Tyrosh after the war

Before the morning mist had even dissipated in Tyrosh, the clanging of metal within the the Black Wall had been replaced by the clattering of gold coins.

Those Tyrosh nobles who, just days before, had led their men, brandishing weapons and shouting "Overthrow the Kingslayer!" now stood in the courtyard of Selos's private residence, watching as his servants pried open the treasure chests. Shining Tyrosh gold coins, silver plates inlaid with rubies, and silk quilts embroidered with gold thread were meticulously counted. Before the mountain of treasure, the mercenary leaders and pirate captains rubbed their hands together, their eyes filled with greed, but the arrogance of yesterday's riot was gone.

On the street the Black Wall, citizen representatives, gripping rusty longswords, were followed by commoners carrying farm tools, clearly overseeing this "ransom deal."

"Is this enough?" Marcos Vance, the noble representative of Tyrosh, pushed over the last chest of gold coins. His silk robes were still stained with the blood of the previous night, but he tried to appear calm. "The commission owed to you by the Triarchy has been paid in full by Tyrosh. Now, take your men and get out of Tyrosh!"

The mercenary leader, a scarred man from the Disputed Lands, weighed the bag of gold coins in his hand, the metallic clang ringing out. "Wouldn't it have been easier if we'd done this earlier?"

He turned and whistled at the mercenaries behind him, "Brothers! Take the money, let's go!"

The pirate leaders followed suit, carrying treasure chests out of the city. As they passed the street corner where commoners gathered, they spat at the crowd, but they didn't dare stop thinking about the scorch marks left by Prince Baelon's Vhagar outside the port the night before. No one wanted to provoke the wrath of the true dragon.

The Black Wall, however, lay a completely different scene in the slave camp.

Racallio Rendon, now dressed in a faded purple-green silk shirt, his purple-orange striped beard and hair loosely tied with hemp rope, was helping a young slave girl put on her straw sandals.

His mercenaries were distributing the captured weapons to the slaves who were willing to follow him. One of the bearded mercenary captains thumped his chest and shouted, "Anyone who wants to go to the Summer Isles with Racallio, come with me! Anyone who wants to join our mercenary group, step forward!"

The slaves' choices were scattered yet resolute:

A dozen or so relatively older, strong male slaves, carrying rudimentary weapons, stood behind the bearded man;

More than twenty younger slave children surrounded Racallio, their eyes filled with longing for the Summer Isles;

A group of about thirty elderly people, women, and children, clutching "asylum certificates" issued by the Joint Fleet, headed towards the port.

They had heard early in the morning from the Joint Fleet proclaiming in the port that Westeros had vast tracts of land waiting to be cultivated, and that there was no slave owner's whip, only the protection of true dragons.

Only a few people turned away in silence and walked into the interior of Essos. Perhaps they were still thinking of their families back home, or perhaps they had grown accustomed to the suffering of this land. Even knowing that they might be captured and enslaved again, they were unwilling to leave the land of their birth.

"Take care of yourselves!" Racallio shouted to the departing slaves, his voice unusually serious. "If you run into trouble, run towards Westeros. There, at least you'll have the protection of their Targaryen dragons!"

The light gray dragon beside him suddenly Grey Ghost. Gray Shadow had come here with Daemon's servants at some point. The dragon skillfully rubbed its head against the slave girl's hand, which made the girl show a long-lost smile. It was used to begging for food like this, but unfortunately, it could not get what it wanted today.

The Joint Fleet camp at the port this morning was in perfect order.

Prince Baelon's Vhagar personally circled high above the camp. When the turquoise dragon's wings spread, they almost covered half the sky. The dragon's shadow fell on the camp, deterring the Tyrosh nobles who had come to demand slaves.

A nobleman's steward in a scarlet uniform stood outside the camp, clutching a "slave register" in his hand, yet hesitated to step forward.

Last night, an High Hermitage slave owner tried to storm the camp to seize slaves, but was burned half of his robe by a weak dragon breath from Vhagar on the nearby beach. He is currently recuperating in the mansion, and no one wants to repeat the same mistake.

"Your Highness, the fleet from King's Landing has arrived!" Colin Celtigar's voice broke the silence of the camp.

Daemon looked up and saw the golden lion flag of the Royal Fleet and the flag of the Master of Ships slowly approaching on the distant sea. On the "Royal Standard" sent back to King's Landing's Landing by Baelon to deliver a message, the two familiar figures of Otto Hightower and Leonno Strong could be vaguely seen.

Daemon felt a surge of warmth as he recalled that the ship might bring a new letter from Gael. In her letter before the Gael, Gary had said she would have someone bring the newly embroidered amulet; he wondered if it had been sent this time.

When the fleet docked, Otto Hightower was the first to step off the pier. He wore a dark green velvet robe with the badge of the Master of Laws pinned to his chest, and his eyes swept across the camp with his usual caution.

Leonno Strong, dressed in a black outfit, also wore the same ornament symbolizing his status as Master of Ships. His bald, muscular appearance, coupled with a serious expression, immediately gave the impression to those unfamiliar with him that he was unapproachable and not to be trifled with.

