Your comments, reviews, and votes really help me out so much and they make me super motivated to keep working on this story! Thank you! Pat*eon : CaveLeather
Pat*eon : Belamy20
Pat*eon : ilham20
The morning light over Tyrosh arrived much later today than the sea mist on the Narrow Sea.
However, before the first ray of dawn could even pierce the eastern sky, this city—built on industry, made rich by the discovery of the purple sea snail, and famed for its artisans' golden touch—had already been torn apart by the clamor of a violent uprising.
The towering Black Wall of the inner city acted as a cold dividing line. Inside, it was a chaos of thundering hooves and rampant looting.
The noble lords who had once sworn fealty to Archon Sylas were now leading their private guards and slaves to smash open the iron gates of his private estate. The crisp clatter of silver and gold clashing mixed with high-pitched screams, spilling out from carved windows and splashing onto the cobblestone streets.
Outside the "imposing" Black Wall, the tide of humanity was even more overwhelming.
The citizens of Tyrosh's outer city marched with torches raised, chanting, "Overthrow the Kingslayer!" They dragged the newly erected statue of the new Archon down from its pedestal, its stone head shattering on the ground. The previous Archon, Alequo, may have been mediocre, but his family had deep roots and widespread support in Tyrosh. It was Alequo who had originally allied with the Lyseni and Myrmen to form the Triarchy, driving back the Volantene oppressors.
In 96 AC, Tyrosh, Lys, and Myr set aside their ancient rivalries to expel Volantis from the Disputed Lands. After their victory in the Battle of the Borderland, the three triumphant cities announced a "Permanent Alliance."
Soon after, the Myrish admiral Craghas Drahar led a fleet to sweep the Stepstones, clearing out pirate strongholds and securing the trade routes of the Narrow Sea.
But now, the mercenary jackals the new Archon had bought with his gold were prying open the doors of every shop in Tyrosh. Though they were looting, they weren't pillaging with their usual abandon. Fearing the even more terrifying forces rioting through the city, the sellswords spontaneously formed defensive lines, blocking the violent mobs from the slums and the rebelling slaves from the slave quarters.
As for the pirates—whether they were the last of the Archon's hired fleets, the remnants absorbed by the Triarchy, corsairs of the Stepstones, or the outlaws who had surrendered to Racallio Ryndoon—they could only huddle at the edge of the harbor.
They watched the sails of the United Fleet gleaming coldly in the morning mist. Though their cutlasses remained drawn and their eyes burned with greed toward the city, not a single man dared cross the line.
The scorch marks left by Prince Baelon Targaryen's dragonfire the night before still scarred the harbor. Vhagar rested quietly on the distant sands, her terrifying, massive bulk a silent reminder of who truly ruled this sea.
"Hold your ground! No one disembarks without an order!" Baelon Targaryen's voice bellowed across the United Fleet, amplified by a bronze horn.
The bronze-green Vhagar took to the skies once more, circling above the King's Banner. Her dragon breath washed over the recently secured shallows, sending a thick, sulfur-choked fog rolling across the water—an invisible, suffocating barrier.
Baelon wore his black armor trimmed in red gold. The massive Vhagar dragon crest on his breastplate caught the dim light. His gaze swept over the restless ships of the Westerlands.
Tymond Lannister stood at the prow of the Golden Lion, spinning his gold ring rapidly, yet he allowed his nephew, Lancel Lannister, and his trusted men to forcefully hold back their eager troops.
It was no surprise that many of the Westerlands soldiers wanted to storm the beaches and loot; most of them had been conscripted with Lannister gold. Yet, despite their hunger for the Archon's treasury, not one dared defy the Warden of the West.
Corlys Velaryon's Sea Snake sat anchored in the center of the harbor, the seahorse sigil on its silver-white sails blurred by the morning mist.
Through his brass spyglass, he watched the nobles on the Black Wall loading chests of treasure into carriages. A cold smirk touched his lips. "These Tyroshi weather vanes. Just last night they were sending envoys begging for our mercy, claiming innocence. Today, they're busy dividing the spoils."
Beside him, Rhaenys Targaryen rode Meleys. The crimson dragon's shadow swept over the rioting crowds, yet she unleashed no fire.
Cool-headed as always, she knew that any aggressive move right now could make the Lyseni and Myrish envoys inside the city believe the Iron Throne intended to occupy Tyrosh. That would spark a united retaliation from all the Free Cities of Essos.
Daemon stood at the prow of the Blackfyre, his fingertips tracing the charm tucked against his chest.
Grey Ghost was curled at his feet. The pale little dragon occasionally let out a low croon at the fires burning in the city, but The Cannibal gently pinned him down with a massive claw.
The black dragon seemed to sense his rider's restraint. His obsidian scales gleamed with a dark, golden sheen in the fog, his eyes locked vigilantly on the pirates at the harbor's edge.
