The Archon's palace in Tyrosh had been severely damaged; only the inner keep stood isolated amidst the smoking ruins.
The crowds inside and outside the Archon's residence formed two starkly contrasting circles: one of fire, one of ice. One blazed with passion, while the other remained freezing cold.
The outer circle was a clamorous throng of Tyroshi citizens, merchants, sellswords, slave-soldiers, and slaves. Though varied in stature, they all sported brightly dyed hair and forked beards, their faces contorted with rage and a burning thirst for vengeance. They stared at the severed heads of the traitorous priests impaled on spikes, and the corpses of the fallen rebels and Meereenese pit fighters strung up outside the palace. The rebels were a motley crew of various origins, including mercenaries from Myr, Lys, and even the Disputed Lands. These bodies only fueled the mob's hatred for Magister Dario—the traitor and inside man who had colluded with the Myrish, the Lyseni, and the Meereenese.
"Execute Dario!"
"Death to the traitor Dario!" thousands chanted in unison. Their collective will was an unstoppable river of steel.
Meanwhile, inside the inner keep of the Archon's estate, the atmosphere was starkly harmonious. In the reception hall, Rhaegar felt as though he were attending a grand council. There are two types of men who remain eternally detached: politicians and soldiers. They might incite the passions of the Tyroshi masses, but they themselves strove to maintain an icy composure.
Each faction had chosen its representatives. The High Priest represented the followers of the Trios; the Admiral and the Commander of the City Watch represented Tyrosh's formidable military; Shireen represented the gravely wounded Archon; and Rhaegar represented the Iron Throne of Westeros. Though Rhaegar stood alone, he brought three dragons—a "Dance of the Dragons" that no one dared provoke. As for Dario, everyone in the room considered him a dead man walking. He couldn't even swallow one of these factions individually, let alone an alliance of all four. Even the three dragons alone were enough to utterly obliterate him. Dario's doom was sealed, and everyone was simply waiting to eradicate his forces and carve up the spoils.
"Fetch some food for my companions. I don't want them resorting to eating people," Rhaegar ordered as he strode past the ruins outside the hall. The dragons had landed in the inner keep, looming from the rooftops like terrifying gargoyles, surveying their surroundings.
"Find food for Prince Rhaegar's companions!" Shireen immediately echoed the command.
The Majordomo of the Archon's estate hurried to comply. Though these forty-foot beasts were not yet as horrifying as Balerion the Black Dread, they were still large enough to swallow a man whole with ease.
The representatives of the four powers first went to visit the critically wounded Archon. Rhaegar noted that the Archon's son was also present, hiding in his father's sickroom, weeping. The purple-haired boy's eyes were swollen and red, and he was too terrified to leave the chamber. Stripped of his ornate purple robes, he stood barefoot, pale, and dizzy with fear.
The son is nothing like his wise father, Rhaegar sighed inwardly.
Inside the Archon's bedchamber, heavy purple drapes blocked out the light, and the air was thick with the scent of smoke and blood—the unmistakable stench of death. The Archon's life-fire was fading, flickering like a candle in the wind.
"He's been given dreamwine and milk of the poppy for the pain, but that is all we can do. The wounds are too deep; he was slashed by an arakh," Shireen said.
The Archon bore wounds on his chest and back. Fortunately, the blades had not been poisoned. The most grievous injury was a massive gash that ripped across his torso, from his lower abdomen straight up to his upper chest. The wine-soaked bandages were already stained crimson, emitting a nauseating odor. Such a severe wound was undoubtedly fatal in this era, especially for a middle-aged man whose body healed slowly.
"A tragedy. How did this happen?" the High Priest asked.
"Magister Dario sent envoys to request peace negotiations. They chose a tavern not far from our residence, and my father thought little of it. But Dario's peace was laced with poison. Several guards sacrificed themselves to save my father from the poisoned wine, but the assassins struck anyway. He took a blade to the chest and belly," Shireen explained.
"Damn Dario, that traitor to Tyrosh!" the High Priest cursed with righteous indignation.
Rhaegar remained silent. The Archon had still hoped for peace. Unfortunately, Dario had seen this as a sign of weakness. The Archon had been stubborn, likely ignoring his daughter's warnings.
"Now that you have seen my father, please wait in the reception hall. Prince Rhaegar, please stay a moment," Shireen requested. The others cast curious glances at the handsome prince and the beautiful lady, but the Free Cities were far more open-minded than Westeros, so no one asked questions.
The others filed out, leaving only Shireen and Rhaegar. Seeing that the arrival of the High Priest, the City Watch Commander, and the Admiral had stabilized the situation, Shireen's younger brother immediately abandoned his father's bedside to go curry favor with the powerful men outside.
"Is my father dying? I can no longer feel his fire," Shireen said, looking at Rhaegar with her beautiful, blue-green eyes. "Prince, can you save him?"
"I've heard that House Lannister always pays its debts, and so do I. Your Highness, I am willing to pay any price, even my life," Shireen said, meeting Rhaegar's gaze bravely. She was indeed stunning; from her face to her figure to her bearing, she was utterly captivating—a true Tyroshi rose.
