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Essos – Myr
Myr was one of the Nine Free Cities of Essos, famous across the known world for its glass, lace, and masterfully forged weapons. In the southern reaches of the continent, Myr controlled the arms trade. Rumor claimed its engineers could build giant crossbows capable of bringing down dragons.
In the original timeline, Edmure Tully of the Riverlands had used a batch of those very crossbows to bloody Tywin Lannister's forces.
The city sat beside a deep natural harbor on the western coast of Essos. Its high, thick walls were built of pale gray limestone that gleamed like pearl in the sunlight. Inside the walls, narrow winding streets were lined with three- and four-story stone buildings. Balconies and windows overflowed with flowers, softening the city's industrial reputation.
Myr's real wealth lay in its eastern workshop district. Hundreds of chimneys belched smoke day and night—glassblowing shops, weapon forges, textile mills, and dye works. Myr's artisans were legendary. Their stained glass adorned temples from Oldtown to Qarth. Their lace graced noble wardrobes from King's Landing to Asshai. Their weapons were prized by sellswords and warlords everywhere.
As the richest of the southern Free Cities, Myr had long been a target. Even the Dothraki knew that inside these walls they could acquire the finest steel. Because of that, the coastal city suffered more frequent raids and extortion from the horse-lords than the inland cities.
Yet this prosperity rested on a brutal foundation: slavery.
Myr ran one of the largest slave markets in Essos. Thousands of slaves labored in the workshops, mines, and great houses—stripped of freedom, stripped of hope, condemned to endless drudgery. The slave trade in Slaver's Bay and Volantis endured largely because cities like Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh kept the demand alive. The Dothraki, like locusts, ravaged the western continent, destroying civilizations and selling their people into bondage. Myr consumed more slaves than any other city, followed closely by Lys and Tyrosh.
Today, the city's fragile peace shattered.
In the square before the Governor's Palace, a crowd gathered. At first only dozens, then hundreds, finally thousands. Most were slaves in ragged clothes, faces etched with years of exhaustion and pain. But today their eyes burned with something new—hope, or perhaps fanatical belief.
They came from every trade, the most oppressed people in the city. Every head was wrapped in a black cloth—their agreed-upon signal, the mark of the force they now served. They carried crude weapons: shovels, hammers, kitchen knives, even sharpened sticks.
Mixed among them were men wearing the uniforms of Myr's city guard—also wrapped in black cloth, holding proper steel: swords, spears, crossbows. These were soldiers who had turned. Most came from the lower ranks and had long hated their masters.
Like Volantis, Lys depended heavily on slaves—one free citizen for every three slaves. That ratio was terrifying. Even worse, the rulers had made the fatal mistake of conscripting some slaves into the city guard and army, then continued to beat and insult them while treating them as inferiors. The slaves of Essos were powder kegs stacked high. One spark and they would explode.
This was inevitable. After the Doom of Valyria, the colonies the dragonlords had built slowly lost their former glory. Those colonies existed only to serve Valyria's needs—needs built on magic and the power of dragons. When that power vanished, the colonies lost the ability to maintain order. Volantis had tried to restore it and was crushed by the other cities; even Aegon the Conqueror himself had joined the attack.
"Freedom!" A tall man stood on a hastily built wooden platform, screaming until his voice cracked. Once a mine slave, his back was a map of whip scars. "No more beatings! No more chains! No more masters!"
"Freedom!" the crowd roared back, the sound like thunder rolling across the square and slamming into the thick stone walls of the Governor's Palace.
The palace sat on the highest ground in the city center—a solid square fortress with towers at each corner and arrow slits in the walls. Every gate was now shut tight, the drawbridge raised. Loyal guards lined the battlements, but their numbers were clearly fewer than the rebels, and their morale was collapsing. Many stared down at the men who had once been their comrades, friends, even brothers, hands trembling on their weapons.
Slave revolts had happened in Myr before, but never on this scale. These slaves had been organized in advance. Their preparation was thorough. Many key points inside the city had already fallen. Only the armory inside the Governor's Palace had kept the rebels from overrunning the entire city.
In front of the palace gate, one group stood out sharply.
Viserys Targaryen sat atop a tall white warhorse, wearing ornate silver-and-black armor carved with dragon-scale patterns, the shoulder plates shaped like spreading dragon wings. A ruby-studded crown rested on his head. His silver-gold hair shone like molten gold in the sunlight, and his violet eyes glittered with excitement and arrogance. He looked every inch the reborn Dragonlord—at least, that was what he believed.
The man once called the Beggar King now radiated confidence. Clothes and a saddle could transform anyone.
