**Chapter 268: Ambition for the Free Cities**
The humiliation he suffered came from them.
His pride told him that if Rhaegar could defeat Daemon, then so could he!
"Aegon, you should shut your mouth," Rhaegar said coldly.
He despised foolish people, and this younger brother of his was certainly one of them.
"Why should I? Daemon is the guilty one!"
Aegon protested defiantly.
Hearing this, Daemon raised an eyebrow, his gaze darkening.
However, someone acted faster than he did.
*Smack—*
Rhaegar grabbed Aegon by the throat, lifting him like a chick. His gaze was icy. "Aegon, if you want to throw a tantrum, go back to the Red Keep. Stop causing trouble for me out here."
Then, turning to the stunned Daemon, he pointed at him and said coldly, "Uncle, the same goes for you. I'm not here to clean up anyone's mess."
This wasn't King's Landing, where these fools could act without consequence.
Every word and action of theirs represented the honor of House Targaryen.
Rhaegar was not a weak father who would allow his kin to behave recklessly.
Daemon sensed his nephew's warning, his eyes flickering. He took his wife's hand and brushed past him.
With his departure, the tension in the air eased somewhat.
Aegon struggled, his face turning red as he gasped for air. His hands clawed at Rhaegar's grip, trying to break free.
At that moment, fear from the past resurfaced in his mind.
Seeing that Aegon was about to lose consciousness, Rhaenyra stepped forward to intervene, her voice anxious. "Rhaegar, let go of Aegon! He can't breathe!"
"I was just teaching him a lesson."
Rhaegar loosened his grip, feeling much better after venting his frustration.
Aegon collapsed to the ground, clutching his throat and coughing violently, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.
Aemond looked on in panic, clutching Aegon's clothes tightly, his body trembling slightly.
"Let's go. The feast is about to begin," Rhaegar said indifferently.
Rhaenyra sighed and took his hand, gently squeezing his tense fingers.
---
Late at night, Storm's End was ablaze with lights.
The banquet was lively and would last until dawn.
Around the dining table sat members of House Targaryen and House Velaryon.
Thanks to the mediation of a few ladies, the atmosphere was relatively pleasant, with laughter and toasts filling the air.
Rhaegar sat in his chair, lost in thought, before suddenly asking, "Uncle, what movements have there been from the Three Daughters recently?"
The laughter at the table abruptly ceased.
Daemon swirled his wine, uncertain of his nephew's intent, and answered frankly, "The Three Daughters are as ambitious as ever, constantly scheming to make a comeback."
He omitted the part about them raiding merchant ships, mentioning only their covetous gaze toward the Stepstones.
"The pirates of the Three Daughters are like weeds—impossible to eradicate completely."
Rhaegar nodded in agreement but shifted the topic. "I've heard that the Tiger Party in Volantis has been eyeing the Three Daughters as well?"
He had his own sources and had gathered some intelligence on the Free Cities.
Volantis was one of the Nine Free Cities.
Known as the 'First Daughter of Valyria,' it still adhered to many Valyrian customs and traditions.
Its political structure retained the electoral system from the days of the Freehold, with three Triarchs elected annually—two from the Elephant Party and one from the Tiger Party.
The Tiger Party consisted of old nobility and warrior classes, advocating for military conquest.
The Elephant Party was composed of merchants and moneylenders, believing in economic domination.
During Volantis's last bloody war against the Three Daughters, Aegon the Conqueror had ridden Balerion the Black Dread to aid the Three Daughters, crushing the invaders' forces.
Since then, the Tiger Party had declined, reduced to electing only one Triarch each year, while the Elephant Party held two seats.
In recent years, the Three Daughters had suffered repeated defeats in the Stepstones, piquing Volantis's interest.
The Tiger Party was growing restless, seemingly aiming to suppress the Elephant Party and rebuild its military strength.
Daemon took a sip of wine, surprised by his nephew's depth of knowledge. He mused, "Volantis is stagnant. If it doesn't change, it will gradually decline."
