Tyrosh, The Great Sewers
Most of the slaves in Tyrosh were penned within the gargantuan sewer network near the harbor. When the Valyrians first laid the stones of this city, they had utilized the "Lower Pyramid" model of Meereen—housing the labor force in the very bowels of the earth to keep the surface pristine for the masters.
Every morning, before the sun had fully crested the horizon, the overseers—slaves themselves, chosen for their cruelty—would arrive under the supervision of their Tyroshi masters to pick the day's crews.
The selection was a psychological game. Those who had worked poorly the day before were dragged out first for the harshest shifts, while the "diligent" were kept for last. Occasionally, a master might toss a scrap of actual meat to a hard worker, dangling the bait of "hope" to ensure the rest of the herd remained submissive. It was an experience born not of instinct, but of centuries of crushing rebellion; the Tyroshi knew that a slave with a tiny, unreachable hope was far more productive than one with nothing to lose.
Amir was a new addition to the overseer ranks. From his first day in the pits, an old miner had taught him how to flatter the guards and keep his head down. Last month, when Amir finally earned his promotion, he had hurried back to the sewers to find his mentor—only to find the old man's head rolling in the filth, discarded like trash.
His master, Saeraes Moss, had heard of the old man's "perfect" behavior and decided to see exactly how much a man could endure before his spirit vanished. He had kept the old man in the pits until he simply expired from exhaustion. The overseer, Ser Hugh, had told Amir then: "This is our fate. Obey and live, or resist and rot."
Amir had made a choice that day. He would be heartless. He would be loyal. He would never, under any circumstances, return to the darkness of the lower pens. He had taken the old miner's head, dried it, and hung it from his belt. It wasn't a gesture of respect; it was a memento of his own resolve to never be soft again. If he showed a spark of mercy, the master would kick him back into the muck.
Clang—Clank—!
The heavy iron chains securing the District 7 exit were unbarred by the other overseers.
"Hey, 'Head-Taker' Amir! Stop daydreaming and move!" Ser Hugh barked, noticing the head-overseer's eyes lingering on the lock.
"No... no, sir. Apologies," Amir stammered. "It's just... the lock felt strange. I could have sworn I left it on the left side last night, but today it was on the right..."
CRACK—!
The lash of a whip caught Amir across the cheek, the searing pain drawing a sharp cry from his throat.
"You think you're clever, boy?" Salami, the Tyroshi head-overseer, spat. He was a native Tyroshi, a man who believed slaves were no different than mountain sheep—to be moved with grain or the whip, never with questions. "Master Saeraes gave an order: move the herd to the mines. That is your task. Anything else is none of your business. Understood?"
"Yes... yes, Master Salami! Forgive him, he's young and still learning the rules," Ser Hugh interjected, pulling Amir back. After a few more stinging lashes for "discipline," the matter was dropped.
The torches flickered in the damp air as the first batch of miners were dragged out. They looked like lumps of coal brought to life, their skin caked in the black dust of the pits. These were the "troublemakers"—returned to the pens last and dragged out first as punishment. The suffocating pressure of the mines was designed to break them.
Amir felt a prickle of unease as they entered the tunnels. Hugh, however, was oblivious, complaining loudly about Amir's "phantom locks."
Thud.
"Get up, you lazy dogs!" Hugh roared, his voice echoing through the vaulted sewer. Normally, he would see a sea of sluggish, resentful faces.
Today, the slaves were already standing. They were lined up in perfect, silent columns, waiting.
Just yesterday, several of these men had nearly started a riot over the lack of water. They had been whipped until their backs were ribbons of red, yet today, their efficiency was chilling. These were mostly men from Westeros—harder to break, according to the Tyroshi, than the soft city-slaves of Essos.
"Oho! Look at this! Have you finally learned your place?" Hugh laughed, emboldened by their silence. "Keep this up, and maybe one day you'll get to carry a whip like us."
"A dog never knows the weight of its collar until the chain is snapped," a voice rang out from the darkness. "You want to be a slave? That's your choice. I'm finished with it."
Hugh squinted. The speaker was covered in soot, his features unrecognizable, but his voice was full of a strength that shouldn't exist in a man who had worked a twenty-hour shift.
"You... wha—?"
Hugh reached for the alarm bell at his belt, but his hand never made it. Three short-swords, each a foot long and wickedly sharp, buried themselves in his chest simultaneously.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Amir stood frozen for a heartbeat before frantically ringing his own bell. The other overseers who had entered the pens with ropes were cut down in seconds.
"You won't get away with this!" Amir screamed, stumbling backward as the soot-covered men closed in. He looked at them with pure terror, having completely forgotten that only a month ago, he had been one of them.
"Kill him," the Chainbreaker soldier at the front commanded.
Some of the newer slaves hesitated, remembering Amir as a friend, but the veteran miners knew better. "He's gone," one muttered. "He chose the master's whip over his brothers' blood."
From the moment Amir rang that bell, his fate was sealed. He tried to lash out with his whip, but a dozen blades found his vitals. He fell in the muck, his mentor's skull clattering away into the dark.
"Freedom is earned in blood, not given in scraps!" the soldier roared. "For the Chainbreakers! For our freedom!"
"FOR FREEDOM!" the cry went up.
Following the soldier's lead, the slaves tied strips of blood-soaked cloth around their forearms—the red band of the revolution, so they wouldn't strike their own in the darkness.
When they surged out of the District 7 tunnels, the "selection area" was already a charnel house. Miners from every district were shattering the locks of neighboring pens, tossing weapons and the bodies of overseers into the pits. Whether a slave wanted to fight or not, the Tyroshi would execute everyone in a rioting block. They had no choice but to join the storm.
Across the city, the low, panicked tolling of the Tyroshi alarm bells began to scream through the morning air. The revolution had begun.