Veiled Strength and Arrangements

To be fair, Draegor's burst of dragonfire had almost startled Ronan. It was the first time he had faced dragonfire at such close range. The result was unexpected. It felt uncomfortable for a moment, then everything settled.

When he raised his hand, a small mass of dragonfire rose from his palm. Ronan was deeply satisfied.

He had absorbed the power of another kind of flame. Master of the Forge was proving more useful by the day, and his control over firecraft was becoming increasingly refined.

Still, Ronan only practiced when no one was present. In public, he preferred to deal with others as an ordinary conqueror.

Keeping a few advantages hidden never went out of style. To frighten outsiders, force was enough.

As for dragons, Ronan did not intend to use them himself yet. It was not that he disliked them. He meant to give that very visible qualification to Daenerys.

After all, she was already meant to be a dragon queen. Having power and showing power were different matters. With Daenerys's obedience, Ronan did not need to worry about her turning it against him.

If the dragons were tied openly to him, they might drag him into the center of every gaze. Dragons plus an army would remind every leader and noble of the fear once cast by the Valyrian Freehold.

At that point, forget conquering Westeros. The whole world might begin calling for a crusade against a tyrant.

Ronan understood too well how politicians could twist truth. Compared with open conflict, he feared hidden schemes far more.

He was only a fortunate man with better luck than most. In games of courtcraft, he did not believe himself a match for certain people.

That was why, at the Dothraki gathering, he had made Illyrio bow beneath the posture of an absolute king. In the Sealord's Palace, he had not exposed that he had already conquered the Dothraki.

The public story could belong to the poor princess. Ronan only needed to work behind the curtain. After the gathering, he began making arrangements.

The Dothraki would remain nomads of the Dothraki Sea. Compared with their former aimless raids, however, they now had clearer targets: collecting tribute from every Free City close enough to the Dothraki Sea to feel their reach.

The reason for staying close was simple. It was convenient, and it reduced needless risk.

The Dothraki warriors were Ronan's reserve strength now. There was no need to grind them against magisters hiding behind walls.

His method would also be easier for those rulers to accept. One choice was facing a hundred thousand riders. The other was paying a small amount of wealth and resources. Any magister or prince with sense would know what to choose.

For Daenerys, Ronan chose the most reliable arrangement. The story spread outward would be simple: the dragons had burned the khal who tried to tame them. He would become that unfortunate figure.

Because of that, the great conqueror Drogo had driven Daenerys away without hesitation, along with the Dothraki who chose to follow her.

Thus, a pitiful woman left the Dothraki Sea with the last of her supporters. As for the Blood Wolf Company?

Please. Who had ever heard of generous sellswords? If the queen had coin, the Blood Wolf Company would serve her. If she had none, perhaps the queen should fear whether someone might enter her lonely tent at night.

The truth was the exact opposite of that appearance, but no one would care about the sincerity of a sellsword company.

Illyrio needed even less explanation. Merchants never left handles for their enemies to grasp, and their cunning was no less than the Sealord's.

In this way, the rising Targaryen would soon appear before the world.

She looked battered, poor, and alone. No flattering word seemed to fit the once-glorious house. Even its leader looked fragile enough for others to mistake her for easy prey.

Silver-gold hair, lovely eyes, a slender waist. To certain men, everything about her looked like prey waiting for a knife.

If not for the young dragons circling nearby, the fat merchant with brightening eyes would have wanted to swallow the pure beauty whole. Then he noticed a very sharp gaze.

The proud merchant prince forced a smile. "Honored Targaryen princess, is this your servant?" The contempt in his voice was loud enough for the people behind Daenerys to hear. It was plainly deliberate.

Daenerys wanted to explain, but Ronan stopped her.

The man who had displeased the merchant prince stepped forward. His smile was enough to make others wary, and the smell of blood clung to him so strongly that it seemed to strike the nose.

The fat merchant retreated in disgust. Before he could speak, the words at his lips changed of their own accord.

"What do you want?"

Ronan's sword was extraordinarily sharp. The merchant's eyes were sharp as well. He realized the weapon threatening his life was a dagger of unique material. If he was not mistaken, it was Valyrian steel.

The distinctive rippled forging was beautiful, worth more to a merchant's eye than carts of treasure.

Only then did the fat merchant prince force his posture lower.

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