At dusk.
The setting sun painted the Tyroshi waters in brilliant shades of red, like an ink painting come to life.
Dozens of warships were anchored, forming an impenetrable defensive line.
On a small island, a temporary encampment had been set up.
Bathed in the golden glow of the sunset, Daemon looked up at the sky, his deep eyes revealing a complex array of emotions.
His black armor was covered in scars, and a crimson cloak draped over his elbow.
At first glance, he seemed like a general enjoying a rare moment of peace.
However—
The crumpled letter in his hand and the endless chatter of the foreign mercenaries behind him ruined the picturesque scene.
Ignoring the heated arguments in the background, Daemon summoned an officer and asked calmly, "Has Lannino ridden Seasmoke away?"
"Yes, Ser Lannino has left to reinforce Storm's End," the officer replied, his voice trembling as he stole a nervous glance at Daemon's expression.
Even though the prince's tone was composed, being near him felt like standing in the midst of a frigid storm.
Daemon paid no attention to the insignificant officer. Instead, he retracted his gaze, smirked slightly, and took a moment to skim the letter in his hand.
[Encircle but do not attack. Wait for Myr and Lys to send reinforcements…]
"Wait, again."
Daemon shook his head, a sneer forming on his lips.
He had followed his dear nephew's orders, helping conquer both Myr and Lys—impressive victories.
Before the war, he and his brother had agreed: for every city he took, one would be granted to him as his own.
Now, with two cities seized, his beloved nephew had said nothing about his promised reward.
Fine. If those cities weren't taken by him alone, he wouldn't demand them.
But he had personally led the siege of Tyrosh. And now, another letter telling him to wait. Tomorrow, yet another telling him to wait again.
Meanwhile, with Dorne invading Storm's End, his nephew had even reassigned Lannino, who was supposed to assist him.
"Heh."
Daemon let out a short, mirthless chuckle and handed the letter to his officer.
"Tell me, how long am I supposed to wait?" he asked casually.
"T-The letter says… half a month…" the officer stammered, his face turning pale.
"Half a month?"
Daemon shot him a piercing look, his gaze as sharp as a blade.
The officer flinched. Before he could react, the prince tore the letter to shreds, letting the crimson-tinged sunset carry the fragments away.
With a sharp movement, he pulled his dragon-winged helmet from under his arm and strode toward the foreign mercenaries still babbling behind him.
The men had brightly dyed hair, leather mercenary armor, and a distinct Tyroshi appearance.
They hadn't yet realized the danger they were in. Instead, they continued their aggressive negotiations.
"Prince Daemon, I advise you to withdraw your forces. The Archon will pay you your weight in gold."
"If the Iron Throne's army doesn't retreat, Braavos and Dorne will destroy that cursed chair…"
"…."
"A bunch of clowns. So damn noisy."
Daemon's expression twisted in disgust. He seized one of the mercenaries by the head and smashed his dragon-winged helmet into the man's skull.
THUD! THUD!
A series of dull, sickening cracks echoed. The chatter stopped. Blood splattered.
A lifeless corpse with a crushed skull hit the ground.
Daemon, his face speckled with blood, smirked like a devil. He declared, as if swearing an oath:
"I will take Tyrosh with my own hands. I will claim a city that bears my name."
"You—"
The remaining mercenaries, frozen in shock, suddenly bolted in terror.
Daemon calmly wiped his helmet clean with his cloak.
A squad of soldiers, stationed at the edge of the camp, swiftly drew their swords. In moments, the mercenaries were skewered like pigs.
Their mangled bodies were dragged away. The soldiers knelt before Daemon, their armor clanking as they formed a circle around him.
He had been away from Westeros for ten years, but the name of the Rogue Prince still carried weight.
Rhaegar had his elite Second Sons. Daemon had even more loyal followers.
Years of traveling the Free Cities had taught him how to recruit and buy the loyalty of mercenaries.
At the start of this war, he had already gathered an army of five thousand men by himself.
Daemon swept his gaze over his men. His bloodstained hand ran through his disheveled silver hair before he placed his helmet back on.