"What's the word on Racallio?" Daemon asked Rayford Rosby beside him. The "King of the Narrow Sea" had volunteered last night to pacify the surrendered mercenaries and pirates, but he had yet to return.
"Just received a report. He gathered his old crew from the Tyroshi mercenaries and pirates. They're helping maintain order in the slums. It seems he's even saved quite a few slaves."
Rayford handed over a scroll bearing Racallio's messy scrawl. "He may be mad, but he didn't let the sellswords slaughter the smallfolk. There's hope for them yet."
Daemon nodded. Remembering the sharp, clear eyes beneath Racallio's chaotic purple-and-orange hair, he suddenly felt that this mad "King of the Narrow Sea" understood the true meaning of "protection" far better than the opportunistic nobles.
Suddenly, the frantic clatter of hooves echoed from the harbor entrance.
Three carriages draped in black cloth burst through the morning mist. The lead guard wore the crimson uniform of the Archon's personal guard, though the three-headed god sigil on his chest was slashed open—clear evidence of a brutal fight.
As the guard dismounted, the blood on his armor smeared against the cobblestones, leaving dark red streaks. He carried a blonde toddler in his arms. Behind him followed a dozen women and children, trailing a large group of servants. One of the women wore a torn silk dress embroidered with pearls; the surrendered prisoners nearby whispered that she was Sylas's wife.
"I am Archon Sylas's deputy, Iryk Vance!" the guard cried, falling to his knees before the Blackfyre's gangplank. His voice broke with sobs, yet he clung to his final shreds of dignity. "The Archon ordered me to bring his family, along with the servants of the Weeping Tower and his estate, to seek the protection of the true dragons! He said... he said the innocent must not bleed for a rebellion he caused, nor should the people of Tyrosh perish in his final madness!"
Daemon vaulted down the gangplank, the scabbard of Blackfyre clinking softly against the stone.
He helped Iryk to his feet, his gaze sweeping over the women and children. The youngest was barely three, clutching a jeweled trinket—undoubtedly Sylas's youngest son. The oldest woman, her hair streaked with white but her posture unbending, was likely the Archon's mother.
"Where is your Archon?" Daemon's voice was colder than the mist, though his usual hostility was gone, replaced by a quiet respect for a loyal man's noble heart.
Iryk's tears finally fell as he revealed the truth before dawn. "Yesterday, the Archon led us back into his estate—not to flee, but to empty his private vaults and distribute the gold to the smallfolk! He said, 'The wealth of Tyrosh should belong to the Tyroshi.' Then, he ordered us to take his family and the tower servants away. He stayed behind in the Weeping Tower with three old servants and his personal guard..."
"He also said... if we see the tower burn, tell everyone that he did not ignite the wildfire beneath the city, nor did he leave behind any words of vengeance. He merely... he merely wanted to defend the last scrap of dignity belonging to the people of Tyrosh."
Before he could finish, a blinding flash of fire erupted against the eastern sky.
From the direction of the Weeping Tower, thick smoke surged skyward like a massive black serpent. A muffled explosion followed. The sickly green flames of wildfire rapidly ascended, catching the spire and painting the symbol of Tyroshi power in a harrowing display of virulent green and blood red.
"Go look!" Baelon's voice rang out from behind.
Vhagar spread her wings, the bronze-green shadow sweeping over the harbor as she flew toward the Weeping Tower.
Daemon followed closely on The Cannibal, with Grey Ghost hugging the black dragon's flank. The pale little dragon let out an anxious trill at the flames but dared not approach.
The final inferno lacked the uncontrollable fury typical of wildfire. Instead, it carried a tragic restraint, burning strictly within the tower and never leaping to the surrounding structures.
By the time they reached the Weeping Tower, the flames had already consumed the battlements.
In the plaza below, a servant in tattered livery knelt on the ground, weeping as he clutched a bloodstained scrap of silk.
According to Corlys's private intelligence, it matched the purple-and-green silk tunics Sylas favored.
Seeing the shadows of the Targaryen dragons, the servant scrambled up and bowed deeply toward The Cannibal. "The Archon... when he dismissed us, he said, 'Tyrosh can survive without me, but it cannot survive without a future.' If the Princes of House Targaryen have mercy, he begged that you support an anti-war Archon... to spare Tyrosh from being dragged into another senseless war..."
The servant's words brought a heavy silence over them all.
Daemon looked down. The fire consuming the Weeping Tower was fierce, yet it miraculously spared the surrounding civilian districts. Even the gardens directly beneath it were untouched.
Clearly, Sylas had meticulously calculated the blast radius before igniting the wildfire.
He remembered what Racallio had said to Daemon Targaryen in private: "Sylas may have murdered his way to the top, but he loves Tyrosh more than anyone."
He also recalled the intercepted letter Jarman had found, where Sylas wrote to the Myrish Conclave: "I do not want power. I want the Tyroshi to always have a place on the Narrow Sea and in Essos."
