Game of Thrones: The Black Dragon King

On the second day after returning to Meereen, the main topic of work was still deliberation.

Reed leaned on his longsword, staring at the parchment map spread out on the oak table. The outline of the Dothraki Sea was roughly drawn with ink lines, like a piece of tattered, haphazardly pieced-together brown animal hide.

"Gone just like that?" Reed looked incredulous.

"Just like that, it's gone," the Caliph affirmed.

"During the attack on Meereen, two surprise attacks cost me seven thousand infantry and two thousand cavalry..." Reed's voice was low and hoarse, carrying the frustration of punching cotton with nowhere to vent. "I originally planned to free up my hands and lead my iron cavalry to flatten that grassland, hanging the heads of those mounted barbarians on the walls of Meereen, but now?"

The Caliph said helplessly, "My lord, as I said, the khalasar that attacked you is shattered. Khao and all the khor were killed in the fierce battle with you. Without their leader, the Dothraki are like headless flies. They have split into more than three hundred small khalas, the smallest with only a few dozen riders and the largest with less than three hundred men. Now, the Grass Sea is filled with fighting every day, the victors swallowing the tents, horses, and women of the vanquished, but no one can truly unify those scattered tribes. They are like drops of water merging into the sea, disappearing without a trace in the Grass Sea. If you want revenge, you must kill every single centaur in the Dothraki Grass Sea to ensure that no one escapes."

Saladin stroked his beard, his expression quite pleased. "In any case, the threat from the centaurs in northern Meereen is temporarily relieved, although the process was rather inexplicable. But the internal strife among those barbarians is a good thing for Meereen." He looked at Reid. "Furthermore, a rather interesting situation has arisen in trade. The southern land and sea trade routes to Meereen are blocked by the Githcali alliance, while recently, many Dothraki from the northern Grass Sea have come to the walls of Meereen, demanding gifts—in other words, a disguised trade request. Those little Cassians seem extremely short of supplies; they want to exchange slaves, horses, furs, and plundered gold and silver for our grain, wine, salt, and bronze and ironware. But as you know, Meereen's granaries are almost empty. So, should we open the markets?"

Trade is still beneficial, but it's difficult to recoup the costs of trading with the Dothraki in the short term, because their main means of payment is slaves. Meereen is not short of manpower at the moment, but it is short of food.

"To be honest, the Dothraki's trade goods aren't very attractive. Their furs are mainly horse and sheep hides, but the hot, dry weather in the grasslands means these animals barely grow any wool, so they can only be used for leather. Gold and silver are obviously filthy and need to be melted down. Their horses are decent, but they won't offer their best ones; they'll only offer horses that are about fifteen hands tall at the shoulder. And then there are the slaves. We've abolished slavery, so it's not easy to sell them after we buy them..." Saladin rambled on.

After a moment's thought, Reed gave his decision: "Open up the trade of salt, copper, ironware, and textiles, and accept payment from slaves and prisoners of war. But note that once we receive these people, we will immediately grant them their freedom, stipulating that they work in Meereen for five years, or they can repay their ransom debts in other ways."

The Caliph promptly offered flattery: "It solves the manpower shortage problem and wins people's hearts. Your Excellency's insight is brilliant."

"Then I'll make the arrangements," Saladin nodded.

Suddenly, Reid had a flash of inspiration. He turned to Saladin, a calculating glint in his eyes: "Tell me, what would happen if we sent a batch of fine iron weapons and arrows to the leaders of those lesser Cassians, and then secretly told them that we have a great need for slaves?"

The Caliph's eyes lit up instantly, his sinister smile particularly irritating: "You want them to continue fighting amongst themselves?"

"More than that." Reed walked to the map, the tip of his longsword striking heavily in the center of the Dothraki Sea. "Whether it's internal strife or wreaking havoc on other coastal city-states, as long as the fighting continues, we can constantly deplete the centaurs' fighting strength, reduce their population, and weaken our potential enemies. Meanwhile, we can continuously acquire people and dump our output."

"But our iron reserves..." Wolf hesitated.

"Melt down and recast those captured old weapons," Reed interrupted him. "Prioritize forging Arak scimitars and arrowheads. Iron ore can be obtained from Gael's Castle, and if that's not enough, bronze can be used. Meereen is rich in copper ore. I remember many of them still use bone arrows and weapons; bronze weapons are considered valuable to them." He paused, then added, "The rules of the trade must be strictly enforced: one hand gives the person, the other the goods. All redeemed slaves must be registered by designated personnel to establish their free status and the method of repaying their ransom debts as soon as possible."