"Prince, where are you going?" his officer asked in a panic.
Without looking back, Daemon replied coldly,
"Go running back to your master. Tell him to crawl back to Dragonstone and suckle at his mother's tits. Rhaenyra should have milk soon."
He had no patience for waiting on some internal collapse.
He would take his city now—with blood and fire.
"Screeech!"
A crimson shadow slithered across the fiery clouds. A piercing shriek echoed over the sea.
Caraxes dove through the clouds, its massive wings stirring the wind as it descended.
Daemon swiftly climbed onto his dragon's back. He looked down at his men and commanded in a frigid voice:
"Tell the army—we attack Tyrosh tonight."
"Screeech!"
Caraxes' slitted eyes gleamed with bloodlust. It soared into the sky, twisting like a serpent as it glided toward the open sea.
That night.
A full moon hung high in the sky.
Tyrosh.
The port was heavily guarded. Dozens of warships patrolled in shifts. Enormous bonfires blazed, illuminating the night as if it were day.
"Stay alert! No Westerosi spies must enter the city!"
From atop a series of watchtowers, a bearded mercenary captain barked orders, spitting curses at his subordinates.
Tyrosh's fleet was trapped in the harbor, yet the city was sealed shut—an iron fortress, impervious to attack.
Suddenly, the thin clouds above began to churn.
A cool sea breeze stirred.
A slender yet colossal figure lurked high in the sky, its piercing violet eyes coldly observing the garrison below.
Fifty nautical miles from Tyrosh, dozens of warships gathered, concealed beneath the vast night-shrouded sea, waiting for a single command.
Mirov, a former mercenary, lay sound asleep, content with his lavish lifestyle, arms draped around two scantily clad beauties.
Outside the estate, two thousand elite soldiers from his personal mercenary corps stood guard, ensuring that not even a fly could slip through.
The estate itself was grand and imposing, with pavilions and lofts in the front courtyard and serene gardens with flowing streams in the back.
Inside a white-stone pavilion, candlelight flickered against the dark night as a dozen extravagantly dressed men and women gathered in secret.
Bang!
A burly man with a thick beard slammed his fist on the table, his voice seething with anger.
"Mirov is a bastard! What does he take us for? He dares to keep us under house arrest?"
"He's nothing but a lowly mercenary, an untrustworthy swindler," an old woman with red hair chimed in, her tone sharp and acerbic.
Some nodded in agreement, while others remained silent. A tense, oppressive atmosphere filled the room.
These individuals were the wealthiest elite of Tyrosh, sitting atop the pyramid of power.
After the Second Stepstones War, the city-state suffered a devastating attack by a dragon, leaving the rich with massive losses.
Mirov, a young mercenary, seized the opportunity to rise. Using the wealth he plundered amidst the chaos and the military force under his command, he was appointed Grand Prince, proclaiming vengeance against the Iron Throne in the name of the city-state.
But as it turned out, mercenaries weren't known for their reliability.
Mirov was a ruthless tyrant. Though he refrained from directly harming the wealthy, he resorted to even crueler means to exploit the common folk.
When war broke out, he extorted a massive sum from the rich under the guise of purchasing military supplies.
When Myr fell, he came back for more.
When Lys fell, and the Three Daughters teetered on the brink of collapse, Mirov became even more brazen, forbidding the wealthy from fleeing in advance and trapping them within his private estate.
"Everyone, hear me out," a solemn-looking middle-aged man with violet hair spoke.
"What's your plan?"
The murmurs and complaints ceased as all eyes turned to him.
Unfazed by their scrutiny, the violet-haired man calmly said, "Mirov's treachery has left Tyrosh in turmoil. I know that each of you has your own private forces. Why not kill him?"
The red-haired old woman sneered. "Kill the Grand Prince? And who will stop the Iron Throne's army from marching in?"
"She's right…"
A few others nodded in agreement, their expressions wary.
Though they were confined, they were far from powerless.
If they truly wished to escape, it was only a matter of bribing the right people. Otherwise, they wouldn't have had the chance to secretly gather like this.
