Dawn is the poet's hour, usually heralded as a time of hope and rebirth.
But for the people of Tyrosh, the sun brought only the cold clarity of ruin. As the first pale rays touched the Stepstones, they revealed a landscape of shattered marble, blackened timber, and the grisly harvest of a night spent in terror. The surviving masters, once so proud in their dyed silks, now trembled at the mere shift of a shadow.
Deep beneath the Archon's Palace, in a humid stone passage that smelled of salt and stale air, the masters of the city huddled in secret.
"We were blind," Archon Nekania hissed, his voice rasping. His hands, usually steady enough to weigh gold to the grain, shook uncontrollably. "The dragons are not the lumbering beasts of the histories. They are swifter, smarter, and more full of malice than we dared imagine."
For seventeen years, Nekania had ruled Tyrosh. Since the first fires of the Stepstones War, he had prepared for the day the dragon-lords might turn their eyes toward his walls. He had mounted two hundred scorpions upon the battlements. He had drilled his crews. He had thought himself ready.
He never expected the sky to fall while he slept.
"The war with Daemon Targaryen deceived us," Elville Taft said, taking a long, desperate pull from a flagon of strong wine. As the Chief Magistrate of Tyrosh, Taft was the man who turned the Archon's whims into reality. "Daemon fought for glory and land; he met us on the battlefield. This Prince strikes like a thief in the night. He does not wait for the horns of war to blow."
The weight of the disaster sat heaviest on Taft's shoulders. It had been his counsel to drive the slaves through the night to repair the walls. He had provided the spark; Aegon Targaryen had provided the furnace.
Archon Nekania did not waste breath on blame. In the dark, blame was a luxury. "Regret is for the dead. We must choose: do we abandon the city for the Disputed Lands, or do we stand in these ruins and fight to the last man?"
Fenrir Douglas slammed his fist onto the stone table, the sound echoing like a hammer. As the wealthiest slave-merchant in Tyrosh, his loss was measured in blood and gold. Thousands of his "property" had been incinerated or had vanished into the chaos of the uprising.
"I am the one who has lost a fortune, yet you two sit there sighing like maiden aunts!" Fenrir spat. "We cannot stay. To remain in Tyrosh is to tether ourselves to a target. Last night proved that stone walls are no shield against the dragon's breath."
The Archon composed himself, his violet eyes narrowing. "I agree. We must fall back to our estates in the Disputed Lands. Tyrosh has become a cage."
Elville Taft shook his head, his brow furrowed. "The scorpions remain. If we have enough bolts, we can hold. And evacuation? It is not so simple as packing a trunk. The citizens have their wealth here. Their homes. If we flee, where will they go? How will they live?"
"I did not say the city would evacuate openly," Fenrir said, a dark, cunning smile touching his lips.
"What riddle is this?" Nekania asked. "You suggest we slink away like thieves in the night?"
Evacuation was a polite word for flight. To do it secretly was to admit utter defeat.
"Not we," Fenrir corrected. "Me. You and Elville must remain. You must hold the Archon's seat."
"I do not follow," Taft said, his eyes twitching with suspicion.
"Listen well," Fenrir said, leaning into the light of the single flickering candle. "First, the rabble will not leave. They cannot. Second, if we abandon the city entirely, we lose it forever. Aegon Targaryen is a wolf in silk; he will arm those slaves and turn our own gates against us. Third, we must not let the Triarchy's heart stop beating."
He pointed a thick finger at the Archon. "You must stay and strike back. Let the world know that the Archon of Tyrosh has not bowed, nor has he broken. Draw Myr and Lys into the fray. Turn the Stepstones into a graveyard of guerrilla war. Bleed the Prince slowly. While you hold the line here, I shall sail East."
Fenrir's eyes gleamed. "Volantis, Astapor, Yunkai, Meereen, Qarth… the Great Cities of Slaver's Bay. They all have a stake in this. If a Targaryen prince can break the collars of Tyrosh, he can break theirs. I will gather a fleet that will make the Sea Snake's look like a collection of fishing boats."
Nekania bit his lip, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. "Volantis and the East are months away. What of our sisters? Will Myr and Lys still draw steel once they see Tyrosh in ashes? I fear they may lose their stomach for this war."
Fenrir laughed, a cold, confident sound. "They have no choice. Do you think the Prince will stop at our harbor? He has tasted Tyroshi blood; he will crave the lace of Myr and the perfumes of Lys next."
"He is right," Taft agreed. "The Triarchy is a single beast in the eyes of the Westerosi. Aegon Targaryen will not target one head and leave the other two to bite him. Even if Myr and Lys are cowards, they are not fools. They know that if Tyrosh falls, they are the next course at the Prince's table."
The Archon stared into the shadows of the passage, a cold dread pooling in his gut. The logic was sound, the strategy was cold and calculated. Yet, for all the talk of alliances and eastern gold, he could still hear the whistling scream of the golden dragon in his ears.
"Perhaps," Nekania murmured, clutching his silken robes tight against the damp. "But I have a feeling in my bones, Elville. A feeling that we are no longer playing a game of gold and galleys. We are playing a game of fire… and we are the wood."
30+ chapters are available now and daily updates! @patreon.com/Authorzero