"Oh? So the Tiger Party does intend to start a war?" Rhaegar's eyes narrowed slightly.
He had no fondness for the Three Daughters, and his thoughts had already turned to the lands of Essos.
If the Free Cities turned on each other, it would be a golden opportunity.
"I'm not sure. Volantis has always been hostile to House Targaryen."
Daemon licked his lips and chuckled. "If you're really interested, you should see it for yourself."
"Go to Volantis…" Rhaegar murmured.
He had rarely set foot on the continent of Essos, visiting only Braavos and Pentos among the Free Cities.
The Three Daughters didn't count—his last visit there had been rushed, leaving him only enough time to seize some wealth and slaves.
He had to admit, he was intrigued.
Rhaenyra leaned in and whispered in his ear, "Do you want to go?"
Rhaegar blinked, not giving a clear answer.
"Volantis is the closest Free City to Slaver's Bay and the ruins of Valyria. It's a place of both freedom and slavery."
Her eyes shone brightly, her voice carrying a hint of allure.
She had never been to Volantis and wanted to persuade Rhaegar to take her there.
Rhaegar caught the anticipation in her tone. He squeezed her small hand but did not rush to respond.
After a brief moment of thought, he subtly reminded Daemon, "Uncle, the Dornish are still active along our borders. The kingdom cannot afford a war across the sea."
The idea of provoking a war between Volantis and the Three Daughters had just formed in his mind.
Then suddenly, another thought struck him—Daemon's eagerness to claim military authority over the Stepstones.
Could it be that he, too, was after Essos's lands?
Daemon was proud and ambitious, yet he still cared for his family.
In his youth, he had coveted the Iron Throne.
Now, in middle age, with a wife and children, his ambitions had shifted toward acquiring land.
Rhaegar understood his mindset but did not approve.
**The Targaryens' control over Westeros was far from absolute.**
The North remained isolated, the West constantly faced raids from the Iron Islands, and the Riverlands and the Reach were embroiled in succession disputes…
To make matters worse, Qoren Martell of Dorne harbored ambitious designs.
The Targaryen rule was a long and arduous endeavor.
They were not yet capable of crossing the sea to contest Essos.
Excessive greed would only weaken the kingdom and cost them the people's loyalty.
Upon hearing this, Daemon tightened his grip on his goblet, his gaze turning dangerous.
He knew—his nephew had seen through part of his intentions.
Rhaegar didn't give him a chance to explain. He pushed back his chair, stood up, and said, "I'm full. I'm going to rest."
Rhaenyra hesitated for a moment, then offered an apologetic smile to Laenor and Rhaenys before rising to follow him.
The atmosphere at the dining table grew noticeably colder.
Aegon clenched his jaw and cut fiercely into his roasted meat.
But no one paid him any attention.
Corlys, his expression unreadable, cast a subtle glance at Daemon. Their eyes met briefly.
Daemon poured himself another cup of wine, unfazed by the exposure of his hidden motives. Instead, he seemed rather at ease.
Laenor lowered his head, absentmindedly stroking his stomach, his eyes reflecting concern.
---
**Two days later.**
After the funeral, the guests who had come from various regions began their journey home.
A sharp screech rang through the sky.
Vhagar and Meleys soared high, gliding toward Driftmark.
In the courtyard of Storm's End, Vermithor and Syrax stood a short distance apart, while Rhaegar and Rhaenyra faced each other in the open space.
Rhaenyra's delicate face was cold, and she remained silent.
Rhaegar sighed. "Listen, Rhaenyra. You should stay behind and ensure Aegon and the others return safely to King's Landing, instead of following me on a reckless adventure."
"Aegon is an adult now. He can take care of his younger siblings."
Rhaenyra's voice was icy, her frustration clear as she rejected Rhaegar's refusal to let her accompany him.
She wanted to ride with him to explore the Free Cities—not be left behind.
Rhaegar sighed in resignation. "You know what Alicent is like. And I'm not just going to Volantis—there may be danger."
He had dreamed the night before.
