merely putting on a façade."
"This is Father's wish." Rhaegar's gaze was unwavering.
The new Sealord of Braavos had offered favorable peace terms, agreeing to suppress the Dornish rebellion and maintain trade in the disputed territories.
The Targaryens had no reason to refuse.
But Daemon clearly disagreed. He felt as though his nephew was simply using his brother's will to suppress him. Frustrated, he sneered, "If Viserys is willing, we can blockade Dorne's waters and wipe out those desert rats sooner or later."
"Braavos sits at the edge of the Shivering Sea. A few dragons could fly over and turn the entire city into ruins within a month."
Viserys was simply weak—craving an illusion of peace.
Rhaegar shook his head with a light chuckle. He didn't outright deny his uncle's strategy but instead asked, "Has Tyrosh's reconstruction been completed?"
"Hmm?" Daemon narrowed his eyes.
Glancing at his slumbering father, Rhaegar continued, "Even now, Lys and Myr have yet to fully rebuild. Tens of thousands struggle just to survive each day. We cannot afford to rule over nothing but ashes."
It had been months since they had taken control of the Three Daughters, yet they had not begun true governance.
Now that House Martell had officially sworn fealty, the lands of Dorne—once reduced to ashes by the wrath of dragons—would be integrated into the realm of the Iron Throne.
But conquest and rule were two entirely different matters.
Rhaegar couldn't help but smile. "Funny enough, I haven't even assigned officials to oversee Lys and Myr yet."
Daemon's eyes gleamed dangerously as he issued a warning. "If we don't take advantage of this moment to strike, we may never get another opportunity this favorable."
He acknowledged the difficulties his nephew had pointed out.
The Targaryens had the strength to subdue Dorne and the Free Cities, but they lacked the governance capabilities to sustain such rule.
More importantly, Tyrosh was still being run by the same officials as before its conquest. When Daemon was absent, the city was entirely managed by Mysaria.
His reluctance to abandon the war was fueled only by his own pride and his desire for trust.
Rhaegar, perceptive as ever, had already seen through his uncle's thoughts. "You can't devour an entire feast in one bite. You'll choke instead."
With the annexation of the Three Daughters and Dorne, their domain now encompassed the Stepstones, the Dornish Sea, and the Summer Sea. Governance and military garrisons alone posed immense challenges.
And the cost? A staggering sum.
With his father bedridden, Rhaegar had but one immediate goal— halt the wars, consolidate their new territories, and accumulate wealth for the next campaign.
Daemon lowered his head in deep thought, weighing the wealth and prestige gained from the war against his grand ambitions. In a cold voice, he asked, "What do you want me to do?"
"Support me and Father. Stop siding with the Sea Snake and aiding his folly."
Rhaegar was blunt.
"The Sea Snake only seeks vengeance for his son."
"Do you really believe that?"
Rhaegar countered, stripping away the pretense. "The Sea Snake lost his heir. Now, he's using this war to drag everyone down for his own selfish gain."
House Velaryon was not solely the Sea Snake's domain.
The late Vaemond Velaryon had five sons of his own.
And that didn't even account for other branches of the bloodline.
The real reason the Sea Snake refused to let go was simple—he didn't want to hand Driftmark, the seat of his power, over to outsiders. He was fighting for his own survival.
Daemon scoffed, "If you see things so clearly, then you should understand that I stand with him."
After all, the Sea Snake was his father-in-law and his most trusted ally.
Rhaegar cast him a sidelong glance and said coolly, "I will grant you the title of Prince of Tyrosh. Tyrosh will become your family's seat."
Daemon's lips curled into a devilish smirk. "Deal."
Being formally granted a domain was far superior to simply occupying one.
That was exactly what he had wanted— land and legitimacy.
---
### Dusk, Sunset Glow
After meeting with the envoys from Braavos and Dorne, Lyonel led them to the throne room.
The hall was already crowded with people.
Rhaegar, gripping Blackfyre, sat high upon the Iron Throne, looking down at them.
Daemon stood just below him, wearing an unreadable smirk.
"Your Highness, the envoys have arrived."
Lyonel took his place opposite Daemon and respectfully introduced the two representatives.
The envoy from Braavos was a slender man with curly brown hair. A golden pocket watch hung from his chest, and he exuded an air of precision and refinement.
The envoy from Dorne was a tall young man with platinum blond hair and piercing blue eyes. He wore a heavy suit of plate armor.
The Braavosi envoy bowed and was the first to speak. "Honorable Breaker of Chains, Bels of Braavos extends his sincere greetings. May you inherit the wisdom and greatness of the Conqueror."
"Rise."
Rhaegar's voice was strong and clear.
The tall Dornishman stepped forward, placing a hand over his chest in salute. "Doris of House Dayne, representing Prince Quentyn of Sunspear, greets you."
Rhaegar studied him closely before asking, "What is your relation to Davos Dayne?"
Doris' expression remained unchanged. "He was my cousin—the strongest knight of Starfall and the fallen Sword of the Morning."
Rhaegar nodded in understanding and got straight to the point. "The Sealord of Braavos has made a tempting offer. The Iron Throne desires peace, but war was forced upon us."
Bels smiled slightly. "Sealord Spandam also cherishes peace. He has sent a gift to express his sincerity."
At his signal, several foreign servants entered carrying a large chest.
When the chest was opened, it revealed an array of gold, silver, jewels, and rare antique porcelain.
Rhaegar barely glanced at it and said indifferently, "I acknowledge the Sealord's goodwill."
