Essos. Time seemed to slow in Myr. Jorah saw the arrow's flight and tried to shout a warning, but it was already too late.
The shaft punched clean through the messenger's chest, punched through his leather cuirass, and buried itself deep in his lungs.
The young man jerked, looked down at the feathered shaft sticking out of him, and wore the stunned look of a man who still couldn't believe it had happened.
Then he slid sideways off his horse and hit the ground hard. The rainbow banner fell into the dust beside him.
For one heartbeat the square went utterly silent.
Then Viserys exploded.
"They dare!" he roared, face purple with rage. "They dare kill my envoy! These filthy maggots! These—"
"Your Grace!" Jorah grabbed his arm. "Now is not the time for anger! We need to change tactics. A direct assault on that castle will cost us dearly, and we can't afford the losses!"
"I don't care!" Viserys' face twisted. "I want them dead! All of them! Jorah, give the order—attack! Now!"
Jorah hesitated. He knew it was a mistake. The palace was strong, the defenders few but well-positioned. A frontal assault would mean piling bodies to reach the gates, and the untrained slaves who had only just been handed weapons would break at the first push.
These men were good stock. A little training and they could become the core of Daenerys' army. Jorah didn't want to waste them.
But if he refused the order, Viserys would have his head.
Viserys was the king—at least in name—and Jorah had sworn to protect him.
Before he could decide, a calm voice spoke right beside Viserys.
"Someone believes a direct assault would be unwise."
Viserys and Jorah spun around. A man in a plain gray robe stood there. His face was ordinary, the kind you'd forget the moment you looked away, but his eyes were calm and ancient, as if they had already seen how this would end.
"Jaqen H'ghar," Viserys snapped. "When did you get here?"
"Someone has always been here," Jaqen said with a slight bow. "Someone watches. Someone waits. Now someone brings news."
The Faceless Men of the House of Black and White were not cheap, but when the price was right they could do almost anything. Jaqen had been sent by Daenerys herself. The two sides had an understanding.
Jorah eyed the Braavosi warily. He never fully trusted the man. The Faceless Men were the deadliest assassins in the world, and assassins had no honor. Jorah had never liked men without honor—though he had precious little of it himself.
"What news?" Viserys demanded, impatient.
He didn't like the man either, but he had grown up in Braavos and knew exactly how dangerous the Faceless Men were. He had to admit a grudging respect for his little sister—only Daenerys could command these creatures.
The thought that she had apparently foreseen today's events left a sour taste in his mouth.
"One of someone's brothers has entered the castle," Jaqen said evenly. "He has opened the small postern gate on the eastern side. The risk of assault is now much lower."
The Faceless Men were never alone. Jaqen was only one of many.
Jorah followed the pointing finger. At the southeast corner of the palace a small service gate—used by servants and deliveries—stood closed behind a heavy iron portcullis. Now the gate was rising with a grating screech of metal.
Most people had never noticed the postern. That was exactly why it had become the weak point.
The guards on the battlements spotted it too. They shouted in alarm. A few tried to run toward the gate, but the rebels had already seen their chance.
"For freedom!" the crowd roared.
Without waiting for orders, the front ranks of slaves surged toward the opening gate, crude weapons glinting in the sun, faces a mix of terror and desperate resolve. They all knew this was their last chance.
Jorah knew the moment had come.
He didn't care why the gate was opening or who Jaqen's "brother" was. He only knew this was their one real opening.
"Armored men, forward!" Jorah drew his sword and bellowed. "Shield the charge! Archers, suppress the battlements!"
A squad of the best-equipped slaves—men in mismatched plate and carrying big shields—rushed forward. Led by a few former city guards, they formed a shield wall and pushed toward the gate while the archers loosed volley after volley at the defenders above.
Arrows hissed back and forth. Screams rose. The palace guards panicked and forgot to return fire for precious seconds.
Viserys watched, wild joy flooding his face again. He drew the ornate longsword at his hip—beautifully decorated, though nowhere near as fine as the ancestral Targaryen blade Blackfyre—and spurred his horse forward.
"Targaryen!" he shouted. "Forward! For the Iron Throne!"
Jorah cursed and spurred after him, shielding the reckless "king."
Jaqen H'ghar stayed where he was, watching with no expression, cold eyes recording every detail.
His task was done. All that remained was to keep Viserys alive.
Daenerys understood that as long as the male heir survived, the Targaryens would not repeat the fate of the Blackfyres. So while Jorah guarded him openly, the Faceless Men guarded him from the shadows.
The resistance inside the palace was weaker than expected. Once the postern gate was fully raised, the rebels poured in like a flood. The palace quickly fell into chaos. Jorah soon understood why.
In the great hall the Myr governors were still arguing bitterly, split between those who wanted to fight to the last and those who wanted to surrender.
The leader of the war faction was the fat Speaker, Marlos Zaro—the same man who had been shot earlier. He waved his thick arms, spittle flying.
"We cannot surrender! These are slaves! Filthy slaves! If we bow to slaves, Myr will become a laughingstock among the Free Cities! And what will the other cities think? They'll see weakness and come to carve us up!"
