Game of Thrones : True Dragon

Inside Tyrosh, Agos's iron-fisted heavy guards crushed the usual noise and chaos. Even the loud, restless Tyroshi finally understood what real order looked like.

Viserys walked through the city, taking in every street, every building, every detail. Black-armored and silver-plated soldiers in black-and-red cloaks trailed behind their king like a silent wall of oak shields.

Rosor Brune wore his new black-and-red surcoat now, proud to be a true dragon guard.

Sunblaze lounged nearby, coiled like a giant serpent, molten red eyes full of untouchable majesty and raw savagery.

A crowd of small bankers, moneylenders, and Tyroshi guild bosses swarmed around King Viserys like flies on fresh meat, terrified by the dragon's golden splendor and the promise of fire.

"What's your name?" Viserys asked the red-haired banker leading them.

"Thomas Quintius, Your Grace. I run a small lending and pawn shop. I know my way around finance," Thomas answered respectfully.

Money was power. But violence was something far more terrifying.

These small bankers, moneylenders, and guild bosses were minor players. They had no seat at the real power games inside the Black Walls. They weren't even full guild members.

Tyrosh's true power brokers and big merchants had two things the small ones didn't: the right to play the electoral game for governor, and enough gold to hire armies.

Election games like that were never meant for little merchants. They were just the people who got taxed.

But now the city was changing fast. Old powers were dying, new ones rising. These sharp-eyed opportunists could smell their chance.

"Good," Viserys said, filing the name away. He still needed bankers to keep the money moving.

"Do you think the governors and Black Wall nobles will actually kneel to me?" Viserys fixed Thomas with a stare. This was the real question.

"I'm afraid not, Your Grace. Most free cities run on elections. Even the Archon and governors get chosen through bribery so the highborn and rich merchants all get a shot at power. They'll never accept one man—one family—holding it forever." Thomas chose his words carefully. "Your Grace knows what happened to Silver Tongue and the Rogare family. Silver Tongue declared himself tyrant and locked up the Archon. The Rogare patriarch made himself Lys's lifelong First Governor. But the moment their power peaked, their own people turned on them and wiped them out."

Viserys nodded. Free-city politics was a senate full of snakes. Anyone who tried to become a real king got torn apart by jealous peers.

A perfect example was one of his mother's distant cousins—Lysandro Rogare of Lys.

Lysandro's bank once made even Braavos's Iron Bank look small. He married his daughter Lara to Prince Viserys. His brother wed Aliandra Martell and became a consort prince of Dorne. Aliandra even gave him the title Count of the Stepstones.

Lysandro crowned himself lifelong First Governor. The world called him "the Great." As Lys's tyrant he held every lever of power.

Then both Rogare brothers died the same day. Drako choked on bacon in Dorne. Across the Narrow Sea, Lysandro drowned when his yacht sank. Everyone knew it was Faceless Men work.

The Rogare family became rats overnight. The heir couldn't live up to the title's ambition. The bank collapsed. The other governors finished them off.

Viserys didn't care about any of that. He wasn't Silver Tongue. He wasn't Rogare. He was tearing the whole rotten system down and building something new.

"You're right, Thomas. But power is power. They failed because their power wasn't strong enough." Viserys's voice was calm.

Lysandro and Silver Tongue had been flashy for a while, but they came from the old ruling class. They never really broke the city's old order.

Silver Tongue only imprisoned the Archon as a half-measure. Lysandro never dared call himself king.

Only a complete, root-and-branch change would make power last.

"You speak true, Your Grace."

"Even in a village I wouldn't share my power with a second person." Viserys looked up at the looming Black Walls. "Tyrosh still has too many people. With this many souls, some of them will stand with me."

In this bloody age, killing was just part of the job.

The small bankers' eyes lit up. When old nobles fell, it was their turn to climb.

"Tyrosh's banks and trading houses still have lending businesses. Those financial houses need to stay alive," Viserys said.

He wanted Tyrosh as a golden goose that kept laying eggs, not a carcass to be picked clean in one go.

"We understand, Your Grace."

"Your Grace, watch the Braavosi. The Iron Bank won't let any bank grow bigger than theirs. The Rogare collapse had their fingerprints all over it," Thomas warned quietly.

"I know," Viserys said. His relations with Braavos were already heading downhill fast. One more enemy didn't change much. A bigger bank would have to be built carefully.

"What about slavery? Any demands there?"

"We support ending it," they answered at once. None of them ran big slave operations anyway—their businesses were light on assets.

"Do your jobs well. Show me talent and loyalty." Viserys swept his gaze across the group.

"We swear to give everything for Your Grace's cause and our loyalty!" the small industrialists shouted together, voices thick with gratitude.

Far off, the giant siege hammer roared. Oak and steel gates finally shattered under the blows.

Cheering soldiers led by Garin and Jalaka poured into the Black City.

Full-armored men advanced in tight formation, black-and-red three-headed dragon banners high, crossbowmen on the flanks, spearmen pushing forward.

The last desperate Tyroshi citizen-soldiers met the end they'd earned—cut down without mercy.

Viserys had already used Sunblaze to smash the Black City's defenses. Defeat had always been inevitable for the old nobles.

"Looks like my boys have cracked the Black City open. Rosor, watch my guests. I'm heading in."

"As you command, Your Grace!"