In his dream, a mist-covered sea stretched endlessly, and an indistinct voice echoed through the air.
From the maps, he deduced it was the Smoking Sea.
He was determined to ride Vermithor there, to see what remained of the Targaryen homeland.
"Rhaegar, do you think I'm a burden?"
Rhaenyra bit her lip, displeased by his wording.
"No! You know that's not what I meant. Don't twist my words."
Rhaegar let out a helpless chuckle and pulled her into an embrace.
Rhaenyra was not one to tolerate being slighted. She had slain a boar in her youth—he knew better than to make her angry.
"Just this once, Rhaegar."
She let him hold her for a moment before sighing in reluctant defeat, her expression unusually serious.
She had spent two days trying to persuade him, but he remained firm.
It made her feel unimportant.
"I'll be back soon," Rhaegar assured her softly.
With a small *pop*, Rhaenyra rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek, muttering, "I'll be waiting on Dragonstone. Don't forget to miss me."
"Every moment."
Rhaegar tightened his arms around her waist before turning to give a few last words to Aegon and Helaena.
Then, under Rhaenyra's reluctant gaze, he mounted Vermithor and took off toward the horizon.
---
**King's Landing.**
Viserys sat upon the Iron Throne, listening to a northern envoy's report.
"Your Grace, we are honored by your invitation to the tourney, but I regret to inform you that Duke Rickon Stark has passed away. I'm afraid he will not be able to attend."
The speaker was an aging but sturdy man—Rodrik Dustin of Barrowton.
Viserys furrowed his brows upon hearing the news, his expression melancholic. "Duke Rickon is gone… His passing grieves me as much as Duke Beaumont's."
Two great lords lost in quick succession—it weighed heavily on him.
After a moment of thought, he asked, "Who currently rules Winterfell?"
Rodrik was not one for deception and answered plainly, "Before his death, Duke Rickon passed his title to his only son, Cregan Stark."
"However, young Cregan has not yet come of age. For now, his uncle, Bennard Stark, governs in his stead while also overseeing his education."
"I see. A young heir," Viserys murmured, exhaling a weary sigh. "I hope both Bennard and Cregan will attend the tournament. I regret that I cannot travel to the North myself to offer my condolences."
"No worries, Your Grace. I will convey your sentiments to Winterfell," Rodrik said heartily.
With his duty fulfilled, the Northern lord took his leave.
Viserys leaned back, exhaustion clouding his features as anxiety gnawed at him. The Seven Kingdoms seemed ever more precarious.
Absentmindedly, he reached out with his left hand—
But he had forgotten. The Iron Throne had no armrests, only jagged blades.
A sharp sting.
A deep gash opened across the base of his thumb, and blood began to flow freely.
"Damn it!"
The pain jolted him awake. He shook his wounded hand, cursing under his breath, and quickly descended from the throne.
Chapter 269: Arrival in Volantis
After leaving the throne room, a servant quickly went to summon Grand Maester Mellos for treatment.
Inside the King's Bedchamber
Grand Maester Mellos arrived carrying his satchel, accompanied by several young apprentice maesters.
Viserys leaned back on a long bench, one hand pressed against his forehead while the other rested on the round table, allowing the maester to tend to him.
"Your Grace, this wound is quite deep," Mellos said, his aged face stern. His clouded eyes studied the injury carefully as he took out hemostatic herbs to clean the wound.
Viserys suppressed the pain and sighed. "I appreciate your help, Grand Maester."
Though he spoke politely, his heart was troubled.
It had been a while since the Iron Throne last cut him, and he had grown careless.
He despised visible wounds on his hands—such injuries would be noticed by his court, leading to needless worry and burdening his advisors with concern.
Mellos remained silent as he wiped away the blood, then applied crushed medicinal herbs.
"Grand Maester, here are the bandages you requested," one of his assistants said, quickly handing over a roll of bandages that had been boiled in hot water.
Mellos gave the young man a glance before quietly wrapping the king's wound.
