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The Nine Free Cities. Myr.
The magisters' high council was in full session inside the white marble hall of the city's municipal palace.
Like Lys and Pentos, Myr was ruled by a conclave of magisters. Only Tyrosh had an Archon above them, Volantis had its three triarchs, and Braavos had its Sea Lord.
Myr's municipal palace and the magisters' mansions were all clad in the same fine white marble. The pale stone made a sharp contrast with the olive-skinned, black-haired, dark-eyed native Myrishi who filled the chamber.
Beautiful Myrishi tapestries—elegant and intricate—hung along the stone walls. Myr was the richest of the Three Daughters in craftsmanship and luxury goods, but militarily it was the weakest of the three.
With both great khals dead and the Andals now masters of the north, the magisters had gathered to argue at length about what to do next.
Some were old and gray, seasoned veterans of the council. Others were younger, ambitious newcomers.
"What should we do—help Tyrosh or help the Andals?" an elderly magister asked, opening the floor.
"Why help Tyrosh at all? When they seized the Stepstones they never shared the spoils with us. They fight us tooth and nail for every vineyard and olive grove in the Disputed Lands."
"True, but we can't side with the Andals either. Word is they free every slave who reaches their borders. Every runaway in Essos is already dreaming of joining them."
"Exactly. The Tyroshi Archon started this mess—why should we bleed for it?"
"Still… our own walls are weak. If the Andals decide to roll over Tyrosh and keep going, they have a dragon and siege engines. Myr could fall in a single assault."
"Or we could fight them to the death. Let them burn the city if they dare."
"How? With what army?" a senior magister snapped. "Our troops are the city watch and whatever sellswords we can scrape together. The big companies are gone. The Golden Company surrendered, the Company of the Cat, the Brave Companions, and the Stormcrows were wiped out. Even the Windblown are now licking the Dragon King's boots."
The words landed like a hammer. The chamber fell quiet.
For generations the Daughters had relied on mercenaries. Now the best companies were either dead, surrendered, or in Viserys's pocket.
The senior magister broke the silence. "Then we follow the same protocol we use for the khals—only bigger. Prepare the highest gifts. If that fails, we'll consider raising troops, but I pray it doesn't come to that."
The Andals could march away whenever they chose. If Myr was left a smoking ruin, the magisters would face the fury of their own citizens.
A guard burst through the doors, panting. "Magisters—trouble! There are men outside the walls. Thousands of them!"
"Who?" the magisters demanded.
"The Andal army. And the dragonrider."
"So soon?" The room erupted.
The Andals had marched straight from the victory at Viserysfort without pausing to rest. Now every magister was trapped inside the council hall. If the dragon appeared, they could all be roasted at once.
"How many?" someone shouted.
"One dragonrider and tens of thousands of cavalry—Dothraki screamers covering the plains like locusts. The horse lords now serve the Dragon King."
"Tens of thousands—all mounted…" The magisters looked ready to faint.
They had to face the truth: Viserys now commanded the largest single cavalry force on the eastern continent.
"Scorpions!" one yelled. "Get every scorpion and ballista on the walls!"
"It's too late, you fools."
"Should we hide in the cellars?" another suggested. "Stone can't burn."
The senior magister raised a hand. "Enough. He hasn't torched the city yet, so he still shows us some courtesy. Send someone out to meet him."
"That's a death sentence," a younger magister muttered.
"We have estates and plantations in the Disputed Lands. If we offend him they'll be ashes by nightfall."
"Fine. We'll draw lots. Two of us go. It's the fairest way."
No one argued. The two chosen magisters—one old, one young—looked like men walking to the gallows.
The others offered hollow comfort. "Go in peace. If the worst happens, we'll look after your wives and children."
The two men's faces twisted in misery.
---
Outside the white walls of Myr, Viserys sat astride Sunblaze and studied the city nestled in its harbor. The delay annoyed him. The magisters had been arguing for half the day and still hadn't sent anyone out.
Behind him stretched a sea of horsemen—Andal heavy cavalry, Golden Company riders, and thousands of Dothraki screamers whose freshly shorn braids fluttered in the wind. Their arakhs gleamed like grass blades under the sun. The black-and-red dragon banners snapped overhead.
The Myrishi garrison commander stared at the host and felt his stomach drop. The city watch was already crumbling; half the men looked ready to bolt at the first clash.
The two Myrishi magisters finally emerged, pale and trembling, carried in litters and escorted by a small train of mules loaded with gifts.
Viserys slid from the dragon's back. His black-and-gold armor caught the light, the amethysts in his Valyrian steel crown flashing like dark stars. His pale violet eyes were calm but carried the weight of conquest.
"You're late," he said.
The older magister swallowed. "We were preparing gifts worthy of Your Grace. That is why we were delayed."
"What gifts?"
The magisters gestured. Servants hurried forward, unloading the mules. Gold, gems, spices, fine wines, Myrishi firewine, silks, lace, carpets, painted screens, mirrors, and priceless glass windowpanes—everything Myr was famous for. There were even rolled tapestries and delicate eastern artworks.
The magisters had emptied their private collections, the same treasures they once offered to khals.
Viserys examined the haul with a nod. "I sense the goodwill of the Myrishi magisters. I am pleased. However…"
Both men tensed.
"I wish to do business with Myr," Viserys continued. "I need siege hammers, ships, Myrishi wildfire paste, and your triple-shot crossbows. I have brought coin—more than enough."
The older magister's mind reeled. He could guess exactly what those supplies were for.
"May I ask… what Your Grace intends with these goods?"
Viserys gave him a flat stare. "Isn't it obvious? I'm going to Tyrosh. I intend to deliver these things personally to the Archon. I didn't bring tens of thousands of riders for a pleasure cruise."
The two magisters looked like they might faint.
"Yes, yes, of course," the older man stammered. "Whatever Your Grace requires."
"You may still send word to Tyrosh if you wish," Viserys added coldly. "Tell them I'm coming. I promised the Archon he would pay for what he did. The Three-Headed God will not save him. I said it. I meant it."
The magisters nodded frantically. "We would never dream of interfering."
"Good. Then move quickly. My men are hungry, and I have no interest in dining inside your walls."
The two magisters bowed so low their foreheads nearly touched the dirt, then hurried back toward the city gates like men who had just escaped the Stranger's scythe.