"..." Rhaegar was briefly speechless. "I wish you well, Shireen," he said softly. "I can help him, but I do not like you bargaining with yourself this way. I am no mercenary; your vibrant, proud spirit is who you truly are." One who truly loves a rose does not trample it, nor do they take advantage of a girl's desperation.
Rhaegar said no more. A small cluster of azure flame blossomed from his fingertips. The magical fire flickered and sank into the Tyroshi Archon's body. The flames might not cure him completely, but they would staunch the bleeding, purge any lingering infection, and accelerate the healing.
Shireen summoned a healer-slave to tend to the wounds anew, and the two left the chamber for the reception hall. Seeing her father's condition noticeably stabilize, Shireen let out a profound sigh of relief.
"Your kindness will be difficult to repay," Shireen said with a mysterious smile, looking both sweet and fiercely stubborn.
Rhaegar escorted her toward the reception hall. The game of thrones had officially begun.
The Archon's reception hall was magnificent. Two statues of the Trios flanked the entrance. Myrish tapestries hung on the walls alongside purple drapes symbolizing Tyroshi wealth, framing an ornate, jewel-encrusted sculpture of a ship. The centerpiece of the room was a massive ship-shaped table—the "Ship Table"—draped in purple brocade.
To resolve disputes and establish order, one must first determine the political standing of the factions before prosecuting the war.
Though there were few people in the hall, they were the absolute power brokers of the city. The council was swift and decisive, leaving Dario no room to maneuver.
Shireen, having changed into a fresh purple gown, sat at the seat of honor with her family's veteran captain of the guard standing behind her. Rhaegar sat to her right. To her left sat the High Priest, draped in purple and bearing the sigil of the Trios, with Commander Gael standing stoically behind him. The Commander of the City Watch, in silver armor and a lion helm, and the Admiral of the Tyroshi Fleet, in blue armor and an eagle helm, occupied the lower seats.
The other high priests of the Trios, the Archon's guards, and the senior officers of the Watch and Navy waited anxiously in the corridors outside. Even the Archon's son had been dismissed.
"Given the Archon's current condition, I propose that Lady Shireen Dary be appointed Acting Archon of Tyrosh. She will convene and preside over the Supreme Council. I myself, along with the Commander and the Admiral, shall serve as councilors, and all other Magisterial duties are suspended immediately. Are there any objections?" the High Priest announced.
The Commander and the Admiral were slightly surprised; the old priest truly understood the art of humility, choosing to nominate a young woman as Archon rather than seizing the seat himself. But since they were being offered a share of the power, they accepted.
"None!"
"Nor I!" the Commander and Admiral readily agreed. They were lucky to retain their positions at all; they had neither the power nor the ambition to challenge the combined might of the High Priest, the Archon's loyalists, and the Dragon Prince.
"I am a boy! I am the heir of House Dary! High Priest, you should consider me, not my sister!" Shireen's brother burst into the room, his face flushed with indignation. This was Tyrosh, not Dorne; women did not inherit before men.
"You're a thief, a whore. You fawn over the Targaryen dragons just to seize power. I despise you, sister," the boy spat, pointing an accusing finger at Shireen and Rhaegar.
"You don't look like an Archon; you look like a beggar," Rhaegar said coldly. "A ruler does not act like this. When someone attacks you, you draw your sword and fight back, not hide in your father's sickroom crying."
The men in the room chuckled. The Beggar Archon—a fitting title.
"Gael, knock some sense into the boy," the High Priest ordered, his eyes icy.
Gael, Captain of the Temple Guard, stepped forward and slapped the boy across the face. The slap wasn't overly loud, but it carried a humiliating sting.
"Do you understand now, boy? Your sister is a man in a skirt, and you are a woman in trousers," the Priest said flatly. The Tyroshi despised cowards; they would rather endure a tyrant than a weakling.
The slap knocked the boy back to reality, and under the contemptuous stares of the room's most powerful men, he broke down and fled the hall crying.
"Now for the next step. I propose declaring Magister Dario a traitor and a public enemy. All honors and properties belonging to Dario and his supporters are forfeit and placed under the jurisdiction of the Acting Archon!" the High Priest continued. "Furthermore, given the treasonous actions of the Myrish and Lyseni, I suggest the Archon declare Lys and Myr as hostile cities. Due to Prince Rhaegar's friendly aid, Westeros shall be recognized as an allied nation."
"Agreed!" "Agreed!" the others chimed in. With the dragons perched on their roof, they had no choice but to align with the Iron Throne.
"The Navy has completely blockaded the port; no ship can leave."
"The City Watch has secured the streets; we are maintaining order."
"Please hold your positions, gentlemen. Send me some of your men to assault Magister Dario's estate immediately. Prince Rhaegar's dragons are not to be deployed lightly," Shireen commanded. The Commander and Admiral nodded in agreement.
Shireen still harbored reservations about using the dragons. To conquer her own city using foreign armies and foreign dragons would brand her a Targaryen puppet in the eyes of the Tyroshi. It was a terrifying prospect. The dragons had to remain a weapon of absolute last resort.
