Chapter 203: The Gift of the Triarchy
"Come on, boy!" Bronze Yohn swung his longsword. He was tall and lean, like a sword drawn from its sheath. The Knight of the Vale was famous throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Before the duel began, Ser Barristan Selmy quietly descended from the high platform.
"Ser Gerold Hightower, are those bronze runes of yours really useful? I don't believe it; your people are always so superstitious. My battle-axe is still thirsty." Ser York Clawman raised his reddish-brown battle-axe, showing no weakness. The legendary ancestor of House Clawman was the eight-foot giant Clarence Clawman, who rode a wild bull. York Clawman was also a small giant—tall and powerfully built.
Both men held shields in one hand and weapons in the other, removing their cloaks. All weapons had been blunted beforehand; now this was purely a test of strength and skill. It was a confrontation between the Black Knight and the Bronze Knight, their armor and shields displaying their family sigils. Bronze Yohn's armor and shield bore runes and cobblestones, while York Clawman's shield showed a giant riding a wild bull and wielding a pine tree, representing Ser Clarence. The two men clashed together; steel rang loudly and continuously in their hands.
"Long live Runestone!"
"Long live House Clawman!"
The watching knights and spectators cheered enthusiastically, their excitement contagious. The Crackclaw men passionately shouted for House Clawman, while more people supported Bronze Yohn. Bronze Yohn was a famous tourney knight and a high-ranking commander among the Kingsguard.
Just as the two knights remained locked in combat, Ser Barristan returned to the viewing platform. Barristan quietly leaned toward Rhaegar Targaryen.
"Prince Rhaegar, the envoys from the Triarchy have arrived."
Rhaegar's heart stirred.
They were here—the main players he had been waiting for.
He had waited a long time, hoping to squeeze profits from the Triarchy. If one spoke of fleecing a fat sheep, the Triarchy was the ideal target. The merchants of Pentos had naturally given him many gifts, but Rhaegar felt awkward directly demanding money due to courtesy. Now, taking advantage of the Triarchy's defeat, it was time to earn a fortune.
Rhaegar did not rise from the high platform but instead instructed the Triarchy envoys to watch below. He saw the delegation arrive: Myrish men with olive skin and dark eyes, and Lyseni with fair skin, blond hair, and blue eyes. The delegation was large and carried several heavy chests.
On the tournament grounds, the rune-bearing warrior and the giant bearing the wild bull sigil remained locked in battle. Bronze Yohn and York fought with raw force and determination—a Dance of Steel.
They fought until shields shattered and the rune-carved stones broke apart. They switched to wielding weapons with both hands. Steel slammed against armor and flesh alike, and the crowd's cheers grew louder until both landed simultaneous final strikes.
It was a draw.
Both knights raised their weapons and saluted Prince Rhaegar.
"Step forward," Rhaegar said.
He awarded both Yohn and York beautiful rubies as prizes for their excellent duel. The two knights limped away gratefully.
"The tournament is temporarily adjourned, friends. Our guests from Lys and Myr have arrived!"
Rhaegar stood and announced.
Hundreds of eyes turned toward the Myrish and Lyseni.
Their gazes were not friendly, but filled with hatred and arrogance.
The Triarchy delegation felt chills run down their spines.
This was a jungle of steel, a battlefield of steel; arriving here truly felt like a lamb entering a tiger's den.
The failure of the war had forced them here.
The Triarchy attendants felt fear.
They saw hardened warriors, fluttering banners, and armored knights staring at them with hostility. There were also Prince Rhaegar's guards, clad in black scale armor and heavily equipped. The reputation of this elite army had spread across the Narrow Sea and brought terrible suffering upon the Triarchy during the Battle of Bloodstone.
Especially when they noticed some soldiers of the Free Company were former Triarchy slaves, the hatred in their eyes became even stronger.
"Why have our guests arrived so late?" Rhaegar asked.
The Triarchy delegation was led by two Magisters representing Lys and Myr respectively.
Rhaegar's eyes were like those of a hawk—sharp and commanding.
