"The Archon is dead!" "The traitor who leagued with the Westerosi dragons is dead!"
The war began at twilight. Assassins surged toward the Archon's palace like a tide of fury, while others, already hidden in the shadows, launched a sudden strike against the High Priest's modest temple.
Magister Dario loses the political argument, so he flips the table? Rhaegar thought. The merchants of Lys and Myr had clearly whispered enough poison into Dario's ear. To remove both the Archon and the High Priest in one stroke was a plan as mad as it was malevolent—yet, such madness often worked on the Tyroshi, who, like rats, were conditioned to obey the strongest hand. They had endured the "Silver-Tongued" tyrant; they might well endure Dario.
"Assassins!" "Protect His Holiness!" The spears of the Trios roared, forming a ring around the temple.
The night brought a rain of arrows more vicious than expected. These were likely not Tyroshi at all, but specialized killers who felt no holiness in the stones of the temple. The High Priest's guard took losses in the chaos and retreated inside.
"Close the gates! Open them for no one!" the Priest shouted.
The temple was a three-story red stone structure with a low outer wall. As the heavy doors slammed shut, the enemy began to hammer at the wood and scale the masonry.
"Arrows! Drums!" Rhaegar's voice rang out like cold steel. He was now the most battle-hardened man in the sanctuary. "Find me two men with loud throats and anyone who can pull a bow—follow me to the roof!"
"Obey our guest!" the High Priest cried, looking like a fighting cock that had lost its feathers. Dario truly wanted him dead. All his spiritual vigilance had been an instinct without an army to back it; now, death was closing in from all sides.
On the third-story roof, Rhaegar drew his black recurve dragonbone bow. His arms flexed, tension coiling like a spring, and an arrow hissed out like a streak of fire. "Shout with me: They seek to murder the High Priest!"
"Yes, sir!" the guards bellowed.
"People of Tyrosh, wake! They kill your High Priest!"
"Citizens, save us! The Holy One is under siege!"
The war-drums of the temple responded, their rhythm rolling over the city, adding to the growing cacophony of the night.
"Silence them! Kill the ones on the roof!" the assassin leader ordered, urging his men to climb faster. Crossbowmen fired at Rhaegar, but the [Eagle's Blessing] was a constant shield; he perceived every bolt within a hundred yards as if time had slowed.
"Watch the blue-haired one!" "The masked man!" The assassins screamed but could not gain the wall. Rhaegar's bow was peerless, outranging them by hundreds of yards. Using it against a mob of wall-climbers was like using a dragon to kill a fly.
Clad in black scale and wielding that massive black bow, Rhaegar was a shadow of doom. "Beat the drums! Shout! Shoot!" He loosed arrow after arrow. Assassins were pinned to the very walls they tried to scale; a ring of corpses began to circle the temple.
A mortal man's arms would have failed after such a barrage, but Rhaegar was a true dragon. The fire within him granted him stamina far beyond human limits. Inspired, the guards joined his rhythm. The temple was like a small boat in a storm, battered but unboardable.
Seeing the stalemate, the assassins wavered. "What kind of demon is that?" the captain stammered, his legs shaking.
"We should retreat—" one assassin began, but before he could finish, a black warhammer appeared. A single blow crushed his skull like a soft fruit.
"Useless trash!"
A new squad emerged—the elite of the elite. Their leader was a giant of a man, bare-chested and standing over six-foot-five. His body was a map of scars from the fighting pits.
"Meereenese?" Rhaegar realized. From their gear, they were clearly high-priced pit fighters.
"Out of the way! Only cowards hide behind stone!" the giant roared. "Cowards use bows!"
The assassins parted as the gladiators charged with massive hammers, shattering the gates with terrifying strength. The giant lunged forward with a speed that defied his bulk.
"A pity," Rhaegar muttered. "If you intend to die as a destroyer, you should have worn a helmet."
An arrow, faster than the eye could follow, tore through the night and buried itself in the giant's throat. The mountain of a man collapsed with a dull, heavy thud. Rhaegar did not pause. His arrows rained down—throat, heart, eye—finding every gap in the gladiators' lack of armor. They wanted blood and glory; Rhaegar gave them only death in the yellow dust.
The assassins broke. Seeing their champions fall, they scattered like birds before a hawk. The swifter ones fled into the alleys; the slower were caught by the rising fury of the Tyroshi populace.
Armed citizens and mercenaries, devout followers of the Trios, surged from their homes. They fell upon the assassins with a savage vengeance, beating the survivors into bloody pulps.
Rhaegar ducked into a corner, a flicker of blue flame dancing in his palm. Through the [Fire Sight], he saw the Archon's palace still holding, with Shireen directing the defense from the battlements. He breathed a sigh of relief—the girl was alive, but the Archon's fate remained unknown.
"We demand to see the High Priest!"
"Is the Holy One safe?"
The crowd outside the temple grew into a sea of worried faces. They ignored the gore and the corpses, wanting only to see the man who represented their god.
"Go and meet your victory, Holiness," Rhaegar said to the Priest.
The Priest looked older, his face ashen. Tyrosh was tearing itself apart. "Prince Rhaegar, I thank you for your friendship. You did not interfere in our internal affairs."
"My companions will be here soon," Rhaegar replied.
The Priest's heart sank. A prince's companions could only be dragons. "Lys and Myr have made themselves enemies of Tyrosh, Prince. I pray you do not join them in destroying us!"
"Rest easy, Holiness. I have your friendship; I do not need a Tyrosh in ashes. My dragons come only to protect what is mine. But without them, how long will this chaos last? Sometimes a butcher's hand is needed to save a heart."
The Priest could not deny the truth. The city was a knot of corruption—bribed magisters, treacherous priests, and foreign gold. He ordered the gates opened.
When the High Priest stepped out, he regained his majesty. He showed the crowd his white hair and his terrified, tear-streaked face. "Look at me! I serve the Trios with nothing but prayer, yet they sent assassins to my bed! They have desecrated the temple! Is my faith so weak? Is this the God's punishment? Merciful Trios, answer me!"
"Answer us!" the crowd roared.
The survivors among the assassins were dragged before the mob. Under the rain of stones and spit, they confessed their master's name.
"I will demand an accounting from Magister Dario!" the Priest cried. "If he does not answer for this sacrilege, I will pray at his gates until I die!"
A mob of thousands, fueled by religious frenzy, turned and marched toward Dario's palace. "Traitor Dario!" "Death to the Lysene dogs!"
As the crowd surged away, Rhaegar heard the sound of wings.
Three dragons dove from the clouds, the night their perfect shroud. They landed near the temple, their scales shimmering—silver, purple, and black-red. They loosed spheres of fire into the air, turning the Tyroshi night into a vision of the apocalypse.
"Forward, my friends!" Rhaegar vaulted onto the Silver Emperor's back, banking toward the Archon's palace.