In the dead of night, the dragons swept over the Tyroshi sky.
The three beasts had grown formidable, each exceeding forty-four feet in length. Leading the formation was the Silver Emperor, now measuring forty-six feet. He was the most magnificent of the trio, his silver scales shimmering with a pale gold luster on his wing membranes, horns, and crest. His molten gold eyes looked down upon the black walls of Tyrosh with a predator's focus.
Flanking him were the others: Vagar, the proud purple dragon of the extinct House Belaerys, whose bronze-tipped claws and underbelly scales flashed like polished copper—a breed of dragon never before seen in Westeros. Then there was Belerion, a tribute to the Black Dread, a shadow against the moon with scales of midnight and eyes like cooling magma. Dragons were rarely a single, dull shade; they were tapestries of living color and terror.
Rhaegar Targaryen, mounted upon the Silver Emperor, felt the raw joy of the bond. Dragons were creatures of war and sky, born for the freedom of the heavens. These three, bolstered by the purest Old Valyrian blood and tempered by the heat of Rhaegar's runes, possessed a majesty that rivaled the dragons of the Freehold's zenith.
"Let the world know the Dragonlords have returned," Rhaegar whispered.
Below, the city of Tyrosh fell into a terrifying silence. The clash of steel and the screams of the dying were swallowed by a roar that vibrated in the very marrow of the citizens' bones. Thousands of eyes turned upward. From a hundred feet up, the dragons loosed spheres of fire—silver, black-red, and violet—illuminating the city like a cluster of rising suns.
Magister Dario, standing amidst the rubble of the Archon's outer palace, turned ashen. He heard the religious frenzy of the High Priest's followers approaching from the streets, and now, the suns of the Targaryens burned above him. The bells of fate were tolling.
"Seize the inner palace! Kill them all and I am still Archon!" Dario screamed, kicking at the scorched purple gates of the inner sanctum. But the Archon's loyalists held firm, a volcano of resistance amidst the ruins.
"Magister, we have lost," the Meereenese merchant beside him whispered, his voice trembling. "The Archon's daughter holds the steel, the High Priest lives, and the dragon-prince is here. The City Watch and the Admiral will turn their blades on us within the hour."
Dario collapsed, broken by the realization that even luck had abandoned him. He was carried back to his estate by his remaining guards as the siege of the palace dissolved into a rout.
Rhaegar landed the Silver Emperor in the outer courtyard, the dragon's leathery wings kicking up a storm of dust and ash. He dismounted, his silver hair and violet eyes restored to their true brilliance.
The courtyard was a charnel house. Beautiful fountains were choked with corpses; marble pillars were blackened by fire. Rhaegar waited by the inner gates, a silent sentinel amidst the debris.
The gates groaned open. A troop of guards emerged, surrounding a young woman in purple plate armor. It was Shireen Tyrosh. She had cast aside her silks and ribbons for the steel of a warrior, her green hair and eyes vivid against the soot on her face.
"I apologize for my appearance, Prince," Shireen said, offering a smile that could melt the frost of the North. "Had the intruder been an enemy rather than a friend, I would have had to take my own life. I refuse to be a trophy for a silver-tongued usurper."
"You still have the heart for jests," Rhaegar praised sincerely. "You look more beautiful in steel than in any gown."
"And the Archon?" Rhaegar asked softly.
"He lives, but barely," Shireen whispered, her eyes clouding. "Dario's men used poison, then the blade. If not for the guards, he would be dead."
Soon, the High Priest's procession arrived. He came on foot, a sea of merchants, mercenaries, and slave-soldiers following his lead. The sight of the three dragons perched atop the palace walls sent a wave of terror through the crowd, but the Priest calmed them.
"Fear not; Prince Rhaegar is a friend to Tyrosh," the Priest announced.
A tall, gaunt man named Commander Gael of the Temple Guard stepped forward, presenting a box to the Priest. Inside were the severed heads of the High Temple's senior priests—traitors who had conspired with Dario.
"Put them on pikes," the Priest commanded coldly. "They sought power and found only the grave."
Finally, the wavering powers of the city arrived: the Commander of the Garrison and the Admiral of the Fleet. They knelt before the Priest and Shireen, begging for forgiveness for their "delayed" intervention.
"Is this Prince Rhaegar?" the Admiral asked, squinting at the silver-haired figure standing beside the dragon.
Rhaegar nodded, his hand resting on the dragonbone hilt of his Valyrian blade. "I am. And I do not take kindly to those who strike at my allies or threaten the peace of the Narrow Sea."
The dragons loosed a synchronized roar that shook the palace foundations. The Garrison Commander and the Admiral needed no further convincing.
"We swear to defend the Archon, the High Priest, and the friendship between Tyrosh and the Iron Throne!" they declared in unison.
The coup was over. The deterrent of the dragon had won the city without burning a single house.