The steam coiled through the vaulted chambers like a living thing, twisting around black marble columns before dissipating into the gilded ceiling. This bathhouse had been a gift from Malaquo Maegyr—an obscene display of Volantene opulence with its heated floors, gold-leaf mosaics depicting the Doom of Valyria, and a sunken pool large enough to drown a horse in. The water, drawn from volcanic springs deep beneath the city, stayed at a near-scalding temperature that would have boiled a normal man alive. For me? It was merely... comfortable.
I stretched beneath the water's surface, watching the scars along my ribs—Drogo's parting gift—pucker in the heat. The wounds had healed, but the memory hadn't. Neither had the wyrm's teeth, nor the molten darkness of its belly.
Clink.
A golden claw tapped impatiently against my collarbone. Viserion—no larger than a mastiff but twice as vicious—perched on my chest, his tail lashing the water into froth. When I didn't immediately offer him the roasted boar haunch floating nearby on a silver platter, he screeched directly into my face, the sound reverberating off the walls like a chorus of dying men.
"Patience," I murmured, flicking his snout. The dragon hissed but settled, his slit pupils dilating as they tracked the steam curling toward the ceiling.
As he looked at the dragon, he thought back to how hard it had been to come up with names for them. In the end, he decided to keep their names the same—except for the black dragon. Drogo was dead in this timeline, so Drogon would no longer be an appropriate name. To honor his father and maintain the naming scheme, he would rename it Aserion. The others would remain the same: Viserion and Rhaegal.
With a thought, I summoned the system interface. The familiar blue hologram materialized, casting eerie reflections across the bath's surface:
[Current DP: 59,432]
My fingers twitched toward the troop shop. The Lord of the Rings expansion had been taunting me since our return to Volantis. Gondorian infantry—disciplined, heavily armored, and most importantly, utterly loyal. A standing army that would make the Golden Company look like babies.
But first...
I reached through the system's spatial rift, my hand closing around a chilled goblet of Qarthi blackberry wine. The vintage's tart sweetness cut through the mineral reek of the springs. A month. Thirty days since I'd clawed my way out of that wyrm's gullet, since fire and blood had birthed something the world hadn't seen since the Dance.
And what had I accomplished?
I took a slow sip, watching Viserion stalk the floating platter to claim his meal. The dragons were still too small for war—barely capable of lighting a pyre, let alone melting castles. But their existence alone had already shifted the board in ways even I couldn't fully predict.
But I did know one thing: in Volantis, the most widely worshipped religion was the Red Religion—the very one I was the prophesied messiah of. Men of all backgrounds practiced it, from slaves to noblemen.
What interested me most were the slave soldiers. All of them followed the faith.
So, if I were to bring an army to the gates of Volantis, who would the slave soldiers obey? Their masters—or their god?
---
The war room stank of incense, ink, and naked ambition.
Kinvara stood before the carved mahogany table, her crimson robes pooling around her like congealing blood. The tattoos circling her eyes—flames rendered in delicate Myrish ink—seemed to dance in the flickering torchlight. Before her lay a map of Essos so detailed it showed every pirate cove and sheep track from Braavos to the Asshai.
"The Fiery Hand currently numbers one thousand," she said, tracing the coastline with a fingernail painted with dried blood. "But the temples of Lys, Tolos, and Mantarys have pledged another three thousand trained soliders."
I leaned back in the obsidian throne—a recent acquisition, its wings carved so sharply they could draw blood. "Not enough."
Across the table, Illyrio Mopatis mopped his glistening brow with a lace handkerchief. The Volantene summer was murder on his Pentoshi constitution. "The Triarchs will never allow—"
"They won't have a choice." I nodded to Kinvara. "Show him."
The High Priestess snapped her fingers. Four slave-scholars dragged forward an ironwood chest, its ancient hinges screaming in protest as they lifted the lid. Inside lay stacks of parchment—my "divine revelations," painstakingly copied by fifty scribes working in shifts over the past fortnight.
Illyrio's jowls quivered as he lifted a page bound in horsehide. "And the Lord of Light shall walk among men," he read aloud, "his hair silver as the moon's tears, his eyes burning with the wisdom of the Fourteen Flames..." He trailed off, looking up sharply. "Your people will think this is blasphemy."
"—the new gospel," Kinvara corrected, her voice trembling with something between awe and hunger. She touched the three-headed dragon pendant at her throat—a piece I'd gifted her, forged from one of Aserion's shed scales. "The scriptures were fragments. Broken echoes. The Dragon has shown us the complete truth."
I watched Illyrio's face cycle through shock, calculation, and finally, grudging admiration.
