Tyrōsh had been a ruin before the fires died, yet the panic now gripping Myr dwarfed even the terror of its sister city. Rumor traveled faster than a raven. Fishermen swore they had seen the sky above Tyrōsh burn red for half a night, and sailors arriving at the quays insisted that not a single roof tile in the city still stood whole. Word soon spread across Myr like oil spilled upon still water. A Targaryen prince had come upon Tyrōsh with dragonfire and left little behind but ash.
Myr was one of the Three Daughters, equal in title to Lys and Tyrōsh, yet all knew that equality held only in words. Myr had always trusted in its comfortable geography, its distance from immediate danger, and its wealth bought through dyes and lenses. When war erupted across the Stepstones, the governors of Myr had sent the bulk of their strength to the islands. Only a few thousand men remained behind to guard the city proper. It was a respectable force for a provincial lord, perhaps, but pitiful for a city of Myr's size and ambition.
The governors gathered in the palace soon after the news arrived. The great hall filled with robed men shouting over one another, the scent of incense heavy in the air, the painted murals of triarchy victory scenes suddenly seeming too bright and too bold. Within an hour, the assembly fractured into three camps.
The first faction argued for immediate recall of their armies. They claimed that every soldier in the Stepstones must be brought home to defend their walls. Yet few supported the idea. Myr's fleets had suffered grievously already. Seasmoke, Laenor's Dragon, had burned dozens of their warships. Now a beast larger than Seasmoke had flown out of Westeros, a dragon whose fire consumed ships before their oars could even shift. Under such skies, any attempt to sail soldiers back across the Narrow Sea seemed nothing short of suicide.
The second faction wished to flee. Not with their own bodies, at least not immediately. What they wanted to rescue first was their gold.
Tyrōshi envoys had described the attack with unnerving precision. They told of the prince's soldiers and their cold efficiency, of how they scoured every vault and storehouse, how they took silver, spices, jewels, blades, armor, tapestries, and even the copper fittings torn from the ruins. The wealthy men of Myr listened and trembled. Before the meeting had even ended, many had resolved to gather their families and fortunes and escape to their country estates. The smallfolk and slaves they would leave behind. Such people were tools, not burdens worth saving.
This was the largest faction by far. They were merchants grown soft upon silk cushions and perfumed baths, men who had paid sellswords for generations instead of wielding blades themselves. The fate of Tyrōsh haunted them. Too many of its merchants had died in the streets clutching chests of coins that did nothing to save them.
The third faction consisted of hardliners. Few in number, yet stubborn as granite. They demanded mass conscription, the forging of arms and armor, the construction of scorpions and siege engines, and the strengthening of every gate and wall. Myr must make a show of resistance, they argued, else their enemies would smell weakness like blood in the sea.
The shouting continued until sunset. In the end, no agreement was reached. The governors parted in anger and resentment, each group returning to its own schemes. Myr began to unravel from within, fear and avarice gnawing its heart.
*
Days later and far across the sea, Prince Baelon Targaryen stood beneath the pale morning sun on the Isle of Tarth, stretching his limbs as though shaking off a long voyage from his bones.
After dividing his forces for the coming campaign, he had brought part of his host here to rest and resupply. The blue cliffs of Tarth rose behind him, the sea breeze carrying the scent of salt and pine. It was the first time in weeks he had stood on steady ground, and he breathed deeply, savoring it.
The fruits and vegetables aboard his ships had begun to spoil near the end of the journey. Baelon, ever mindful of the value of fresh provisions, had purchased crates of produce the moment he reached Tarth. He had watched his men tear into the food with visible relief. Soldiers marched better on full bellies, and sellswords fought harder when treated with dignity. Baelon had always known this truth.
The island was the closest point to the eastern shores of the Narrow Sea. From here, attacks upon the Triarchy's holdings required only a day's sail. Tarth was a natural staging ground, and the islanders had greeted the prince of the blood with cautious respect. House Tarth's banners, sapphire and sunburst, stirred gently upon the battlements of their castle.
Baelon spent his days drilling with his captains and reviewing reports. Yet he also gave his soldiers leave to enjoy themselves. War pressed upon the spirit like a stone, heavy and relentless. A commander who ignored that weight risked breaking the men who followed him. Baelon never denied this truth. He granted his host time to breathe, and in return they adored him for it.
