The saying goes, a dog relies on its master's power! And at times, Wright had to rely on the power of his dragon.
To these unruly mages who dared to venture into Asshai, no matter how powerful a human might be, none could match the deterrence of a two-hundred-meter-long dragon. But Odaviing's habit of arriving late was incurable, leaving Wright no choice but to engage in a battle of words for now.
The Judgment Knight, having failed to buy a dragon, now eyed Wright's dragonbone armor with envy. "Master Wright, I can't wear searing hot dragonbone armor like you, but do you sell other dragonbone weapons?"
"I do! As long as you're not afraid of the dragon's vengeance."
Wright genuinely intended to sell dragonbone weapons, but if someone ended up getting torn apart by Odaviing or Daenerys's dragons, that was none of his concern.
"While my dragon has yet to arrive, let's discuss magical exchanges."
Wright returned to his seat, sweeping his gaze across the assembled crowd.
"I am not just a mage. The title of Archmage is an official position granted by the kings of the Seven Kingdoms. In Westeros and the Stepstones, anything related to magic is under my authority!"
A female Moonsinger spoke up. "Master Wright, you previously said that we are welcome to exchange magical knowledge. I offer you my highest respects for your generosity."
She stood and curtsied. "May I then establish a Moonsinger temple in Tyrosh?"
Several other mages with religious affiliations leaned forward, her question clearly representing them as well.
"Moonsingers?"
Wright had learned about them during his time in Braavos. Their faith was relatively moderate, originating from the nomadic Jogos Nhai tribes of the Far East, predating even the Valyrian Freehold. It was the Moonsingers who had led escaped slaves to establish the city of Braavos. The sect was almost entirely female, and any men who joined had to wear women's clothing and devote themselves to prayer, healing, and assisting in childbirth.
Wright recalled a document left behind by Maester Gordan in the Citadel:
"They were crucial to the founding and early history of Braavos, and they persist to this day. But beyond that, I struggle to see their significance in shaping the modern world..."
Now, in an age where magic flourished, some Moonsinger had begun awakening magical abilities. Yet, in Wright's view, mages were mages, and religion was a tool for governance. When the two mixed too deeply, it could lead to serious complications.
Tyrosh had been rebuilt from ruins, its original population reduced to only a few thousand women. The current inhabitants were mostly immigrants from Westeros, and even the Faith of the Seven had yet to establish churches on the Stepstones. If Wright permitted the Moonsinger to set up a temple, countless religious sects from Essos would soon follow.
But if he refused, there was little he could do to stop preachers who, lacking magical abilities, were no different from ordinary people. He had long tried to suppress the spread of the Faith of the Seven in the Stepstones, but as the population grew, religious infiltration among the common folk had become ineWrightable.
Since he couldn't stop it, he might as well allow every sect in—let them tear each other apart! By fostering competition among different faiths, no single religion would grow too dominant. That way, he would only need to control the largest one on the Stepstones, making it easier to crush any that overstepped their bounds.
Resistance from lords and the Faith of the Seven would also weaken over time as the population diversified. Tyrosh's current immigrants were evenly split between Westeros and the Nine Free Cities. Westerosi typically held military and key administrative roles, while Lyseni and Volantene settlers dominated commerce and banking. And as for the commoners—they depended on Wright to feed them.
Moreover, Wright was considering going even further—when he traveled to King's Landing, he would seek out his intelligence officer cousin, Andrew, and begin establishing a new religion entirely under his control: The Cult of the Dragon!
Its doctrine would center around the worship of Odaviing and the divine dragon lineage of Wright himself. As for the mythos? He'd simply paint an image of himself alongside Odaviing, and let Andrew handle finding someone to craft the narrative.
"You may," Wright finally said. "The Stepstones welcome you to develop your faith. However, there are two mandatory conditions. First, all religious personnel must register with the Governor's Office before conducting any activities—otherwise, they will be considered illegal. Second, no religious sect may maintain armed forces!"
As he finished, Wright's gaze locked onto Melisandre.
The Toxin Master protested. "Master Wright, you can't do this! Magic is a gift from the gods, and the gods are selfless. You have no right to restrict us!"
Melisandre, firm in her faith, stood as well. "Master Wright, I mean no offense, but the temples of R'hllor should be guarded by its most devout followers. The Fiery Hand are the Lord of Light's holiest warriors."