The violet-haired man's voice deepened. "Myr and Lys have fallen. Braavos and Dorne are just watching the spectacle. Do you really think Mirov can stop the dragon?"
At this, the bearded man's eyes flickered, and he pressed, "What deal have you struck with the Iron Throne?"
Immediately, the room fell silent, and every gaze bore into the violet-haired man, as if trying to pierce through him.
In a city where wealth ruled all, no one climbed to the top—whether as a smuggler or a slaver—without sharp instincts.
His words had been just suspicious enough to spark speculation.
The violet-haired man hesitated for a moment, then discarded any pretense. With a frank smile, he admitted, "I have business ties with the Black Swan of Lys. We oppose Mirov's rule, and that butcher of House Targaryen is willing to coexist with us peacefully."
A man scoffed. "Laughable! You run a brothel, and you call a whore your business partner?"
"Enough bickering—let's focus."
The bearded man's eyes narrowed as he pressed further. "We've all heard of the Black Swan. Can she really negotiate on Rhaegar Targaryen's behalf?"
"She's now the Grand Steward of Lys."
"And how do we trust her? The Targaryen butcher may be no better than Mirov."
"That's right—Myr's wealthy elite were slaughtered, seventy percent gone. Lys lost half its nobles. You expect us to believe that butcher will treat us any differently?"
A chorus of skepticism arose, filled with deep distrust.
The violet-haired man's gaze flickered, then he cut in sharply. "Precisely because Myr and Lys have lost so many of their wealthy elite that the Targaryens need us."
The Free Cities thrived on maritime trade, known across the world for their commerce.
Two bloody sieges had wiped out more than half of the Three Daughters' merchant class, grinding trade to a halt.
They needed to keep some merchants alive—at least temporarily—to sustain their economy.
"Is this information reliable?" someone asked, still hesitant.
The violet-haired man caught the faint glimmer of hope in their voices and smiled. "The Targaryens have taken two cities. Without the support of the wealthy, they'll struggle to feed their armies. We can provide them with grain and coin."
With Myr sacked, the city's stored grain was enough to sustain its surviving slaves.
But in Lys, most of the wealthy had fled, taking their fortunes and supplies to Braavos and Qohor. The city itself was left with barely any resources.
His reasoning was sound, and it clearly struck a chord with the others.
Glances were exchanged, silent understandings reached.
Finally, someone raised a hand. "I've bribed a guard outside this pavilion. He can relay information to us."
Another chimed in, "I have mercenaries stationed at the port. They can smuggle out maps of the city's defenses to Lys."
A third spoke up, "The new courtesan Mirov just acquired—she's mine. I can have something slipped into his wine."
Within moments, a plan was in place—clear, precise, and deadly.
Seeing this, the middle-aged man with purple hair laughed. "Since everyone agrees, I'll write the letter."
Woo—woo—woo—
Just as he rose from his chair, a deep, distant horn sounded.
"What's going on?"
Someone asked in astonishment.
The burly man with a scruffy beard froze for a moment before jumping to his feet in panic. "That's the port's horn! The Iron Throne's fleet is attacking!"
"W-wait… hold on."
The middle-aged man with purple hair was momentarily stunned, standing frozen in place, unsure of what to do.
He turned his head and looked through the glazed window into the dim night sky.
Everything remained calm and peaceful, just as it always was.
Suddenly, a streak of crimson flashed across the sky, followed by a piercing screech.
"Hiss-screech!!"
A crimson dragon, serpent-like in form, shot straight toward the Grand Lord's manor. Its massive wings cast a shadow over the pavilion, and in the next instant, a raging inferno of dragonfire descended.
Boom—
The middle-aged man's eyes widened in horror as he let out a final, agonized scream before being reduced to charred remains in the crimson flames.
Caraxes banked sharply and soared away, vanishing into the night as he unleashed another relentless torrent of dragonfire upon the surrounding pavilions.
"Well done, Caraxes!"
Daemon sat firmly atop the dragon's back, his gaze cold and ruthless as he searched for the Grand Lord's bedchamber.