Chapter 154 Dragon King Rhaegar and Khal Drogo
Rhaegar rode his horse directly from the courtyard overlooking Pentos to the Sun Gate of Pentos, observing the approaching Dothraki Khals. Almost everyone in Pentos recognized the black steed and the silver-haired, purple-eyed youth atop it. The steed belonged to a descendant of the esteemed Dragonlords, a distinguished guest of the Magister of Pentos—Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the Silver Prince, the Dragonlord. Merchants, citizens, sellswords, and debt slaves all scattered out of his way.
The Sun Gate of Pentos leads east toward the Rhoyne River. From the city of Pentos eastward to the western bank of the Rhoyne, most of the land fell within Pentos's sphere of influence and its vassal towns. This remained true only so long as the Khals did not descend into a frenzy of war and cross the Rhoyne with their khalasars—something Pentos feared above all else. Over the years, the Magisters had managed to cultivate relationships with several powerful Khals, sending them tribute in gold, silver, and gifts to ensure their khalasars remained east of the Rhoyne.
Rhaegar gazed at the Khals in the distance and thought of a phrase: a monkey crowned king.
When visiting the Free Cities, the Khals would don splendid garments and drench themselves in perfume, yet beneath the finery were only hardened muscles and an unquenchable thirst for slaughter. The people of Pentos regarded the Khals as kings of a barbaric world, yet they were powerless before them, forced to bribe and flatter these nomadic conquerors.
The Khals would not enter the city itself, nor did they notice Rhaegar. Their entry would cause widespread panic. Instead, they resided in a complex of villas by the bay, where the Magisters of Pentos would host them with feasts and wine.
The Dothraki possessed bronze skin and black almond-shaped eyes, their long braids as dark as ink—utterly different from the people of Pentos. They were children of the Dothraki Sea. The eyes of the Pentoshi were filled with fear. Both Pentos and Qohor lived in dread of the Dothraki.
Under the open sky, the Dothraki followed ancient traditions. Both men and women bared their chests, wearing painted leather vests, horsehair leggings, and bronze belts. Their warriors slicked their long braids with animal fat until they gleamed. They feasted on roasted horse meat seasoned with honey and pepper and drank fermented mare's milk.
Rhaegar's attention settled on the towering Khal leading them. The man stood well over six and a half feet tall, moving with the predatory grace of a lion. He rode a white stallion, his bronze skin gleaming, muscles bulging, and his beard adorned with golden and silver bells. A curved arakh hung at his side.
Rhaegar narrowed his eyes.
It was as though Khal Drogo himself had appeared—but judging by his age, this must be Drogo's father.
Behind the white stallion followed several smaller white horses. Among them rode a boy who bore a striking resemblance to the Khal—wild, fierce, and unruly. A young Drogo. Even now, he held a high position within the khalasar.
Not far behind Khal Balbo rode another Khal, thinner and shorter, less imposing in stature.
Rhaegar studied the Khals and their fearsome bloodriders, whose presence radiated raw, untamed savagery. No wonder the pampered Magisters of Pentos trembled—these men embodied the brutal might of the Dothraki Sea. Having destroyed the other civilizations of the plains, the Khals stood as its undisputed masters.
After a few moments, Rhaegar looked away.
A young Drogo was nothing remarkable to him. A true dragon had no need to fear horse lords. Though formidable warriors, the Dothraki wore no armor and possessed no true civilization. Their way of life was a crude mixture of barbarism and primitive sorcery, and their mortality rate remained high.
Rhaegar soon returned to his mansion. After changing his clothes, he ventured into the bustling markets of Pentos. His dragons rested quietly beside the marble pool. The estate itself was one of the most secure locations in the city.
With his face concealed beneath a hood and mask, he blended into the crowd. Merchants from across the known world filled the market, and no one paid attention to a solitary, cloaked figure.
He saw all manner of people—fair-skinned Lyseni with golden hair and blue eyes, olive-skinned Myrish resembling the Rhoynar, and Pentoshi merchants with oiled forked beards.
What interested him most, however, were the Qartheen.
Qarth was a city of immense wealth, ruled by merchants and warlocks. Its people were tall and pale, earning them the Dothraki nickname "Milk Men." Their merchants wore flowing silk robes adorned with beads, while their warriors donned bronze scale armor and elaborate crested helmets.
Spices, gems, and even dragon bones were commonly sold throughout the market.
Yet none of these held much appeal for Rhaegar. He lacked neither wealth nor luxury. What he sought were Valyrian steel weapons, dragon eggs, and items infused with magic or runic power. Such treasures, however, were exceedingly rare.
At a stall, he examined so-called dragon bones. Most were obvious fakes—elephant bones, fish bones, turtle shells—crudely dyed black.
"Dragon bones! Fine dragon bones!" a merchant called eagerly.
"What price?" Rhaegar asked.
"Worth their weight in gold, my lord," the merchant replied with exaggerated pride. "These treasures were obtained at great risk—from the Smoking Sea or even the Dragonmont itself."
Rhaegar stepped closer, examining the bones carefully.
All fakes.
Yet… there was something else.
A faint tremor of magic.
"These are not dragon bones," Rhaegar said calmly. "And your price is too high."
The merchant's expression darkened.
"Are you looking for trouble?"
Rhaegar smiled faintly. "Just joking. One diamond. I choose the bones myself."
The merchant's eyes lit up greedily at the sight of the gem.
"Deal!"
Rhaegar sifted through the pile, selecting those with traces of magical resonance. These bones, though not from dragons, carried faint remnants of water magic—likely from creatures drawn from the depths of the Rhoyne.
After completing the transaction, he gathered his purchases and left, ignoring the whispers of merchants mocking the "fool" who bought fake dragon bones.
Back at his mansion, he stored them in his study. These bones would serve his research into water magic and the strengthening of bloodlines.
Not long after, Fat Miro arrived.
"The man seeking to marry off his daughter is a cousin of one of Pentos's Princes," Miro reported. "His daughter weeps daily since her betrothed died."
"The Khals present are Khal Balbo and Khal Moso, among others. Balbo is the strongest. A banquet will be held tonight."
"Miro, are you married?" Rhaegar asked.
"No, Your Grace."
"Would you like to marry a noble lady?"
Miro froze in shock.
"That… would be difficult, Your Grace. I am of humble birth."
"Where there is will, there is a way," Rhaegar said, patting his shoulder. "Leave it to me."
Miro's eyes filled with gratitude.
Soon after Miro departed, Magister Illyrio Mopatis arrived in haste.
"My prince, forgive my delay. The arrival of the Khals has left me overwhelmed."
"Can I attend tonight's banquet?" Rhaegar asked. "I will act as your aide."
Illyrio hesitated. Rhaegar was noble and powerful—but also willful and dangerous. The Khals were no different. A clash between them would spell disaster.
Yet refusal was equally dangerous.
That night, the banquet hall bustled with life—merchants, sellswords, Red Priests, and nobles from across the world.
At its center stood Khal Drogo and his father, surrounded by towering bloodriders.
A Red Priest raised his voice in praise:
"The young Khal shall conquer the grass sea—"
But suddenly, he stopped.
His gaze locked onto Rhaegar.
Terror flooded his face.
"Dragon King… great Dragon King…"
His voice rose into a trembling chant:
"You are the silver flame that conquers all… the King of Kings… the three-headed dragon reborn… the world shall kneel before you…"
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