Wright extended his hand and pushed forward. A burst of violet magic flickered across the square's stone floor, and from the light, a flame elemental emerged.
A female figure of living fire and molten rock hovered above the ground.
She turned her head toward Melisandre, her flaming, featureless face devoid of eyes. Yet Melisandre could still feel the elemental's hostility. She stared at the scorching creature before her in silence, lost in thought.
The fire elemental quickly dissipated, followed by the formation of a massive ice giant, then a storm elemental.
Wright looked around at the gathered mages, clenched his fist with his palm facing upward, and declared, "Fire, ice, lightning, and wind—all are under my command!"
As the storm elemental dispersed, a wrathful specter emerged from the glow of his summoning spell. A violet skeleton, clad in an ancient, pitch-black suit of armor, held a massive double-headed battle axe in its bony hands. Its eyes burned with an eerie violet soul flame as it scanned the onlookers, as if ready to strike down the living at any moment.
The violet skeleton retreated back to its own plane, only to be replaced by something even more bizarre. Though humanoid in shape, its blood-red skin and curved horns clearly marked it as a demon.
"Well, well! We meet again, Dragonborn. Hmm, I smell weakness here! Are we killing these people?" The Dremora Lord, wary that Wright might once again target his heart, took the initiative to offer his services.
The gathered mages tensed up, sitting rigidly in their chairs, afraid to move. From the previous summons, it seemed Wright was merely demonstrating his power, and he had yet to command this demon to act.
Meanwhile, the necromancer from Asshai, upon seeing the violet skeleton and now the Dremora Lord, dropped to his knees in pure exhilaration, bowing deeply before Wright.
"Never mind, just pass my regards to Dagon." Wright dismissed the demon lord, leaving behind only a faint sulfuric scent in the air. He deliberately avoided speaking the demon's full name, fearing that a zealot among the crowd might summon the entity itself.
"Archmage Wright, was that a real demon?"
"It seems the rumors from Braavos are true—Wright is a devil himself."
Ignoring their muttering, Wright slammed his right hand onto the armrest of his ice throne. Instantly, the icy chair expanded, forming a towering wall of frost behind him. "I don't care if you worship gods, the dead, or demons! If you set foot on my land, you will abide by my rules!"
With his pale left hand, Wright reached out and grabbed the Toxin Master by the throat, yanking him forward and slamming him onto the enchantment table. "Now, let's see if your god will come save you!"
The scorching heat from his dragonbone gauntlet seared the man's skin, causing him to scream in agony. The iron grip around his neck tightened. Crack. The alchemist went limp.
A wave of silence swept over the gathering. Wright's magic was undeniably powerful, and his temper unpredictable—he killed without hesitation. Any lingering plots among the mages were temporarily abandoned.
To the people of Tyrosh, this display was nothing shocking. Lord Wright had never been soft on his enemies, yet he was approachable to his own subjects. These sorcerers from Asshai, however, were outsiders. Watching one of their own defy Wright and instantly pay the price felt like a natural outcome.
Wright tossed the corpse onto the ground and cast a resurrection spell. The body jerked unnaturally before staggering to its feet, its head lolling to the side, tongue hanging from its open mouth as it stood obediently beside its new master.
Wright turned his gaze to Melisandre. "Still want to bring armed followers into Tyrosh?"
The red priestess shook her head and returned to her seat. She had no intention of openly challenging Wright. She simply wanted to leave this wretched place and head for Westeros as soon as possible. Let other R'hllor priests handle Tyrosh.
She wasn't so naïve as to label Wright a heretic simply because he summoned skeletons and demons. She understood that a truly powerful mage could bend any being—human or otherwise—to his will.
At that moment, the sun seemed to dim slightly before brightening again. The crowd looked up and saw a massive winged shadow circling high above. Odahviing had arrived, silent and menacing, its keen senses detecting the unfamiliar magical energies in the air. The presence of so many mages only fueled its battle instincts, its enormous draconic head locked onto the gathering below, waiting for Wright's command.
"Odahviing, land!" Wright called out.
As the dragon descended, its massive form grew larger in their vision. When it finally neared the ground, its nearly two-hundred-meter wingspan completely blocked out the sun. The mages, many of whom had never seen Odahviing before, stood up in awe. Each time the dragon's wings flapped, powerful gusts swept through the square, disheveling their carefully styled hair, yet none of them cared. Their eyes remained fixed on the beast, filled with both fear and admiration.