They whispered another title now, soft as prayer. The Generous Prince.
No lord of Westeros had ever paid for the indulgences of common soldiers. Yet Baelon covered every tavern bill and every brothel coin for three days straight. Sellswords swore loyalty to him anew. Archers and pikemen shouted his name in the streets. The message he wished to give them was simple: Fight for me with your whole heart, and I shall reward you without hesitation. Wine, women, gold, rank, and power. All of it lies within my gift.
A small price, he thought, for loyalty that could not be bought by fear alone.
Night settled softly over Tarth. After dining in House Tarth's great hall, Baelon prepared to retire when Lord Edwyn Tarth approached with measured steps. Edwyn was a tall man, broad shouldered and earnest faced, and he carried a small bundle of sealed letters.
"My prince" he said, bowing as he extended them. "Ravens arrived for you within the hour."
Baelon accepted the letters and broke the first seal. He recognized the handwriting at once. Rhaenys. His aunt wrote of her success in Volantis. She had managed to persuade both rival factions of the city to align, and barring unforeseen complications, Volantene legions would march into the Disputed Lands within a month. Their strength would strike the Three Daughters from the rear, fracturing the Triarchy's already weakened lines.
Baelon smiled with quiet satisfaction. His aunt had always possessed the gift of persuasion. Even the Tigers and the Elephants could not resist her.
He reached for the second letter. The seal was Myrish.
"Oh?" he murmured. "This should prove entertaining."
He slid a dagger beneath the wax, checked for poison powder with practiced ease, then unfolded the parchment. As he read, a sound escaped him. First a soft snort, then a smothered chuckle, and at last open laughter. His shoulders shook. The echo carried through the corridor.
Lord Edwyn blinked in confusion. "If it pleases you to share the jest, my prince, I confess I am at a loss."
Baelon's grin lingered as he offered the letter to him. "Read it and judge for yourself."
Edwyn scanned the contents, his brows drawing together. A governor of Myr, a man named Harfs, had written a plea for mercy. He offered Baelon great heaps of gold and treasure if he would spare the city. In return, Myr would continue paying tribute for years to come. Several ships each year, laden with coin.
Edwyn exhaled slowly. "This seems sincere enough. Desperate, perhaps, but not amusing."
Baelon tilted his head. "Not amusing. Truly."
He leaned close enough for the candlelight to cast shifting shadows across his features. "Harfs confesses more than he realizes. He reveals that Myr is weak. Poorly garrisoned. Fractured. And he hopes to soothe my blade with silver."
He tapped the parchment with two fingers. "A dragonlord needs no Myrish coin to be rich. When my host reaches their gates, every coin in the city shall be mine already. Yet they seek to bribe me with my own future spoils."
He gestured for Edwin to read the final line.
If the dragonlord insists on invading, then Myr shall muster every fighting man to resist your cruel aggression. Even in defeat, we shall abandon the city and withdraw into the wilderness, fighting you to the bitter end.
Baelon's smile thinned. "And there lies the second foolishness. They add a threat at the end, as though it carries weight after such groveling. If there were any steel behind these words, I might respect them. But after such pleading, the warning is nothing more than noise."
He leaned back, folding his arms behind him, and let the silence linger.
His laughter faded away. His gaze drifted toward the open window and the dark stretch of sea beyond, the direction of Myr. The candle beside him flickered once, as though stirred by an unseen breath.
Edwyn stiffened. A sudden chill crept along his spine. Something in the prince's stillness unsettled him. Baelon's eyes glimmered faintly, catching the moonlight, and for a heartbeat they seemed touched by gold.
Edwyn inhaled sharply. His breath came short. Sweat formed at his brow. His knees bent as if pressed down by invisible hands.
"Your eyes" he whispered. "My prince… your eyes…"
Baelon turned to him. At once the strange gleam vanished.
"What troubles you, Lord Edwyn?"
The lord of Tarth steadied himself with a hand upon the wall. "It is nothing. A trick of the light. Forgive me."
Baelon's expression softened. "Go and rest. The realm needs you whole and untroubled. It is late, and tomorrow begins early."
Edwyn bowed, still shaken, and withdrew down the corridor.
Baelon watched him leave until the last echo of footsteps faded. Only then did he turn to the window again. His thoughts returned to Myr...
Soon, he thought.
---------
A/N: Happy (belated) New Year! 🎉
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