-Essos. City of Myr-
The war neared its end. Born upon a lie, it would nonetheless bear a sweet harvest. The walls of Myr were blackened and paneled with breaches; holes gaped where stone had once stood true. Unlike Lys—where the island's shape had forced them into slow encirclement—here the Imperial army could unleash its power without restraint.
Three days the city had held. Three days the Triarchy had thrown men into the streets and out of the gates, and three days those men had been ground to nothing when they met Achaemedia's host.
From dawn to dusk the legions sent missiles and thunder; dragons reduced defensive points to embers. Yet, by imperial command, much of the city's civic quarter had been spared—preserved not from pity but from calculation. A city that could be occupied and taxed would be far more useful whole than a city turned to smoking ruin.
Cyrus turned from the smoked ramparts and walked back toward the heart of his formation. The smoke clung to his cloak; the ash patterned his boots like a map.
"Summon Averys and every commander—navy as well," he said without heat. "Tell them to meet me in my tent."
The Custodes inclined and moved off. It took Cyrus a few minutes to cross the camp; most men were at their tasks or feeding. He shed his helm with a slow exhalation and, unceremoniously, drew a bottle to his lips. He drank as one might take courage. The wine burned decent and sharp, and with it his patience.
Averys came dirty and smelled of smoke and dragon. "My Prince," he said, bowing as a man should.
"Averys," Cyrus answered, spreading a map across the table—Hydra's seal scrawled in one corner. "I would consult with you on a new plan."
They had ground Myr's spirit, Cyrus told him; morning raids and evening flames had worn them thin. But attrition alone would take weeks, and weeks gave time for riots, for mercenaries to slip in, for aid to arrive.
Before he finished the commanders of cohorts and marines filled the tent—timely, attentive, faces sharpened by war.
"Then we change our hand," Cyrus said. Eyes turned to him, hunger and fear dancing beneath each brow.
"First: we divide our force into shifts. By day half will harry—burn, raid, deny sleep. By night the other half continues. We will not let them rest. Averys, I want your dragon-knights on the granaries. Burn their bread and their barns."
A captain near the map lifted a hand, worry thinning his voice. "Even if we drive their strength low, my Prince, I do not see how this breaks them cleanly. A riot could erupt. Damage to the city—unpredictable."
"I understand. Then we will use the people," Cyrus said, a slow smile curling his lips. "I will call upon the Hydra. Let them sow a riot—coordinated, precise—with the aim of removing the magistrates who hoard grain. I have reports that the slavers hide food for themselves. We shall expose them."
"Blame the heads for some outside power," Averys said, returning the smile. "It is convenient—and effective."
"Reorganize the troops and the fleet," Cyrus ordered. "I want this city fallen in seven days."
______________________________________________________
-Several days later-
Davon was spent. As commander of Myr, the burden of halting Achaemedia's inexorable advance lay on his shoulders. Yet the enemy bled the city dry.
Peace had become a memory. Since the Achaemedians set their host in order, the city had known only fire and ruin. From the first light of dawn until the next, their assaults came without pause, giving neither rest nor breath.
"Captain! They're attacking!" a soldier cried, dragging Davon out of his daze.
"Reinforce the wall. Hold them back!" he barked, though his voice carried more weariness than fire. He stumbled toward the ramparts.
All around him, despair reigned. The people clamored for food, their eyes hollow with hunger. It had been four days since the dragons burned every granary in Myr. And still, the fires spread—set not only from the sky, but by unseen hands within the city itself. Some whispered of spies, others of traitors. Davon could not know which was true. He only knew the Hydra's shadow was among them.
But there was no time to root it out. The siege gave him no respite. Night and day, the city shook with fireballs, with the shriek of dragons wheeling above.
A blast tore through a house nearby, shattering timber and stone. His men were hurled screaming into the air. The stench of blood and smoke clogged his nose, the ashes clinging like tar to his skin.
What unsettled him most was not the fire, nor the loss. It was that Achaemedia never pressed for the walls. They made no breach, no grand assault—only ceaseless bombardment, waiting, as if the city were already theirs.
Then came the thunder of the sea.
From the harbors rose the sound of leviathan galleys unleashing their wrath anew. Earlier that morning, Davon had dared to hope when their barrage fell silent. But now the monsters roared again, hurling enchanted shot that smashed stone and flesh alike. The walls quaked. The buildings nearest the shore came crashing down.
"Extinguish the fire—do something, or it will spread!" Davon shouted, voice ragged with exhaustion.
The world seemed to unravel. Another ball of flame struck a great house nearby, and fire leapt from roof to roof like a living thing. Sparks sailed through the air; smoke rolled in waves. Men ran with buckets; others beat at the flames with sodden cloaks, but the blaze fed on oil and timber and would not be denied.
A woman's scream cut through the chaos. Her dress was silk and embroidered gold—no doubt one of the city's wealthier households.