"But the castle cannot be held!" a tall, thin textile magnate shouted back. "The side gate is lost. The rebels are already inside! We have five hundred guards. They have five thousand madmen. Do you want to die here?"
"I've already sent for help!" Marlos shrieked. "The fleets of Lys and Tyrosh are nearby. They will come! We only need to hold for a few days!"
"A few days?" another governor sneered. "We won't last a few hours! Listen—I have eyes among the rebels. Viserys Targaryen has promised that if we surrender he will spare our lives and let us keep part of our wealth and status. But if we resist… he will nail every last one of us to the walls!"
That threat broke the last of their resolve. Most of these men were merchants. They valued profit and life above honor or dignity. Honor was a luxury for safer times.
Besides, this wasn't the first time a governor had "died" only to reappear years later after a convenient cup of poisoned wine.
"And another thing," the textile lord lowered his voice. "Do you really believe Lys and Tyrosh will save us? They're probably praying we fall so they can seize our workshops and markets. Even if they do come, by the time they drive the rebels out we'll already be corpses!"
The shouting continued, but the clash of steel outside grew louder. When the first rebel—covered in blood, axe swinging—broke through the outer line and charged into the hall, the decision was made.
"I surrender!" a young governor screamed, throwing down his sword and dropping to his knees. "Don't kill me! I surrender!"
Like falling dominoes, one governor after another laid down their weapons. Marlos Zaro went white, still trying to protest, but his own guards pinned his arms. They had already chosen.
When Viserys strode into the hall surrounded by Jorah and a squad of armored slaves, he found every ruler of Myr kneeling before him.
In that moment Viserys tasted power for the first time—the raw, sweet taste of conquest.
These men who had once looked down on him now groveled like dogs, begging for mercy.
He walked to the high dais at the far end of the hall and sat in the Speaker's carved blackwood chair. He turned, laid his sword across his knees, and spoke.
"I am Viserys Targaryen the Third," his voice echoed through the hall, "King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, blood of the dragon, Prince of Dragonstone… and now Conqueror of Myr!"
He liked the new title. Conqueror of Myr. It had a nice ring.
"Now," he swept his gaze over the kneeling men, "you have two choices. Swear fealty to me, hand over two-thirds of your wealth as punishment for rebellion, and you may keep your lives and the rest of your fortune. Or refuse… and die."
No one chose death. One by one the governors of Myr crawled forward, kissed his ring, and swore allegiance.
Marlos Zaro was the last. He did it with obvious hatred, but he did it.
When the ceremony ended, Jorah stepped close and spoke quietly.
"Your Grace, we hold the palace, but the city is still unstable. Some districts are still fighting. We need to organize the defense quickly in case Lys and Tyrosh actually intervene."
Viserys waved a hand impatiently. "Handle it, Jorah. I have more important matters to consider."
"Such as, Your Grace?"
"The invasion of Westeros," Viserys' eyes burned with feverish light. "Myr has workshops that can forge weapons, a harbor that can build warships, and wealth that can hire armies. Now I finally have a base, resources. Next I will gather my forces, build a fleet, and then…"
He rose and walked to the window, staring northwest as if he could already see the Seven Kingdoms across the Narrow Sea.
"Then I will cross the Narrow Sea and take back what is mine. The Iron Throne waits for its true master. Robert Baratheon… your days are numbered."
Jorah watched Viserys' back and felt a cold prickle of unease. Everything had gone too smoothly. The fall of Myr had been almost too easy, as if someone had arranged it.
Who was Jaqen's "brother"? Why had the postern gate opened so conveniently? Were other forces moving behind the scenes?
Jorah kept his doubts to himself. He only bowed. "As you command, Your Grace. I will secure the city, inventory the spoils, and begin assembling the fleet."
He turned and left the hall to carry out his orders.
Behind him, Viserys still stood at the window, lost in his grand dreams, unaware—and uninterested—in the tangled truths that might lie behind this "victory."
In a shadowed corner of the hall, Jaqen H'ghar stood like a ghost.
His pale eyes moved over Viserys, over the kneeling governors, over the busy rebels.
"Someone has completed the task," he murmured, voice so soft only he could hear. "Someone has sent word. Myr has fallen. The Targaryen has gained a base."
He gave a slight bow, as if saluting some unseen presence, then slipped silently into the shadows and vanished.
Outside, smoke still rose from several points in Myr. The clash of steel was fading.
A city had changed hands. A regime had fallen. Thousands of slaves now had freedom in name only.
But the real changes were only beginning.
Across the Narrow Sea, beyond the Wall, in the Iron Islands, Oldtown, King's Landing… every piece was moving, every player scheming.
And Viserys Targaryen, the self-styled "Conqueror of Myr," still had no idea what role he truly played in the greater game.
He thought he was the player.
He might only be a very visible piece.
Night fell over Myr. The first stars appeared in the sky. Far out on the horizon, the sails of the Lysene and Tyroshi fleets were just visible.
The war was not over.
It had only changed shape.