In the depths of the night, the Dragon group soared across the sky above Tyrosh.
There were three dragons, each over forty-four feet long; the Silver Dragon leading them had already grown to forty-six feet.
The largest and most magnificent beast was the Silver Emperor, its silver scales gleaming brilliantly, with pale gold wing membranes, horns, and crest. The Silver Emperor's molten-gold eyes looked down upon the Black Wall of Tyrosh and the smoke of war, and it seemed eager to dive into the fray.
The Purple Dragon Balerion, a relic of the Baelarys Family, was entirely purple, save for its claws, horns, and belly scales that shone like copper foil; it was a proud Purple Dragon the likes of which had never been seen in Westeros.
The black dragon, a tribute to the Black Dread Balerion, was like a shadow of the scorching sun, with only its eyes, horns, and dorsal scales being red. Balerion's lava-like red gaze brought to mind the source of terror from over a century ago.
Dragons generally possess more than two colors; they are not dull, monochromatic creatures, but are instead brilliantly colorful.
Rhaegar Targaryen rode atop the Silver Emperor, feeling the joy of the three dragons.
Dragons find confinement painful, yearning instead for freedom and the sky; they are born beasts of war.
These three dragons, all possessing the most formidable Old Valyria bloodlines and forged with fire and runes, were destined to achieve feats no less than the dragons of the Baelarys Family, restoring the divine might of the ancient dragons.
"Let me scale the perilous peaks and vie with the heavens!" Rhaegar looked down at the massive city of Tyrosh.
The Dragonlords had been silent for too long; the Valyrian Dragonlords should be revived from this moment on.
"Partners! Tell the people of Tyrosh that we have arrived!"
The three dragons screeched joyfully, their roars echoing across the sky above Tyrosh. The sound reverberated through the air, drowning out all human shouts and the crashing waves.
All chaos and shouting ceased momentarily; ten thousand voices fell into silence, and ten thousand pairs of eyes looked up at the sky.
The dragons began to spew fireballs from over a hundred yards in the air—silver, black-red, purple—each one brighter and more dazzling than the last, as if many suns had risen above Tyrosh.
The three dragons were the most magnificent beasts of war in the world, all hailing from Old Valyria, fierce, wild, and agile.
When the dragons breathed fire, their scales shimmered and glowed.
Governor Dario, who was besieging the Archon's residence in Tyrosh, also saw the dazzling flames in the sky. His face instantly turned pale. He had heard the deafening roars of the High Priest's followers, and now, seeing those sun-bright flames in the dark sky, it was as if a crown had been cast across the heavens of Tyrosh.
The knell of fate had begun to toll for him.
Everything was over; he was now utterly defeated.
The High Priest was still alive, and the Archon's Targaryen ally had descended on a dragon. The commander of the garrison and the Admiral, two fence-sitters who had barely remained neutral, would immediately turn their weapons against him.
"Take the Archon's residence! Kill everyone! I will still be the Archon of Tyrosh! Charge! The High Priest will understand me."
Governor Dario babbled incoherently. He stomped his feet, staring at the ruined purple gates of the Archon's residence. Everywhere lay debris; the outer city of the Archon's residence had been completely breached, with blood and fire running rampant.
Yet, the Archon's loyalists and guards were stubbornly entrenched in the inner city, resisting to the bitter end.
This inner city, amidst the flames of war, seemed like an impassable volcano and desert.
"We have lost! Governor!" The merchant from Myr beside Governor Dario also turned pale. This was a dangerous game of power, but luck had not favored them.
"Protect the Governor! Are there any ships? We must retreat to Myr or Lys first!" shouted Dario's garrison captain as he gathered his men on the other side.
But the next piece of news was even more fatal: the city garrison had killed their messenger and pledged allegiance to the elected Archon of Tyrosh, while the Admiral of Tyrosh had ordered the port to be locked down, forbidding any ships from leaving.
"Hurry, Governor, retreat to your residence first. We will consolidate our armed forces and wait for the Myr fleet to arrive. Otherwise, when the Targaryen dragon arrives, everything will be over. That boy is only in his teens, but he possesses twice the madness and ferocity; he is the Butcher of the Narrow Sea."
"Is this the will of heaven? Great three-headed god, why do you not protect me?"
Governor Dario collapsed to the ground, only to be dragged back to his residence by his supporters. The siege of the Archon's residence in Tyrosh had ended.
Dario's faction had employed a sneak attack, a blitzkrieg; they had purchased gladiators from Meereen at a high price and heavily bribed the garrison and the Admiral to remain neutral. They had first attempted to assassinate the Archon during peace talks, then attacked the Archon's residence and the High Priest.
They hadn't expected their plan to fail.
Luck had toyed with them; there were simply too many variables. The first was that the severely wounded Archon had been snatched away, but the Archon's daughter had led the guards to resist to the death—this young girl possessed the iron of a man.
The second variable was that the High Priest still had experts by his side, even though the strongest guards around him had been drawn away by traitors.
At the scene of their chaotic retreat, amidst the silence.
The three dragons flapped their leathery wings, cutting through the sky, and came to circle above the Archon's residence in Tyrosh. Their screeches grew louder and louder, and the gates of the inner city of the Archon's residence slowly opened.
Rhaegar rode his dragon; he was far faster than the High Priest, who insisted on walking to express his anger.
Rhaegar looked at the desolation of the outer city. His hair had been changed back to silver by runes, restoring his original appearance.
Rhaegar saw corpses and ruins everywhere; those beautiful fountains, blooming gardens, and marble pillars were now defiled by blood and fire.
There were corpses in the fountains, the gardens were burned, and the walls were scorched black.
