Tyrosh, The Purple Palace, The Throne Room
Under the flickering, jaundiced light of guttering candles, Adolf Moses, the Archon of Tyrosh, looked smaller than he ever had.
The Throne Room was once the undisputed heart of Tyroshi majesty, a hall of marble and purple silk meant to broadcast power. Now, it had become a gilded cage of terror. He was not alone; the most powerful and wealthy Magisters of the city had sought refuge within these walls, and their panicked shouting filled the vaulted ceiling like the buzzing of frantic flies.
Some argued for a desperate embassy to negotiate with Jon; others, fueled by the bravado of the safe and the desperate, demanded they fight to the last man as they once had against Volantis. The most treacherous voices were already calling for Adolf's head, blaming him for the "invitation" that had brought the White Wolf to their doorstep.
Outside, the rhythmic blaring of war-horns and the distant, thunderous chants of the Chainbreakers echoed through the palace stones, a grim percussion to the internal bickering.
Adolf's face was the color of curdled milk. His hands gripped the armrests of his throne so tightly his knuckles were white as bone, his nails digging deep into the polished wood. His eyes darted across the empty expanses of the hall, searching for a secret door or an escape route that did not exist. He could not fathom how his meticulously laid plans had dissolved into this charnel house.
"It is not possible..." he whispered, his lips trembling. "They were supposed to be at each other's throats... Three-Headed God, why?"
Adolf knew the enemy was at the gates. He knew his soldiers were dying in the streets. But his greatest regret was a tactical one: he had sent the Purple Fleet away and drained the city of its best steel to fight in the Disputed Lands. He had ignored the advisors who warned him to guard the home front, and now, that pride was a noose around his neck.
Yet, even now, Adolf believed in the ultimate Tyroshi truth: Gold solves all problems.
In the eyes of the Tyroshi nobility, there was no crisis a sufficient mountain of coin could not bury. While the Financial District's banks had likely fallen, the Magisters were not fools; they had long ago moved their personal hoards into the Purple Palace. Every floor of this fortress was lined with private vaults, some containing treasures looted from House Velaryon during the Dance of the Dragons.
"Send a herald!" Adolf's voice was thin and sharp. "We will negotiate! Everyone—contribute from your private vaults. Prepare a tribute so vast it will blind the invaders. Gold is the only language a sellsword speaks. We still have a chance!"
The response was a chilling silence, followed by a wave of derision.
"Impossible..." "This is your mess, Adolf. Don't look at our chests to pay for your stupidity." "The Three-Headed God will judge you, not us."
At the mention of their personal wealth, the Magisters turned on Adolf with the ferocity of starved dogs. Their greed was the only thing stronger than their fear.
"You... you fools..." Adolf sputtered, his face flushing with impotent rage.
"I believe," a stern, gravelly voice cut through the room, "that Adolf Moses is no longer fit to command this city. We need a leader who understands steel, not just coin. We have the Purple Palace—a fortress designed to break armies. If we hold here, the fleet will return and crush the invaders between our walls and the sea."
Saeraes Moss stepped into the center of the hall. His armor was caked in dried blood, and a fresh, jagged gash ran down his cheek, but his eyes were as hard as the black stone of the city walls.
The Silver Deer Army had been decimated, but Saeraes was a creature of war. He had seen Jon's magic and his iron-clad knights, and he had made a cold calculation: the streets were lost, but the palace was a different animal. The Purple Palace was built with massive, overhanging bastions—any army attacking the gates would find themselves standing under a vertical rain of Fire Oil and stone.
"I agree," a Magister shouted. "Adolf must answer for this!" "I second the motion!"
Adolf watched, paralyzed, as the men he had bribed, flattered, and feasted for years abandoned him in a heartbeat.
"You... you cannot do this!" Adolf cried, but the momentum was lost.
Tansan Domerang, a Magister who had once been Adolf's closest confidant, leaned in close to the deposed Archon. Adolf remembered the "Wife-Sharing Feast" that had cemented their bond—a night of debauchery that had cost Adolf his pride but secured his vote.
"Don't be so dramatic, Adolf," Tansan hissed, his breath smelling of stale wine. "This is a temporary measure to appease the old man. Saeraes is a low-born grunt; he likes blood and he likes high-born women. Your daughter, Mia Moses, is the 'Mermaid of Tyrosh,' isn't she?"
"Mia? But the alliance with Prince Doran..." Adolf started, his mind immediately leaping to the transactional value of his child.
"Prince Doran is across the sea, and the Wolf is at the door," Tansan countered. "Jon Arryn married a girl young enough to be his granddaughter to secure an alliance. Give Saeraes your blood, let him bleed for us, and when the smoke clears, we'll put you back on the throne. It's just business."
Adolf's eyes flickered with a sudden, oily hope. Without a second thought for his daughter's dignity or safety, he grabbed the quill and scrawled his name on the instrument of abdication.
"It is done!" Adolf announced, his voice regaining a fragment of its oily pomp. "Saeraes Moss is now the High Defender of Tyrosh! Lead us to victory, and purge our home of these invaders!"
The hall erupted in desperate cheers. They had their scapegoat, and they had their shield. Now, they only had to wait for the fire to arrive.