Chapter 143 – The Dragon Arrives in Tyrosh
"The Archon is dead!" "The Archon who conspired with the Westerosi dragon is dead!"
The war began at dusk; assassins surged like angry waves toward the Archon's palace, while others, already disguised, suddenly struck at the High Priest's small temple.
"Governor Dario's losing and flipping the table?" Rhaegar thought. The Lysene and Myrish merchants had been working on Dario day and night, and the man was completely convinced. Taking out both the Archon and the High Priest in one go was a wicked, insane plan—yet the madness might just work on the Tyroshi, who, like rats, were used to obeying a strong leader. They had endured the Ninepenny King crowning himself; perhaps they would endure Dario's usurpation as well.
"Assassins!" "Assassins! Protect His Holiness the High Priest!" The guards of the Spear of the Three-Headed God roared as they ringed the little temple.
In the night the enemy proved more savage than expected; arrows rained in sheets. These were likely no Tyroshi at all—assassins picked precisely because they were no believers of the Three-Headed God, and they struck to kill.
The High Priest's guard lost several men in disarray and fled inside the temple.
"Bar the gates! No one opens them, no matter what!" the High Priest shouted.
The temple was a red, three-storey house with low walls; the gates were shut fast, and the enemy set to ramming them and scaling the walls.
"Arrows! War-drums!"
"Find two loud mouths and some who can use crossbows or longbows—follow me to the roof!" Rhaegar shouted, his voice like steel. He was the most battle-seasoned man in the temple right now.
"Obey our guest!" The High Priest looked shaken; Governor Dario clearly wanted him dead. All his vigilance was only in his mind—no troops, no magic—so danger closed from every side.
On the third-floor roof Rhaegar drew the black double-curved dragonglass longbow, arms corded, and loosed shafts like spurting fire. His arrows had large heads and long shafts. "Shout with me: someone means to murder the High Priest!"
"Yes, sir!" "Yes, sir!" Two Spear guards with booming voices answered.
"Tyroshi citizens, wake! They would kill our High Priest!"
"Tyroshi citizens, help us! They would kill our High Priest!" The guards bellowed from the roof; war-drums answered, rolling across the night to throw another torch onto Tyrosh's chaos.
"Shut them up! Shoot those men on the roof!" The besieging assassins paled, yelling at their men to scale the walls faster.
Crossbowmen aimed viciously at Rhaegar—useless; the Three-Headed Eagle God's protection was fully active, and he sensed danger within a hundred yards.
"Watch the blue-haired masked man!" "Watch the blue hair!" The assassins shrieked, yet could not break in.
Rhaegar's bow was peerless, a weapon of more than four-hundred-yard range; using it on wall-scaling thugs was overkill.
Clad in black scale-mail, he held the night-black double-curved dragonglass bow—one of the strongest in the world, long-ranged and terrible. The tall double curve looked daunting to all who saw it.
"Beat the drums! Shout! Shoot!" Rhaegar nocked and sent shaft after shaft.
Assassins trying the walls were pinned dead; a ring of corpses circled the ancient temple, blood the chief color staining Tyrosh's inner city that night.
Ordinary men cannot draw a bow for long, but Rhaegar was a true dragon; inner fire blazed, and a Dragonlord's stamina far exceeds mortal limits.
Heartened, the Spear guards joined his rhythm; those below held the gate, while the guards on the roof fired downward.
For a time the fight seesawed: the temple a small boat in a stormy sea, yet impossible to board.
Seeing the stalemate, many assassins already thought of retreat.
"When did such a monster appear!" The assault leader's legs shook—he knew too well the price of failure.
"We'd better pull back—" One assassin began, but before he could finish, a dark warhammer swung; one blow crushed his skull like a smashed melon, red and white splattering everywhere.
"Useless wretches!" Several reinforcements appeared—tall, short, fat, lean, all murderous. Their leader, a brawny man of about forty, cursed without wiping the gore from his huge black hammer. Bare-chested, he stood over six-and-a-half feet tall, corded with muscle and scarred across torso and belly, his eyes cruel and wild.
"Out of my way!"
"Meereenese?" Rhaegar realized. From their appearance, this elite squad had been hired at great cost from Meereen's fighting pits.
"Stand aside! Only cowards hide in armor!"
"Cowards wear steel! Cowards use bows!" the gladiator roared. The assassins parted as he and his men charged, swinging the great hammer to shatter the gate. He thundered forward, surprisingly fast for his size.
"Pity—if you're to die as a saboteur, you should at least wear a helmet." Rhaegar's arrow flew faster than thought. The powerful shaft hissed through the night and pierced the man's neck, leaving a crimson hole; the giant collapsed like a falling tower, hitting the ground with a heavy thud.
"Shoot the strongest targets first; strike the leader before the rest."