Only one among them, the bald warlock Paya Bolin , seemed unable to handle the sight—his legs trembled uncontrollably.
Boom!
The dragon folded its wings, its castle-sized body shifting slightly as it moved. Lowering its massive head near Wright, it awaited his next signal. Wright gestured for it to remain silent for now.
"Paya Bolin , did you bring enough money?" Wright shouted.
The warlock stumbled forward and dropped to his knees with a loud thud. "My lord, please spare me! I was deceived!"
Even his form of address had changed.
Wright grasped his thin shoulder and lifted him to his feet. Originally, he had other plans for the man, but seeing him surrender so easily, he changed his approach. "No groveling! I don't care who tricked you. Judging by your reaction, it's clear you came without enough gold and tried to make a fool of me!"
Paya Bolin glanced at the reanimated corpse beside Wright, his legs trembling once more.
Wright quickly steadied him. "No, no, don't collapse just yet! You'll be staying in Tyrosh for a while. As compensation, you'll write down all your warlock magic for me. And I do mean all of it."
"Thank you, Lord Wright! Thank you, Lord Wright!"
Wright turned to the assembled mages. "Earlier, I stated two mandatory rules. Now, I'm adding a third: Any temples or shrines must be built in the farmlands on the southern islands of Tyrosh. Their size must not exceed 500 square meters!"
Wright watched the others in silence before continuing. "All mages who wish to step onto Westerosi soil must first register in Tyrosh. I will issue you a passage badge."
"This is a great system!"
"Master Wright is wise!"
"This concludes today's reception. Tomorrow, I must travel to King's Landing and will return in about three days. During that time, your accommodations will be fully covered by me. Those who need to go to Westeros may find me after dinner." Wright had originally planned to leave on dragonback today, but with so many uncertainties, he decided to settle matters first.
As the crowd dispersed, Wright summoned the high-ranking officials of Tyrosh still present in the city and announced the new religious policies. Gunthor Hightower, the treasurer and a devoted follower of the Seven, raised concerns. "Lord Wright, if we allow other religions to take root in Tyrosh, the people of Westeros might rise in rebellion!"
Wright replied, "You all know my nature. Unless you can present me with a better method to prevent religious infiltration, I will not retract my policy. The only alternatives are my way—or bloodshed."
Gunthor Hightower found himself at a loss. Even the doctrine of the Faith of the Seven was not so extreme as to justify the slaughter of other religious practitioners. Wright's method was effective, but it left a bitter taste in his heart.
Wright clapped him on the shoulder and addressed the assembly. "The Stepstones occupy a unique position. The future will see it become a melting pot of races and religions. You, as lords, must prepare for this reality. I will not allow these conflicts to spill into your territories. If the situation ever escalates, I will reclaim your lands myself."
This statement made everyone realize the gravity of the issue, though they still struggled to understand why Wright was so fixated on it.
Wright knew it was time to establish ideological unity. "Tonight, I will explain my reasoning in detail. If you find it reasonable, implement it. If not, challenge me directly, and we will debate."
"As you command, Lord Wright!"
That evening, the mages from Asshai met with Wright one by one as per his arrangement.
A few frauds with no actual magical ability were privately exposed and given until morning to leave the Stepstones.
Only four mages, including Melisandre, expressed interest in traveling to Westeros. Wright issued them passage badges and recorded their information to be filed in the Red Keep.
The remaining mages planned to stay in Tyrosh for a while, exchanging magical knowledge and stories before returning to Asshai.
Among them, Quaithe conversed with Wright the most.
"Master Wright, have you ever seen ghost grass? The Dothraki claim that cursed souls cause it to glow faintly."
Quaithe's voice was youthful and melodious, but Wright had no desire to guess or ask about the shadowbinder's age.
She handed him a bundle of pale-stemmed plants. Wright examined them closely, then broke off a piece and put it in his mouth.
"No! Ghost grass is poisonous!" Quaithe warned.
Wright chewed. It was indeed toxic and tasted awful. However, spitting it out in front of a woman would be unseemly, so he swallowed it whole. His enhanced vitality mitigated the poison, and a simple spell restored him.