Saladin bowed and agreed, "As you command, my lord. We will open the trade now, and I believe that soon the Dothraki will swarm in like hyenas smelling blood."

"Is it over? Can I take a break now?" Reed asked wearily.

"In fact, not yet. Next, you should meet with the envoys from the various city-states."

"Who are they?"

"Brahfoss, Valentis, Pentos, and also Tyrossi, Rhys, and Myr..."

"Block it for me!" Reed said, looking at the pile of documents in front of him and rubbing his forehead.

"At least meet with the envoys of Braavos and Valantis, one as the representative of the Iron Treasury, and the other as someone you will pass through on your westward expedition." Saladin had anticipated this and provided a simplified list.

"The sea serpents will send a fleet, so I plan to travel by sea."

"Then you will see an envoy from Braavos. He may make some impolite requests, so please remain restrained..."

······

In the afternoon, Giovanni Lechini walked slowly into the reception hall of the Great Pyramid. The envoy of the Iron Treasury was dressed in a well-tailored black robe with tasteful lace embellishments on the cuffs and collar. A sapphire-encrusted dagger hung at his waist, and he wore a smile on his face, as if he had come to a banquet rather than to collect a debt.

"Lord Reid, the sun in Meereen is indeed warmer than the fog of Braavos. On behalf of the Iron Bank, I extend my greetings to you—the de facto ruler of Meereen." Giovanni bowed, his tone as familiar as that of an old friend.

"Mr. Leigh, there's no need for such formalities. Surely the people from the Iron Treasury wouldn't have come all this way just to sunbathe?"

Giovanni straightened up, his smile undiminished, and took a roll of parchment debt deeds from his sleeve, showing them to Reid: "It's simple. The former masters of Meereen, those great lords, borrowed two million gold dragons from the Iron Treasury. They used this money to purchase scorpion crossbows, hire assassins, and charter Braavos' fleet to transport weapons and the Unsullied of Astapor. Now that the great lords have turned to dust, this debt rightfully belongs to you, their new master."

Ignoring Saladin's warning look, Reid sneered maliciously, "Inheritance? You want me to pay for the arrows that once shot at me, the assassins who threatened my safety, and the armies that stood in my way? I liberated this city-state from the hands of a great lord, freeing tens of thousands of slaves, and now you want me to pay the debt to the slave owners?"

"This debt was incurred in the name of the rulers of Meereen. If you are unwilling to repay it, you may consider relinquishing your throne. We believe there are many who would be willing to inherit it."

"Bravoord was founded on runaway slaves and touted freedom and equality, yet its Iron Treasury was actually supporting slave owners. What a tremendous irony!"

Giovanni's smile remained, but his tone had hardened: "Bravos is Bravos, and the Iron Bank is the Iron Bank. Business is business, and money is money; we won't mix subjective good or evil into it."

"I'd like to make this debt deed public, so that Westeros, and all the free cities, can see how the Iron Treasury colludes with slave owners!"

Giovanni's smile finally faded, his voice low and carrying an undeniable threat: "The Iron Treasury never defaults. If you insist on refusing to pay, we will fund those who are willing to acknowledge their debts. As for your hostile city-states and internal opponents, we will send them swords and gold; they will be happy to see you fall from the pyramids."

Reid jerked away from Saladin, who was pulling at him, his eyes blazing: "So, you're saying you were supporting the Banshee's rebellion behind the scenes?"

Giovanni's tone was flippant and mocking: "So, the great fire on the Isle of Gods, was it started by you, sir? The priests of the Red God are searching the world for heretics who have offended the Lord of Light."

Reid's pupils suddenly contracted, his voice icy: "The Faceless One who infiltrated my territory last time must also be connected to the Iron Vault."

"Why are you asking such questions, sir? Why not recall what it felt like to spend those golden dragons you begged from the Sea King?"

"Regarding the debts of the Stone Steps Islands, didn't any of Iron Bank's sales staff commit suicide?"

"You have dragons, and you're quite formidable, but if you intend to use those two things to renege on your debts, be prepared to rule over ruins! Also, I heard you're engaged? On behalf of the Black and White Academy, I wish you a large and prosperous family! Lord Black Dragon King!"