"They hide the grain in their cellars!" a voice cried, harsh and bitter. "Those Achaemedians will starve us while the magistrates feast in their halls. They'll hand us over to our conquerors!" The cry was taken up by others, anger quickening into shouts. A dozen voices rose, then a hundred, until the sound became a roar.
Days of siege had bled Davon dry. His men were pulled in every direction—some held the walls against the onslaught, some fought the fires leaping through the lanes, others tried to stem the rising fury of the crowd. The city's order cracked like old stone.
It gnawed at him—this heat, this hunger, this sense that the rule of law was dissolving in ash.
"Enemies approaching!" a voice from the tower called, hoarse with warning.
Davon hauled himself up the ladder on sheer will. He reached the top sweating, lungs burning, and there—below him upon the plain—rode a black-armored figure upon a black horse, flanked by two towering Custodians in gilded plate.
"Honored magistrates of Myr," the man called, his voice carrying across the smoke and ruin like a bell of judgment. "I am Cyrus of House Alargon—Crown Prince of Achaemedia, Warmaster of its legions, Caesar Despotes of the Empire. My voice is law where the Empire rules. No realm resists us, but no realm need be broken needlessly."
His tone held a promise even as it held threat. "In my name I demand water and earth," he said, his words deliberate. "Give me space to rebuild. Give me stores to feed your people, and none shall be harmed. Achaemedia shelters a thousand gods and ten thousand customs beneath its banner and remakes them better. Those who abide by our laws shall prosper. Those who defy us will know a wrath without equal."
He let the last words hang in the air as if they were an edict. There was little in them to argue against—only choice, bitter and sharp.
Cyrus wheeled his mount and rode back into the ordered ranks of his army, Custodians moving like living sentinels at his flank. Men stood shoulder to shoulder, steel interlocked; behind them the machines of war hummed like a hive. At the far edge of the formation, where the ground was hardest and the tents gave way to open plain, a monstrous engine was taking shape.
It was a thing of iron and bellows—nearly thirty feet long and six feet in girth—its barrel ringed with runes and bands of adamant. The Achaemedian smiths moved about it with the ease of craftsmen raising a temple. Within hours the beast was assembled, belching steam and smelling of oil and spent coal.
"This cannon will be your end," Cyrus called out, his voice cold as a blade. "On the morrow we unleash it. Those who defy us shall see their city burn to ash."
His words slid across the ranks and found the men on Myr's walls. Faces paled. The guards' eyes turned at once to Davon, who stood still and small beneath the shadow of the iron leviathan.
Merciful, but not ignorant.
Such was the way of Prince Cyrus.
"What shall we do, my lord?" a young soldier below him asked, his voice thin and shaking.
"We send for the Magistrates," Davon managed, throat tight. "Tell them this is an emergency. Tell them to come at once."
_________________________________________
-The Council Chamber-
"This is dire, my lords. That engine will bring our walls down. Unlike their earlier weapons, this one is meant to shatter stone and kill all within." Davon's hands trembled as they pressed against the table.
"We must evacuate our treasures first!" cried a magister to his left. "We cannot let barbarians sack our knowledge. We are the most advanced of the Free Cities!"
"I concur. If we must resist, let us at least preserve what is ours," another added with a wavering voice.
"The common folk and even the slaves are rising," came a panicked shout from the far end. "They are no longer scattered mobs—they are coordinated, organized. They strike at our estates. It is open rebellion!"
"…And if we surrender?" asked the oldest magister, his voice slow, heavy with weariness.
Before the others could answer, Davon leaned forward. "They swore to rebuild our city. They promised safety for our people." His words were quiet but firm.
"A lie!" another thundered. "No conqueror rebuilds—only sacks! They'll bleed us dry and force us to rebuild with our own gold!"
"It does not hurt to try," the elder countered softly.
"And what guarantee have we? We are already ruined!"
"They could have burned us to ash with their dragons," Davon rebuked, his tone low and cutting. "Yet they did not. They strike only at what is vital—our grain, our walls. Not the whole of us."
Before another word could rise, the doors slammed open.
"My lords, the common folk, they rioted!"
His voice cracked, but he had no time to finish. An arrow thudded through the back of his skull, sending him sprawling across the marble floor.
The chamber froze for a heartbeat. Then, the doors thundered open.
"Seize the lords! They'll toss us aside like carrion!" someone bellowed.
The tide of people poured in—barefoot, filthy, armed with little more than iron hooks, hammers, and broken timber. Their sheer numbers swallowed the council. Screams rang as the mob tore into robes and flesh alike. Blood slicked the walls, limbs and ornaments alike trampled beneath their frenzy.
When the madness dulled to panting breaths, a man rose among the dead. His tunic was soaked crimson, his eyes fever-bright. Standing on the bloodied table, he raised his arms to the mob.
"We cannot wait for the Achaemedians to storm our gates. And we shall give them one!"
