The Stepstones lay quiet beneath a haze of smoke, the sea sighing against the broken quays of the Tyroshi city-state. Ash drifted on the morning wind like funereal snow.
The survivors moved slowly through the ruins, their faces streaked with soot, seawater, and the shock of a night they would never forget. They knelt beside collapsed homes and shattered market stalls, scooping brine from the surf to extinguish the last tongues of blood-red flame. Each time the saltwater hissed across glowing embers, it sounded like a dying breath.
What had once been a bright city of color and pleasure was now a scorched corpse. The people stared at their city's remains as if struggling to grasp that it still stood upon the earth at all. Expressions that should have held grief were instead hollow, worn smooth by terror.
Tyrosh had declared itself independent years ago. Since then, the Free Cities had seen conflict of every sort. There had been raids and skirmishes, mercenary uprisings, feuds with Myr and Lys, and even days when the Stepstones changed hands twice before nightfall. Yet never in all those years had devastation come like this. Never had Tyrosh suffered a wound that seemed carved by a god's own hand.
In the Archon's palace, the last lights of dawn bled through the broken latticework of the great hall. More than a dozen nobles gathered there, their silks torn, their jewels dulled by ash, their faces grey with fear and fury. They clustered around a long table blackened by fire, speaking over one another in rising panic.
"By all the gods, what monster has done this to us? Is he declaring war on Tyrosh? On all the Free Cities?" A senator slammed his fist on the table and winced at the pain in his knuckles.
"We still have no answer from the prisoners," another shouted. "I questioned my captains myself, yet every man who knew anything lies dead in the harbor. Only a few of my household guards survived and they know nothing."
"And what of the sellsword companies? Have any of those cowards returned?"
"They fled the moment the flames began. They are of no use."
Their voices clashed like steel on steel, rising higher until the hall sounded like a flock of shrieking gulls.
"Silence."
The single word cut through the uproar as cleanly as a blade. An elderly man stepped forward, his staff tapping against the floor. He wore robes stained with ash, yet around his shoulders hung the vibrant ribbons of his office. His eyes were sharp despite the long night.
The High Priest of the Three-Headed God surveyed the nobles with a stern gaze. No one else remaining in Tyrosh commanded half his authority.
"We cannot rebuild our city if we cannot still our tongues," he said, his voice gravelly with exhaustion. "First we must understand the full extent of the damage. Only then will we choose a new Archon, gather the people, rebuild our soldiers, and restore order."
The nobles exchanged uneasy glances. None wished to take the burden of leadership, yet all felt reassured merely by hearing the priest name the steps ahead.
The High Priest lowered himself slowly into a chair, joints stiff. "Now. I require a report. How many ships remain? How many soldiers?"
Two men stepped forward. The first was dark-bearded, his skin pale beneath the ash that clung to him. His purple robes, once embroidered with silver thread, were torn and scorched. This was Equis, the last surviving naval commander of standing rank. His superior, the Admiral of Tyrosh, had perished in the attack along with most of the fleet.
Equis swallowed, the motion visible in the thick line of his throat. "Our patrol fleet has been shattered. More than half our ships were destroyed in open water. Every vessel in the harbor was either stolen or burned. If we count only the ships that remained at sea for supply runs or scouting assignments, we can claim perhaps twenty vessels still afloat. Of those, no more than five are warships fit for battle."
He paused, breathing hard, as if speaking the numbers aloud made them heavier. "That is all that remains of the Tyroshi fleet."
A murmur ran through the hall. One noble covered his face with both hands.
The High Priest nodded slowly. "The navy took the greatest blow. As expected."
He gestured for the second man to speak. This one wore armor dented and smoke-stained, though his posture remained stiff with military dignity. "Our infantry losses are lighter," he reported. "The raiders struck the harbor and the fleet first. Many of our soldiers were stationed further inland. If we declare full war mobilization, Tyrosh can still muster several thousand fighting men. With time we might raise as many as ten thousand."
"Slaves, mercenaries, and citizens alike?" the priest asked.
"Yes, High Priest."
The priest considered this. Though Tyrosh was not built upon military tradition, its position among the Free Cities granted it no small war potential. Most of that power came from slave soldiers and hired blades. Tyroshi citizens were merchants and pleasure-seekers by nature. Even so, after so many years of conflict, it was a miracle they could still raise thousands.
"These forces will be enough for defense," the High Priest said. "For now. The sea is our life. The fleet must come first."
He turned his gaze back to Equis. "Your admiral is dead. By necessity, you shall take his place. Admiral Equis, the duty of rebuilding our navy falls to you."
Equis bowed his head, eyes shining with grim resolve. "Even if I must sell every cup and kettle in my household, I will restore the fleet. I give you my word."
"Good," the priest said, nodding with solemn approval. "Tyrosh needs men whose fire grows stronger in ruin, not weaker."
He leaned forward slightly, the weight of age pressing on him. "Now tell me who attacked us. I heard prisoners were taken. What have they confessed?"
A merchant, his fine green sleeves torn, stepped forward with visible reluctance. "High Priest, the prisoners claim to be soldiers from Westeros. They say they serve a dragonlord named Baelon Targaryen."
The hall grew still. Even the crackling of embers outside the palace seemed to quiet.
The merchant continued. "The blood-red flames that consumed our ships were from his dragon. They call the beast Tyraxes."
A councillor laughed bitterly. "Another Targaryen dragonlord from across the sea. As if we did not have enough suffering."
"That is not all," the merchant said. He twisted a ring nervously around his finger. "The prisoners said this Baelon is well regarded in the Seven Kingdoms. They say he was chosen by the White Hart and crowned in the old fashion. They call him Prince of the Dawn."
"And they claim he is the eldest son of Prince Daemon Targaryen," the governor added. "He is said to command thousands of Westerosi men, sworn to him or to his father."
The High Priest closed his eyes. He could almost feel the heat of dragonfire on his skin again. Long ago he had stood near enough to the shadow of Vermithor to smell the smoke curling from the Bronze Fury's jaws. King Jaehaerys had brought the dragon to the Free Cities during a diplomatic voyage, and the sight of that great beast had lived in the High Priest's memory ever since. A dragon could destroy a city in a single night. Even now, the memory chilled him to the bone.
"A new dragonlord rises in Westeros," he whispered. "And where does that leave Tyrosh?"
No answer came.
He opened his eyes and saw the fear on every face in the hall. "Tyrosh joined hands with Myr and Lys to counter the dragons of Westeros. In the past, their power was limited. Their numbers were few. Their kings were careful. They never dared to bring their beasts against Essos."
He shook his head slowly. "It seems those days are gone."
A tremor passed through the nobles.
The idea that Westeros might now birth dragonlords with ambition enough to strike across the Narrow Sea felt like the breaking of an ancient law.
"Send word to Myr and Lys," the High Priest said at last. His voice was steady again. "Tell them a Westerosi dragonlord led this assault. They must ready their defenses immediately."
A merchant bowed. "Messengers have already been sent. Myr will learn the news within days. Lys may take longer. Our riders cannot guarantee safe passage."
"We have done all that is possible," the High Priest replied. "The Three Daughters will be weakened without us, yet pride means little while our city burns."
He rose slowly, leaning on his staff as if the weight of Tyrosh itself pressed upon his shoulders. "Our Archon is dead. When the city finds its footing again, we will hold a new election."
The nobles shifted uneasily, yet a faint spark of hope lit their weary faces for the first time since the attack.
"We understand," they answered together.
"Good," the High Priest said. "Then let us begin."