Beside him rode Ser Jorah Mormont. The exiled knight from Bear Island wore plain mail and leather, his face lined with weariness and worry. His hand rested on his sword hilt as he scanned the crowd, constantly assessing the situation. Cast out by Westeros, he had found a new purpose—protecting the last male Targaryen.
"Look at them, Jorah!" Viserys spread his arms as if to embrace the entire square. "Look at these people! They love me! They fight for me!"
Jorah answered carefully. "Your Grace, they fight for freedom. This was Princess Daenerys's idea—using the promise of liberation to win support."
At the mention of his sister, Viserys's face darkened for a heartbeat, then brightened again. "Yes, yes—Daenerys had a good idea. Even if it means a Targaryen standing beside slaves… it's beneath our dignity, but to reclaim the Iron Throne we can set aside a little pride for now."
Daenerys was the one subject Viserys never wanted to discuss. She had given him everything he now possessed, and that fact burned him. In his mind, he was the true hope of House Targaryen. Yet everything—every decision, every alliance—seemed to be handled by the sister he despised.
His gaze swept the crowd—ragged, desperate, burning with zeal. A complicated feeling rose in his chest. On one hand, he truly looked down on these wretches. He was the last dragon, the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms. These slaves were tools, nothing more.
On the other hand, seeing so many willing to die for him swelled his pride to dangerous levels.
"The nobles of the Seven Kingdoms will see this," Viserys continued, voice trembling with excitement. "They will understand that House Targaryen is still loved by the people. Robert Baratheon—the usurper, that drunk, that fat pig—only oppresses them. I will give them freedom!"
Jorah said nothing. He sighed inwardly. Viserys lived in his own fantasies and refused to see the world's real complexity. These slaves fought for their own freedom, not for House Targaryen. Once they tasted liberty, would they still follow this self-important "Dragon King"? Jorah doubted it.
But he kept silent. His loyalty—or what he told himself was loyalty—belonged to Daenerys. She had ordered him to protect her brother and help him retake the Iron Throne. So here he stood, on this chaotic battlefield, carrying out a task he hated.
In Jorah's eyes, Viserys was nothing more than a spoiled child playing at kingship—far inferior to his sister. Daenerys possessed the wisdom of a true ruler. That beautiful, captivating princess could charm greedy slave merchants in the marketplace and break wild Dothraki screamers on the battlefield. If Jorah hadn't known she was a woman, he might have believed she was a hidden Targaryen prince.
Wanting to prove himself to that princess was the only reason Jorah had accepted this assignment. Now he regretted it. This future king—this pampered fool, this madman—had no business ruling anything. He lacked the qualities of a king. If he ever sat the Iron Throne, Jorah already foresaw another Robert.
Yet there was no choice. House Targaryen had only one male left. Whatever came next, Jorah would give everything for the family.
"Your Grace," Jorah said, "we should send someone to negotiate with the governors inside the castle. A direct assault will cost many lives, and the fortress is strong. We may not take it."
Viserys frowned. "Negotiate? With traitors who refuse to acknowledge my rightful claim? I am Viserys Targaryen the Third, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, blood of the dragon! They should crawl out on their knees to greet me!"
Jorah fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Pride will not breach those walls, Your Grace. If we can convince them to surrender, we avoid needless bloodshed and gain the workshops and fleet intact. That matters if we ever hope to cross the Narrow Sea."
Viserys thought for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. "Fine. Send someone. But make sure they understand—this is mercy, not weakness. Tell them: surrender now, swear fealty, and I will spare their lives. Otherwise… when the castle falls, I will nail every last one of them to the walls."
Jorah turned immediately and gave orders to a subordinate.
Minutes later, a young messenger on a gray horse, carrying a rainbow banner, rode slowly toward the palace gates. Though the Myr men did not worship the Seven, most people in Essos knew enough Westerosi customs to recognize the symbol of truce.
As the rider appeared, the square fell silent. Every eye followed him.
He stopped at the edge of the moat, reined in, and shouted: "In the name of Viserys Targaryen the Third, rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, we offer terms! Open the gates, surrender, swear fealty, and you will be forgiven! Resist and only death awaits!"
On the battlements, a fat middle-aged man in rich robes appeared—the speaker of Myr's ruling council. Fear and rage warred on his face.
"Go back and tell that beggar who calls himself king!" the man screamed, voice cracking. "Myr is a Free City! We bow to no king! Your rebellion will be crushed! Every participant will die! Slaves—return to your masters now and you may still be shown mercy. Otherwise…"
He never finished.
An arrow hissed from an arrow slit and struck the fat man square in the throat.