"Forgive us, Prince. Preparing this gift took considerable time. We have prepared beautiful presents for Your Grace. You will certainly be pleased."
The envoys signaled their guards, who carried forward two large chests.
But inside were not gold or jewels.
Inside were severed heads.
Heads still smelling of blood.
These men had once been nobles of the Triarchy, but now only cold skulls remained.
Illyrio Mopatis immediately recognized two heads.
Former First Magisters of Lys and Myr.
Illyrio felt terrified.
War truly was ruthless.
In the Game of Thrones, these Triarchy radicals had suffered complete defeat, much like the Tiger faction of Volantis.
Politics among the Three Daughters had always been infamous for bloodshed.
Previously, after the death of Lysandro Rogare, Magister Torreo of Lys had been poisoned along with his wife, lovers, daughters, brothers, and supporters during a feast celebrating his election.
"These are the villains responsible for the war crimes at Bloodstone, along with the slave traders, mercenary brokers, and profiteering merchants behind them. These men manipulated the Council of Governors and acted recklessly, creating unfortunate misunderstandings with our great neighbor. The Councils of both cities have now been renewed, and we come bearing hopes of peace."
The Westerosi knights and lords inwardly laughed.
Was this not absurd?
The war itself had been approved by the Triarchy's ruling councils.
How could a handful of warlike Magisters bear all the blame?
Now that defeat had come, someone naturally had to become the scapegoat.
"I appreciate your efforts toward ending this war. Though your gifts are bloody, they display considerable sincerity."
Rhaegar ordered the two chests accepted and sent to the quartermaster.
Though his words were gentle, he knew very well the Triarchy's internal purge had been savage.
The cries of widows had overthrown the warmongers.
Those who advocated conflict had been swept away—Magisters, slave merchants, pirate leaders, and wealthy traders unhappy with Iron Throne tariffs in the Stepstones.
Now doves had taken control.
"We have a second gift for Prince Rhaegar!"
More chests were carried forward.
The first contained jewels: sapphires, rubies, emeralds, gold, tourmalines.
The second held spices and exotic goods—especially saffron, worth as much as gold.
The third contained treasures: pearls, purple coral, tiger skins, ivory carvings.
The fourth chest was largest of all.
Gold.
Lysene coins stamped with nude maidens.
Myrish coins stamped with ships.
The wealth was dazzling.
The soldiers stared blankly.
Rhaegar calmly accepted the gifts.
Just like that, he had become one of the wealthiest men in Westeros.
Rhaegar was pleased.
The Triarchy truly understood how to play this game.
Gold first.
Since gifts themselves were never a crime, he accepted everything without hesitation.
The chest of gold would serve perfectly as rewards for soldiers.
He summoned Ser Brynden Tully and instructed him to count every warrior and distribute the treasure.
Everyone who fought would receive rewards.
Outstanding service would naturally receive greater rewards.
The camp on Bloodstone immediately erupted in cheers.
The soldiers were overjoyed.
Following Prince Rhaegar meant easy victories and extra gold.
Meanwhile, the Triarchy delegation felt increasingly miserable.
They were funding their enemies.
Yet they had no choice.
"Now we may negotiate."
Rhaegar invited the envoys into his command tent.
After war came harvest.
And Rhaegar had prepared his finest negotiator.
As they entered the camp, the Triarchy delegation observed Rhaegar's surroundings.
There were no luxuries.
No wine.
No women.
No entertainers.
Rhaegar lived no differently from ordinary soldiers.
A wooden bed.
A feather mattress.
A black Silver Dragon tunic.
A leather chair.
A pine desk with ink and quills.
Books.
Maps.
Boiled water.
Black scale armor.
The Silver Dragon emblazoned upon its chest.
Simple.
Disciplined.
The envoys' hearts sank.
A prince born into wealth who lived this simply could not easily be bribed.
Then they noticed the massive oil painting inside.
It showed Salazar surrendering aboard Glory of Bloodstone.
Their smiles stiffened.
"Gentlemen, our negotiator for the Iron Throne will arrive shortly."
Rhaegar smiled.
A short while later, Lord Tywin Lannister entered the tent.
The true battle now began.
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