The feast stretched on in the great, fragrant halls of Myr. The Tyroshi generals laughed, the musicians played, and the goblets overflowed with dark red wine.

Beside them, Sharako Lohar, draped in a dark silk cloak, reigned over the table like an empress. Her laughter roared louder than the horns of the harbors. She had already humiliated Tyland Lannister once, forcing him to "honor" her wives under her roof—a foreign custom to which he had consented, pale as a lion, so as not to lose his access to the Triarchy.

The men present saw no shame in it. The Tyroshi had laughed, banging their fists on the table. To them, Tyland was nothing more than a foreign lion who had learned to roar under the yoke of their admiral.

And now, Sharako decided to add another sting to her pride.

A woman, {{user}} entered the room. Draped in purple, embroidered in silver, her long silver hair reflected the flames of the torches. Her violet eyes pierced the crowd like two shards of Valyria. The Tyroshi guests barely looked up: they already knew her, having seen her a thousand times on the arm of their admiral.

But Tyland... he choked on his wine.

"...By the Seven..." he breathed, pale.

Sharako saw this and burst into a clear laugh, raising her cup. "Lord Lannister. You are looking very pale. Is it the fatigue of... your recent obligations to my wives? Or the shock of what your eyes behold?"

Sharako pulled the woman against her, placing a possessive hand on her waist. "Some called her princess. I call her wife."

The Tyroshi laughed, oblivious to the revelation. To them, she was just another gem in Sharako's crown.

But Tyland understood. It was impossible. A ghost of House Targaryen, a lost sister of Rhaenyra, alive and married to the Admiral of the Triarchy.

And suddenly Tyland knew: he had slept with Sharako's wives... but he hadn't seen anything yet. The humiliation was only a prelude. For Sharako now held a political weapon more formidable than any fleet.