Tyrosh, Dionysus Fountain Square
The city was a screaming choir of brass and iron. The mournful lowing of war-horns and the frantic tolling of bronze bells drowned out the wind, signaling the desperate movements of the City Watch and the Tyroshi regulars.
Amidst the smoke of the burning port, the "Chainbreakers," the liberated slaves, and the rowdy mercenary companies had turned Tyrosh into a labyrinth of blood. Beneath the surface, the "rats" of the underworld—the looters and the vengeful—emerged from the shadows to stoke the fires of chaos.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The rhythmic, heavy stomp of the Heavy Armored Knights echoed through the narrow streets. Jon led a detachment of a hundred men toward a critical junction of the Dionysus Fountain Square.
The Tyroshi commander, Saeraes Moss, was proving to be a formidable opponent. After the initial breach, Moss had pivoted brilliantly, breaking his Silver Deer Army into mobile urban cells. He was using the very guerrilla tactics Jon's own infiltrators had employed, turning the city's familiar geography into a weapon. While the Chainbreaker regulars held their discipline, the Allied mercenaries were struggling; their lack of cohesion made them easy prey in the winding alleys.
Jon realized the danger. Urban warfare was a grinder that favored the defender. If the liberation force remained fractured, they would be picked off block by block. To regain the momentum, Jon had to consolidate the three main pockets of resistance.
According to runners from the secret safehouse, the rebellion was currently split. Narsas and his core unit were pinned at the Temple of the Three-Headed God, while other detachments were holding out at the Temple of the Goddess of Lust and the Great Sept of the Seven.
BOOM—CRACK!
A jagged bolt of violet lightning tore through the sky, striking the center of the Tyroshi line encircling the Three-Headed God's sanctuary. The shockwave tossed armored men aside like autumn leaves.
Jon surged through the gap, Dark Sister wreathed in crackling electrical energy. Under the influence of his "Dragon Lord" state, he moved with a speed that defied human reflexes. The Valyrian steel greatsword didn't just cut; it obliterated.
"Lord Jon!"
The Chainbreakers within the temple erupted in a feverish roar. They had heard tales of the Mountain that Walks from the Seven Kingdoms, but as they watched Jon carve through the Tyroshi line, they knew that even Gregor Clegane would be nothing more than a feast for crows before this man.
In the Dragon Lord state, the scepter-form of Dark Sister acted as a lightning rod. As Jon transitioned to close-quarters combat, the magical residue formed a shimmering "Lightning Shield" around his obsidian-black plate.
Fwoom—!
Jon delivered a thunderous horizontal sweep. Two Tyroshi spearmen were sent flying, their bodies convulsing as the electrical charge liquefied their nerves before they even hit the ground.
"Archers! Focus fire! Bring him down!" a Tyroshi voice screamed from the rear.
A rain of arrows hissed through the air. Jon didn't flinch; he stepped into the shadow of his Heavy Knights. A wall of iron shields rose instantly, the shafts clattering harmlessly against the "turtle" shell of the formation.
"Lightning!" Jon roared, channeling his will through the blade.
He unleashed a return strike, but as the electricity surged toward the temple steps, he felt a strange resistance. The lightning seemed to dissipate against the massive stone idols of the Three-Headed God. This deity—a local Tyroshi trinity—seemed to exert a stabilizing "field" over its domain. Jon recalled his encounter with the Black Goat of Qohor; the "gods" of this world possessed a tangible, albeit limited, power to interfere with his System magic.
Then, a sudden, cold clarity washed over him. It was a sensation he recognized from the mechanics of his "System"—a Critical Strike.
Jon swung Dark Sister forward with a guttural growl.
K-BOOM!
The lightning didn't just strike; it exploded with a concentrated fury that bypassed the temple's "protection." A massive swath of the Tyroshi phalanx was reduced to charred husks in an instant. The smell of ozone and burnt meat was overpowering.
"Monster! He's a monster!" "Three-Headed God, save us!"
The Tyroshi resolve, already brittle, shattered. Facing a man who could command the heavens was not war; it was an execution.
"Forward!" Jon commanded.
He broke from the line, his black cloak billowing like a dragon's wings. He moved with a predatory grace, his eyes locked on a Tyroshi sergeant who was trying to rally his men. Jon swung Dark Sister in a two-handed arc. The blade sheared through the man's spear and his bronze breastplate as if they were mist.
Sizzle.
The blood hitting the superheated Valyrian steel hissed and evaporated. Jon stood amidst the carnage, his black armor now lacquered in a dark, wet crimson. To the terrified survivors, he looked less like a king and more like a vengeful demon birthed from the Fourteen Flames.
"Lord... Jon?"
Narsas stepped out of the temple doors, his voice wavering. He looked at the figure standing among the heaps of dead. The man before him was unrecognizable—a silhouette of jagged steel and blood, radiating a killing intent so dense it was difficult to breathe.
"Move," Jon said, his voice a low, vibrating growl. "The enemy here is broken. We have brothers at the other temples waiting for us."
"Yes... of course, Lord Jon," Narsas stammered, his usual composure failing him.
As the liberated slaves and Chainbreakers followed Jon out, many doubled over, retching at the sight of the temple steps. The area was a charnel house of severed limbs and scorched earth.
Jon didn't look back. He didn't feel the horror he once might have. Ever since the "long dream" had ended, the concept of mortality had become a cold, analytical fact to him. He was no longer a boy from Winterfell; he was a Dragon Lord carving a new world out of the old one's bones.
"Keep the pace," Jon ordered, his eyes fixed on the distant spires of the Purple Palace. "We reach the palace by sunset. Anyone who stands in our way dies."