"This is my first time encountering it. It has a strong affinity for magic—the more abundant the magic, the better it grows." Even as he spoke, he thought of something similar he had seen before—Soul Cairn.
Quaithe continued, "This plant is highly invasive. It has begun spreading rapidly across eastern Essos. Wherever it grows, all other vegetation and small creatures perish. Ancient Asshai'i texts claim that thousands of years ago, the Shadow Lands were lush and Asshai itself was a thriving metropolis. But as the toxic mists and ghost grass spread, the land became a wasteland."
"Are there volcanoes in the Shadow Lands?" Wright asked.
"Yes," she confirmed.
"During periods of magical decline, volcanoes channel magic from deep within the earth. Now that dragons have returned, the world's magic is surging—making ghost grass nearly impossible to contain."
"So that's the reason!" Quaithe's eyes lit up with understanding. "But if the ghost grass in the Shadow Lands isn't eradicated, it will keep spreading. The deeper one ventures, the denser the toxic mists become. Humans cannot survive there. The spell you used earlier to clear the sky—could it disperse the mists?"
"It could," Wright admitted, seeing through her intentions immediately. "But I have no obligation to clean up the Shadow Lands."
Wright admired her keen observation but saw through her intentions immediately. He had no interest in playing the role of a gardener.
Quaithe then said, "I heard your dragon's roar today—Odahviing. It reminded me of something. In Asshai, there is a well-known phrase: "Demons and dragons dwell in mountain caves.""
Her face was hidden behind a mask, and her voice revealed no emotion.
"But only ancient organizations know the truth—every dragon has a name. Long ago, someone heard the name of a dragon in the Shadow Lands, and it was in High Valyrian, just like your dragon's name. It was called Durnehviir!"
"I've never heard that name. Continue." Wright outright denied it.
Durnehviir was an older dragon than Odahviing and unique among its kind—it was a master of necromancy. Having made a pact with the Ideal Master, it was bound to the Soul Cairn and capable of summoning legions of undead with purple bones. Nearly immortal, Durnehviir would revive in the Soul Cairn after being defeated unless its soul was devoured by a dragonborn.
Quaithe continued, "Asshai's ancient legends claim that dragons originated from the Shadow Lands and were first tamed by an ancient people whose name has long been lost to history."
That so-called lost people were the shepherds of Valyria.
The Old Pervert had once warned Wright never to summon Durnehviir. Five thousand years ago, he had summoned it into this world, unleashing plagues upon the land. After his death, Durnehviir, ever proud, formed no contracts with any of his descendants and instead ventured eastward, making its home in the Shadow Lands.
Wright had no reason to provoke it. Picking fights with greater foes was foolish. Besides, he doubted he could defeat Durnehviir. His child had yet to be born—he had no desire to die.
"Quaithe, why are you so determined to send me east?" Wright asked, watching her masked face.
"I bear no ill will, Lord Wright. I am merely sharing what I know."
"Oh?" He found it odd.
"The shadowbinders of Asshai have their own ways of prophecy, Lord Wright. They will seek audience with the dragon reborn into this world, and with it will come greed. For dragons are made of fire, and fire is power. And I, too, have seen a glimpse of my own future. Please permit me to stay by Tyene Sand's side."
Quaithe spoke sincerely, removing her red wooden mask and dispelling her magic, revealing her true face to Wright.
He looked at her and chuckled. "I know nothing of your background, nor have you proven yourself to the Stepstones. Such an unconditional pledge of loyalty does not work with me."
She put her mask back on, then stepped close and whispered something to Wright.
His eyes widened. "That"s insane! Fine, I doubt you can cause much trouble. Once I return from King's Landing, I will allow you to stay with Tyene—but only on a probationary basis! And prophecies can be broken."
"I believe in my fate," she replied, satisfied, and left the room.
Later, Wright gathered his people and thoroughly explained the interplay of consciousness, demographics, ethnicity, religion, society, and economy—problems and solutions alike.
Ultimately, everyone agreed to implement Wright's policies but only within the Stepstones, choosing not to spread them to their house lands.
The next morning, Wright delegated monitoring and reception duties, leaving Nymeria in charge of all internal affairs, while Ashara handled personal security. He laid destructive and illusionary formations around the inner city, strong enough to shatter even Odahviing's claws.
Then, standing atop his dragon, under the watchful gaze of the magic users, Wright took off toward King's Landing."