The King's procession was a sluggish river of gold, silver, and steel winding its way north.
A dozen standard-bearers rode at the vanguard, hoisting the golden banners of the crowned stag. They were followed by a lumbering host of three hundred souls—proud bannermen, sworn swords, freeriders, and the opulent, gilded wheelhouse of the Queen that forced the entire column to crawl at a maddening pace.
They had reached the Neck, the treacherous, boggy throat of the North. For ten days, the knights had picked their way along the winding, treacherous causeway, surrounded by an endless expanse of black mud and rot.
"A dreadful, stinking journey," Prince Joffrey complained, his lip curling as he looked out over the stagnant pools.
Joffrey was tall for his age, undeniably handsome with his spun-gold hair, bright green eyes, and pouty lips, but his face was currently twisted in a petulant scowl. The Neck was indeed a miserable place. Thick thickets sank into rotting swamps, draped in curtains of pale fungus. Massive, fleshy flowers bloomed in the muck, and the half-submerged logs often turned out to be the scaled backs of lizard-lions waiting for a misstep.
"It may be dreadful, nephew, but it is the only road to Winterfell," Tyrion Lannister remarked, riding a specially saddled pony beside the Prince. "Stay on the causeway. The bogs are filled with quicksand and serpents. I have only ever read of this place; to see it is a rare... if pungent... privilege."
"Why must we drag ourselves to the edge of the world?" Joffrey whined. "It is freezing and desolate."
Beside him rode a massive knight whose face was a ruin of burned, melted flesh. Sandor Clegane—the Hound—sat silently on his heavy courser.
"The King's realm has no seasons, sweet nephew," Tyrion said smoothly. "All men are his subjects. Even the frozen ones."
"I suppose this is about the bastard," Joffrey muttered.
"A bastard with an army and a fleet is no ordinary bastard. Across the Narrow Sea, they call him a Khal," Tyrion corrected, his tone devoid of mockery for once.
Tyrion was a twisted reflection of his golden siblings. His head was too large for his stunted body, his brow prominent, his eyes mismatched—one black, one green. His hair was a straight, pale blond that bordered on white. Yet, behind the grotesque exterior lay one of the sharpest minds in the realm.
"Let him call himself a Khal," Joffrey puffed out his chest. "If he comes here, I will execute him with my own sword."
"Will you?" Tyrion asked, his mismatched eyes gleaming. "The battlefield is a messy place, Joffrey. If you lose there, you do not get to run to your mother and cry. From what I have seen of your swordplay in the yard, your blade is nowhere near as sharp as your tongue."
"Hmph!" Joffrey shot the dwarf a venomous glare and spurred his horse forward to escape the mockery. "One day, I will show you what it means to be King."
"The Prince will not forget that slight, my lord," Sandor Clegane rumbled, looking down at the Imp. He wore heavy, soot-grey armor that seemed to absorb the light. He reached up and pulled down his visor, fashioned in the likeness of a snarling hound.
"You are his dog, Clegane. You are with him every day. You would do well to remind him that words do not make a king," Tyrion replied.
A moment later, Ser Jaime Lannister trotted his white destrier alongside his brother's pony. The Kingslayer was a vision in his white cloak and gilded armor, sharing none of the cold cruelty of their sister, Cersei, nor the chilling pragmatism of their father, Tywin.
"Do you truly believe the Khal across the water will bring war to our shores?" Jaime asked.
"I was mostly baiting Joffrey," Tyrion chuckled. "But do I believe it? If the Hammer King has half a brain, he will sit quietly in Myr, counting his gold and consolidating his power. The sweet rule of Tyrosh and Myr is not easily maintained. The moment a conqueror leaves his newly won cities to fight a foreign war, his empire crumbles like sand through his fingers. Just ask the Silvertongue."
"Even so, the sheer numbers he commands are a threat," Jaime noted, his brow furrowing. "A Baratheon bastard is troublesome enough, but he keeps the Targaryen brother and sister at his side. He gives the exiles an army."
"True. Once he pacifies the Triarchy, he will eventually look West," Tyrion agreed.
"Then we must be ready," Jaime said, a familiar arrogance returning to his voice. "If this mercenary king lands, I will draw my sword and meet him, just as Ser Duncan the Tall would have."
"Yet the threat is in the East, and our dear King drags us North," Tyrion sighed. "He goes to fetch Eddard Stark. And the Starks have no love for lions."
Jaime's face hardened. "Let the honorable Lord Stark hate us. He judged me the moment he rode into the throne room. The Mad King was burning the city to ash, yet Stark looked at me sitting on the Iron Throne with a bloody sword across my knees, and all he saw was an oathbreaker. I do not fear him."
Thousands of leagues to the south, the air above Tyrosh was thick with the stench of rot and smoke.
From the heights of the fused black dragonstone walls, the Archon and his surviving Magisters stared down at the siege lines. The Inner City was sealed tight, an impenetrable vault. Yet, a vault without food quickly became a tomb.
The Archon's beard, dyed a vibrant green, hung limp and unkempt. Along the edge of the Myrish trenches below, a row of wooden pikes had been driven into the earth. Atop the highest pikes sat the severed heads of Khal Jhezkahn and his son, their gold-belled braids dangling macabrely in the wind, surrounded by the heads of the Myrish restorationists.
"The ratio of slaves to free citizens in Tyrosh is three to one," the Archon muttered, his voice hollow. "In Volantis, it is five to one."
"Volantis will not come," a Magister beside him groaned, his cheekbones jutting sharply from his starving face. "Lys hesitates. We are alone."
The Archon closed his eyes. Tyrosh was a city of merchants, not martyrs. They had surrendered to the tyrant Silvertongue centuries ago to survive, and they could surrender to this Hammer King now. To fight against a man who had broken a Dothraki horde in open battle was madness.
"Prepare the white flags," the Archon whispered. "If Tyrosh is destined to fall, we submit to the will of Trios. We must buy time—"
"Archon!" a guard screamed, sprinting up the stone steps. "The gates! The lower gates have been breached!"
"What?" The Archon spun around, a wave of dizzying panic washing over him. "How? The dragonstone cannot be battered down!"
"The merchants!" the guard gasped. "The starving merchants in the lower wards. They overwhelmed the guards and threw open the bronze doors. They surrender the city!"
Far below, the heavy bronze gates of the Black City groaned open.
"Charge!" Ser Jorah Mormont roared. He wore heavy plate covered by a green surcoat emblazoned with the standing bear of his House. Raising his broadsword, he led the Wolf Pack through the breach. For the exiled knight, the ash and blood in the air tasted just like Pyke. He was a hero once again, and the Black City of Tyrosh was falling.