Chapter 191: Midwife of the Mother of Dragons

"Come on, Dyman, just four more!"

Behind a small warehouse, two slaves were training together. One was muscular and strong, while the other was thinner, struggling to keep up. A few months earlier, Viserys had issued a new decree: any slave who passed a rigorous physical fitness test would earn their freedom after five years of service, along with a generous settlement. If they had the honor of killing an enemy or beheading one in battle, they could shorten their service or receive additional rewards.

This decree was a groundbreaking opportunity for social mobility, turning Tyrosh's vast population of slaves into a formidable force. Within just a few months, Viserys had formed a new army of 4,000 men. These soldiers were not only brave and obedient but also hardworking and determined to prove themselves. They quickly surpassed Tyrosh's old army in discipline and morale. All they needed now was the baptism of fire to become a true fighting force.

However, the path to freedom wasn't free. Viserys had to purchase these slaves from their owners, often at a high price. Naturally, the slave owners were reluctant, as the slaves who passed the fitness test were typically young and strong—valuable assets. When the owners discovered their slaves were secretly training, they often resorted to brutal punishments, sometimes even crippling them to deter others.

Despite these risks, some slaves were determined to join the army and trained in secret. Dyman and his friend were among them.

"Come on, just two more!" urged the stronger slave. Dyman was on the ground, struggling through his push-ups, his arms trembling like leaves in the wind. His form was failing; his waist dipped so low it nearly touched the ground.

"One more!" his friend encouraged.

Viserys's standards were tough: 40 push-ups, 15 pull-ups, 150 squats, 2,000 sit-ups, and an eight-league run. It was a grueling challenge, especially for slaves who were barely given enough food to survive.

But Dyman couldn't manage that final push-up. With a groan, he collapsed onto the dirt, his heavy breathing stirring up dust, which he accidentally inhaled. The taste of earth mixed with the coppery tang of blood in his mouth, triggering a fit of coughing.

Sandor tried to encourage his friend. "It's okay, Dyman. A couple of days of rest, and you'll be fine."

After a long pause, Dyman finally sat up, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Do you really think so, Brother Sandor? The push-ups are manageable, but those pull-ups... they're just too hard. I can only manage four or five, and I keep swaying."

Sandor, who was a bit older and more experienced, nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, it's tough. Some people seem to have a natural knack for it, but others need practice. I've heard you can build up your strength by adding weights. Once you can do five pull-ups with a little extra weight, you'll be able to do seven or eight without it. Keep pushing yourself, and eventually, you'll hit fifteen."

Dyman looked at him with admiration. "I really envy you, Sandor. You'll be joining the barracks soon, right?"

Sandor smiled. "The day after tomorrow. My master's delivering my slave contract to Prince Viserys."

"Prince Viserys is a good Archon," Dyman said, using the title many slaves still preferred, even though Viserys called himself the 'Regent Magister.'

Sandor hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, but was interrupted by a familiar shout from behind. "What are you two doing, slacking off here?"

They turned to see Baran, their master, storming towards them, a stick in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The blue-bearded man, dressed in a clean shirt, looked every bit the angry beast as he approached, smoke curling from his nostrils.

"Master, we've finished our work for the day. We're not slacking," Sandor said, trying to keep the situation calm.

Baran wasn't having it. "Shut your mouth, you little rat! Until your slave contract is handed over, you're still mine! If I can't find you when I need you, that's laziness!"

"Brother Sandor passed the test! He's not your slave anymore!" Dyman burst out, his youthful defiance getting the better of him.

"Dyman, no!" Sandor tried to warn him, but it was too late. The words had already escaped, and Baran's eyes flared with anger.

With a furious drag, the cigarette in Baran's mouth burned down to a nub. He spat it out, letting the last wisps of smoke curl around his face before raising his stick high, the red glow of the cigarette's embers fading as he brought the club down hard.

"He is not my slave, but are you? Are you! How dare you speak to me like this! Who gave you the guts?" Dyman screamed, his voice shaking with fury.