Reed narrowed his eyes. "When a mouse laughs at a cat, there's always a hole next to it. Tell me, why do you think I won't kill you?"

"I came here to die anyway. In order to brand you as unjust, brutal, and rule-breaking, my city-state will receive a war loan of at least one million gold dragons."

"You're not from Braavos?"

"Who told you that a Braavos envoy must be from Braavos? I am a Myr."

"I won't give you a single penny, you can get out!"

Giovanni bowed and strode towards the hall door.

After Giovanni left, Reid glanced at Saladin.

"The Iron Treasury seeks profit, not the destruction of Meereen. They support Yunkai and Astapor, and the Harpies, to force you into submission and obtain a steady stream of loan interest; similarly, our existence is also a bargaining chip for them to create loan demands and threats of repayment for the Giskari Alliance. These warmongers who profit from both sides are the most disgusting, because we and the enemy are both on the scales, while they hold the balancing weights from the outside..." Saladin analyzed.

"Don't let him leave Meereen."

"Yes."

······

On the third day, a meeting was held.

On the fourth day, documents were approved.

On the fifth day, he received his subjects.

On the sixth day, documents were approved.

······

Rhett finally understood Robert Baratheon, and why, after ascending the Iron Throne, he left state affairs to his foster father or foster brother, while he himself went to brothels, held banquets, watched tournaments, and hunted in the Kingsguard... in all sorts of ways to indulge in drinking, gambling, and prostitution.

Reed stared at the mountain of parchment scrolls before him, as if they were not official documents, but chains that would drag him into an abyss.

With endless meetings and paperwork, even going to the toilet became a luxury... Reed held a quill pen, his wrist moving mechanically up and down, writing the words "agree" and "reject" a thousand times. The ink on the pen tip blurred and dried, and in the end, his handwriting became a flamboyant and unrestrained style, with a touch of madness and a certain artistic flair.

Calluses formed on my fingertips, my eyes were so sore I could barely open them, and my head was buzzing with the tedious words: taxes, provisions, laws, and decrees.

Having finally managed to squeeze out a day of free time, I was then scheduled to meet with petitioners. The reception hall's front courtyard was packed to the brim. A farmer wept, lamenting that his cow had been stolen by robbers; a widow begged the Dragon King to seek justice for her; and there was even a father who had deliberately broken his own son's limbs to make him a dwarf, intending to sell him to Reid for ten gold coins to serve as a court entertainer…

Rhett's soul screamed madly. He missed the fine wines of the Free Cities, the voluptuous Dornish women in their crop tops, and the days of feasting and reveling in the taverns of Pentos. He missed his dragons even more, wanted to ride on their backs and burn them! Burn these annoying documents, burn those foul-mouthed messengers, burn this damned, suffocating throne!

"Your face looks so pale it could drip water."

Saladin's gentle voice interrupted Rhett's reverie. This most capable statesman under Rhett, carrying a cup of warm mead, slowly approached the throne.

Reed looked up and said in a hoarse voice, annoyed, "If you were in his shoes, how good would your complexion be after being bogged down in this mess for so many days?"

Saladin offered a glass of wine at the opportune moment, his voice calm: "Your Majesty, this is the path you chose yourself."

"The path I chose? I chose conquest, fire and sword! Not being tied to a meeting room every day by these trivial matters!"

"Refined governance is what it is all about." Saladin's gaze fell on the mountain of documents. "You abhorred the feudal system and promoted centralization in order to unify government orders and improve the efficiency of rule and organizational mobilization. You have succeeded in this. Our efficiency is more than twice that of the slave city-states."

He paused, then changed the subject: "But you've overlooked one point. There aren't enough grassroots managers, far from enough. Many are former slave owners absorbed after the surrender, or mediocre people who are incompetent, or resentful. Very few can truly share your burdens. Naturally, the backlog of administrative work falls entirely on your shoulders."

"Okay, okay! Yes, yes, yes! You're right..." Reed replied verbally, but his buttocks shifted from side to side, as if the throne was covered in thorns, making it impossible for him to sit still.

Just then, a guard rushed in to report: "Your Highness! The Caliph has sent word that a big fish has taken the bait!"

Reed's eyes suddenly lit up, and he abruptly stood up.

"The military situation is urgent, you can handle these things as you see fit!" Before he finished speaking, he had already disappeared from the hall.

Saladin gave a wry smile as he bent down to pick up the documents that Reid had scattered on the ground.