Sarhys sat hunched over his desk, quill scratching across parchment in an irritated rhythm. The chamber around him was dim despite the early hour, its tall windows veiled by thin silk curtains meant to keep the heat at bay.
Brass oil lamps guttered along the walls, their flames throwing soft light over shelves stacked with ledgers bound in green and black leather: records of grain shipments, port tariffs, debts owed and collected.
He was a broad-shouldered man, well past his youth, with amber skin weathered by sun and sea air.
His silver hair was pulled back in a loose tie, strands escaping to frame a lined face that had learned long ago how to smile while counting losses.
Sarhys let out a soft groan and paused mid-stroke.
"Damn bastards," he muttered to the empty room. "Is it so difficult to come to an agreement?"
The quill hovered above the page as he leaned back slightly, eyes unfocusing as the words on the parchment blurred into meaningless ink.
The Merchant Council election loomed like a storm cloud over Tolos, and the stale weeks now without consensus were strangling trade.
His trade.
As a man whose wealth flowed from grain, not gold, any delay was as good as death. His ships had sat idle. His contracts had rotted. Worse still, pirates had begun circling his routes like flies drawn to rot.
Without a unified command, without a council able to marshal escorts or levy retaliation, every merchant was left to bleed alone.
Worse still for a man with goods stuck with a lifespan.
Sarhys' jaw tightened as he pressed the quill down, blotting the page with a dark stain before setting it aside.
"Damn Ghiscari bastards…" he hissed, teeth grinding. "They're dreaming if they think they can use pirates to force us into submission."
These past few months, New Ghis has been applying pressure on both Tolos and Elyria, truly attempting to bring the two cities under its fold.
This was the fate of weaker powers on the continent, cities rich enough to tempt envy, yet divided enough to invite predators.
Where strength wavered, vultures gathered. Bandits, pirates, slavers… they all smelled hesitation the same way sharks smelled blood.
He closed his eyes and leaned back fully, the chair creaking beneath his weight, willing the thoughts away.
BWOOOOOOOM!
The sound rolled through the city like distant thunder.
Sarhys jerked upright, heart lurching, and slammed his palm onto the desk. Papers leapt and slid, scattering like startled birds.
"What in the Gods warrants such a racket?" He snapped.
He rose and strode to the window beside his desk, squinting as he pulled the curtain aside. For a moment, all he saw was white.
Then the scene sharpened.
Beyond the stone terraces of Tolos, beneath the looming Black Cliffs, a massive wall of fog was rolling inland from the sea.
It moved with eerie purpose, thick and low, swallowing docks, ships, and quays as it advanced. The water beyond it was invisible, erased as though the horizon itself had been stripped away.
"That shouldn't be possible…" Sarhys murmured.
He had lived in Tolos all his life. He knew its tides, its winds, its moods.
The waters here were warm year-round. There were no cold currents to birth such a thing. That he was certain of.
The more he thought, the less sense it made.
A heavy weight settled in his gut.
The instincts that had guided him through lean years and ruthless rivals now screamed in warning. This was no trick of weather, no harmless quirk of the sea.
KRRAAAAKH!
Sahrys shot up, legs quivering. "What is tha—!"
The man pressed his face up to it, trying to peer into the thick mist. 'That sound…?'
It seemed like a roar of some great beast. But that was absurd. What beast could possibly roar so loudly?
Unless…?
A bad feeling settled in his chest.
And then…he saw it.
A vast black shadow veiled behind the fog, flying above Tolos, bright streams shooting out from it as screams and shouts erupted there after.
Sahrys could already guess what that shadow was. After all, Tolos was a remnant of the Valyrian Freehold.
"Curse the sky, curse the wind, curse every god that hears me!" Sahyrs clutched his head.
He was already under stress. His fleets and his city were both under the duress of greater powers.
And, now here they were…
Dragons.
Dragons had returned to Valyria, and not in kind.
***
Atop Vermithor's broad back, Baelon watched the fog roll toward Tolos with quiet satisfaction. It moved like a living thing, climbing from the sea in slow, inexorable waves.
Silvos' idea had worked better than he had hoped.
With the fog veiling them, their approach was all but unseen.
Vermithor's vast wings beat steadily, the great bronze dragon cutting through the rolling fog.
Beside him, Dreamfyre glided in silence, her pale-blue scales ghostly within the haze. Baelon turned his head, meeting Helaena's gaze.
Then, they climbed, piercing through the cloud layer.
The city revealed itself beneath them.
Tolos lay pressed between stone and sea. A single great harbour opened toward the water, wide enough to welcome trade yet narrow enough to be choked if ever blockaded.
