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The crackling roars of flames echoed through the Eastern District.
Buildings with weathered walls, mottled by the passage of years, collapsed one after another under the onslaught of searing orange dragonfire.
These were old structures, most of them once used for hand weaving and dyeing.
Inside, the abundance of flammable materials—bundles of linen, bolts of cloth, and mounds of fibrous plant matter—fed the inferno like dry tinder caught in a storm-driven blaze.
As the dragonfire devoured these materials, it grew increasingly violent and unrestrained. It surged outward in all directions with terrifying speed.
In the blink of an eye, nearly a third of the Eastern District was swallowed by fire.
Agonized screams tore through the smoke-choked air.
Mercenaries, civilians, and slaves alike—many already engulfed in flames—burst from their hiding places in desperate attempts to survive.
They flailed and rolled across the scorched stone streets, trying in vain to extinguish the flames devouring their bodies.
But dragonfire was not so easily quenched.
Within mere minutes, these fleeing souls were reduced to nothing more than smoldering corpses, their blackened remains still emitting smoke.
High above the chaos, Jacaerys felt as though he were immersed in a brutal, hyper-realistic war game.
Riding atop Vermax, it felt like he wielded a living flamethrower; wherever he directed the dragon, devastation followed.
Beneath them, aside from the fleeing figures that had become walking torches, the streets were filled with panicked masses.
People ran in all directions, clutching their heads or holding onto loved ones, searching desperately for safety.
Yet Jacaerys' focus remained steady. He needed to identify his true targets amidst the chaos.
He did not see himself as a man who killed indiscriminately; there was no joy for him in burning the innocent without cause.
Furthermore, the winding layout of the Eastern District made it difficult to trap everyone in one sweeping strike. Without the aid of wildfire pitch, it would be impossible to eliminate them all swiftly.
After some time observing from above, Jacaerys spotted two small groups moving with striking coordination and purpose.
One group was heading toward a massive temple with deep gray walls, a black-tiled roof, and a solemn set of black and white double doors.
The other group was fleeing toward a towering structure drenched in crimson, surrounded by blazing bonfires—the Temple of the Lord of Light.
The House of Black and White and the Temple of R'hllor.
Both groups had chosen to seek refuge in sacred sanctuaries. Did they truly believe the gods would save them?
As Jacaerys weighed which group to pursue first, a sharp whistle sliced through the air.
A single arrow flew from the team near the House of Black and White, aimed directly at Vermax's lower chest.
Seeking death so soon? Then I shall oblige.
Even as the thought passed through his mind, Jacaerys recognized the act for what it was—a deliberate provocation meant to draw his attention.
Yet the fresh insult from the archer, combined with the deep-seated grudge he bore toward the Faceless Men of the House of Black and White, made the decision for him.
With no further hesitation, Jacaerys directed Vermax into a rapid descent toward the gray-walled temple.
With a powerful flap of his wings, Vermax closed the distance in an instant. Above the group, he unleashed a torrent of dragonfire.
Flames cascaded downward in a blazing torrent, consuming the street in seconds. At least half the mercenaries didn't even have time to react; their bodies were instantly charred beyond recognition.
Amid the chaos, one figure caught Jacaerys' eye.
This person was nimble—unnaturally so. Leaping and dodging through the fire, he charged forward and slammed into the doors of the House of Black and White, disappearing inside.
Jacaerys did not immediately give chase.
Instead, he first circled overhead and methodically flushed out the remaining mercenaries hiding in adjacent buildings.
Wherever they ran, Vermax's fire found them. Only once the surroundings were clear did he fly toward the temple entrance with a grim determination.
As Vermax circled the House of Black and White, Jacaerys ordered a continuous barrage of flames, sealing off all possible escape routes.
Suddenly, a second arrow shot out from the rooftop of the temple. Jacaerys reacted in a heartbeat, urging Vermax to rise just slightly in altitude.
The arrow struck against Vermax's scaled chest and bounced away with a metallic clang.
Interesting.
The archer had aimed precisely at the broken patch of scales on Vermax's chest—a known weakness.
Jacaerys narrowed his eyes at the figure standing defiantly atop the temple roof. A cold smile played on his lips.
So, he had realized his escape was blocked and had chosen to gamble it all on a bold, desperate attempt to slay the dragon by exploiting its weakness.
A daring plan, indeed.
With a thunderous roar, Vermax surged forward, diving straight toward the archer. His wings beat furiously, propelling him through the smoke-thick air.
The archer, perhaps sensing the end drawing near, exhaled heavily and calmly performed his final act.
Without even aiming, he drew an arrow, nocked it, pulled back the bowstring, and released—all in a single, fluid motion born of instinct and mastery.
The arrow streaked into the sky.
But it was no match for what came next.
A tidal wave of dragonfire erupted from Vermax's gaping maw, filling the sky with heat and flame.
The arrow passed through the blaze, its shaft and fletching reduced to ash. Only the iron head survived, tumbling uselessly to the ground.
A heartbeat later, Vermax's massive body tore through the dissipating firestorm and slammed onto the temple's roof.
The archer didn't even have time to scream.
The full weight of the dragon crushed him entirely, flattening him into a smear of blood and bone.
Jacaerys never learned the man's name. Nor did he care.
What interested him more was whether this kill had awarded him 10 trait points.
He glanced at the system prompt that had just refreshed.
Then, with an indifferent expression, he resumed the assault.