Rhaegar jumped down from the dragon and waited at the gate of the inner city.
Only ruins and corpses kept him company.
A beautiful girl with blue-green hair and eyes walked out under the protection of guards; Shireen looked at Rhaegar.
She had changed into purple armor and held a Longsword in her hand.
Shireen had shed her beautiful ribbons and dresses, replacing them with the fortitude of a warrior.
The guards looked at Shireen with admiration; the girl was true steel.
"Apologies, I am indeed a bit of a mess right now. If it hadn't been the Prince who arrived, but rather the enemy breaking in, I would have committed suicide. I would not want to become a trophy like the Silver-Tongued wife, spending the rest of my life in humiliation."
Miss Shireen said to Rhaegar with a smile that melted the ice and snow.
There was still dust on her beautiful face, but the battlefield rose remained poised and incomparably beautiful.
"You still have the leisure to joke; it seems the situation is not that dire. But you look even better in this moment than you do in a dress!" Rhaegar exclaimed sincerely.
War and sudden change are fatal for a man, let alone a woman.
"Is the Archon alright?" Shireen and Rhaegar stood together at the gate, Rhaegar asked quietly.
They still needed to wait for the arrival of the High Priest.
"He suffered heavy injuries and is still in a coma. Dario's men used poison, but my father didn't drink it, though he was then attacked by an ambush. If not for the guards resisting to the death, he would have perished." Shireen said in a low voice, her eyes still filled with worry.
She did not mention her brother; Rhaegar guessed that the good-for-nothing wastrel had probably hidden away long ago.
The High Priest's men finally arrived; the High Priest had chosen to walk rather than take a sedan chair, to express his anger.
A vast, sweeping crowd accompanied the High Priest to the front of the Archon's residence in Tyrosh.
Merchants, mercenaries, and slaves formed a torrent of people, with slave soldiers and mercenaries closely guarding the High Priest.
When this group arrived at the Archon's residence, aside from the mess, the blood, corpses, and traces of burning, the most striking sight was the three-colored dragons flying above. The dragons' flames could tear everything apart; they felt fear and dread, but also a sense of deterrence that would annihilate their enemies.
If the dragons were also on the side of the Archon of Tyrosh, then the situation was no longer in doubt.
"There is no need to fear. Prince Rhaegar is our friend, and the dragons will not destroy Tyrosh." Seeing the crowd's fear, the High Priest waved his hand, stopping the commotion.
The High Priest looked at the chaotic battlefield of the Archon's residence, his heart filled with anger.
"You have suffered, my child!" The High Priest stepped forward and stroked the top of Shireen.德里斯's head, representing the approval of the three-headed god.
"I am late! Mentor!" A thin, tall middle-aged man emerged from the crowd, holding a box, and came to the High Priest's side.
The middle-aged man was like a sword; his hair was rust-colored, his body smelled of blood, and he bore the crest of the three-headed god on his chest.
Everyone made way for him; this mark represented a servant of the three-headed god.
The middle-aged man opened the box, which contained several bloody, grimacing heads—all of them high-ranking priests of the Temple of the three-headed god.
"Thank you for your hard work, Captain Gale." The High Priest nodded, looking at the heads in the box.
"They always wanted too much and loved too little. They were impatient because I, this old man, would not step down. I once loved them so much! I treated these children as my own, as the future of the temple."
Rhaegar watched Gale; it seemed this was a top expert of the Guard of the three-headed god, with a powerful stride and no lack of skill.
Rhaegar also felt that it would be unreasonable for a person like the High Priest of the three-headed god not to have experts by his side; it seemed they had been deceived.
The middle-aged man saw Rhaegar's gaze but did not respond; he was a guard of the temple, having given his body and soul to the deity.
"Impale the heads of these traitors on spears for me. They are now blasphemers and apostates. If a few others do not arrive in a while, they will be next." The High Priest said coldly, and Captain Gale took the order and left.
Neither Rhaegar nor Shireen spoke; theocratic power was also a part of Tyrosh.
The High Priest had indeed guessed correctly; another group of people came rushing over in a panic.
"Forgive me, High Priest, Miss Shireen, I am late!" the commander of the Tyrosh garrison said shamefully.
"Please forgive us!" the Admiral of Tyrosh was also full of shame.
The two of them knelt on one knee together, kissing the High Priest's robe, and begged Miss Shireen for forgiveness.
These two, representing one of the pillars of Tyrosh's military strength, had both chosen to fence-sit at the critical moment.
It was not just because the situation had developed too quickly, but also because both men had been waiting to see how things would play out.
Undoubtedly, they had noticed the roaring dragons in the sky, seen the angry High Priest, and seen the cold-faced Shireen and her subordinates.
"Is this Prince Rhaegar?" the Admiral asked hesitantly. The silver flash under the light, the gleaming short silver hair, the purple eyes sharp as lightning, and the handsomeness that seemed beyond mortal—was this not the mark of the House Targaryen?
And there was that famous dragon-bone-handled Valyrian great scimitar.
He had recognized him long ago, just wanted to confirm it.
Rhaegar nodded. "Has the Admiral recognized me? I have heard that my ally was assassinated, and there are those who want to subvert the friendship between me, the Archon, and Tyrosh. I will not let those people go."
The dragons screeched in the sky, their roars sounding like raging waves.
The Admiral and the garrison commander understood this threat. These warlords had little faith, but seeing the dragons before them, they knew this was the ultimate deterrence.
"We will swear to defend the honor of the Archon and the High Priest, and swear to defend the friendship between Tyrosh and the Iron Throne!" the garrison commander and the Admiral vowed.