Chaos consumed the palace.
"The gates have fallen! The Eastern sorcerer has broken through!" A soldier stumbled inside, his voice shaking with panic.
The Bluebeard Archon blanched at the news. His massive body convulsed, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed onto a silk-draped couch without another sound.
His mistresses wailed and shrieked, clustering around the quickly cooling bulk of his corpse.
Greenbeard reeled as if struck by lightning. He seized the messenger by the collar. "Where are the Seven Kingdoms? Why have they betrayed us?!"
The soldier shook his head in terror. "My lord, it wasn't the Seven Kingdoms. It was the Eastern sorcerer! He disguised himself as Lord Redwyne to trick the gates open. On the walls, he burned many of us alive with his flames. He's a devil!"
The truth struck Greenbeard at once. A chill of despair clutched his heart.
It's over. All of it is over.
He looked at his brother's lifeless body and knew the throne of the Archon of Tyrosh, and their rule with it, had ended.
"Quick! Ready the ships!"
He turned to flee, desperate to escape. But the moment he burst from the hall, the air was filled with the crash of rams, the clash of steel, and the dying screams of his guards at the palace gates.
Cold sweat soaked his back.
He darted for a side corridor, but heavy footsteps closed in from behind.
Two Dragon Soul Guards appeared like phantoms before him, their steel hands clamping down on his shoulders like iron grips.
Lo Quen entered the lavish palace at the head of Dragon Soul Guards and pirates.
The marble floors gleamed like mirrors. The walls were inlaid with mother-of-pearl and colored glass, depicting the legends of Tyrosh's Three-headed God. The air reeked of perfume and death.
On a jewel-studded dais, women wept around the Bluebeard Archon's corpse.
Lo Quen stepped forward.
The Archon was grotesquely obese, his belly sagging like a sack of flesh to his legs. His face was pale—clearly lifeless.
Lo Quen grabbed one of the women. "This man is the Archon of Tyrosh? Why is he dead?"
She stammered out what had happened, and Lo Quen understood at once.
The Bluebeard Archon had died of a heart attack at the news. His monstrous weight meant he was riddled with ailments. Even if he had survived today, he would not have lived much longer.
Lo Quen ordered his men, "Cut off his head and hang it on the city gate. Throw the body to the dogs."
"Yes, my lord!"
Ignoring the weeping women, he strode toward Greenbeard, who was held fast by the Dragon Soul Guards.
"Who are you?" Lo Quen's voice was cold, his eyes flicking to the man's green beard.
Greenbeard forced calm, though his voice trembled. "M-My lord, I am but a jester… a lowly clown…"
A sneer tugged at Lo Quen's lips. His gaze shifted to the women. "Is he telling the truth?"
One mistress, braver than the rest, pointed through her tears. "Lord, he is the Archon's elder brother, Greenbeard! The Archon ignored all matters of state—Tyrosh's power lay entirely in his hands!"
"Good." Lo Quen's eyes turned colder. "Cut off this Greenbeard's head. Hang it beside his worthless brother's for all to see. Throw their bodies into the sea to feed the fish."
"No! Mercy, my lord! Mercy!!" Greenbeard's despairing screams rang through the hall as the Dragon Soul Guards dragged him away.
Lo Quen let his gaze sweep over the gilded palace. To the trembling mistresses, his voice was sharp as ice.
"Remember this. From this day forth, Tyrosh has no Archon."
The women stared at him in terror—at the silent, mountain-like undead warriors, and the pirate soldiers flooding in with murder in their eyes.
They understood then: Tyrosh's sky had changed forever.
...
On the third day after Tyrosh fell, Roro and Hal completed the initial tally.
The spoils surpassed all expectation.
They seized one hundred and twenty warships of the Tyrosh fleet, intact.
Nearly two thousand Tyrosh sailors were taken captive.
Lo Quen ordered Jaelena to scatter and reorganize them, absorbing them into his own forces.
Like Myr and Lys, Tyrosh's strength relied heavily on mercenaries, with only a small standing army. Among the Free Cities, only Braavos and Volantis could field permanent armies of over ten thousand.
Neither Bluebeard nor Greenbeard could ever have imagined that Lo Quen would strike Tyrosh so suddenly, before word had even returned of the Seven Kingdoms' fleet attacking Bloodstone Isle.
The mercenary companies they had hired at great expense had not even gathered in Tyrosh before the city had already changed hands.
Meizo Mahr, weary and dust-covered from his journey from Bloodstone Isle, bowed respectfully to Lo Quen, who now sat upon the former Archon's throne. "Congratulations, my lord. Since Alequo Adarys, 'Silvertongue,' one of the Ninepenny Kings, briefly seized this land thirty years ago, you are the first foreign conqueror to take Tyrosh."
Lo Quen idly toyed with the scepter on the table, its head set with a massive emerald, the very symbol of the Archon's authority. He smiled faintly. "Silvertongue lasted only a few short years before his queen poisoned him. The Tyroshi are vain and arrogant, recognizing only Archons who win their office through bribes. To them, anyone who doesn't understand the art of 'bargaining' is unfit to lead their city."
His tone hardened. He tossed the scepter aside and fixed Meizo with a sharp gaze. "But I won't play their game. Meizo, your first task is to spread an intelligence network across the entire Essos. I need your eyes and ears everywhere. If Tyroshi merchants stir in the slightest, I want to know at once. Money will not be a problem—you may draw directly from Tyrosh's treasury."
The wealth of Tyrosh was immense.
Its currency was a distinctive diamond-shaped iron coin, stamped with the high tower said to house the Three-Headed God. Its value was low—about ten thousand iron coins equaled a single golden dragon of Westeros, roughly the worth of a copper penny. Yet because of this low value and cheap material, its circulation was enormous. Tyrosh's mints worked day and night, endlessly striking new coins.
Such expansion created a steady, manageable inflation, ensuring plenty of currency to grease trade, fueling prosperity, and swelling the tax coffers.
"As you command, my lord!" Meizo's eyes gleamed as he bowed low.
Lo Quen then turned to Jaelena and gave new orders. "Though Tyrosh is ours, vast fertile towns and villages in the Disputed Lands still await us. Jaelena, the two thousand Tyroshi soldiers we've reorganized are under your command. Set sail at once and land in the Disputed Lands."
"Yes, my lord!" Jaelena answered firmly.
The Disputed Lands, that fertile prize carved up by Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh, held rich soil and a mild climate, serving as a vital granary.
Tyrosh not only grew staples like oats, barley, and wheat, but also extensive cash crops. Among them, the autumn pears used to distill their famed pear brandy brought especially rich profits.
Securing the region would be crucial for Lo Quen's future.