Tyrosh, The Purple Palace, The Grand Feast Hall
The great feast of the Purple Palace had just concluded. Slaves moved like shadows across the hall, their eyes downcast as they cleared away the remains of roasted meats and half-empty carafes of expensive Myrish wine.
Though hope flickered in the hearts of the enslaved at the news of the "Chainbreakers," they dared not let it show. Only that morning, a slave had been beaten to death by a Magister simply for smiling too broadly.
Among the debris of the feast, a solitary figure stood by the high arched windows, looking out over the flickering fires of the occupied city. From this height, the enemy's campfires looked like a sea of glowing embers waiting to consume the palace.
A few slaves stole glances at the man. It was their new Archon, the "Silver Deer," Saeraes Moss. In the guttering candlelight, the fire he had shown during the day seemed to have dimmed. His iron-grey hair was disheveled, and the deep lines on his face were etched with a weariness that surpassed physical exhaustion. Yet, his eyes—sharp and predatory—still held the spark of a man who had survived a thousand battlefields.
Saeraes wore a dark leather tunic embossed with golden sigils, a jeweled longsword hanging at his hip. The feast had been thrown in his honor—a desperate attempt by the Magisters to buy his loyalty with gluttony and praise. He wasn't fooled. He knew they were terrified, and he was their only shield.
His mind was a storm of tactical variables. He thought of Harren the Black, who had locked himself in the "impregnable" Harrenhal only to be cooked alive in his own armor by dragonfire. The legends of the "White Wolf" and his monsters were a thorn in Saeraes's side. A commander had to account for every possibility, and the possibility of a magical breach was no longer a fairy tale.
"M-Master!" a stuttering voice broke his reverie. A slave stood nearby, trembling. "Shall we... shall we continue? We did not mean to disturb you."
Saeraes looked at the man. He wasn't a cruel master, but he was a man of Essos—he understood that the world was built on the backs of the weak. "I am leaving. Continue your work."
He turned away, heading toward the corridors. His wife was years in her grave, and his only daughter was miles away in Pentos. Usually, a night like this would end with a bed slave, and Magister Tansan Domerang had promised him a green-haired beauty to "celebrate" his promotion. The alcohol had stirred a heat in his blood, and for a moment, he wanted to forget the war in the arms of a stranger.
"ARCHON! LORD SAERAES!"
The peace of the hallway was shattered. A group of officers, their armor dented and faces pale, came scrambling around the corner. Some were literally crawling in their haste to escape the darkness behind them.
"What is this madness?" Saeraes roared, his voice cutting through their panic. "Nalu! Speak! What happened?"
Nalu, a seasoned officer with a buzz-cut, gasped for air. "The outer bastion... the monsters... they broke through the Inspection Room! They are moving toward the Gate Control!"
As the officers spoke, the rumors grew more wild. They described a creature that was both man and dragon, a shadow that could melt stone and breathe fire. One officer swore on the Three-Headed God that he had seen the beast catch three men and devour them whole.
Gulp.
Saeraes swallowed hard. He couldn't afford to believe in ghosts, but he couldn't ignore the terror on these men's faces. The enemy was inside.
"Silence!" Saeraes bellowed. "I don't care if it's a dragon or a demon. Blow the assembly horns! Every man to the Gate Control Room! If a dragon has entered my house, we will carve its heart out!"
The fire of his anger replaced the heat of the wine. He drew his jeweled sword, the steel shimmering in the torchlight. "Follow me! I'll show you what a real man does to monsters!"
The Access Corridor
Huff... puff...
A handful of Tyroshi guards were sprint-crawling through the narrow stone passageway. Every time their boots slipped on the smooth stone, they scrambled back up with the desperation of cornered rats. They didn't look back until they reached the heavy iron-reinforced door of the Gate Control Room.
Inside this room sat the massive winch that held the Purple Palace's main gates shut. Their mission was simple: sabotage the gears. If they broke the mechanism, the gate would be locked forever—trapping the invaders outside, even if it meant trapping themselves within.
CRACK—BOOM!
The sound of splintering oak echoed from the Inspection Room they had just fled. The massive, reinforced doors—meant to withstand a battering ram—had been punched through as if they were made of parchment.
"Faster!" a sergeant urged, his hand on the lever of the Control Room door. "If we break the winch, we win! Just a few more steps and we—"
Thwip.
An arrow, thick as a thumb and fletched with dark feathers, hissed through the gloom. It punched through the sergeant's throat, the steel tip erupting from the back of his neck in a spray of crimson. His victory speech died in a wet gurgle.
The remaining guards froze. They turned their heads slowly, peering back into the flickering shadows of the corridor.
There, standing amidst the ruins of the Inspection Room door, was a silhouette that defied logic. The man was encased in black-as-sin plate armor, draped in a cloak the color of fresh blood. In his hands was a massive black bow, nearly as tall as he was.
As they watched, a chittering, many-legged shape scuttled over the ceiling above him. The "man" didn't look human; he looked like an apex predator stalking a herd of deer.
"Run..." one soldier whispered, his bladder failing him. "RUN! THE MAN-EATING DRAGON IS HERE!"