Chapter 153: The Horse Lords
Within the courtyard of Magister Illyrio Mopatis, Rhaegar wielded Blackfyre, the Valyrian steel blade also known as the Orphan-Maker. His movements were fluid and continuous—spinning, advancing, and retreating—as arcs of sword light tore through the air like a storm of black wind.
Faster strikes.
Sharper edges.
Dazzling flashes of silver fire seemed to trail behind the blade.
At the same time—
In another part of Pentos, two lives quietly came to an end.
Varys and the young Illyrio Mopatis were completely finished.
They died without ceremony, their bodies riddled with wounds.
Rhaegar saw it all through the flames.
A shameful death.
The young Illyrio—handsome, slender, with shoulder-length blond hair—still clutched a rapier, trying to resist. Beside him, Varys, equally young and already heavy with perfume, staggered helplessly.
But in Pentos, people died every day.
These two rising stars of the underworld were nothing more than insignificant figures in the grand scheme of things.
True power belonged to Princes, Magisters… and the visiting Khals.
Fat Miro did not disappoint.
He used deception—luring his enemies deep into a false sense of security.
Illyrio and Varys, buoyed by their growing reputation, believed Miro had come to surrender. After all, his hand was nearly crippled—what threat could he pose?
They never imagined it was a trap.
At the moment of "peace talks," Miro gave the signal.
Four Unsullied struck instantly.
Cursed daggers plunged deep into their bodies.
Illyrio still tried to shield Varys—
A strangely moving display of loyalty.
Illyrio was indeed skilled. But skill meant nothing against trained Unsullied assassins, especially when burdened with protecting another. Worse still, the blades carried a curse—pain beyond endurance.
The outcome had been decided from the start.
[Fate Changer: Fate flows like a raging torrent—only the strong may cross it.]
Rhaegar felt refreshed.
His martial skill and magical control flowed together more smoothly than ever before, as though they had been reforged in the same furnace.
A gift from fate.
His thoughts were clear.
His mood—pleasant.
Even if this world no longer had Varys, there would always be others—Xyris, Tyris, or someone else.
The Game of Thrones would never lack schemers.
But still—
The deaths of Varys and Illyrio brought him satisfaction.
To control power… to shape fate…
That was the true joy of a man.
And Varys—
In the original timeline, he had whispered countless poisonous suggestions into King Aerys II Targaryen's ear.
Rhaegar had long found him disgusting.
Even if it were merely a whim—
Varys was destined to die.
Why had these two nearly survived to the very end in history?
First—
They were hidden.
Cunning.
They appeared harmless—like clowns seeking favor.
And clowns rarely attracted deadly hatred.
Second—
Their status was low.
They were not nobles.
They commanded no armies.
Their strength lay in information asymmetry.
No one expected a eunuch to harbor ambitions of stealing a kingdom.
That was why Varys could say:
Storms rage, waves crash, great fish devour the small…
Yet he remained safe, paddling quietly in the sea.
But now—
He was dead.
Rhaegar smiled faintly.
Then let another take his place.
Fat Miro.
"My young friend, you have caused trouble!"
Magister Illyrio Mopatis entered dramatically, stroking his dyed blue beard.
Rhaegar barely glanced at him.
In one hand, he held Blackfyre.
In the other—a parchment.
Upon it was drawn a sigil:
Golden chain links crossed diagonally over a sky-blue field.
The emblem of House Rookston, a fallen noble house formed from the union of Andal nobles and descendants of the First Men.
Rhaegar narrowed his eyes slightly.
Runes?
"My fat friend, why such alarm?" Rhaegar asked, though he already knew.
"Illyrio and Varys—those two rising stars—were killed by Fat Miro, along with several Unsullied. It is far too obvious! You acted too quickly," Illyrio Mopatis said, clearly uneasy.
"It was merely a gang dispute," Rhaegar replied calmly. "What does it have to do with me?"
He had already witnessed their deaths through fire magic.
But the killer was Miro.
The motive—revenge.
"Tides rise and fall. Two insignificant figures die—nothing more. A eunuch thief and a wandering sellsword. Must you concern yourself with every death in Pentos?" Rhaegar said, setting aside the drawing.
Illyrio frowned.
"Their deaths are not the issue. The problem is who stands behind them. Secrets are more valuable than gold. These two had powerful backers. Many important figures favored them. A Prince's cousin was even preparing to marry his daughter to Illyrio—and now he is dead."
A servant brought Illyrio a glass of chilled lemon water.
"Pentos has no shortage of handsome men," Rhaegar said coldly. "Must they cling to one?"
He looked up.
His gaze was sharp as steel.
The blade in his hand gleamed faintly.
When a Dragon King was angered—
Blood would flow.
Illyrio trembled slightly and immediately changed his tone.
"The Prince speaks wisely. Still… the offended noble will not be pleased."
"I will keep that in mind," Rhaegar said lightly. "And these minor troubles—you will handle them for me."
He continued:
"You know what Varys was building. He gathered orphans—small, quick, and silent. He trained them to climb walls, to read and write, to steal information rather than coin."
"His 'little birds.'"
"They first stole gold… then letters… then knowledge."
"In the end, they needed only to remember."
Rhaegar's gaze sharpened.
"If Varys could do it—why not Miro?"
"And now, fearing retaliation, Miro will rely entirely on us."
Illyrio nodded slowly.
"That… is not difficult."
And profitable.
Very profitable.
"My young friend," Illyrio continued, "there is another matter. The Khals have arrived. The Council is meeting frequently, and I may not always be present."
He sighed.
"You need not meet them. They are savages—violent and uncivilized. Hosting them brings only shame… and the smell of mutton."
"Which Khal?" Rhaegar asked.
"Khal Bharbo… and others. More than one khalasar has arrived."
Rhaegar's interest was piqued.
Bharbo…
Wasn't he connected to Khal Drogo's lineage?
Though perhaps in this world, things differed.
An idea formed in Rhaegar's mind.
He could attend the gathering—
In disguise.
"My benefactor! I have avenged my brother!"
Fat Miro returned, emerging once more from a wine barrel.
He threw his sword down and kowtowed deeply.
"Loyalty above all," Rhaegar said calmly. "But improve yourself. You are not as clever as Varys."
He paused.
"But you are loyal."
"And I prefer that."
Miro trembled with gratitude.
"With them dead… I am now the leader of the underworld."
"And I must survive."
"What better way than to serve a Prince?"
"Go," Rhaegar ordered. "Take their territory. Learn their methods—but do not follow their cruelty."
"Varys mutilated children to make them obedient."
"I despise such methods."
"Children… should remain children."
Miro struck his head against the ground.
"I will obey! I will give my life for House Targaryen!"
"I have tasks for you," Rhaegar continued.
"First—investigate Illyrio's would-be father-in-law."
"Second—find out which Khals have arrived."
Miro accepted immediately and departed.
Rhaegar even assigned several Unsullied to him.
The underworld would not stabilize without force.
Later—
Rhaegar rode alone toward the eastern gates of Pentos.
In the distance—
He saw them.
The Dothraki Khals.
Tall.
Bronze-skinned.
Their long black hair braided with silver bells.
Their beards bound with metal rings.
Each braid—
A symbol of victory.
Each bell—
A song of conquest.
They radiated arrogance and raw power.
Rhaegar watched silently.
Peace bought with gold…
Would never earn respect.
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