The assistant was a dark-skinned young man with very short-cropped hair, dressed in the gray robes of a maester-in-training.
Watching Mellos wrap the bandage layer by layer, the assistant couldn't help but speak. "This herb isn't the best treatment for His Grace. I have a new idea—"
"Silence, Owell!"
Mellos snapped, his sharp gaze warning the young man.
The assistant, Owell, immediately fell silent, lowering his head and not daring to argue further.
"Your Grace, avoid water on the wound and refrain from greasy or spicy foods," Mellos advised patiently. After ensuring everything was in order, he packed his satchel and left the room with his apprentices in tow.
Viserys forced a weak smile despite his foul mood.
The door closed, and silence settled over the chamber.
Outside, Ser Erryk, clad in silver armor and a white cloak, stood solemnly at his post, guarding the king's quarters.
Following Ser Criston's retirement, he had been appointed Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, charged with protecting the king's life.
Suddenly, a muffled cough echoed from within the room—a deep, raspy fit that sounded as if the king were coughing up his very lungs.
Erryk's expression shifted slightly, his concern for the king's health deepening.
Lately, Viserys' sleep had been growing worse; most nights, he could only find rest through heavy drinking.
After a moment, the coughing stopped.
An irritated voice came from inside the chamber. "Erryk, bring me some wine! My chest feels stifled!"
"As you command, Your Grace," Erryk replied, bowing his head before summoning a servant to fetch the drink.
A vast ocean stretching south of Dorne, the Summer Sea extended eastward to the southern coasts of Essos and the northern shores of Sothoryos.
The Stepstones marked the boundary between the Narrow Sea and the Summer Sea.
The waters rolled in endless waves under a brilliant, cloudless sky, with warm breezes drifting lazily across the surface.
High above, where the clouds swirled and stretched, a massive dragon—jet black and fearsome—shot across the sky like a dark comet.
After a full day of travel, the beast, known as Glutton, had crossed the Stepstones and officially entered the Summer Sea.
"Glutton, head southeast."
A firm voice commanded the dragon's course.
Reclining on the broad back of his mount, Rhaegar lay wrapped in a black cloak, his eyes half-closed as he basked in the sunlight.
Compared to the lingering chill of early spring in eastern Westeros, the tropical climate of the Summer Sea was pleasantly warm.
Sunlight spilled over his bare skin, wrapping his body in comforting heat.
The air was humid yet fresh, carrying none of the unpleasant stickiness one might expect.
The sheer comfort of the journey allowed Rhaegar, who hadn't truly relaxed in a long time, to let go of his usual tension. He even propped up one leg in contentment.
Glutton, sensing his rider's good mood, rumbled deep in his throat and slowed its flight.
Man and dragon soared between sky and sea, relishing the cool wind and the fleeting moment of leisure.
A rare smile curved Rhaegar's lips as memories of his childhood—when he first learned to ride dragons—drifted through his mind.
It had been far too long since he had felt this free.
Flapping its vast, black wings, Glutton scanned the distant Essos coastline with its emerald-green eyes, effortlessly finding its course.
It was nearly a century old.
During its long years as a wild dragon, it had slept beneath Dragonstone and roamed multiple continents.
This sea, this land in the distance…
It had been here before—more than once.
Unnoticed, time slipped by.
The sun climbed to its zenith, and the heat over the Summer Sea grew more intense, making the air shimmer with warmth.
Glutton crossed the open ocean, soaring past a barren coastline before gliding over the lands of Essos.
"Move it! Push the cart faster! We need to make it to Volantis by nightfall!"
"The wheel's stuck! Come on, everyone, put your backs into it!"
The dragon's shadow passed over a bustling town below, casting a fleeting darkness upon the foreign streets.
Rhaegar faintly heard someone speaking Valyrian. He gradually emerged from a half-dreaming state and opened his eyes groggily.
Crawling to the edge of the dragon's back, he surveyed the scene below.
It was a bustling town, teeming with people. Numerous carts and wagons moved in and out, passing through towering white city walls.
