Tyrosh, The Purple Palace, Gate Control Corridor
Thwip—thwip—thwip!
Jon's arrows hissed through the air in a blur of rapid-fire precision. The fleeing Tyroshi guards didn't stand a chance; the heavy shafts hit with the force of a scorpion bolt, either pinning men directly to the stone walls or piercing through two bodies at once.
As Jon lowered the massive black longbow, it dissolved back into the silhouette of Dark Sister. The iron-bow he had "equipped" to the Valyrian blade had shattered, its durability exhausted by the sheer force Jon exerted. Because his direct magical potency had been dampened by the city's temples, the System had compensated by allowing him to channel ranged weaponry through his primary blade—a tactical trade-off he was beginning to master.
Hiss—skitter—!
From the room behind him, the screeching of the Giant Poison Spiders signaled that the Tyroshi reinforcements had arrived. Jon had left the creatures in the Inspection Room as a rear guard.
Under the cover of night and fueled by the rumors of a "Man-Eating Dragon," Jon had managed to drive the garrison into a state of hysterical paralysis. He had already opened several breaches in the outer bastions, but those holes were too small for an army. To win, he needed the main gates.
Jon knew his current state was a gamble. He was currently a one-man vanguard; if Saeraes Moss regained control of his men and realized Jon was alone, the Archon would drown him in a sea of bodies. Even a Dragon Lord has limits. In a cramped stone corridor, even a dragon can be swarmed and butchered—just as the Targaryen dragons had been slaughtered in the Dragonpit by the mobs of King's Landing.
He needed the gate open, and he needed it now.
Jon entered the Gate Control Room, his hand clutching a grotesque, ivory-white Skull Staff.
Cr-rack. Snap.
He began to chant in a low, guttural tongue. Around him, the Tyroshi soldiers he had just sniped began to twitch. The men pinned to the walls tore themselves free, their flesh warping and bulging under the influence of the Magestone's power. They didn't just rise; they transformed. Their muscles became unnaturally dense, and jagged bone spurs erupted from their knuckles like obsidian claws.
Jon watched his nine newly raised zombies with cold satisfaction. They moved with a singular, silent purpose. They were strong, tireless, and—most importantly—they could turn a winch that required the strength of a dozen living men.
The mechanical heart of the Purple Palace was a masterpiece of Myrish and Valyrian engineering. A massive set of interlocking bronze gears occupied the center of the room. A series of High Valyrian inscriptions confirmed Jon's suspicion: a clockwise rotation of the primary winch would retract the locking bars of the main gates.
"Hrrr-agh!"
At Jon's mental command, the undead laborers threw their weight against the winch. Even with their supernatural strength, the gears moved at a glacial pace, clicking once every few seconds. It was a mechanism designed for ritual and security, not speed.
Jon felt a sharp pang of alarm. Through his link with the spiders, he felt another of his summons perish. The Tyroshi had found their courage, and they were coming for the Control Room. Jon gripped Dark Sister, leaving the zombies to their work, and sprinted back toward the Inspection Room.
The Inspection Room was a fortress-within-a-fortress, a gatehouse at the end of the defensive tunnel. A "V-shaped" staircase, barely wide enough for a single wagon, was the only way up.
Jon had originally breached the room by scaling the exterior walls with his spiders and gasping the garrison with a mixture of sulfur and Fire Oil. Now, he found himself defending the very position he had taken.
He looked through a narrow arrow-slit. The corridor below was a sea of torches and whale-oil lamps, turning the night into a jaundiced day. Saeraes Moss stood in the center of the throng, his voice booming as he rallied his men.
"Look at them! They aren't monsters, they're just beasts! Kill the beasts, kill the sorcerer, and Tyrosh lives!"
Jon didn't wait for him to finish. He drew a heavy arrow and loosed it at the Archon's throat.
The shaft was a blur. It should have ended the war then and there. But at the last microsecond, a flash of red steel intercepted the arrow. A knight in crimson-accented plate spun his spear with impossible speed, knocking the heavy shaft out of the air.
"Archon! Get back!"
The knight—a mercenary known as the "Red Lion"—stepped in front of Saeraes, his eyes fixed on the arrow-slit where Jon stood.
Ding.
A cold, synthetic chime echoed in Jon's mind.
System Notification: High-Tier System Class detected. Warning: Unknown anomaly. Target categorized as Red Name (Hostile Elite).
Jon's eyes widened. He had seen Blue (Allies) and Green (Neutrals/Civilians) before, but the System had never flagged a "Red Name" enemy. It seemed the world was reacting to his presence, producing champions of its own—or perhaps the gods of Essos were finally placing their own pieces on the board.
Jon looked at the Red Lion, a grim smile touching his lips.
"I wonder," Jon whispered, his grip tightening on the flaming hilt of Dark Sister. "Do you drop loot when you die?"