Chapter 140– A Dragon in the Mist
Rhaegar stood on the flat roof of a nearby low-rise, watching the chaos unfolding in front of the Fountain of the Wine God; the onlookers had long since scattered like clouds before a storm, fleeing the bloodshed.
Both sides were at daggers drawn. The Archon of Tyrosh had four hundred elite guards; Governor Dario commanded even more, but his ranks were a mixed bag, a patchwork coalition that would hold little real advantage once blades crossed.
"Each side has its scruples," Rhaegar mused. If they truly threw caution aside, these soldiers would charge like wild beasts without shield-walls—yet around Dario still stood Tyroshi nobles, merchants, and envoys from Lys and Myr; striking rashly would mean harming their own.
Rhaegar noted the guard formation: shield-wall in front, mounted crossbowmen behind—an excellent position. The Archon still held the title of ruler; but to crush such opposition required ruthless resolve.
Armor clashed; soldiers shouted, yet no one attacked.
From the rear of the cavalry a rider appeared—purple-haired, purple-bearded, the Archon of Tyrosh in bright violet plate.
"Dario, you go too far!" the Archon leveled his riding crop at Governor Dario.
"Archon, heed the people's cry!" Governor Dario shot back. "In Tyrosh, at the Fountain of the Wine God, on the quays, at the Weeping Tower, beside the Black Wall, along the shore—everywhere—women, men, sailors, warriors all roar in fury. They ask but one thing: what is our Archon doing? Does he fear the dragonlord and his three dragons, willing to abandon Tyrosh's claim to the Stepstones and cast aside old friendship with Lys and Myr? In better days we shattered the Dragonlords and won our freedom."
"I am neither deaf nor dumb, Dario! Our friendship with Lys and Myr vanished after the Battle of the Howling Sea; we have clawed one another for years—the Three Daughters have bled for ages, you know this better than I. I serve Tyrosh's greater good, not vanity or the whispers of agitators who would hurl us back into war and set our widows weeping again. I have not taken a single copper from the Iron Throne's treaty, whereas you—count for yourself the Lyseni and Myrish gold you've pocketed."
"Lies!" "Coward!" "You are unworthy, Archon—Targaryen puppet, craven!" Waves of protest rose from Dario's camp, his supporters unrelenting. "Take up arms, Archon—retake the Stepstones!"
"Should Tyrosh burn again because of fools, you will be the chief war-monger, Dario!" the Archon thundered.
"We stand with Lys and Myr. Give the word and we will marshal a hundred warships to crush the boy who calls himself Lord of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea. We slew dragons before—we shall do so again!" Dario roared. "To war, Archon!"
The standoff blazed white-hot. High above, Rhaegar crouched on a rooftop, watching the snarling mass below. In Tyrosh's inner city such flat-topped hovels were easy to find; from them a blue-haired flutist and an eager leopard could watch unseen.
The chaos mounted; battle might erupt any instant.
Rhaegar spotted a mercenary disguised as a Myrish merchant at the rear of Dario's ranks, crossbow already leveled at the Archon. His position was sly, the quarrel tipped with eerie blue poison—olive skin and slender frame marked him plainly as a man of Myr.
With the Archon dead, Lys and Myr would have the chaos they craved.
Thwip! The shaft hissed through the air and punched through the mercenary's throat. Startled, the man loosed his crossbow weakly; the bolt fell short. Instead of dealing death, death claimed him—he choked on his own hot blood and toppled.
The mercenary crashed to the ground with a dull thud.
"Assassin!"
"Assassin!" The rooftop archer had vanished; Rhaegar shifted position. A goldenheart longbow could reach four hundred yards, but a dragonglass longbow was among the strongest in the world. Rhaegar had sped one shaft and slain the rogue, then slipped the bow back into his bronze ring. He could have shot Dario first, but that would have doomed all hope of order.
Rhaegar thought of the Faceless Men, whose sorcery let them change faces at will; he wondered what runes or spells empowered them, and meant to learn.
The first blood of Tyrosh's civil strife had been spilled.
"They tried to kill the Archon!" The guards saw the twitching corpse, the poisoned quarrel in the dust, and surged forward with naked steel—no one touched their liege.
A chill raced the Archon's spine—some unseen hand had saved him. Yet scouring the distance, he could spy no archer.
"Cut them down!" The guards charged, blades and bright armor flashing.
Governor Dario stepped back; his fanatic mercenaries clenched their teeth and met the assault—steel rang, blood flowed, curses flew.
Shouts of charge and slaughter mingled with the hiss of close-range quarrels and the thud of hurled spears.
The street became a cauldron of blood, screams, and clashing iron.
The Archon's elite guards advanced, reaping Dario's henchmen like wheat—advantage of armor and discipline told.
"The High Priest comes!" someone shouted; both sides froze.
"Enough!" A tall, stooped old man stepped forward, hair snow-white, clad in a bright purple robe bearing the sigil of the three-headed god. "If you still grant this old man respect, do not tear Tyrosh stone from stone."
"High Priest!"
"High Priest!" Both lines lowered their weapons.
From afar Rhaegar studied the priest—clearly a high cleric of Tyrosh's three-headed faith.
"Most Holy One!"
"Most Holy One!" Archon and Governor alike addressed him.
Priestly authority weighed heavily in Tyrosh; though seldom seen, when the ministers of the three-headed god spoke, the faithful listened.
"State your wish, Governor Dario," the High Priest demanded.
"War or peace is Tyrosh's crux. Join the alliance of the Three Daughters and strike for the Stepstones; or, failing that, convene the Council of Magisters and share rule while we debate."
"At supper, three cannot share one sausage; I prefer to dine alone," the Archon sneered—in Tyrosh the Council bowed to the Archon.
"Forbearance, peace, truce! Whoever openly wages war becomes an enemy of the three-headed god," the High Priest declared.
Tyroshi silence fell; then each commander stepped forward, knelt, and kissed the priest's ring.
Both sides gathered their dead and withdrew, a fragile truce in place.
Faith, power, and foreign threats—Tyrosh grows ever more intriguing, Rhaegar reflected.
Tyrosh lay cloaked in mist, and he would remain the dragon hidden within.
A dragon in the mist, veiled by reef and sea-fog, will not easily show itself.
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