Dragonfire poured down upon the House of Black and White, and with it came cries of agony and terror from within.
The ancient order of the Faceless Men had always been formidable when it came to assassination and poison. But up here, in the skies, astride a fire-breathing dragon, Jacaerys had no fear of them.
No matter how skilled they were in the art of killing, what could they do now?
When the temple had been completely engulfed in flames and no voices rose from within, Jacaerys finally turned his gaze toward the horizon.
Not far away, the crimson temple of the Lord of Light still stood, surrounded by sacred fire.
Another temple remained. Another target awaited.
…
Meanwhile, on the southern edge of Tyrosh's harbor, near the port, a figure cloaked in humble garb moved swiftly through the crowds.
It was Saba, expertly disguised, his features hidden beneath a worn hood. Walking beside him was the concealed Archon Pachek, followed closely by a handful of loyal retainers.
Saba cast a final glance toward the Eastern District, where flames reached high into the sky like blazing pillars. The air was thick with black smoke and the acrid stench of burning.
A glimmer of pain flickered across his face, but it vanished almost instantly, replaced by steely resolve.
To secure an escape route for himself and the Archon, he had sacrificed everything—his most trusted men, his elite Ranger Company. They had been sent to lure the emerald-green dragon away, a desperate yet necessary act.
But to Saba, the loss was justified. What mattered now was survival. If he could escape Tyrosh with Pachek still under his control, then all would not be lost.
The Archon's vast fortune, though not enough to restore Saba to his former glory, would ensure a life of comfort and quiet power far from this crumbling city.
Pachek had concealed his true identity for safety, but a single whispered name of a known magister had been enough. The guards at the port, slaves tasked with maintaining order, had stepped aside immediately and granted them passage.
They were ushered aboard a medium-sized merchant vessel, its sails already half-unfurled and swaying with the sea breeze.
With a snap of ropes and the rising chant of sailors, the sails dropped fully into place. Oars dipped into the water as the crew rowed with urgency, eager to leave the cursed city behind.
As the ship glided into open waters, Saba and Pachek stood silently at the prow, their faces grim.
Each man was lost in thought, calculating the uncertain path ahead, unaware that fate had already closed its jaws around them.
Suddenly, a deafening commotion erupted from the port. Shouts rang out. Cries of terror spread through the crowd like wildfire as people pointed upward, their faces pale with dread.
Instinctively, heads turned skyward.
A brilliant streak of orange light descended from the heavens, growing larger with each passing second.
It was Vermax.
The dragon tore through the clouds, a blazing harbinger of annihilation. Without a moment's hesitation, it unleashed a torrent of searing flame.
The merchant vessel that carried Saba and Archon Pachek was instantly consumed in a storm of fire. Splinters, charred sails, and burning bodies vanished into the roaring inferno.
But Vermax did not stop there.
Every ship that had departed from Tyrosh's harbor in that brief window was targeted in turn. One by one, they were reduced to floating pyres.
No vessel was spared. No route of escape remained.
Jacaerys had burned the Temple of R'hllor to the ground, but he could not be absolutely certain that the Archon had perished within the inferno.
To eliminate all doubt, he had chosen to destroy every ship that might carry the man away. If Pachek had survived, he would still be trapped in the city. There would be no second chance to flee.
Back at the harbor, the slave-soldiers manning the defenses were thrown into panic. Some considered raising their siege ballistas for one final, hopeless stand.
But before they could act, legions of soldiers from Bloodstone surged into the harbor, followed by columns of expendable troops—human waves meant to overwhelm through sheer force of numbers.
At the forefront of the charge marched several magisters who had been thoroughly humiliated and broken during Jacaerys' campaign. They barked orders through bloodied lips and trembling voices.
Faced with overwhelming force and the fiery terror looming in the sky, the slave-soldiers dropped their weapons. One by one, they fell to their knees in surrender. The last embers of their rebellion were extinguished.
A moment later, a thunderous crash shook the harbor as Vermax descended from above. His massive body landed in the open square with an impact that cracked stone and sent clouds of dust billowing into the air.
Then came the roar.
A sound so deafening and fierce that it rolled across the city like thunder sent down by the gods.
Vermax lifted his head and bellowed into the heavens, a cry of fire and dominance that silenced all other sounds.
And as if on cue, tens of thousands of civilians, slaves, and soldiers dropped to their knees. Like fields of wheat bowing beneath a storm, they knelt in perfect unison.
In truth, Jacaerys had always known exactly what he wanted to do—and what he was capable of.
To strengthen Vermax's power, he had mercilessly harvested the lives of his enemies across Essos, accumulating trait points one by one. With fear and death as his weapons, he crushed all opposition beneath his feet.
Though he had seized Tyrosh through sheer might, he had no intention of staying. He was a foreigner here, a Westerosi in a strange land.
To remain would be to invite endless assassination attempts from the Faceless Men, silent strikes from the shadows, poison slipped into his wine, daggers in the dark.
Perhaps one day, when the Seven Kingdoms were pacified and the Iron Throne was his by right, he would return—this time with the full strength of Westeros behind him—to truly conquer and rule over Essos.
Perhaps he would go even further still, uniting the entire world beneath a single banner, forging an everlasting dominion that no ruler before him had dared to dream of.
But that time had not yet come.
For now, what he needed was to reap trait points.
And through Vermax, his living instrument of fire and death, he would make all creation kneel before him.
..
..
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[Chapter End's]
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