Piecing it all together, Daemon realized this mad usurper was far more complex than he had ever imagined.
The Cannibal released a low, mournful roar. His pitch-black wings gently brushed the edge of the flames, as if bidding farewell to a fallen adversary.
Grey Ghost, sensing Daemon's shifting mood, landed beside the weeping servant. Much like how he had comforted Jeyne before, the little dragon nudged the man's hand with his snout. He breathed a tiny puff of pale grey flame, leaving a warm, glowing spot on the ground in a quiet gesture of solace.
By the time the commanders returned to the harbor, the rioting had begun to subside.
Seeing the Weeping Tower burn and realizing Sylas was dead, the nobles halted their looting and retreated to their estates with their private armies.
The citizens gathered in the plazas with their torches. Listening to the servants recount Sylas's final act, their angry chants slowly faded into a solemn, heavy silence.
The mercenaries and pirates pulled back to the edges of the harbor. Looking at the United Fleet's sails, the hostility in their eyes was replaced by a profound sense of awe.
Standing on the deck of the Golden Lion, Tymond Lannister finally stopped spinning his gold ring.
He watched the embers of the Weeping Tower, digesting the reports his men had brought back from the city. He turned to Lancel. "Remember this sight. True power doesn't come from murder and gold coins. It comes from protecting what you hold dear."
Lancel nodded, his gaze sweeping over the smallfolk at the harbor. For the first time, he realized that the gold of the Westerlands might not be as valuable as its peace.
Corlys, who had gone into the city with Rhaenys, approached Baelon with a fresh intelligence report. "The envoys from Lys and Myr have arrived outside the city. They are willing to recognize the Iron Throne's control over the Stepstones, and they will accept whichever new Tyroshi Archon we recommend—on the condition that the Iron Throne does not interfere in the internal politics of Tyrosh or the Triarchy."
Baelon nodded, his eyes shifting to Daemon Targaryen. "Who do you think we should support?"
The Rogue Prince, having served as an envoy to Tyrosh in the past, knew the previous Archon and the local nobility well. The fires of war had also matured him.
When Baelon looked at him, Daemon Blackfyre remembered the "anti-war faction" and the conversation where Daemon Targaryen and Racallio mentioned Alequo's nephew, who shared his uncle's name and had always opposed the war with Westeros.
Just as the thought crossed Daemon's mind, Daemon Targaryen spoke up. "The previous Archon, Alequo, had a nephew of the same name. He was exiled by Sylas and should be in Lys right now. He opposed the Triarchy's ambitions and understands Tyrosh deeply. Supporting him will put Lys and Myr at ease, and since his family has deep roots here, the Tyroshi people will accept him."
Baelon nodded in satisfaction. "Then send men to Lys to bring him back. Inform the representatives of the lords within our fleet, send ravens to King's Landing with news of our victory, and notify the Triarchy. The peace summit will be held in three days. Tell the representatives of Tyrosh, Lys, and Myr to come to our harbor and present their terms of surrender."
Daemon walked to the edge of the gangplank, gazing at the dying fires of the Weeping Tower. His fingers brushed the charm in his tunic once more.
He thought of his half-brother from a century in the future, Aegor Rivers. Aegor had conspired with Quentyn "Fireball" Ball to push him into raising the banner of rebellion against their brother, Daeron. Aegor's presence and aura were strikingly similar to the Archon who had just met his end—both were ruthless, ambitious men of destiny.
Yet this Archon Sylas, despite being a usurper, had chosen to protect his city in his final moments rather than seek vengeance.
These two wildly different endings etched themselves into his heart like twin scars.
He knew, then, the path he had to walk. In this life, he would walk the path of a protector, not an avenger.
Grey Ghost nudged the back of his hand. The Cannibal descended from the sky, his dark wings lightly brushing Daemon's shoulder.
Daemon looked up. The morning sun finally broke through the heavy mist, spilling over the harbor of Tyrosh and painting the sails of the United Fleet a brilliant, bloody gold.
The flames of the Weeping Tower dwindled, yet they left a stark, unerasable mark in the dawn light—a quiet reminder to everyone that while power inevitably fades, the choices men make can leave a permanent scar on history.
Far out on the Narrow Sea, a raven ship cut through the water, heading straight for King's Landing.
Daemon knew it was time to write a letter to Gael. He would tell her the war in Tyrosh was over. He would tell her he was coming home soon to fulfill his promise of an Old Valyrian wedding.
Meanwhile, in a secure council chamber within Tyrosh, the envoys of Lys and Myr were already sitting down with the representatives of the United Fleet. The banners of the Seven Kingdoms and the tri-color flag of Tyrosh hung side-by-side on the wall.
From the embers of the Weeping Tower, a new era of "peace" was slowly raising its curtain.