Game of Thrones : True Dragon

Viserys strode through the shattered halls of Tyrosh like he already owned every stone. Dragonfire had torn open several domed buildings, yet the main municipal palace still stood, dripping with wealth. Fountains bubbled in the courtyards. Bright ornamental fish darted through clear pools. Gardens bloomed in violent color, their pebble paths inlaid with seashells and oyster shells. Purple silk curtains and gold leaf still clung to the pillars.

He felt nothing for any of it. He carried the living legacy of two Valyrian Dragonlords in his blood and his rings. No banker's gold or merchant's trinkets could touch that.

Garin and Thomas the red-haired banker stared at the opulence like starving men at a feast. Viserys stayed cold.

"Thomas," he said, "tell me everything your people have learned about the surviving Tyroshi merchants and governors. I want names. I want hiding places. No one slips through."

"As you command, Your Grace."

The ones who had already fled to Lys were beyond his reach for now. Everyone still breathing inside these walls belonged to him.

"Garin. Thomas. Seal every vault, every warehouse, every bank, every rich man's house. The Archon's palace, the governors' mansions, the shipyards. Tyrosh is mine. Act like it."

Thomas nearly vibrated with excitement. One word from a victorious king could make a man rich for life. The dead governors had simply been too slow to understand that.

They moved out with squads of black-and-red soldiers. Viserys walked the blood-stained gardens alone for a moment, boots crunching over broken marble. Conquest tasted like this — beauty and rot, side by side.

Tyrosh was only the beginning. The real storms were still building.

He was still studying a new marble statue of himself — silver-haired warrior, dragon roaring at his side — when the Braavosi envoy arrived.

Tormo Fregar, head of his house and chosen messenger of the Sealord, stepped into the garden wearing a purple pointed felt cap. His face was tight.

"Stop this, Viserys," he said without preamble.

Agos's hand dropped to his sword hilt. "In Braavos you may call him what you like. Here you will address him as Your Grace."

Tormo exhaled through his nose. "Forgive me. Your Grace."

He looked at the young king. Short silver hair. Pale violet eyes. Black-and-red robes. The Valyrian steel crown set with amethysts. Power sat on Viserys like a second skin. The frightened boy who had once hidden in Braavos was gone.

"Most of the Archon and governors are dead," Viserys said calmly. "War is rarely gentle. What does the Sealord want?"

Tormo chose his words with care. "You have taken your revenge. Tyrosh has paid. The Sealord believes it is time to stop. Robert Baratheon is still your true enemy. Another war here only weakens you for the fight that matters."

Viserys studied him without expression. "I did not start this war. The slavers of Tyrosh, Lys, and Volantis came for my people. They hired Dothraki to burn Andalos. I am simply answering."

He leaned forward slightly. "Tell your Sealord this: if the other cities lay down their spears and return every Tyroshi war criminal they are sheltering, I will consider peace. If they keep arming my enemies, I will keep burning cities."

Tormo's mouth tightened. "There are men in Braavos who already whisper that you have grown too strong too fast. Some speak of… older methods. The kind that do not require armies."

Viserys's eyes went flat and cold. "The Faceless Men have seen dragons before. They have never seen a true Dragonlord. If any of my people — any of them — suffer an 'accident,' I will return the favor to Braavos in ways even your assassins will not enjoy. Make sure the Sealord understands that clearly."

A long silence stretched between them.

Tormo finally nodded once. "I will carry your words exactly."

He hesitated. "The Sealord also offers… practical help. Low-interest loans from the Iron Bank. A guarantee that Lys and Myr will not move against you while you settle Tyrosh. In exchange, he asks that you sign a peace accord with the remaining Free Cities and stop expanding for now."

Viserys gave a thin smile. "I will take the loans. I will take the guarantee. But I decide when the fighting stops. Not the Sealord. Not the Iron Bank. Me."

Tormo looked tired. "You bargain like a fishwife, Your Grace."

"Wars are expensive," Viserys replied. "And I intend to win the next one."

The Braavosi envoy stood, adjusted his purple cap, and gave a stiff bow. "I will return to my ship. Expect ravens. And… tread carefully. The game you are playing has no friends, only temporary interests."

Viserys watched him go. The garden fountain kept splashing cheerfully behind him, bright fish still swimming in the blood-tinged water.

Peace was just another battlefield. And he was done losing.