A roar answered him. The mob, drunk on slaughter, surged to obey. Hands seized corpses—once magisters, now reduced to tribute. Their bodies were hoisted high, as though the broken lords themselves might plead for mercy on behalf of the city they once ruled.
___________________________________________________________________
The sun dipped lower, painting the walls of Myr in dying gold. Cyrus stood silent before the great machine, its iron ribs trembling as gears wound and hissed. The "Hell Cannon" glowed from within, red light bleeding out like veins of molten fire.
The ground itself seemed to flinch when the first crack shuddered through the enemy gate.
"Ready…" Cyrus commanded, voice flat, detached.
The cannon groaned, its innards thrumming with deadly anticipation. The soldiers around him tensed, waiting for the order that would end a city.
Then a cry rose from the chaos below.
"Halt!" Cyrus lifted his hand, smirking. The fruit of his Hydra's seeds was finally ripening.
From the broken streets came a procession of ragged figures. At their head shuffled a man in a torn robe, his face streaked with grime but his bow low and deliberate. Half a dozen others followed, dragging heavy chests.
"O mighty prince from distant lands," the man rasped. "I am Adorus, lowly servant of Myr. Our masters denied us salvation, so we bring it ourselves. We offer you the city, in peace. By our plea, no harm shall befall our people—women and children untouched."
Cyrus' eyes narrowed, the king's piece still poised between his fingers. His voice cut like iron:
"By these terms, I will honor your people. In Achaemedia, there are no slaves. Every man is master of himself. There will be freemen in the city of Myr. Do you accept?"
Adorus raised his head, his voice hoarse yet defiant.
"We, the people of Myr, do accept the Achaemedian nature, Illustrious Prince. Our magisters lie dead, our lords broken. These hands hold what is left of our city. Take this water and this earth—our offering of surrender."
The chests clanged open. Inside lay no jewels, no gold—only sand, dry and weighty, and a jug of water. The ragged men lifted them high.
Cyrus stepped forward, his golden guardian looming behind him. He took the jug, raised it, and poured its contents slowly into the sand.
The water vanished instantly into the dust.
"By offering me your dirt and water, you have willingly surrendered your city. Thus, Achaemedia shall answer handsomely. None of you shall be plundered, and none of your family will be torn. We will rebuild your city. That's what I, Cyrus Alargon, promise to you." Cyrus smiled sincerely at him, putting his hand on Myrian's shoulder.
Before Cyrus, those men keneeled.
The Prince waved his hand.
"Raise my beloved subjects! This is dawn and because of that you shall witness it as the same height as me." He declared, smiled, and humbly lowered his body at his subjects.
When the leader took Cyrus's hand, a grateful expression emerged on his face.
Cyrus turned his body to his army before raising his voice.
"My faithful soldiers. Victory is ours! Treat those inside the city with our grace and make them into a greater version of themselves." A roar erupted from the army. A resounding cheer of victory that shall echo through history from centuries to beyond.
"Join me in my march into the city, if you want it of course." Cyrus glanced back at them.
"If you will it, Prince Cyrus." The messenger bows.
"Bring me my horse and embrace the people of the city." He ordered, and soon, a golden armored white horse was brought before them.
"Direct me to Myr's palace. Gather your people, and I shall decree our laws to them. We also will bring you foods," Cyrus said as he rode his horse.
The Achaemedian slowly entered Myr; its gate lay open for them. However, cheers were at an all-time low because of Cyrus and his army's overwhelming dread.
Dragons fly in the sky, roaring victoriously. Their exotic form draws attention and fear. Cyrus's army marches slowly, with heavy infantry in the rear, separating the crowd from the army.
Cyrus knows it. Even with an organised coup d'état, people are still numerous and diverse. Some show their hope in him, while others are fearful and anxious.
It took him several minutes to arrive at the palace. It was slightly damaged by dragon fire and canons, smoked, and tattered, yet it still showed its glory in architecture.
The Myrish palace's gate was open, and the inner court people bowed their heads to Cyrus. As the emmisary described, only a handful of Magistrates were alive; the rest were ordinary people who took part in the rebellion.
Cyrus slowly descended from his horse, followed by the golden Custodians.
"Bring me to the upper wall." He requested, smiling at the guard. Thus, they escorted him.
When Cyrus arrived at the said place, he saw people of Myr gathered and watching him.
This is his chance to gather support for legitimacy. A civilization was not built by a king or wealth but by its people and wisdom. When Cyrus studied their expressions, he found they were people who never realized their worth and right, buried deep inside the culture that Valyrians had spread across Essos.
"People of Myr!" Cyrus started. But to the surprise of many, he is using High Valyrian. "I may have come as a conqueror. However, as your ruler, I shall become your steward. This city will be rebuilt, and your families will be fed. Tomorrow, with my power, I will immediately use my resources to meet your needs. In the name of my House and soul of my father, I shall become your guardian for a brighter future."
Thus, the war for the Triarchy is over.