The voices Rhaegar heard came from a small caravan traveling south along the river.
The people in the caravan wore a variety of clothing, shielding themselves from the scorching sun as they worked together to push a carriage stuck in the mud.
"Push harder, you worthless slaves!"
"..."
A fat merchant, adorned with gold and silver, cursed incessantly while lashing the struggling laborers with a whip.
From the scattered bits of conversation, Rhaegar gathered that these merchants were heading toward Volantis.
Glancing at the town and the wide, fast-flowing river beside it, a place came to mind.
An inland town under Volantene rule—Velosys.
And this mighty river was none other than the renowned Rhoyne.
Following the Rhoyne southward would lead directly to Volantis at the river's mouth.
At that moment, Rhaegar had a realization—Glutton had carried him to Essos.
"Glutton, fly south and find a place to land," he commanded, a plan already forming in his mind.
He had come to Volantis with two objectives:
1. To make contact with the ruling Triarchs of the Tiger and Elephant factions and assess Volantis' political situation.
2. To establish diplomatic ties and forge an alliance with Volantis, breaking the current deadlock with the Free Cities.
Daemon had once mentioned that the people of Volantis harbored some hostility toward House Targaryen.
Rhaegar intended to keep a low profile, avoiding any unnecessary commotion caused by Glutton's presence.
At the same time, he planned to conceal his visit to Volantis to avoid provoking the Three Daughters.
These were standard diplomatic strategies, and he held some expectations for their success.
---
**Dusk.**
A caravan transporting fodder entered Volantis' western district.
At the tail end of the procession walked a tall, silver-haired youth draped in a black robe.
Naturally, the youth was Rhaegar, who had separated from Glutton and blended into the city under the cover of the caravan.
"Tsk, so this is Volantis—it's no better than King's Landing during its sewage-ridden days."
Rhaegar surveyed the crowded port around him, his nose assaulted by a pungent stench. His disappointment was palpable.
The moment he stepped into the city, a thick mix of fishy odors, floral scents, excrement, and decaying filth filled the air.
It was no better than King's Landing before the street-cleaning reforms.
Blending into the throng, he wandered aimlessly through the grimy streets, listening to the vendors' calls from the stalls lining both sides.
Volantis had once been an outpost of the Freehold.
It was a grand city bearing the traces of the dragonlords' legacy.
Situated at the mouth of the Rhoyne, Volantis was a deep-water port with a vast harbor.
The city was divided into eastern and western districts, separated by the swift-flowing Rhoyne, facing each other across the river.
The western district, where Rhaegar now walked, was in terrible condition—filthy streets littered with waste, beggars at every corner…
The port was overcrowded, with ships from all over the world docked tightly together. The voices of sailors and dockworkers echoed incessantly.
Rhaegar had learned that the western district housed mercenaries, foreigners, slaves, and commoners.
As a result, crime ran rampant.
"Move aside! Move aside! The Tiger Cloaks are patrolling—make way!"
Suddenly, a commotion broke out. The already chaotic street became even more agitated as slaves and commoners scurried into the shadows like they were avoiding the plague.
Rhaegar squeezed into a corner behind a vendor's stall, using his height to peer over and observe.
A squad of city guards, clad in standard equipment, strutted through the street, brandishing short clubs arrogantly.
Upon closer inspection, Rhaegar noticed that each guard bore tiger tattoos on their cheeks.
That must be where the name "Tiger Cloaks" came from.
Volantis was an intriguing city, where tattoo culture was widespread.
Whether noblemen, merchants, commoners, or slaves, people decorated their faces and bodies with tattoos.
Those of high status inked their skin with symbols of valor and achievement.
Slaves, however, were forcibly branded with markings that identified their roles—an enduring mark of their shame.
Daemon had once spoken at the dinner table about the wretched lives of Volantene slaves.
From what Rhaegar had seen in just a short time, the number of slaves within the city far exceeded that of free citizens.
"I need to hurry. I don't want to spend the night on the streets."
