read my new story:
Game of Thrones Iron Stark
Naruto: Uchiha Shiroge Rebellion
read more inpatreon CaveLeather
Outside Pentos, dozens of magisters watched a molten gold crown take shape.
The closer they stood to the dragon, the more its raw splendor hit them. Sunblaze's body gleamed with pure gold scales, but his eyes, horns, dorsal spines, and wing membranes burned a vivid, living red. Stories called Sunblaze the most magnificent young male dragon alive. The Pentoshi now believed this one surpassed him.
His wingspan stretched well over forty feet—three times his body length. Even at that size the beast already packed terrifying power. And everyone knew Viserys had walked out of Valyria's ruins alive. No one wanted to guess what other ancient horrors he might be carrying.
A Dothraki–Tyroshi army of fifty or sixty thousand had failed to bring him down. The Pentoshi had zero stomach for the same fight.
Bright flames kindled deep in Sunblaze's throat, brighter than any torch line.
The magisters stumbled backward, unable to stand the scorching wind.
Sunblaze opened his jaws. Golden-red fire poured down and swallowed Illyrio whole, crowning the fat man in molten gold.
Illyrio screamed like a coward facing death—high, wordless, animal shrieks. His massive body kicked and thrashed, whimpering like a beaten dog, sobbing like a child. The ropes held him fast to the chair. He could not move.
The gold consumed him. Flames erupted first from his oiled hair and beard, then raced across his flesh until the last spark of life guttered out.
"Agos," Viserys said quietly. "Pack up the remains. We'll bury them later on the Andalos plains, beside the people he once loved."
"As you command, Your Grace."
"As for the other bodies, handle them yourselves."
"Yes, Your Grace."
The square fell silent. The Pentoshi still hadn't recovered from Illyrio's dying screams. Their faces were the color of old ash. They had known he was finished; none of them had expected him to choose a death this savage.
The air reeked of sulfur and burnt meat. A few magisters looked ready to vomit. In their soft, perfumed lives they had never stood this close to real slaughter.
"You saw it," Viserys told them. "Great men die their own way. Illyrio chose to wear a crown at the end."
"Yes… yes, Your Grace," they murmured, bending like grass in the wind.
Magister Odrero stepped forward, voice careful. "To show the friendship between the great King of Andalos and the city of Pentos, the Prince and the magisters invite Your Grace to enter the city for a feast—"
"Enter the city?" Viserys cut him off with a short laugh. "I brought an army. You really want them inside your walls too? No. We'll talk right here, outside the gates. Keep it simple."
He had no interest in banquets or ceremonies. Marching ten thousand men through Pentos would end one way only. The magisters knew it. They exhaled in relief. At least the city itself had been spared—for now.
Pentos survived not because it was strong, but because Viserys still cared what Braavos thought.
"Where is the senior-most magister?" Viserys asked.
"He is… unwell, Your Grace," Odrero said smoothly. "He sends his deepest regrets."
Viserys's mouth twitched. Of course the old fox who had ruled Pentos through blood and bribes was too afraid to show his face. Smart man.
"Since he's unwell, leave it. Now, let's talk about the pleasant part—the gifts the magisters of Pentos have prepared for me."
Mule trains poured out of the city gates in a steady line, each cart groaning under cargo. No one in Pentos dared block their path. This was the hour of life or death; the Dragon King's anger could not be bargained with.
As the wealth rolled past, Viserys felt the true weight of Pentos's riches for the first time.
Every magister's personal fortune was staggering. Illyrio's, of course, dwarfed them all. The fat man's wine cellar alone could keep Viserys drunk for a hundred years: sweet Reach dry reds, sharp Dornish sour reds, pale Pentoshi amber, green Myr honey-wine, sixty casks of golden Arbor vintage, even rare imports from Qarth, Yi Ti, and Asshai-by-the-Shadow. Most were aged masterpieces worth a king's ransom.
He spotted one barrel labeled from Lord Runceford Redwyne's private stock—grandfather of the current Lord of the Arbor.
Beyond the wine came spices—saffron, pepper, cloves, nutmeg—chests of gems in every color: agate, cat's-eye, tiger's-eye, tourmaline, ruby, amethyst, sapphire, emerald, jet, jade, black diamond, pearls. Tapestries, silks, fine armor, ancient artworks, even statues of the Seven that fetched premium prices here.
And then the people: skilled artisans, Unsullied bodyguards, gladiators—every one of them without a scrap of freedom.
The magisters looked physically pained handing it all over. But with dragonfire still crackling behind them, they had no choice. Most of it had belonged to Illyrio and his dead allies anyway. Let them pay the price.
"Crabb," Viserys called. "Sort the assets."
The young squire snapped to attention and began cataloguing.
Odrero added, "The farmlands, docks, and warehouses of the senior magisters are also yours, Your Grace."
Viserys was more than satisfied. Money. He needed rivers of it, and right now robbery was outpacing honest trade. One city like Pentos already held this much. Braavos and golden Qarth had to be beyond imagining.
"Odrero, step forward."
The magister obeyed, puzzled.
Viserys pinned a ruby dragon badge to the man's cloak. "You are my friend. If you ever run into trouble, come to me."
Odrero's eyes widened. A public promise of protection. "Thank you, Your Grace."
Viserys clapped him on the shoulder.
This peace was only a truce. Both sides knew it. Sooner or later the Pentoshi would have to choose between Viserys and Braavos.
Inside the black walls of Tyrosh, the grand council chamber beneath the blue dome boiled with shouting.
Magisters stood, sat, pointed, and screamed at one another.
"This disaster is yours!" an elderly magister roared at the Archon. "You dragged us into this military adventure for slaves—"
"It is my fault," the green-bearded Archon snapped back, "but don't pretend you didn't all vote for it. You wanted those Rhoynar and Andal slaves just as badly. I had every right to hire the companies."
"We wanted slaves, not this! You risked everything and lost. We can buy slaves. We don't have to steal them at the cost of our city."
"Easy to say now. Are you willing to free every slave in Andalos and along the Rhoyne?"
"Your adventure failed, Archon. We need peace—now."
"Peace?" the Archon laughed bitterly. "The Dragon King wants our heads on spikes."
A white-haired magister who had been sitting with his eyes closed finally spoke. "He has a dragon. He has Andalos, the Golden Company, and thousands of Dothraki screamers. How exactly do we negotiate with that?"
One younger magister with bright blue hair actually started to cry, imagining what would happen to Tyrosh once the walls came down.
The Archon let the despair settle, then raised his voice again, passionate and steady. "If my death can buy peace for Tyrosh, I will gladly die. Walk over my corpse if you must. But remember—the dragon comes for destruction. Choose me once more. Trust me once more."
The chamber fell quiet. No one had a better answer.
One magister cleared his throat. "Gentlemen… we are completely alone."
The Archon's eyes narrowed. "What about Myr?"
"Myr's magisters are still debating. They say we made this mess ourselves. Myr remains neutral and refuses to fight."
"Lys?" the Archon pressed.
"Lys is still arguing. They haven't forgotten our old grudges. Some of their magisters are too afraid to send ships."
"Volantis?"
"The Elephant party refuses any aid, refuses any war."
"King's Landing?"
"King Robert still hasn't gathered an army. They cannot sail yet."
Silence.
The Archon stared at the blue dome overhead. For the first time the full weight of isolation settled on him. Tyrosh stood utterly alone.
No allies. No fleet coming to save them.
Only the dragon on the horizon.