On either side, the Black Cliffs rose both sheer and unforgiving, their dark faces hemming the city in and leaving only a few carefully controlled sea-lanes through which ships might pass.
It was a warning in all but words: enter only by permission, and leave only by grace.
Baelon's eyes traced the lines of defence.
Archer towers dotted the harbour walls, their silhouettes stark against the pale fog.
Ballistae had been emplaced, some facing the mouth of the port, others perched high atop the cliffs themselves, angled outward and downward to catch any ship or beast daring enough to approach from above.
Below, only a handful of merchant ships sat moored at the docks.
Their crews were already abandoning them.
Baelon watched as men hurried down gangplanks, shouting and pointing as the fog churned closer, spilling into the harbour and climbing toward the city streets beyond.
Lines were cut.
Cargo left behind.
Fear travelled faster than any signal fire.
"Why are there so few ships…?" Baelon murmured.
He had expected more; Tolos was no minor port, but the emptiness worked in his favour. Fewer ships meant fewer sailors, fewer dockhands, fewer eyes and voices to raise an alarm.
The Unsullied would secure the docks quickly, choke the harbour before word spread inland, then move into the city proper.
Clean. Efficient.
His satisfaction dimmed slightly as his gaze shifted seaward.
Their fleet was nearing the port.
"Now," Baelon said quietly.
Both dragons folded their wings and dropped.
Vermithor roared as he descended, the sound tearing through fog and stone alike. Dreamfyre answered in kind. Then fire fell. And, blood followed.
Baelon guided Vermithor low and fast, his dragon's fire washing over the first line of harbour defences.
Wood vanished in an instant. Stone cracked and blackened. A ballista atop the eastern tower was reduced to slag before its crew could even turn it.
Dreamfyre swept higher, her fire raking the cliffside emplacements. Archer towers burned like kindling, silhouettes of men flailing briefly before being swallowed by smoke and heat.
Then the air screamed.
Baelon's eyes snapped downward just in time to see it, a scorpion bolt, its tip as thick as his waist, racing straight toward Vermithor's chest.
Most riders would have panicked.
Alas, Baelon did not. He need not.
With a single thought, flame blossomed in front of them. The bolt struck the fire head-on, its wooden shaft incinerating in an instant.
The iron tip glowed white-hot, softening, warping. By the time it reached Vermithor, it was no more than half-melted metal, splattering harmlessly across his scales before sliding away.
Baelon exhaled slowly.
This was a bit… unfair.
No one could meaningfully harm his dragon now…not like this. Not while he could bend fire itself to his will. Even should another dragon entered the fray, he could turn their own flames against them.
'At this point, it is rather difficult for me to lose any war.'
Baelon shook his head sharply. He remembered the dreams. The warnings whispered in Asshai.
Power was a seduction, and arrogance its most faithful servant.
He could not become arrogant.
He must not.
Still, even if he were not beholden to power, he would never ignore it. He would never forsake it. After all, to him, power was freedom.
Freedom to do whatever he wanted, like here.
Vermithor climbed again, rising above the smoke and fire, circling as the last organised resistance along the harbour collapsed.
Below, the first of their ships was docking, ramps slamming down as Unsullied poured onto the quays in perfect formation.
Further back, several vessels remained at a distance, those carrying the freed slaves, men and women unsuited for combat, kept safely away from the coming chaos.
Baelon watched it all, fingers tightening briefly against Vermithor's scales.
The city of Tolos burned beneath the fog, and the next phase had begun.
***
He had gone by a great many names during his time as an Unsullied, but the first was the one he had never forgotten.
Grey Fist.
It was a name ill-fit for any person, blunt and by no means human. It was meant to describe a tool rather than a man.
A reminder, beaten into him alongside pain and obedience, that he was something less than human.
Something owned. Akin to cattle.
Yet here he stood, bearing the same name.
Only now, it meant something different.
Purpose filled him as he adjusted the straps of his armour.
He had always fought. That had never changed. But this time, the choice had been his. Not a whip's command, nor the promise of punishment, but his own will that carried him forward.
If they won here… perhaps they could find a place to call home.
The ship lurched as it made contact with the quay, timbers groaning as hull met stone. For a heartbeat, the deck swayed beneath his feet, then settled into an uneasy stillness.
Grey Fist pressed his lips together and pulled his helmet down, the familiar weight sealing his vision into a narrow slit.
"Come," he called, voice steady, carrying through the hold and onto the deck beyond. "For the Breaker of Chains. For she gave us purpose. She gave us hope. She...gave us a choice."