"Prince Baelon, His Majesty has ordered us to assist in the peace negotiations." Otto bowed to the approaching Baelon, his tone respectful yet distant. "I have heard that Lord Taimond Lannister is already waiting in the main tent, and the envoys from Lys and Myr have also arrived."

Baelon nodded, then turned to Corlys House Velaryon and said, "Let's begin then, and try to finalize an agreement within three days."

As for Rhaenys, she told Corlys and Baelon the day after the war ended, "The division of spoils after the war is your business, men."

He chuckled to himself as he rode Meleys, joining the House Velaryon's silver ship that was returning to Hull on Tidehead Island for rest, to see Laena and Laenor at High Tide.

However, before leaving, she still reminded Daemon, "Don't mess around with Daemon Targaryen. There are places like that in Tyrosh. Be careful, after all, you're getting engaged to Gael."

Daemon stood at the back of the crowd, watching the curtain of the peace tent fall, a sense of annoyance rising within him.

He preferred patrolling with his men to watching politicians haggle at the negotiating table.

Just then, Daemon Targaryen's voice came from behind. "Little Daemon! Want to come out for a stroll? The places in Tyrosh are much more interesting than Silk Street in King's Landing!"

Daemon was about to refuse when he saw Baelon walk over and pat him on the shoulder. "You two have been too tense on the battlefield these days. It's good for you to go out and relax. But Little Daemon, you have to keep an eye on Big Daemon and make sure he doesn't cause trouble."

Looking at their still-youthful faces and figures, Baelon slowly spoke. After all, the older of the two, Daemon Targaryen, was only eighteen years old this year, and the younger Daemon was only fourteen years old in his current body age. The continuous battles would be a kind of pressure for any normal person.

Daemon tried to excuse himself by saying he was "keeping watch over the mercenaries and pirates newly recruited by Racallio," but then he saw Daemon Targaryen pull a young man out from around the corner. He was a nephew of Erio, the former High Lord of Tyrosh, whom he had met the day before. Erio was also named, and he was wearing a plain gray robe that didn't suit his status. Several young Tyrosh nobles followed behind him, and it was clear that Daemon Targaryen had just "encountered" him.

"Look, Erio said he's taking us to Nightingale Alley in Tyrosh," said Daemon Targaryen, patting Erio on the shoulder. His overly familiar manner made the young man, whom he had only met a few times, feel a little awkward.

Daemon had no choice but to nod, but he didn't forget to bring Grey Ghost along. The light gray dragon had already flown back. When it saw Daemon beckoning, it immediately scurried over, tugging at the corner of his clothes in its mouth, as if it had been waiting to leave.

The traces of the riots have not yet completely disappeared on the streets of Tyrosh.

Children gathered around the collapsed statue to watch the spectacle, the smashed shop doors leaned against the wall, and the windows of the noble mansion still bore the marks of stones thrown at them.

Erio led them toward Nightingale Alley. The citizens along the way stopped to pay their respects when they saw the Blackfyre on Daemon's body and the Grey Ghost flying over his shoulder. The fame of the true dragon had already spread once again to Tyrosh was once known as the "Triarchy" of the Valyrian Freehold Valyrian Freehold, along with the Lys and the Myr.

"When Lord Selos was here, this place was bustling with activity," Erio said softly, his Tyrosh accent tinged with a hint of shyness. "Every night there were musicians playing, and vendors selling mead and sausages—"

Daemon Targaryen's eyes lit up as he listened, pulling Erio aside to ask him all sorts of questions. Daemon followed behind, cautiously observing the surroundings, reluctantly playing the role of a bodyguard. His past experiences and painful lessons from battles told him that the more peaceful a place seemed, the more likely it was to hide danger.

The Grey Ghost suddenly murmured towards the shadows at the alley entrance, Daemon immediately gripped the Blackfyre tightly.

A guard in a tattered uniform emerged from the shadows, clutching a money bag in his hand, clearly intending to rob someone.

However, it wasn't Daemon and his two companions, but rather several young nobles from Tyrosh following behind Erio. He assumed the two groups weren't together.

While Daemon Targaryen and Erio were chatting animatedly, Daemon, who was following behind, didn't talk to the others. He had assumed they were a few noble young masters who had come to the outer city to have some fun and wanted to make a fortune while the city was in chaos. Little did he know that these "fat sheep" in his eyes were just his guests for the day.

Just as Daemon Targaryen was about to draw his sword, Daemon raised his hand to stop him. The Grey Ghost rushed over, and the little dragon spewed out a small burst of dragon breath, which burned at the guard's feet. The man was so frightened that he dropped his money bag and ran away as fast as he could.

"Your little dragon is amazing!" Daemon Targaryen patted Grey Ghost's head, causing the little dragon to purr and reluctantly rub against the hand that was "serving" it.

Erio and the young nobles stared in disbelief, clearly seeing a dragon so close for the first time. Although there was talk of the "legacy of Old Valyria Tyrosh," these young people had never seen a real dragon before; their knowledge of dragons was limited to legends.