Shaking off distracting thoughts, Rhaegar followed a local's directions and made his way toward the eastern district.
The eastern district was home to the old nobility, warriors, and wealthy merchants.
Walking was too slow, and time was running short. Rhaegar scanned his surroundings until something caught his eye.
---
**Half an hour later.**
A carriage pulled by a dwarf elephant traversed the western district, arriving at the entrance of a grand bridge.
The bridge was exceptionally wide and long, spanning the turbulent Rhoyne. Supported by massive stone pillars, it was so vast that it felt like solid ground.
At the bridge's entrance stood a black stone archway, adorned with carvings of mythical beasts—soaring dragons, manticores, sphinxes…
The dwarf elephant cart paid the toll, and the slave driver, whose forehead bore a wheel tattoo, urged the beast forward onto the towering bridge.
Rhaegar peeked out from behind the carriage curtain, curiously observing the structure.
The Long Bridge had been constructed centuries ago under the orders of Volantis' ruling Triarchs.
It connected the old city to the western district.
Seeing this bridge—wide enough for two carriages to pass side by side—up close for the first time, Rhaegar was intrigued.
"Not as grand as Harrenhal, but still worthy of being one of the Nine Wonders."
He assessed it thoughtfully, recalling the sheer scale of his own family's fortress.
Westeros was home to many legendary structures.
The Eyrie of House Arryn, Storm's End of House Baratheon, Casterly Rock of House Lannister…
And, of course, the mighty Wall, standing for thousands of years, holding back the horrors of winter.
Compared to those, the Long Bridge seemed a little less imposing.
Chapter 270: The Valyrian Descendant
At sunset.
The small elephant carriage crossed the long bridge and arrived in the eastern district, where the environment visibly improved.
The carriage slave bowed humbly, his voice rough. "My lord, beyond this point lies the Black Wall. I cannot go any further."
"I understand."
Rhaegar lifted the carriage curtain and stepped down, casually tossing the man two gold dragons.
"Thank you, my lord."
The slave bent even lower, quickly grabbing the two coins.
The currency systems of Westeros and Volantis were different.
Westeros used gold dragons, silver stags, copper stars, and copper pennies.
Volantis had its own gold coins engraved with portraits but also accepted currency from around the world.
Rhaegar walked forward, illuminated by the bright moonlight, and saw gardens, statues, and fountains scattered throughout the area.
However, most of the fountains had dried up or had become stagnant pools of water.
A foul stench still lingered in the air.
It was late, and rather than seeking out the Triarch immediately, Rhaegar decided that finding lodging first was the wiser choice.
Soon, he spotted a towering building surrounded by carriages.
The structure stood four stories tall, built entirely of stone—an imposing giant.
—The House of Merchants.
Rhaegar grinned. "Found a place to stay."
---
The Next Day
**Eastern District, Inside the Black Wall**
The streets were clean and orderly. Wealthy individuals sat in sedan chairs carried by slaves, holding delicate slave girls in their arms.
Everything about it felt both natural and corrupt.
**At the gates of the Tiger Triarch's residence**
A figure in a black robe stood before the grand, tightly shut doors, knocking firmly.
A house slave quickly emerged, bowing respectfully as he ushered the visitor inside.
The residence was lavishly decorated, with a three-story pavilion inside its grand courtyard.
Rhaegar sat on a velvet stool, gazing indifferently at the slave girls playing in the water below.
Before long, a towering man entered the pavilion, accompanied by two female attendants.
"Hahaha! Welcome, Prince of House Targaryen! Your presence brings great honor to my humble abode!"
His voice rang out before he even appeared, laughing heartily as he spread his ring-laden hands wide.
Rhaegar turned his head and responded politely, "Lord Malacho, I apologize for arriving uninvited."
He remained ever mindful of his status, maintaining an air of elegance and nobility.
Malacho Maegyr had a rugged face and a thick beard. He grinned broadly. "I was good friends with your uncle, and you bear the blood of the great Dragon Kings. My home is always open to you."
