Dawn was said to be a blessing of the gods, a quiet promise of new beginnings, of warmth after the long cold hours of night. Poets in Myr sang of it as a lover's kiss, septons across the Narrow Sea claimed it symbolized rebirth. Even sailors hardened by salt and storm believed that sunrise meant hope.
But no soul in Tyrosh believed such gentle lies this morning.
When the first fragile rays crept over the Stepstones, stretching long fingers of pale gold across the shattered city, they illuminated only devastation. The proud walls of Tyrosh, painted in bright dyes and famed across Essos for their vibrant colors, now lay cracked and broken, as if some god had taken a hammer to them.
Rubble choked the streets. Statues had toppled and split. Bodies, or what remained of them, were strewn in grotesque contortions across the battlements and courtyards. Smoke still curled upward from burned-out manses, dissipating slowly into the brightening sky.
The dragon's passing had left nothing untouched.
Even the survivors, those few who had hidden underground, or fled into the lower districts when the screaming began, shook uncontrollably when they dared look upon the ruin. Some still knelt among the smoldering stones, weeping for kin they would never find. Others clutched at amulets or prayer beads, muttering broken pleas to forgotten gods.
None had slept.
Beneath the palace, hidden within an old escape passage carved centuries ago by some paranoid prince, three of Tyrosh's most powerful men gathered in the flickering light of an oil lamp. Smoke clung to their clothes; soot streaked their skin. They looked less like rulers of a proud Free City and more like refugees already cast beyond their borders.
Nekania, Chief of Tyrosh, stood rigid near the rough-hewn wall, his hands trembling despite all efforts to still them. A man who had governed for seventeen years did not shake easily, yet even he could not fully suppress the aftershocks of terror.
"We were careless," he said at last, his voice thick with exhaustion. "The dragon is far more terrible than we imagined, faster, cleverer. We were fools to think scorpions alone would keep it at bay."
Elville Tafto, his Chief Administrator, snorted bitterly and drank again from a dented flask. The wine sloshed over his fingers, unnoticed. "Our war with Daemon Targaryen deceived us," he muttered. "We assumed the beast would circle the battlefield like some obedient warhorse, waiting for the signal to charge."
His laugh was hollow. "Dragons answer only to their riders. And sometimes not even to them."
In truth, Elville bore much of the blame for what had followed. It was he who insisted that the exhausted slaves, who had labored all day under whip and sun, be driven to repair the city walls through the night. "A day's weakness invites destruction," he had said cheerfully at supper. "Let them rest once the stones are set."
Instead, the slaves rose in the darkness. And at the worst possible moment, Aegon Targaryen's dragon descended from the clouds like a red star falling from heaven. Had the two disasters not struck together, both might have been contained. But fate had chosen otherwise.
Nekania had not scolded Elville, not yet. The man already looked half-broken, his eyes red-rimmed, as though each scream from above had carved another wound inside him.
Across the cramped chamber, Fenrir Douglah paced restlessly, his boots crunching bits of gravel on the floor.
Thick-shouldered and broad-bellied, Fenrir was the wealthiest man in Tyrosh, his fortune built upon a vast network of trade and the labor of more slaves than some cities had freeborn. Many of those slaves now lay dead, their bodies charred beyond recognition. Others had vanished into the maze of alleys during the uprising. Fenrir's wealth had dwindled in a single night, struck down as surely as any soldier on the walls.
"I have not even begun to count my losses," he snarled, "and the two of you are sighing like widows."
Nekania ignored the barb. He forced himself toward the crude table at the center of the passage, bracing both hands on the splintered wood.
"We cannot linger," he said, steadying his voice. "We must choose a course at once. Do we remain in Tyrosh and resist? Or do we withdraw to the Disputed Lands before the next attack falls upon us?"
Fenrir grunted. Elville frowned. Silence stretched, broken only by the distant drip of water in the tunnels.
"If we had more scorpions," Elville said slowly, "Tyrosh might yet be defended. But withdrawing is no simple matter."
It was an understatement. Tyrosh's wealth lay in its harbors, its markets, its painted streets. Merchants had spent lifetimes building their shops. Families had lived in the same manors for generations. To abandon the city was to abandon their identity. To flee into the unforgiving Disputed Lands, scrub, dust, and lawless raiders, was nearly unthinkable.
"I believe we must withdraw," Fenrir said after a moment, but there was a glint in his eye that made Nekania suspicious. "Though not openly."
Nekania narrowed his gaze. "You mean to sneak away? You would have us run like thieves?"
"Not you," Fenrir replied smoothly. "Not the Chief of Tyrosh. Nor Elville. Only me."
Elville blinked. "What madness is this?"
Fenrir planted both hands on the table and leaned forward, speaking with deliberate clarity. "Listen well. First: a portion of us may withdraw, but most cannot. The majority of Tyrosh's citizens will refuse to leave their homes. We cannot drag them into the wilderness."
"Second: if we abandon the city entirely, we may never reclaim it. Aegon Targaryen is cunning. He will arm the slaves, promise them freedom, raise them as a shield against us. If the city falls into his hands uncontested, it becomes a bastion against Myr and Lys as well."
"Third: morale must not be shattered. The world must know that Chief Nekania still stands, that Tyrosh has not surrendered."
He straightened and tapped a finger on the table. "Therefore, you two must remain. Hide if you must. Rule in secret. Spread word that the Chief still commands resistance."
"And you?" Nekania asked warily.
"I travel east," Fenrir said with a shrug. "Someone must seek allies. Volantis, Astapor, Yunkai, Meereen, New Ghis, Qarth... they may answer our call for aid. Coin still speaks loudly in Essos."
Elville balked. "Leaving Tyrosh in its darkest hour, does that not invite whispers of cowardice?"
Fenrir spread his arms. "Let them whisper. If I return with ships and soldiers, their tongues will still."
Nekania rubbed at the cracked skin on his lower lip, worrying the dead flesh between his teeth. "Let us set aside the far cities for a moment. What of Myr and Lys? Will they still send aid? After seeing what became of Tyrosh in a single night… will they dare stand against Aegon Targaryen at all?"
Fenrir chuckled, though there was little mirth in it. "They will not escape what has befallen us. Aegon will strike them as well. Of that, I have no doubt."
Elville nodded earnestly. "The Triarchy may be three cities in name, but to outsiders we have long been one. Recharino's fleet, two-thirds of it Myrish and Lysene, has ravaged the Stepstones for years. Aegon will not stop at Tyrosh. Even if we suffer the worst, Myr and Lys would be fools indeed to watch us fall. Once Aegon crushes us, their turn will come."
The lamp flickered, casting uncertain shadows across the men's faces. Nekania stared into the dimming flame, his mind churning beneath the surface of his practiced composure. Fenrir's confidence should have steadied him. Elville's reasoning should have reassured him.
But a cold unease gnawed at him, coiling beneath his ribs like a living thing.
He closed his eyes for a breath, but the dark behind his lids only made the dread sharper. The ruin above, the screams of the night, the sudden uprising, the dragon's impossible speed, none of it fit together, not neatly. It felt as though some great tide had shifted beneath their feet, carrying them toward a future they could neither foresee nor outrun.
"Something is wrong," he whispered before he could stop himself.
Fenrir looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"
Nekania opened his eyes. The lamp guttered again, drawing the shadows closer. "I cannot say," he admitted. "Only that I have a feeling… a sense that we have not yet seen the worst of it."
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A/N: The world is moving in shadows, schemes brewing, alliances breaking, and every soul chasing wealth or survival. No one knows what comes next…
Who wins? Who falls? Only time will tell.
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