Sunblaze's golden wings beat in perfect rhythm with Viserys's will. The bond between them had never been stronger.
Ninety warships cut through the waves behind him in tight battle formation, black-and-red banners snapping at the prow of the lead ship. The rest still flew the Three-Headed God of Tyrosh, but those would change soon enough.
Only half the fleet remained seaworthy after the brutal sea battle. The other ninety ships had burned or sunk. Armored Andal soldiers and crossbowmen now packed every deck. Tyrosh's end was minutes away.
Viserys saw the city's high stone walls and the massive black inner fortress rising behind them. Once a Valyrian military outpost, Tyrosh sat on better land than Dragonstone and could feed a huge population. Purple snails and skilled craftsmen had made it rich.
Horns blared across the fleet. Heralds shouted orders on repeat.
Aboard the captured flagship—now renamed Dragon King and commanded by Morosh—Viserys studied the city. After the disaster in the Disputed Lands and the total loss of their navy, Tyrosh had almost nothing left to fight with. A few nobles had probably slipped away, but the rest were trapped.
The fleet pressed hard against the gates. Inside the walls, rage exploded like thunder.
Three-quarters of the city—slaves led by hardened sailor-slaves—slaughtered the guards and the governors' men, then threw the gates wide open. Years of defeat had already hollowed out the Archon's power. The city was collapsing from within.
Viserys circled Tyrosh three times on Sunblaze, surveying his prize. The thicker black inner walls stayed shut. They still thought they could hold.
The outer city burned. Bodies lay everywhere—slaves, sellswords, guards, merchants, nobles, and looters who had tried to profit from the chaos. Highborn families barricaded themselves inside. Some rich men tied to the black walls had already fled behind them. Rioters ran wild, smashing and stealing. In the final hours of Tyrosh, rich and poor alike were falling straight into hell.
Once the city fell, Viserys would own a fleet, a harbor, and the perfect base to take the Stepstones next.
He brought Sunblaze down at the harbor. His ships followed, docking in rows. Armored Andal troops and newly freed slave soldiers poured onto the docks. The Weeping Tower stood at the water's edge. Inside the city, the Wine God Fountain sparkled. Temples to every god lined the streets and riverbanks.
"Dragon King!"
"Liberator!"
Freed slaves of every color cheered his name, voices raw, hands raised high. The sight hit Viserys like a surge of life. Everywhere he looked, free people welcomed him with everything they had.
He slid off Sunblaze's back. The crowd stared at their king—tall, silver-haired, violet-eyed, black armor gleaming gold in the sun. A Valyrian steel crown set with amethysts sat on his head. The famous sword hung at his belt. His elite Andal guards closed in tight—black armor, black cloaks bearing the three-headed red dragon.
"I will shatter every chain," Viserys called out. "I will bring Tyrosh a new peace."
His peace. The only peace that mattered.
"Chainbreaker!"
"Chainbreaker!" The freed slaves roared until the ground shook.
"We swear to serve King Viserys! We follow the Dragon King!"
"You crewed Tyrosh's fleet, right?" Viserys asked the sailor-slaves who had led the revolt.
"Yes, Your Grace!"
"Keep your posts. My fleet needs you."
"Long live King Viserys!"
They cheered louder. Before today they had been third-class sailors. Now everything had changed.
"Good. We move into the city together and finish the slave masters' last fortress."
"Agos." Viserys waved him over. "The fighting's done. Shut down the chaos. One hour from now I don't want to see any more riots. Anyone keeps stirring shit, I burn them myself."
"As you command, Your Grace!"
Agos thumped his chest and led a squad of massive guards to restore order.
Some guilds had been hit hardest—especially the Slave Masters Association and the Dye Guild. The people who had ground slaves the most got the worst revenge. A few small bankers and shop owners had somehow survived and now had the balls to pledge loyalty straight to Viserys's face. Their businesses were lighter on slave labor. Easier to switch sides.
"You're not afraid to die?" Viserys asked.
"Your Grace, we're nobody. Just small bankers and merchants. The real power players are hiding behind those black walls. We're small fry. You wouldn't be that cruel to us…" The red-haired banker spoke up, voice steady but eyes wide.
"We brought gifts," he added quickly. "Funds for your troops. Our copper-plate printing methods…"
"I need loyalty more than gifts," Viserys said. He didn't lack coin—he could strip the entire city clean. But skilled people? Those he could use.
"We swear it, Your Grace. Loyal to the end."
In this brutal world, swinging steel made money faster than counting it. To stay breathing, you tied yourself to the rising warlord—the Dragon King.
"Then stay close. Once I crack the black city, you'll have work."
Viserys looked at the defectors. The real vested interests had already been slaughtered. These middle-tier operators were negotiable.
"What about the governors?" one guild boss asked carefully.
"They chose to hole up in there. They know what that means."
The merchants went pale. Death was the only ending left for those governors.
Viserys had his best men, siege hammers, and a dragon. The black walls wouldn't last long. Crossbowmen and scorpion crews on the ramparts were already running on fumes. One more night, maybe, and the terrified black fortress would be his.
Night fell across the world. The red comet still hung high, weeping blood.
Tyrosh in the south drowned in fire and blood. Braavos to the north was far from peaceful.
That night, eleven servants of the Many-Faced God gathered at the House of Black and White—the largest meeting they had ever held. Only the Lord and the Fat Man entered through the front doors. The rest slipped in through tunnels and hidden paths.
The Faceless Men wore black-and-white robes, but once seated they dropped their hoods and showed whatever face they had chosen for the day. They sat on high chairs carved from ebony and weirwood, matching the temple doors. Some priests carried pitchers of dark red wine, others water. They stood silent as statues.
The priests spoke in Braavosi, switching to High Valyrian when needed.
"The dragon has returned," the kindly one said. "No doubt this time."
"They've appeared before," the fat man replied. "The nameless are not strangers to such signs."
"This time is different," the kindly one continued. "This Dragon King carries the stench of Valyria. Not like his ancestors. He went into the ruins."
"Viserys Targaryen. Strange boy."
"What do you want us to do?" the Lord asked. "Our hearts are hollow. We serve only the Many-Faced God—no joy, no sorrow. We are servants. We stay humble. We follow the god's will."
"The Dragon King is the kind the Many-Faced God hates," the kindly one said. "And this boy's appetite is larger than any Targaryen before him. To be safe… we should send someone to Oldtown."
"Oldtown. You mean the Citadel," the handsome one nodded. "Let's decide who goes. Though none of us know the maesters there well. It won't be difficult."