Tyrosh, The Purple Palace, The Spiral Staircase
"Kill for freedom!" "Slay the masters!"
The Purple Palace was no longer a monument to elegance; it was a slaughterhouse. The slaves, witnessing the utter collapse of their masters' defenses, had finally erupted. For centuries, the Tyroshi Magisters had treated their "human livestock" with such utter contempt that they forgot a cornered sheep can still gore a shepherd.
In a plush corner of the upper levels, a group of slaves—their bodies still marked by the scars of the lash—surrounded a morbidly obese Magister. The man had refused to flee without his chests of gold, and that greed had cost him his life. His guards were dead, and now he faced the people he had tormented.
"Mercy! I can give you gold! I can make you rich!" the old man wheezed, his voice trembling alongside his multiple chins.
"Our payment is your blood, Master," whispered a Summer Islander named San En. He had spent ten years in this man's service, enduring unspeakable cruelties.
Squelch.
The first blade went in deep. The Magister's scream was a high, thin sound—the sound of a pig being led to the butcher. He had never known true pain, only the comfort of silk and fine wine. Now, the cold steel taught him the reality of the world he had built.
"San En, what now?" a young girl asked, looking at the bloody remains of their owner.
"The 'Chainbreakers' are here," San En replied, wiping his blade on a silk curtain. "They say Aegon Targaryen has come to break every shackle in Essos. We join them."
The Ascent of the Dragon
The doors to the room burst open. A squad of irregulars rushed in, their arms bound with red cloth—the symbol of the revolt. Many were half-naked, wearing bits of scavenged plate armor that were still slick with the gore of the previous owners.
"Brothers! Join us!" the squad leader shouted. "Aegon Targaryen has taken the gates! Tyrosh is ours!"
While the lower halls descended into a frenzy of retribution and looting, Jon (Aegon) was making his way up the great spiral staircase of the palace. He refused to take the wooden elevators—they were potential death traps controlled from above.
Everywhere he went, the air was thick with the scent of ozone, burnt flesh, and expensive perfume. Slaves and mercenaries alike stopped to watch him pass. To them, he was no longer a man; he was the Flame-Walker, the prince who had walked through the inferno and emerged as a king.
"The Prince!" "The Hero of the Gates!" "Aegon! Aegon!"
The four hobbit-sized knights—Frodo, Sam, Pippin, and Merry—formed a tight diamond formation around him, their blades drawn. Behind them, Garo held the great banner of the Wolf-Dragon high.
Jon was exhausted. His armor was caked in dried blood and gray ash, his face smudged with soot. He encountered groups of mercenaries attempting to rape or burn the palace archives; those he caught, he executed on the spot. He couldn't stop every crime in the city, but he would not allow his new seat of power to be burned to the ground.
"Lord! Lord Aegon!"
Jon stopped near the third-floor landing. San En, the Summer Islander, ran toward him followed by a small army of freed slaves.
"Some of the mercenaries are turning on us!" San En cried, his eyes wide with fear. "They are killing the slaves to get to the gold first! Please, we need help!"
Jon looked at his small, battered retinue. He had sent Narsas and the bulk of his disciplined "Chainbreaker" regulars to secure the treasury and the city walls. He was nearly alone.
"What is your name, brother?" Jon asked, his voice rasping from the smoke.
"San En..."
"Listen to me, San En. I must reach the spire. If the purple flag stays up, the enemy's fleet will think the palace still holds. They will bombard us from the sea." Jon placed a heavy, gauntleted hand on the man's shoulder. "I cannot give you soldiers, but I can give you power."
Jon signaled to two cloaked figures behind him—acolytes of his magical order. "Follow San En. Any man, mercenary or Tyroshi, who raises a hand against the innocent... burn them."
San En stared at the mages in awe. "Yes, my King!"
The Archon's Seat
The massive mahogany doors of the Throne Room groaned open. Jon stepped into the silent, cavernous hall. It was empty; the Archon and his Magisters had either fled to the secret gardens or died in the halls below.
Garo climbed the service ladder to the highest tower above the dome. With a sharp tug, the purple flag of Tyrosh—the symbol of three centuries of slave-driven wealth—fell into the mud of the streets below. In its place, the black and red banner of the Wolf-Dragon unfurled, snapping in the morning breeze.
Jon walked slowly toward the high throne. It was a massive chair of carved weirwood and gold, designed to make the occupant look like a god.
He sat.
The roar from the city below reached him even through the thick stone walls. It was a sound of absolute, terrifying joy.
Tyrosh was only the beginning. He looked out over the sprawling city, his mind already turning toward the remaining Free Cities and the Iron Throne across the sea. The boy who had been a bastard of Winterfell was dead. The King of Fire and Blood had arrived.
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