"Bad news—Graulon's running!"
Tristan came barreling in, breathless, and dumped the intel straight on the dwarf.
Tyrion blinked. "Running?"
Weren't they supposed to fight to the last man? Die with Myr or whatever the hell they'd been shouting?
Tristan caught his breath. "Graulon's a coward. The second he saw the dragons were winning, he sent his warlock troops out as bait and took his fortune out of the city."
"So he's using the old Valyrian road?"
Tyrion's mind jumped ahead fast. He knew the layout. Of the nine Free Cities, only Braavos didn't have old Valyrian bones under it. Myr was different—no black stone walls like Tyrosh or Volantis—just that ancient paved road running out toward the Disputed Lands. Perfect escape route if you moved fast and didn't care who you left behind.
"If Graulon bolts, we're just going to have to fight this war all over again later," Tristan said, clearly worried.
Tyrion actually grinned. "That's the best thing I've heard all day."
If the loudest war hawks were already running, what was left to resist? The rest of Myr would fold. All they had to do was help it happen a little faster.
"Listen to me, my governor friend."
Tyrion elbowed Tristan in the thigh and got serious. "Graulon's gone. What about the other governors? Especially the war hawks and the neutrals?"
Tristan wasn't slow. He caught the angle immediately and laid it all out.
"Spies say the war hawks already got Graulon's message. They're packing up right now. The neutrals are still dithering."
Tyrion's eyes lit up. This was it—the opening he'd been waiting for. If he helped the king take Myr, even just sped things up a little, that was real credit. Real standing.
He snapped his fingers. "Earlier you said someone sent a warlock unit out to die?"
"That's right. They belong to Graulon."
Tristan emphasized the word like it mattered.
"Perfect."
Tyrion grabbed him and started pulling him toward the door, grinning like a kid who just found the cookie jar.
"Come on. We're going to kick their back door in."
Finally. Time to do some proper backstabbing.
---
At the canal, fifteen longships floated in formation. Three hundred soldiers moved with grim purpose, locking their polished mirror-shields into tight ranks and angling them toward the sky and the water.
On the lead boats, a dozen warlocks stood chanting. Some held bowls of water, others clutched tortoise shells or bone necklaces. Their voices rose and fell in ugly rhythm.
Dozens of ragged men and women—blood slaves—had been herded to the edge of the canal. Their hands and feet were bound. They looked half-dead already, pale and hollow-eyed. Spears kept them in line.
It looked exactly like what it was: a blood sacrifice.
"They're coming," one of the black-robed warlocks muttered, staring upward.
A young gray-white dragon drifted into view, spat an orange fireball, then circled lazily, letting out a long, high cry.
"That's the dragon. Bring it down," the red-bearded governor barked from the shore.
The lead warlock studied the dragon for a moment, then knelt and plunged both hands into the cold canal water. The bone necklace around his neck dipped in with him. The other warlocks moved in unison, chanting faster, clutching their tools.
On the bank, soldiers suddenly drove their spears through the bound prisoners. Blood sprayed across the water in bright arcs. One after another the sacrifices died, their blood turning the clear channel red.
A fat woman took a spear through the gut. She dropped, gasping, and hissed her last words through bloody teeth.
"I curse you all… you'll die screaming in dragonfire…"
They were witches, priests, shamans—people from a dozen different traditions who'd been tricked, captured, and turned into tools. Now they were just fuel.
The water began to churn. Ripples spread, then rose into twisting columns that climbed higher and higher.
"Bad news," Tyrion muttered as he rode up on his dwarf elephant, gleaming in gilded armor with a short sword at his hip. He looked ridiculous and knew it. He didn't care.
"Warriors!" he shouted. "Kill every last one of these evil bastards! No mercy!"
Hundreds of mercenaries surged forward behind him. Tristan rode a white horse at their head, then reined in at the last second while his men kept charging.
The shore guards never stood a chance.
One of the governors tried to run, screaming about betrayal. The dwarf elephant simply trampled him flat with a wet crunch.
"Good girl, Tessa," Tyrion said cheerfully, patting the elephant's neck while he struggled to pull his too-long sword free. "Damn Myr blacksmiths. Don't they know some of us have short arms?"
A spearman lunged at him. One of the mercenaries cut the man down before he got close.
"Thanks," Tyrion said.
The mercenary glanced back, deadpan. "If you really want to thank me, tell your governor friend to pay us more."
"Not happening," Tyrion shot back. "I'm the dwarf here, but he's not my boss. My boss rides dragons."
The man snorted and threw himself back into the fight.
Tyrion watched him go with genuine appreciation. "I like that one."
Across the canal the warlocks felt the pressure. Their water magic faltered, the columns of water growing wild and uneven.
One of them yanked his hands out of the canal. "We can't wait anymore!"
The warlocks moved together. The soldiers on the boats raised their mirror-shields high, catching the sunlight and flashing it toward the young gray dragon above.
The dragon's pupils narrowed. It let out an angry cry and climbed higher into the smoke, cautious.
On the shore, Tyrion saw the setup and shouted, "Stop them! Now!"
Mercenaries threw spears and daggers, but the shields held.
Then a fresh group of Myr soldiers came running out of a side street like the devil himself was on their heels.
Tyrion turned and recognized the colors. Main war faction troops.
"Shit."
High above, a streak of red tore through the clouds.
Caraxes dove like a crimson spear.
"Dragonfire," Daeron said, voice flat.
The red dragon opened his jaws. Flame poured down and swallowed the fleeing soldiers whole.
Grey Shadow poked its head out of the smoke, saw Daeron, and immediately grew bold. It spat its own fireball.
Daeron took in the bloody canal, the boats full of shield-bearing soldiers, and the chanting warlocks.
"Blood magic?"
His face went cold.
He gave them three seconds.
The water columns climbed higher, twisting like living things.
Then he spoke again.
"Dragonfire, Caraxes."
The red dragon dove. Flame hit the boats like a hammer. Shields shattered. Wood exploded. Warlocks screamed as the canal boiled around them.
Daeron watched the wreckage settle and shook his head.
"Too much wind-up. You had your chance."
He wheeled Caraxes around and flew back toward the main fight, ready to finish taking the city.
On the bank, the mercenaries backed away fast, suddenly very aware of how small they were next to a dragon.
Tyrion stayed where he was, staring after the crimson shape disappearing into the smoke.
"No matter how many times I see it," he said quietly, "dragons are still the most beautiful monsters in the world."