I thought back to what I had actually done to write that bible—I had stolen it from the real Bible. I'd had quite a lot of time on the trip back to Volantis, and during that time, I bought a copy of the actual Bible from the system shop. I didn't know why it was available there, but it turned out to be useful.
I stole most of the stories, changing the names to align with this world's religion. Christianity had been the largest religion in my world, and it had become that for a reason. That's why I was using it to my advantage.
Besides, when I eventually took the Iron Throne, the Faith of the Seven would hate me—and so would the smallfolk—for being associated with such a foreign, barbaric religion. That's why I planned to reform this one into something more palatable to the average man or woman.
"The Inquisition will serve two purposes," I said, rising to join Kinvara at the map. My bare feet left damp prints on the mosaic floor—a rendering of the Doom that I'd made them install upside down, so Valyria's destruction loomed overhead like a threat. "First, as eyes and ears in every city from here to Asshai." My finger stabbed into Slaver's Bay. "Second, to prepare the way for the Red Army."
The Inquisition would be a spy organization made up of Red Priests and Priestesses, each assigned to a specific place or region. There, they would establish their own network of agents—children, slaves, or the poor, those who had nothing in life. They would offer them something in return for information, and that information would eventually make its way to me.
Kinvara's breath hitched. "Twenty thousand soldiers..."
"Trained to the pinnacle of mortal capability," I confirmed. "Answering only to you." I paused just long enough to see her pupils dilate before adding, "And me."
The unspoken hierarchy hung heavier than the incense. Kinvara would command the faith's day-to-day machinations, but I? I would be its beating heart. Its living god.
Aserion chose that moment to swoop in from the balcony, his wings scattering parchment as he landed on my shoulder. Illyrio yelped, nearly toppling his chair.
I scratched the black dragon's chin, feeling the rumble of his purr through my bones. "We'll need funding."
Illyrio recovered quickly, smoothing his mustard-yellow tunic. "The Maegyrs control nearly a third of Volantis's—"
"—and Malaquo wants the other two-thirds," I interrupted. "He wants to be more than a Triarch. He wants to be a king."
I smiled, feeding Aserion a strip of dried meat from my pocket.
"Fortunately for him, I know a thing or two about kingship."
---
The counting room smelled of ink, sweat, and the peculiar mustiness that haunted all places where gold changed hands. Moonlight streamed through the barred windows, painting silver stripes across the mountains of ledgers stacked on every surface.
Daenerys stood at the center of it all, her silver hair braided into a crown, Rhaegal coiled around her shoulders like a living stole. Before her, three Myrish bankers knelt, their foreheads pressed to the floor.
"—and so the total comes to nine hundred thousand honors," the fattest banker wheezed, his jowls quivering against the tiles. "With interest, of course."
Dany didn't blink. "The Dragon does not pay interest."
I leaned against the doorframe, watching my sister work. In the month since the hatching, she'd shed her meekness like a snake shedding skin. The girl who'd trembled at the Dothraki wedding now stood straight-backed and sharp-tongued, her violet eyes missing nothing.
Rhaegal chirped as she stroked his emerald scales. "Perhaps half," she mused. "For prompt payment."
The bankers groaned.
I cleared my throat. Three heads snapped up. The bankers paled further—if possible—at the sight of me.
"Brother," Dany said, her voice warmer now. "Come to audit?"
"In a manner of speaking." I crossed the room, Aserion's claws pricking through my tunic. "Leave us."
The bankers scrambled out so fast one left his slipper behind.
Dany arched a brow as I picked through their abandoned ledgers. "You're ruining my negotiations."
"You were being too kind." I tossed the books aside. "We'll pay nothing."
Her lips parted. "But the ships—"
"—were purchased with money loaned against our future conquests." I smiled. "Why pay debts when we can burn the creditors?"
Rhaegal hissed, as if in agreement.
Dany's fingers tightened around her dragon. "That's..."
"Practical?" I supplied.
"Dishonest," she corrected, but there was no heat in it.
I cupped her chin, tilting her face toward the moonlight. "What's a lie between dragons?"
For a heartbeat, she leaned into my touch. Then Rhaegal nipped at my wrist, drawing blood.
I laughed, licking the crimson bead from my skin. "Your beast has spirit."
Dany's eyes flashed. "He's not a beast."
"No," I agreed softly. "He's family."
The moment stretched, taut as a bowstring. Then Aserion screeched, shattering it.
I stepped back. "Come. Malaquo expects us for dinner."
Dany smoothed her skirts. "Will you tell him? About the army?"
"Not yet." I offered her my arm. "First, let him taste the wine. Then we'll show him the poison."