He turned to his companions. They stood already armed and armoured like him, their faces hidden, their spears held upright in practised discipline.
In answer, they struck the butts of their spears against the wooden deck.
Once.
Twice.
In perfect unison.
No cheers followed. No words were needed. Their resolve rang louder than any shout.
Grey Fist allowed himself the faintest smile.
He turned and strode forward as the gangplank was lowered, oak slamming against stone. His boots struck the quay with purpose as he stepped onto the port of Tolos.
The fog loomed close now, swallowing sound and distance alike, and only a handful of dockworkers and merchants remained, frozen in place, staring at the Unsullied with naked terror.
Behind him, more ships slid through the narrow harbour passage in slow, measured rhythm, their hulls ghosting out of the mist. It would not take long before the rest of their force made landfall.
But Grey Fist would not wait.
"Come," he commanded sharply, turning to his men as they poured onto the docks in ordered lines.
"Restrain those before us. See that none run to spread word."
The Unsullied moved as one.
They advanced in formation, shields locking, spears angled with lethal precision. Panic erupted among the civilians at the docks. Some fell to their knees. Others turned and ran.
They did not get far.
Spears flashed. Thrown with brutal efficiency, they struck down those who tried to flee, bodies crumpling against stone and water alike.
The rest were seized, hands wrenched behind their backs, pushed to the ground, and bound without ceremony.
No unnecessary cruelty lingered in the Unsullied's movements, only purpose.
Grey Fist turned to his men.
"You," he said, pointing to a few dozen men. "Remain. Hold this dock."
His gaze shifted to the next ship as it came in, more Unsullied already descending. "When the next hundred disembark, you will join them. The port is to be secured. No one leaves. No one enters."
They acknowledged him with a single strike of a spear against a shield.
Satisfied, Grey Fist turned away from the harbour. The streets of Tolos lay ahead, half-hidden by fog and shadow.
This was it.
The Unsullied had been forged to obey, to die unnamed and unremembered. But now, as he marched forward at the head of his men, Grey Fist knew the truth.
A chapter of history had closed.
And for the Unsullied, a new one had finally begun.
***
Silvo slowed as the roads opened toward the city gates, his pace easing despite the chaos around him.
Before him stretched a vast black tide of Unsullied. Rank after rank poured from their ships, boots striking stone in perfect unison, shields and spears moving as one.
Each heartbeat brought more of them ashore, flooding the harbour like a living wall of iron.
And then, nothing.
Once their numbers had gathered, they simply stood. Silent. Ordered. Unmoving. Formation held with absolute discipline, as though the world itself might shatter before they did.
Silvo glanced toward Grey Fist.
The man stood among them like a statue carved from iron, face impassive, posture rigid. No excitement. No fear. No hesitation. Just discipline made flesh.
Silvo snorted under his breath.
'Alas,' he thought dryly, 'if I could never enjoy the touch of a woman, I'd probably be just as bloody pissed off.'
He kept the thought firmly to himself. Silvo might lack shame, but he was not suicidal.
Saying that to an Unsullied would not bode well for him.
He knew his limitations. Too well, perhaps. He was no knight, no paragon of virtue or honour.
That, ironically, was precisely why his Lord so often relied on him. Silvo could do what others would not, say what others dared not, without losing sleep over it.
He neither wore honour like a badge nor feared its absence.
Then—
It happened.
A thunderous roar tore through the air, ripping Silvo from his thoughts. Heat washed over the port as a jet of flame slammed into the city gate that had dared remain closed.
Stone blackened, cracked, and then burst apart as if it were little more than damp clay. The gates vanished in a violent bloom of fire and rubble.
Silvo felt his eye twitch.
"I don't think I'll ever see a siege as easy as this…" he muttered.
The Unsullied did not wait for the smoke to clear. At once, they surged forward, pouring through the broken gate in perfect order, like ants spilling from a shattered nest.
There were no screams. No war cries. Just the sound of disciplined advance.
Silvo turned to his own force, roughly a hundred men of his command, bolstered by several hundred Unsullied assigned to him. He raised his hand high, voice cutting through the din.
"Come on, lads!" he bellowed. "Those bastards might as well shit gold, let's see how much they bleed!"
A crude cheer rose from his men, and then, steel flashed as they surged forward.
Thanks to their earlier raid of Astapor, each man now wore at least a serviceable set of armour and carried a well-made blade.
No longer did they resemble a band of half-starved sellswords. Now, they looked, almost convincingly, like an army.
Something Silvo was rather proud of.