Sandor stood frozen, not daring to intervene. It was the master's right to punish the slave, and Dyman still had a long way to go before he could pass the exam. 'If he can't even protect himself, he'll be in serious trouble in the future,' Sandor thought grimly.

The main reason for their master's anger was the decree issued by Viserys, which had infringed on their interests. In the past, slaves had been obedient, docile, and most importantly, numb, driven like cattle. But ever since Viserys decreed that slaves could join the army and potentially earn their freedom, everything had changed.

Servants who had once bowed their heads and avoided eye contact now dared to meet their masters' gaze—both male and female slaves alike. They knew they had once been nothing more than objects of pleasure, forced to comply with their masters' demands. But now, things were different. They had begun to seek out the "potential" among themselves, hoping someone could save them from their misery, from the trough of servitude. They no longer wanted to serve their masters wholeheartedly.

It was precisely for this reason that the slave owners of Tyrosh despised their slaves so much. Their hatred had "jumped" in intensity. Having witnessed the cruelty of Viserys—who hung the heads of those who obstructed his decree on the city walls—they dared not express their anger to him. Instead, they took it out on their slaves.

Especially today. Baran, having drunk a little too much wine, was even more brutal than usual. Seeing Dyman bleeding profusely, his face caked with mud and blood, Baran showed no signs of stopping. After a dozen strokes, the skinny Dyman could no longer hold his head up.

'Something's wrong! The master isn't himself today. He's going to kill Dyman!' Sandor suddenly smelled the alcohol on Baran's breath and realized he might have lost his mind. Dyman had huddled into a ball, his screams faint and weakening.

Without thinking, Sandor threw himself over Dyman to shield him. But Baran's stick came down on Sandor's head instead. Sandor's body twitched a few times before he stopped breathing altogether.

...

Viserys no longer used the original palace as a residence for himself and Dany. The palace now served another function—as an embassy. After two months of negotiations, the Confederation of the Four Daughters was finally established. This body, created to coordinate the interests of all parties, was called the "Council of Commissioners," and Viserys was pleased to be named "Chairman."

However, the chairman's power was relatively limited, functioning more as a moderator in disputes between other Free Cities. Of course, this was just the public face of things. Viserys still wielded considerable influence, thanks to his personal prestige.

In addition, the room that once belonged to Kambron now proudly displays the Targaryen three-headed dragon banner. To free up more time for studying magic and raising dragon eggs, Viserys has assigned this room to Connington, who manages Tyrosh's daily affairs on his behalf.

In addition, the room that once belonged to Kambron now proudly displays the Targaryen three-headed dragon banner. To free up more time for studying magic and raising dragon eggs, Viserys has assigned this room to Connington, who manages Tyrosh's daily affairs on his behalf.

Viserys now focuses primarily on broader strategic planning, leaving the room to serve as Connington's office. At Viserys' request, the office has also become Dany's classroom. Viserys wants her to learn how to manage government affairs from Connington, so that she can eventually help ease his workload.

Alongside Dany, young Connington also occasionally attends these lessons. He knows he owes his current life to Viserys and has inherited his father's ambition to contribute to the Targaryen cause. As a result, he studies governance and martial arts with great determination.

"Ahem, Princess Dany, I have a question for you," Connington said, clearing his throat to draw their attention. Dany looked up, and young Connington quickly snapped to attention as well.

Connington held an unlit cigarette under his nose and sniffed. At the time, few were aware of the dangers of second-hand smoke, but Connington was one of them. Although he wished to smoke, he restrained himself to avoid harming Dany's health.

Seeing that Connington was about to test them, young Connington grew eager to prove himself. He had begun studying government affairs earlier than Dany and always aimed to provide the best answers.

"Last year, Prince Viserys issued a law stating that if a slave passed the draft, the slave owner could not prevent him from enlisting but would receive compensation once the paperwork and contract were completed. Now, there is a slave named Sandor who has passed the draft and is about to become a soldier, but his master killed him before completing the paperwork. What punishment should the master receive?" Connington asked.

After a brief glance at Dany, who was deep in thought, Connington nodded toward young Connington, encouraging him to answer.

