Rhaegar stood upon the flat roof of a low building, overlooking the chaos unfolding before the Fountain of the Drunken God. The onlookers had long since scattered like dark clouds before a storm, fleeing the impending slaughter.
Both sides were locked in a tense standoff. The Archon of Tyrosh held the line with four hundred elite guards, while Magister Dario commanded a larger but far more disorganized host—a patchwork alliance of mercenaries and fanatics that struggled to maintain a cohesive front.
Both sides have their reservations, Rhaegar mused. If they truly cast aside caution, these men would charge like beasts without a shield-wall. Yet, around Dario stood Tyroshi nobles, merchants, and envoys from Lys and Myr; a reckless assault risked striking their own kin and interests.
Rhaegar noted the defenders' formation: a shield-wall in the front, horse-archers in the rear—a superb tactical position. The Archon still held the legitimacy of his title, but to suppress such a rebellion required a cold and ruthless resolve.
Armor clattered and soldiers shouted, yet no one struck the first blow.
From behind the cavalry emerged a rider—the Archon of Tyrosh himself, clad in brilliant purple plate armor with matching hair and beard.
"Dario, you have gone too far!" the Archon bellowed, raising his horsewhip toward the Magister.
"Archon, listen to the voice of the people!" Dario snapped. "In the markets, by the fountains, at the Bleeding Tower, and along the Black Walls—everywhere, men and women, sailors and warriors, are roaring in anger. They ask one question: What is our Archon doing? Is he so afraid of a little dragon and his three beasts that he would surrender our sovereignty over the Stepstones and abandon our ancient friendships with Lys and Myr? In our prime, we defeated Dragonlords to win our freedom!"
"I am neither deaf nor mute, Dario! Our 'friendship' with Lys and Myr vanished after the Battle of the Shivering Sea. We have spent years bleeding one another dry—the Three Daughters have drowned in their own blood, and you know it better than I. My loyalty is to the welfare of Tyrosh, not to vanity or the whispers of agitators who want to drag us back into a war that will make our widows weep again. I have taken not a single coin from the Iron Throne's treaty, but you—count for yourself how much you have pocketed from Lys and Myr."
"Lies! Coward! You are nothing but a Targaryen puppet!" Protests erupted from Dario's camp. His supporters refused to back down. "To arms, Archon—reclaim the Stepstones!"
"If Tyrosh burns again because of fools, you will be the chief firebrand, Dario!" the Archon roared.
"We stand with Lys and Myr! At a single command, we can assemble a hundred warships and crush that boy who calls himself Lord of the Narrow Sea. We have slaughtered dragons before—we shall do it again!" Dario bellowed. "To war, Archon!"
The heat of the confrontation intensified. High on the rooftop, Rhaegar crouched, peering down at the howling mob. These flat-topped houses were common in the inner city; from such a vantage, a blue-haired piper and a coiled leopard could observe unseen.
The chaos reached a fever pitch; combat was imminent.
Rhaegar spotted a mercenary disguised as a Myrish merchant at the rear of Dario's ranks, a crossbow already leveled at the Archon. The man's posture was sly, and the tip of his bolt glistened with a sinister blue venom—his olive skin and slender build marked him clearly as a Myrish agent.
With the Archon's death, Lys and Myr would achieve the vacuum they craved.
Swoosh!
A bolt whistled through the air, piercing the mercenary's throat. The man gasped, his crossbow discharging harmlessly into the dirt as he collapsed, choking on his own blood.
The mercenary hit the ground with a dull thud.
"Assassin!"
"Assassin!"
The archer on the roof had already vanished; Rhaegar had shifted positions. A Goldenheart bow could reach four hundred yards, but a Dragonbone bow was the strongest in the world. Rhaegar had fired the lethal shot and retracted the bow into his bronze ring before the origin could be traced. He could have killed Dario, but that would have shattered any hope of order.
He thought of the Faceless Men, whose magic allowed them to change faces at will; he wondered what runes or spells granted such power and resolved to learn them.
The first blood of the Tyroshi civil war had been spilled.
"They tried to kill the Archon!" The guards, seeing the twitching corpse and the poisoned quarrel in the dust, surged forward with bared steel. No one touched their master and lived.
A chill ran down the Archon's spine—it felt as though an invisible hand had saved him. Yet, as he scanned the rooftops, he found no trace of an archer.
"Cut them down!" The guards charged, their blades and polished armor flashing.
Magister Dario retreated a step as his fanatical mercenaries gritted their teeth to meet the onset. Steel clashed, blood sprayed, and curses filled the air. The screams of the dying mingled with the thud of thrown spears. The streets became a slick of gore. The Archon's elite guard pushed forward, reaping Dario's men like wheat; the advantage of armor and discipline was absolute.
"The High Priest comes!" someone shouted. Both sides froze.
"Enough!" A tall, stooped old man stepped forward, his hair white as snow, wearing a brilliant purple robe embroidered with the sigil of the Trios. "If you still respect this old man, do not tear the stones of Tyrosh from Tyrosh."
"High Priest!"
"Arch-Minister of the Faith!"
Soldiers on both sides lowered their weapons. In Tyrosh, the authority of the priesthood was immense; though they rarely interfered, when the priests of the Trios spoke, the faithful listened.
"Speak your will, Magister Dario," the Priest commanded.
"The choice for Tyrosh is war or peace," Dario panted. "Join the alliance of the Three Daughters and march on the Stepstones; or, if that fails, convene the Council of Magisters to rule jointly while we deliberate."
"Three men cannot share a single sausage at dinner; I prefer to dine alone," the Archon sneered—in Tyrosh, the Council bowed to the Archon.
"Tolerance, peace, a truce! Anyone who openly wages war shall be declared an enemy of the Trios," the High Priest announced.
A heavy silence fell over Tyrosh. Then, every commander stepped forward, knelt, and kissed the Priest's ring. As both sides retreated to collect their dead, a fragile armistice took hold.
Faith, crowns, and foreign enemies—Tyrosh grows more fascinating by the hour, Rhaegar thought.
Concealed by the coastal mists, he would continue to be the dragon hidden within. The dragon in the mist, shielded by reefs and sea-fog, does not reveal itself easily.