As for the Unsullied, Silvo spared them no words. They needed none. Their orders had been given long before the first flame ever touched stone.
And so the small brigade moved, slipping into the city behind the greater tide, another cog turning smoothly in the conquest of Tolos.
Soon, Silvo watched as the Unsullied claimed the city street by street like some quiet flood.
It reminded him of vultures worrying at a carcass. It held a sense of silent brutality.
Tolos was already dead; it simply had not yet finished realising it.
Whenever a hastily assembled defence emerged, bands of slingers scrambling onto rooftops or barricades thrown together from carts and broken doors, the response was always the same.
The Unsullied closed ranks without a word. Shields locked, overlapping into a seamless wall of bronze and iron, spears angling forward like the teeth of some great beast.
They advanced as one, step by measured step. They were unhurried. They were...unstoppable.
Most stones clattered harmlessly against their shields. A few found gaps, drew blood, but never enough. Never enough to slow them.
The fog only worsened the terror.
Rolling in from the harbour, thick and cold, it swallowed sightlines whole. Defenders loosed blindly, unable to tell where the shield wall ended, and the spears began.
Shapes emerged from the mist only when it was far too late, as silent figures appeared before them, claiming their lives.
To fight the Unsullied in clear daylight was dreadful enough. To fight them half-blind, unsure where to aim or when to flee, was a pure nightmare.
Silvo would not wish that upon even the worst of his foes.
Then he motioned, urging his men onward as they pushed deeper into the city.
"Eyes forward," he barked. "Don't stop."
They passed crying citizens huddled in doorways, families pressed together in the shadows of stone walls.
Screams echoed down side streets as people fled from shadows that never seemed to give chase, yet never stopped advancing either.
Silvo frowned faintly.
Why were they crying?
He could not say. The Unsullied were not the sort to indulge in rape or pillage; everyone in Essos knew that much.
There would be no drunken fires, no streets running red with civilian blood.
If anything, this was the cleanest conquest Tolos could have hoped for.
'Perhaps,' he decided, 'they're simply not used to being prey.'
Tolos had grown rich on trade and distance, on the belief that walls and gold were protection enough.
It had likely never imagined being struck like this, swift, overwhelming, and utterly merciless.
Silvo did not linger on it.
He had work to do.
Their path veered away from the main avenues, into districts marked by tall, elegant homes and walled courtyards. Merchant houses.
The true veins of the city's power. At Silvo's signal, his men fanned out, kicking in doors and overwhelming guards before resistance could properly form.
The defenders were laughable. Men dressed more for ceremony than combat, clutching spears they had likely never used in earnest.
They fell quickly, disarmed, beaten, or driven back with minimal bloodshed. Silvo had been explicit with his orders.
"No looting," He had reminded. "Not a single coin."
There was grumbling, of course. There always was. But none dared disobey.
The treasuries were left untouched. Vaults sealed. Chests unopened.
As much as they tempted him. Seduced him.
He did not waver. After all, two great beasts were lingering above, and he had no wish to disobey their masters.
Instead, they took people.
One house after another was stripped of its occupants, dragged from cushioned halls and sunlit gardens, from baths and dining chambers interrupted mid-meal.
Before long, the street behind them filled with a procession of captives.
Men in flowing silks and embroidered robes, their fingers heavy with rings that glittered dully in the fog. Women wrapped in fine linens, hair bound with gold thread, clutching one another in silent terror.
Children, wide-eyed and confused, some too young to understand what was happening, others old enough to weep quietly.
Even the elderly were brought forth, stooped patriarchs and matriarchs whose faces bore more outrage than fear, unused to being handled like common stock.
All of them bound. All of them unharmed.
Silvo surveyed them with a practised eye, expression unreadable.
'Leverage,' he thought. 'That's worth more than gold.'
Ahead, the fog thinned just enough to reveal a structure that dwarfed even the merchant houses. Silvo slowed, his gaze lifting.
The Merchant Council.
The building rose like a black monolith from the street, its walls lined with faint accents of dragonglass.
Smooth, angular, and utterly impractical, it drank in what little light pierced the fog, leaving its surface dull and lightless.
Still, it was an intimidating sight, intentionally so.
Silvo smiled.
Control the council, and the city would have no voice left to resist. No coin would move. No orders would be given. Tolos would fall silent at its heart.
He adjusted his grip on his blade and stepped forward.
"One last door," he murmured to himself. "And the city's ours."
"Come on, lads!" He waved, and his men followed, leaving several dozen Unsullied to guard the bound hostages. "We're almost done."