Viserys called Sunblaze. The dragon uncoiled, wings spreading wide. Viserys climbed onto its back and they rose into the sky.

The golden dragon carved a graceful arc across the heavens. The bankers watched it vanish.

"Kill the governors! Kill the slave masters! Kill every resister!"

"Keep order! You're proud Andal soldiers, not a pack of thugs."

Inside the Black City the purge began in deadly silence.

The Archon's palace, the city hall, every governor's house, every noble and rich merchant's home—those were the targets.

Sunblaze wheeled high above. Viserys rode the golden dragon and every soldier saw the shadow.

"Long live!"

"Long live King Viserys!"

The Andal soldiers roared like thunder.

Banners of the Archon and governors were ripped down and trampled. The true dragon's banner rose in their place.

Viserys landed in the courtyard of the city hall. Corpses already littered the ground—by the fountain, beside the garden paths. The air stank of blood and smoke.

The haul was rich: the scarred Archon of Tyrosh, panicked governors, rich merchants, high city officials, religious leaders, and the last stubborn citizen-soldiers.

Garin's spearmen stood ready, swordsmen hungry. They herded the prisoners to the steps below.

Jalaka posted crossbowmen with bolts already nocked.

Viserys dropped from Sunblaze's back, drew True Dragon, and looked at the broken Tyroshi before him.

He saw a garden of ridiculous hair—blue, green, ochre red, every shade they could dye.

"Respected Dragon King, the Archon of Tyrosh leads his people in surrender. We offer all our wealth to redeem our sins. Let this city once again bask in the ancient Dragon Kings' glory." The Archon knelt, voice cracking in final desperation.

"How do I punish those who surrounded the city but never surrendered? You held the Black Walls, killed my soldiers, spat on my mercy." Viserys's voice was ice. "Your head falls. Your wealth becomes mine."

"Oh, and these priests can live a little longer. I want to hear what they have to say."

The Archon's mouth fell open. All he heard was death.

Garin nodded. Steel met flesh. Blood sprayed.

The Andal soldiers moved like machines, driving spears and swords through the Tyroshi nobles. Red blood painted the stones.

Plenty of Andals and Rhoynar had suffered under these Tyroshi slavers. Now the debt was being paid—with interest.

Most governors and nobles had been merchants once. No real fighters among them. Their screams meant nothing. They died like sheep.

"Butcher! You're no Dragon King—you're a fucking butcher! Worse than any pirate king or Dothraki khal!" the Archon shrieked. "You're no civilized ruler. You're a tyrant and a monster. The people of Tyrosh will avenge me!"

"Brutal?" Viserys laughed, loud and cold. "I'm just giving you back exactly what you slave masters did to Andals, Westerosi wildlings, and every slave you ever owned. You think Tyroshi will avenge you? Look around—the freefolk already love me. Your precious citizen-soldiers are dead. Open your eyes, fool. This is the new world."

"Dragon King! Great Dragon King!" a rich merchant wailed, dropping to his knees. "I can love you too! We'll stay your loyal colonial vassals—just spare us!"

"Mercy? The old Valyrian Dragon Kings made you a colony and left your Archon and governors in charge. They gave you wealth and glory. And the second the Doom hit, what did you do? Tyrosh and Lys rose up and murdered every Dragon King and dragon on holiday. So no—I don't need more vassal lands to manage like Valyria did."

Viserys stepped forward. True Dragon sang through the air. The Archon's head hit the stones.

"Lysandro the Dragon King—this one's for you." Viserys wiped the blade and sheathed it, watching the head roll in its own blood.

"Gods save us! Why didn't these bastards die in the Doom?"

"I curse you, Viserys! I curse every drop of old Valyrian blood in your veins, you Targaryen bastard! One day you'll face real violence—like the Usurper's War. Your crown will shatter, your cities will burn, and you'll die screaming on a sword!"

The last Tyroshi had nothing left but curses.

"Crack!" A spear punched straight through the curser's mouth. He dropped, dead before he hit the ground.

Garin pulled the spear free. "There's only one king—King Viserys."

"Have you decided?" Viserys asked the remaining citizen-soldiers.

None answered. They just reached for weapons.

These were the sons of governors, nobles, and rich merchants. Their hatred for Viserys ran too deep. No point trying to turn them.

Viserys waved his hand.

Crossbowmen fired point-blank. Every last citizen-soldier fell in a hail of bolts.

Nearly every member of Tyrosh's old elite had died in this war. That was the bloody price of the game.

"My lords the priests—am I doing the right thing here?" Viserys asked.

Tyrosh's main faith was the Three-Headed God, but the Red God R'hllor also had followers, along with the Weaver of Fate and others.

"A hero shall rise from darkness to save the world. That hero bears a dragon. You are that hero, Your Grace. These Tyroshi governors are servants of the Dark Eye, servants of the Long Night. Anyone who stands in the hero's way betrays all mankind…" The fat red priest suddenly roared, sprinting forward to kneel at Viserys's feet.

"And you, High Priest?" Viserys turned to the leader of the Three-Headed God.

The High Priest's eyes sharpened. He raised both hands dramatically.

"King Viserys is the whip of light. The Archon of Tyrosh has long fallen from grace. The gods have decreed his punishment. The people of Tyrosh must accept King Viserys's rule. He is the sun of light. He is justice itself."