As a noble of old Volantis, Malacho firmly believed in the supremacy of bloodlines.
Most Volantenes proudly claimed descent from Valyria.
The Targaryens, as the last surviving dragonlord family, possessed an unquestionable noble lineage.
After exchanging pleasantries, Rhaegar got straight to the point.
He inquired about the Tigers' stance on the Kingdom of the Three Daughters and their relationship with Daemon.
Malacho did not hesitate to reveal the truth: the Three Daughters were in a period of weakness, and the old noble faction, long suppressed, was now reviving its ambitions for conquest.
Unfortunately, the Triarchy of Volantis was not solely controlled by the Tigers.
The two Triarchs from the Elephants were merchants and moneylenders who vehemently opposed war.
The Tigers and Elephants were engaged in a power struggle, with political maneuvering escalating into bloodshed.
Malacho also openly admitted to exchanging letters with Daemon.
Daemon had established a friendship with Malacho and the Tigers, agreeing to restrict the Three Daughters' trade exports.
Beyond that, he revealed little.
But Rhaegar understood without needing to be told—if the Tigers gained the upper hand in power, they would certainly deepen their alliance with Daemon.
The two continued their discussion for a long while, after which Malacho ordered his servants to prepare a lavish feast.
Rhaegar did not decline and shared the meal, establishing a preliminary bond of friendship.
As they ate, Malacho's eyes gleamed with expectation. He extended an invitation.
"Noble prince, why not stay at my residence for a time? I will offer you the highest hospitality."
Rhaegar's name was famous across the Nine Free Cities.
Recalling his title as the "Ashmaker," Malacho naturally assumed that Rhaegar, like Daemon, was a dragonlord who favored war.
If the Tigers could secure Targaryen support, they would undoubtedly triumph over the Elephants.
Rhaegar saw through his intentions instantly and politely declined. "No, I still need to visit the other two Triarchs and take in the sights of Volantis."
"Prince, those two from the Elephants are stubborn fools. They will offend you."
Malacho frowned slightly and tried to persuade him. "I have the most beautiful and voluptuous slave girls. If you stay, you may indulge in them as you please."
"My journey is not yet over. I can only appreciate your kindness in my heart."
Rhaegar refused directly and took his leave.
He had no interest in slave girls—he simply wanted to explore Volantis and experience its customs.
---
Leaving the luxurious residence, Rhaegar pulled up his hood and stepped into the bustling streets.
At that moment, he understood Daemon's roguish ways.
Moving alone through the city like this had a certain thrill.
He wandered for a while, but the passersby were cold and distant, offering no clues about the residences of the Elephant Triarchs.
Compared to the hospitable Tigers, the Elephants were far more closed off.
Eventually, a beggar gave him an idea—he needed to find a place where information flowed freely.
---
On both sides of the Long Bridge, countless taverns, brothels, and shops lined the streets, making it the best place to gather information.
"I didn't have time to take a look last night, so I'll make up for it today."
Rhaegar chuckled softly and continued on his way.
A massive black stone wall separated the rich from the poor in the eastern district, but Rhaegar slipped through the imposing barricade with ease.
As he stepped onto the Long Bridge, the atmosphere changed instantly.
He left behind the cold indifference of the wealthy district and plunged into the ceaseless clamor of the marketplace.
Without a low-elephant carriage to ferry him, Rhaegar weaved through the shops and stalls on either side of the bridge, his ears filled with the chaotic noise.
He passed by a dung collector with a fly tattooed on his face, a blacksmith marked with the symbol of a hammer…
They were all slaves, meticulously managed by their masters, using their physical labor to generate value.
"Lord, grant us light!"
Suddenly, a loud woman's voice rang out, reciting a prayer.
Moments later, a chorus of men and women joined in unison.
"For the Long Night is dark and full of terrors."
The woman's voice continued, spreading the faith.
Hearing the words "Long Night," Rhaegar's first thought was *A Song of Ice and Fire*.
His second thought was the faith of R'hllor.
Curiosity piqued, he pushed through the crowd and stepped into a more open space.