"In the law issued by Prince Viserys, the key point is the delivery of the documents. Since the slave who passed the examination is still technically the property of his master until the paperwork is finalized, the master should only be fined," young Connington replied confidently.

Connington nodded in approval. This adherence to the law was a principle he always sought to instill in them, and he was satisfied with young Connington's answer.

"Princess Dany?" he prompted.

"I believe the slave owner should be sentenced to hard labor," Dany replied, touching her silver braid thoughtfully.

Connington's eyes flickered with interest, urging her to elaborate.

"My brother enacted this law to provide slaves with a path to a better life. They already undergo some self-training in warfare as part of their daily work. If the delivery of contracts and other documents is treated as the key step, then countless slave owners will likely exploit this, creating yet another barrier for slaves. They might use it to coerce slaves into paying a higher price for their freedom. This would go against my brother's original intentions.

So, the moment the slave named Sandor passed the exam, he became a soldier of Tyrosh!" Dany concluded, her voice steady and persuasive, revealing the core of the issue.

"Good! We'll do it Dany's way!" Viserys exclaimed with enthusiasm.

A wave of applause filled the room as Viserys stepped forward to address Connington. "Ser Connington," he began, "not only for ordinary slaves, but I also intend to provide opportunities for those skilled in paperwork and calculations. I want to give them a chance to advance as well."

Connington hesitated, sensing a potential issue. "But, Prince, slaves who are proficient in paperwork are typically those who have been carefully trained by their masters. They lead much better lives than ordinary slaves and might not be eager to leave their current situation."

"Oh? Is that so?" Viserys replied with a hint of intrigue. "Even the allure of power doesn't tempt them?"

What Viserys proposed was the introduction of a "bureaucracy exam." He had grown increasingly dissatisfied with the traditional lordship-based management, finding it too crude and inefficient. In the future, he envisioned implementing a "county system" across the Disputed Lands, the Free Cities, and even Westeros. Such a system would require a vast and skilled bureaucracy.

As Viserys elaborated, Connington quickly grasped the implications: the bureaucracy would significantly amplify the king's power, greatly strengthening the royal family's influence. 'But was this really the best course of action?'

Connington couldn't shake his concerns. He knew that such changes would inevitably disrupt many vested interests, and he realized that Viserys was poised to bring about massive transformations in the world. However, to successfully implement this bureaucratic system, Viserys would need to be strong enough to withstand the backlash from the lords. If not, the resistance could be severe.

Viserys had already faced opposition when he enforced his "slave enlistment" policy, dealing harshly with numerous slave owners through executions, arrests, and fines. If he now sought to further dilute their power, it might lead to the complete abolition of slavery, a prospect that could draw Viserys into the quagmire of 'slave liberation.'

"I understand that we don't have the strength to do that yet," Viserys reassured him. "So don't worry, Hand of the King, I won't push for it right now."

Although Viserys had not yet officially appointed Connington as his Hand, he liked to address him as such.

Shifting the conversation, Connington informed Viserys that wildling raids had become more frequent lately, affecting not just Tyrosh but the entire Disputed Lands. Both Myr and Lys were considering following Pentos' example by bribing the horsemen with money and supplies to stop the raids.

Viserys was quick to reject this idea. "If we solve everything through compromise, then what is the point of the Confederation?" he asked pointedly. It seemed that apart from himself and Hoyt, the leaders of Lys and Myr preferred to buy peace rather than fight for it.

'Tyrosh alone can't wage war against the Horselords, who command nearly the entire Dothraki army,' Viserys mused. 'Unless we can achieve a decisive victory that demonstrates the path to success, they'll prefer to remain hidden in their fortresses.'

"Start by sending out small patrols," Viserys concluded. "The time isn't ripe yet. The horsemen are too scattered along the border, and killing a few hundred of them won't make any difference."

Connington nodded, then added, "By the way, Prince, a woman from Lhazareen has been requesting an audience with you for the past two months."

"Lhazareen?" Viserys frowned, trying to recall. "What's her name?"

"Mirri Maz Duur," Connington replied.

Viserys stiffened. 'The Mother of Dragons' midwife!?'