At the entrance to Nightingale Alley, a mead vendor was packing up his stall.

Upon seeing Daemon and his entourage, the vendor quickly offered them a cup of mead. "Your Highness, this is the best mead from Tyrosh, it's free!"

Daemon took the glass, took a sip, and found it sweet with a hint of fruit, even more refreshing than the King's Landing's Landing ale.

Daemon Targaryen snatched the glass from Erio's hand, downed it in one gulp, and shouted, "One more!" which made the vendor nod repeatedly.

Although he didn't recognize the dragon before him, he could still recognize the family crest on Erio's body. For such a nobleman to smile at him like that, he must be the Dragon King from across the Narrow Sea.

The musicians in the alley have started playing again, the Roote melodies mingling with their singing, dispelling the gloom of war.

Several Tyrosh girls couldn't help but chuckle when they saw Daemon Targaryen.

Although his black and red riding attire was covered in dust, it couldn't hide his handsome face. The crimson brooch with dragon scale patterns from Caraxes pinned to his collar added to his dashing appearance.

Daemon Targaryen immediately struck a dashing pose, raising an eyebrow at the girls, but was pulled back by Daemon: "Don't forget, before Rhaenys left, Uncle Baelon gave me some advice."

Daemon Targaryen pursed his lips, but stopped fooling around and instead started chatting with the young nobles of Tyrosh around him about the battlefield.

He vividly described how the Glutton burned through the decks of the Tyrosh fleet and how Caraxes tore apart the mercenaries' shields, eliciting gasps of astonishment from the smiling nobles.

Erio, however, listened with rapt attention, his eyes filled with longing. "I wish I could ride a dragon too—"

Looking at the scene before him, Daemon felt a warmth rise in his heart.

The cruelty of war and the scheming of politicians seemed to be diluted by the music and laughter in this alley.

He touched the amulet in his pocket, recalling Gael's letter, the docks of King's Landing's Landing on the day before his departure, and the Valyria wedding that had yet to take place. A faint smile involuntarily crept onto his lips.

The Grey Ghost suddenly looked up and let out a low murmur towards the sky.

Daemon looked up and saw Vhagar's turquoise dragon shadow sweeping past the alleyway entrance; it was clearly Baelon on patrol.

The dragon's shadow fell on the street, causing everyone to stop what they were doing and bow in the direction of the dragon's shadow. The fierce naval battle that had just taken place had restored their fear of being dominated by the Old Valyria dragon on their backs. The threat of the Dragonfire once again made them respect the dragon kings on the dragon's back. The dragon's majesty could always awe people.

"It's getting late, we should head back," Daemon said. He knew that while Baelon had let them out to relax, he wouldn't allow them to stay out too long.

Although somewhat reluctant, Daemon Targaryen knew his limits. He waved to the girls and followed Daemon toward the camp.

Erio and the young nobles of Tyrosh personally escorted them to the alley entrance and promised to take them to the famous "Crystal Garden" in the inner city of Tyrosh the next day.

There you'll find the most famous flowers of Tyrosh, which are said to glow faintly in the early morning.

On the way back, Daemon looked at the Grey Ghost bouncing around him, and at Daemon Targaryen's back as he hummed the Tyrosh tune he had just learned. He suddenly realized that the relaxation after this war might be exactly what he needed.

The blood and fire of the battlefield and the scheming at the negotiating table should be put aside for now. After all, they are still young people and deserve their own relaxing time.

As the camp lights gradually came on, the curtain of the negotiation tent was just lifted.

Corlys, Otto, Leonno, and Taimond emerged, their faces showing fatigue but also a hint of relief—clearly, a preliminary peace agreement had been reached.

When Baelon saw the two Daemon return, a smile appeared in his eyes, "How was your time?"

"Not bad," Daemon replied, pointing to the Grey Ghost beside him. "The Grey Ghost even scared away a guard who was trying to rob us."

Daemon Targaryen eagerly replied, "Erio took us to Nightingale Alley, and the mead there was quite delicious! We're going to the Crystal Garden tomorrow!"

Baelon smiled and nodded, patting them on the shoulder. "Get some rest, you'll be busy tomorrow."

Daemon watched Baelon's retreating figure, then glanced at the lights of the peace tent, and suddenly understood that the end of this war was not the end, but a new beginning.

The peace negotiations at Tyrosh, the governance of the Stepstones, the future of Westeros, and his promise to Gael all await him.

The Grey Ghost rubbed against his hand, and the Glutton's dragon roar came from the other end of the camp, the dark dragon shadow gleaming with dark gold in the lamplight.

Daemon gripped the Blackfyre tightly, his heart filled with determination. No matter how many challenges lay ahead, as long as he had dragons, brothers, and loved ones, he could keep going and protect everything he wanted to safeguard.

Night deepened in Tyrosh, and the music still faintly drifted from the alleyways, mingling with the sounds of campfires and the low murmurs of dragons, creating the gentlest nocturne since the war began.