Rhaegar did not pause. Arrows kept flying—throats, hearts, eyes—those Meereenese gladiators disdained armor; even if they wore any, the longbow found every gap. The double-curved dragonglass bow seemed to sing as it claimed lives, each arrow adding another corpse to the ground.
Only a Dragonlord, sustained by fire and magic, could maintain such relentless fire. A common soldier's arm would have failed long ago, especially under return fire.
Bodies lay tangled, Meereenese gladiators prominent among them.
"Bless the Three-Headed God!" "Bless the Three-Headed God!" The Spear guards cheered, praying to their deity and thanking the blue-haired guest who had saved them.
"A gladiator! Why throw your life away?" Rhaegar sighed. These Meereenese fighters battled like arena slaves—wild, reckless, without tactics, and they despised armor. In the pits, no one wore steel; the crowd wanted blood, severed limbs, and final screams.
"Lord Warhammer is dead!" "Lord Warhammer is dead!" the assassins cried, no longer daring to advance; they left piles of corpses behind them.
When they saw their champions from Meereen slain, the assassins scattered in panic. The smarter ones had already fled; the slower ones were caught by enraged Tyroshi citizens.
Armed Tyroshi citizens and mercenaries poured into the streets, shouting as they rushed to the temple to defend the High Priest.
Tyroshi citizens and mercenaries—devout followers of the Three-Headed God—struck the assassins in a chaotic, bloody scene. Some were captured; others were beaten to death on the spot.
Rhaegar slipped into a corner; a small blue flame flickered in his palm. Through it, he watched the Archon's palace. More mercenary companies assaulted the walls under Governor Dario himself, yet still failed to break through. Rhaegar even saw armored Shireen inside, directing the defense. Seeing her safe, he exhaled—but the Archon's life still hung in the balance.
"We demand to see the High Priest!"
"We demand to see the High Priest!" The cries rose among Tyroshi citizens and mercenaries, swelling like a tide. They ignored the blood and corpses; only the High Priest's safety mattered.
"Go greet your victory, Your Holiness!" Rhaegar told him. Nothing could calm the people faster than the High Priest himself.
The High Priest looked older; Tyrosh had suffered one disaster after another—first the Ninepenny King, now civil war.
"I thank you for your friendship, Prince Rhaegar. You have not interfered in Tyrosh's internal affairs." Such a moment was no place for Rhaegar to appear publicly.
"My companions will arrive soon," Rhaegar replied calmly.
The High Priest's heart sank. Those companions could only be dragons. Tyrosh lay too close to the Stepstones; they could arrive swiftly.
"Lys and Myr have already become Tyrosh's enemies, Prince. Do not become one as well," the High Priest warned gravely.
"Rest easy. This situation already favors me—I have your friendship. I have no need to destroy Tyrosh. The dragons come only to protect me and mine. But without them, how will this chaos end? Sometimes a sharp blade is needed to cut through knots."
The High Priest fell silent; he could not deny the logic.
"Then promise me—spare the innocent and restrain the dragons," he said at last.
"I promise. Power comes from the hearts of the people. End this chaos quickly—this is your chance."
The High Priest gave no further reply. He ordered the gates opened. After ensuring the square was safe, he stepped outside, guarded by priests and slave-soldiers.
Standing before the crowd, he regained his dignity, raising his voice:
"Look at my white hair! I have served the Three-Headed God faithfully, without greed. Yet assassins came to kill me, defiling this sacred temple. Is this my failing? Or the god's trial?"
"Merciful Three-Headed God, answer me!"
He knelt before the statue.
"Protect the High Priest! Kill the blasphemers!"
"Protect the High Priest! Kill the traitors of Lys and Myr!" The crowd roared like thunder.
From the rooftop, Rhaegar watched silently—the power of faith was terrifying.
"This is Tyrosh's darkest hour. Who dares offend the Three-Headed God?"
Captured assassins were dragged forward, beaten until they confessed.
"I demand an answer from Governor Dario! Why are these assassins linked to Lysene and Myrish merchants in his palace? If he does not answer, I will kneel at his gates forever!"
The crowd surged into a massive wave, marching toward Dario.
"Traitor Dario!"
"Execute Dario!"
"Execute the dogs of Lys and Myr!"
As the crowd moved, Rhaegar heard the sound of wings.
His dragons had arrived.
Three dragons descended from the clouds, hidden by night, landing near him.
The temple stood nearly empty now.
Tyrosh had descended into chaos; no organized resistance remained.
Though some city guards glimpsed shadows in the sky, dragons had been gone too long—few reacted in time.
"Nothing is certain anymore!" a captain shouted, trying to deploy scorpion bolt throwers, but his own men hesitated.
Above, the three dragons soared—silver, purple, and black-red—breathing fire into the sky like living disasters.
"Come, my friends!" Rhaegar leapt onto the Silver Emperor's back and flew toward the Archon's palace.
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