Standing atop a platform stacked with hay bales was a strikingly beautiful woman in red robes, passionately delivering a sermon.
Around her, a group of ragged, collar-wearing slaves gathered, their eyes filled with longing as they listened intently to her words.
Rhaegar studied her for a moment, drawn to her attire.
He had killed two red priestesses before—both devout followers of R'hllor.
At first, he had a favorable impression of this god, having once received his blessing.
But after encountering those two women, any goodwill had vanished without a trace.
He had reason to suspect that R'hllor was an evil god and that his followers were nothing more than wicked witches.
"The Lord of Light hears all prayers, regardless of one's status..."
The red priestess continued, stirring the slaves' emotions with repeated prayers.
Finding it tedious, Rhaegar turned and walked away.
The faith of R'hllor was widespread across Essos.
Volantis housed the world's largest temple dedicated to R'hllor, beloved by the lower-class citizens and slaves.
The powerful and wealthy, however, scoffed at it and discarded it like rubbish.
As Rhaegar walked, the rooftops of brothels above him cast shadows, blocking out the sunlight. The streets became narrower.
"Quick! Catch that slave girl, don't let her escape!"
"Damn it, I'll sell her to the lowest brothel!"
A burst of shouting erupted from a distance, growing closer.
Rhaegar tugged his hood lower and watched the commotion unfold.
On the crowded street, people were shoved aside as a disheveled woman dashed through the chaos.
Her face was obscured, but her skin was exceptionally pale—so pale it was almost translucent, like a doll made of pure milk pudding.
The most striking feature was her filthy, tangled hair.
A familiar shade of silver-gold.
"A Valyrian descendant," Rhaegar murmured, observing like any other bystander.
But he made no move to interfere.
Volantis was the first colony of the Freehold, and Valyrian blood had long since spread throughout the city.
Just moments ago, he had spotted a silver-gold-haired prostitute among the slaves.
"Stop her! She's an escaped slave!"
One of the pursuing slavers shouted angrily, staying hot on the woman's heels.
The pale woman ran with all her might, her figure flashing past Rhaegar, carrying a faint, unpleasant odor in her wake.
That same breeze lifted Rhaegar's hood, exposing his own shoulder-length silver-gold hair.
The fleeing woman glanced back—and saw his face.
In an instant, she froze.
Her foot caught on something, and with a loud *thud*, she crashed onto the muddy bridge.
The slavers wasted no time. They caught up, kicking and beating her, yanking the iron collar around her neck before dragging her like a lifeless animal.
Listening to her pained cries, Rhaegar lost interest in watching and turned to leave.
"My lord, please! Save me!"
Suddenly, the woman's desperate plea rang out, her voice clear yet filled with anguish.
Rhaegar paid no mind, silently pulling his hood back up.
But the woman kept struggling.
She bit down on a slaver's hand, seizing the chance to break free.
As Rhaegar walked at an unhurried pace, she stumbled toward him in a panic, throwing herself at his feet.
"Please, my lord, you must help me!" she begged.
Rhaegar looked down at her in surprise and asked, "Why should I help you?"
As he spoke, his right hand, adorned with a spatial ring, withdrew beneath his black robe—though deep down, he was inclined to intervene.
The woman clung desperately to the hem of his pants, hastily brushing aside her long hair to reveal a breathtakingly beautiful face. She spoke rapidly:
"My name is Daeneryla. You are a Targaryen descendant—please, I beg you, for the sake of this name, help me!"
"Daeneryla?"
Rhaegar's gaze sharpened, his thoughts stirred.
Daeneryla was the name of his grandmother.
Her full name was Daeneryla Targaryen, the eighth child and fourth daughter of his great-grandfather, Jaehaerys I.
"Step aside, boy, unless you want trouble!"
Several slavers surrounded him, their faces twisted with hostility.
One of them, a rat-faced man, pointed at Daeneryla and sneered coldly:
"She's a brothel slave—we paid a hundred gold coins for her!"
(End of Chapter)