Bells waved his hand, signaling his subordinates to step back, and proposed, "The Sea King also said that the money loaned by Myr Bank will be settled at the best exchange rate to support the repair of the city-state."
Rhaegar's lips curled into a smile as he silently mused—was this a reminder not to default on the loan?
However, since the other party was being considerate, he wouldn't act dishonorably either. He chuckled and said, "Please thank the Sea King on my behalf. The Iron Bank has long been renowned, and we will continue borrowing in the future."
Whether he would repay it was another matter entirely—but borrowing was a certainty.
Ideally, he could stretch the repayment to sixty years, then launch a war and take Braavos.
That way, he wouldn't have to pay it back at all.
Bells' eyelids twitched, and he cursed inwardly at the prince's audacity.
Would the Iron Throne really keep borrowing with no intention of repaying?
Rhaegar averted his gaze and instead focused on Doris, a thought flashing in his mind—green.
He slightly parted his lips, about to speak.
Suddenly, hurried footsteps echoed from outside the hall. A figure stormed in.
Corlys entered with a darkened expression, his face filled with fury as he marched forward and immediately demanded, "Prince, the Dornish rebellion is still ongoing, and our soldiers are fighting bravely on the front lines. How could you negotiate a peace treaty without authorization?!"
"Silence!"
Before Rhaegar could respond, Leonor shouted indignantly, his voice booming, "Lord Corlys, you stand before the Regent and Crown Prince! You are merely a member of the Small Council—do not forget your rank and the laws of the realm!"
Questioning the king and heir's decision—what did he think the Hand of the King was, a mere bystander?
Corlys was momentarily stunned, gritting his teeth before conceding, "Apologies! I merely have a reasonable concern, speaking in my capacity as Lord Admiral."
Just as he finished speaking—
Rhaenys hurried in, her brows carrying an unmistakable weariness.
She first nodded respectfully toward Rhaegar before standing beside Corlys, leaning in to whisper, "Look at Daemon's position."
Corlys was taken aback and finally noticed—Daemon stood just beneath the Iron Throne, smiling at him with evident amusement.
"Damn that cunning traitor."
Corlys clenched his teeth in rage.
They had made a prior agreement to work together for mutual benefit.
Rhaenys, reading her husband's thoughts, remarked casually, "Daemon only serves his own interests."
She had never held any affection for her cousin and son-in-law.
Just as when he liberated Pentos—when she had asked him to stay and guard the Disputed Lands—
Daemon ignored her entirely and rushed to Dorne.
Leonor interrupted their hushed conversation with a firm voice. "Lord Corlys, this is not the warm halls of Driftmark, where you may speak as you please."
Corlys' already dark complexion turned even darker. He muttered grimly, "Negotiating peace is a serious matter. His Majesty and the Crown Prince should convene a Small Council meeting to decide, not act unilaterally."
Leonor was about to retort harshly, but Rhaegar raised a hand, signaling him to wait.
Facing Corlys' challenge, leaving it to Leonor alone to handle was not the best course of action.
Corlys shifted his gaze to Rhaegar, waiting to hear what he had to say.
Rhaegar tapped on Blackfyre, his expression devoid of amusement. "Lord Corlys, this peace negotiation is imperative. You have no authority to oppose it."
"I am the Master of Ships and the acting Lord Admiral in wartime."
Corlys emphasized his title, pointing to himself.
In both the War of the Narrow Sea and the Dornish conflict, House Velaryon had contributed the most, always at the forefront of battle.
Rhaegar's eyes flickered briefly before he responded, "I understand the great sacrifices you have made. If you have concerns, we will hold a family banquet later to address them together."
There were many matters that could not be openly discussed—especially in such a setting.
Corlys frowned, clearly reluctant.
Rhaenys tugged his arm gently and smiled. "We will look forward to this banquet."
Then, with a meaningful pause, she added, "Just as we hope the Iron Throne secures victory—even if it requires sacrificing everything."
She locked eyes with her nephew, knowing he would understand.
Rhaegar fully grasped her meaning and nodded in assurance. "Rest assured, everyone will enjoy this banquet."
"Excellent." Rhaenys' smile grew even brighter as she clapped her hands together. "Then we shall take our leave to make preparations for the evening."
She turned to Corlys and prompted, "Isn't that right, my lord?"
Corlys glanced sideways at his wife's warning gaze, sighed, and reluctantly bowed his head. "Yes, my prince."
When under another's roof, one must lower their head.
The Targaryens were no longer what they once were.
And neither were the Velaryons.
Rhaegar smiled. "Good, then I will see you both at the banquet."
He secretly exhaled in relief, grateful for his aunt Rhaenys' tactfulness.
Corlys, after all, was a war hero who had even sacrificed his only son, nearly extinguishing his own bloodline.
Considering House Velaryon's power and his ties through Laenor,
A direct fallout would have been the worst possible outcome.
Rhaenys nodded toward Daemon and Leonor before leading Corlys away at a brisk pace—
Fleeing this troublesome place.
With the brief interruption over, Rhaegar's gaze once again settled on Doris.
Doris, having been waiting for his moment, stepped forward and spoke. "Prince, while sailing the Summer Sea, I encountered a suspicious individual and took the liberty of capturing him."
He gestured, and two knights bearing the sigil of House Dayne entered, escorting a captive.
Thick, curly facial hair, a black robe with green patterns—
A face far too familiar.
Otto was in a wretched state, his body covered in grime. The two knights held him up by his arms as he stumbled forward, one of his legs dragging limply across the cold black stone floor.
Thud—
With a forceful shove, the knights threw Otto onto the ground, eliciting a painful groan from him.
(End of Chapter)