"Do not blame me, Rhaegar," Shireen whispered to him. "If I am crowned by you and your three dragons, would I even be considered a legitimate Archon of Tyrosh?"
Rhaegar nodded. Shireen possessed excellent political instincts.
With the council concluded, the High Priest stepped out of the hall and announced the decrees to the waiting crowd. The throng immediately began to swear fealty to the Acting Archon's interim regime.
Then, Shireen stepped out onto the balcony, blessed by the High Priest. She held up the blood-drenched purple robes her father had worn when he was struck down.
"Did my father not serve as the democratically elected Archon of Tyrosh?" she cried out.
"Did my father not seek prosperity and benefit for the people and nobles of this city?"
"Why did Magister Dario forsake his sacred vows, colluding with merchants from Lys and Myr in an attempt to murder my father and the High Priest?"
Her speech was brief and powerful, but the sight of that blood-soaked purple robe held an infinite magic, driving the people's fury to its absolute peak.
"Execute them! Death to the traitor Dario and his lapdogs!"
The Tyroshi rage erupted. A raging fire would burn everything to ash!
The army marched from the Archon's palace, surging toward Dario's fortified estate with overwhelming momentum. True to Shireen's word, Rhaegar's dragons only flew overhead, occasionally breathing warning streams of fire into the sky; they did not directly engage in the slaughter.
Three hundred elite City Watchmen, one hundred naval marines, three hundred of the Archon's personal guards, and two hundred temple slave-soldiers led the vanguard. They were armed with crossbows, spears, and longswords. Behind them followed thousands of furious citizens, merchants, mercenaries, and slaves wielding axes and hammers.
Dario faced the judgment of fate.
The loyalist army charged his estate. War drums thundered, and dragons roared in the heavens. From a high vantage point, Rhaegar observed the battlefield. Dario and his men had transformed the Magisterial palace into a fortress, bristling with scorpion ballistas, traps, and spear walls.
Dario's outer defenses were quickly overrun, forcing his remaining forces to rely on the main mansion for a desperate final stand. Many of his hired sellswords had already slipped away, leaving only his die-hard loyalists, the trapped Lyseni and Myrish agents, and the Meereenese pit fighters.
Dario consolidated his remaining strength. They dismantled anything that could provide cover for the attackers and concentrated their firepower at specific choke points. Dario's forces were not entirely useless.
Siege warfare is always brutal. The defensive volleys of scorpion bolts and crossbow fire inflicted heavy casualties on the Tyroshi loyalists.
"Hold on, brothers! The Myrish will bring the Golden Company to save us!" Dario shouted over the din of battle.
Rhaegar was in no rush. The Tyroshi people still needed his intervention so he could extract the maximum political benefit.
Looking through his magical flames, Rhaegar genuinely saw a fleet sailing toward the city—a Myrish fleet flying familiar banners that looked suspiciously like those of the Golden Company.
"Acting Archon, High Priest, Commander! New intelligence from the sea watchtower!" a panicked sailor rushed into the command tent. "Forty Myrish warships are attacking the harbor!"
The High Priest's face turned pale. Dario had indeed sold them out to the Myrish.
"Prince Rhaegar, I formally request your aid!" the High Priest pleaded. The situation was now critical; if the Myrish landed, they could easily flank the loyalists and cause the complete collapse of Tyrosh.
"Thank you for your help, Prince Rhaegar," Shireen added softly.
"Since it is the request of the Archon and the High Priest, I gladly accept."
Rhaegar mounted the Silver Emperor. "Beat the drums! After three strikes, the dragons will descend. Leave no one alive!" he commanded.
Three ominous drumbeats echoed across the battlefield, instilling dread in the hearts of the defenders.
"The dragons are coming! Surrender now!" the loyalists outside the mansion yelled, warning Dario's men in a final attempt to spare them the horror, but to no avail.
As dawn broke, the dragons delivered the final, devastating blow of the war.
"Dracarys!"
Rhaegar steered the three dragons high into the sky before diving sharply toward Dario's mansion. They moved with terrifying agility, dodging the scorpion bolts like mountain goats dancing on a cliff edge. The dragons unleashed deafening roars and expelled torrents of blazing fire. Silver, black, and violet flames intertwined and erupted, bursting in the air and raining down like liquid lightning. It was as if multiple suns had risen over the estate.
The wood, tapestries, straw, grain, and fine silks inside Magister Dario's mansion ignited instantly.
Amidst the raging inferno, Dario's rebels let out bloodcurdling screams as they were burned alive or crushed by collapsing masonry.
"You brought the wrath of the Dragonlords upon yourselves! This is the Dragon's mercy," Rhaegar declared, circling high above. He looked down at the ugly scar on the city of Tyrosh, the ruined mansion now completely engulfed in smoke and fire.
Naturally, dragonfire could not instantly melt massive stone blocks, but the combustible materials within turned the fortress into an oven, melting the defenders like wax candles.
The Tyroshi army advanced, but there was little left to fight. The vast majority of the enemy had already been incinerated.
By sunrise, Dario's estate—and Dario himself—had been reduced to a mountain of smoking ash.