Morning, Pentos — the tower atop the city walls
The half-asleep sentry rubbed his eyes and squinted out across the plains. He didn't see anyone yet, but he heard it first — a thunderous roar rolling toward the city like an oncoming storm.
Then the riders appeared.
First came the wedge of armored knights in plate and mail, lances, swords, and long-handled axes held ready. Behind them poured thousands more horsemen, black and endless, spilling out of the hills and fields from every direction.
Dothraki screamers — braids freshly sheared — waved their curved arakhs high. Overhead snapped bright black-and-red dragon banners.
"Sound the alarm!" the Pentoshi garrison commander bellowed. "Sound the fucking alarm!"
"It's the Andals," he muttered, voice tight. "And they've brought Dothraki vassals with them. The khals are dead? All of them?"
He stared at the sea of heavy cavalry and screaming horse-lords below. That combination was going to be impossible to beat in the open. Their only hope was to sit tight behind the walls.
"Close the gates! Now!"
"Move your asses!"
"Scorpions! Ballistae! Pitch barrels — get them up here!"
The commander was losing his mind while his men dragged their feet like it was just another lazy morning drill.
"Sir, we're out of oil for the cauldrons," one soldier called up.
"Then go get some, you idiot!"
"Yes, sir!" The man practically sprinted down the stairs, looking relieved to be anywhere but the wall.
Another guard piped up. "Sir, my armor's pinching — I need to run to the armory real quick."
A third one coughed. "Sir, I'm not feeling well. Can't even hold a spear."
Half the garrison started asking to step down. These weren't soldiers; they were Pentoshi mercenaries, street thugs, and guys who'd been collecting paychecks without ever seeing real combat.
The commander glared at the cowards. He knew exactly what they were: terrified.
"Shut your mouths!" he roared. "Anyone who leaves his post is a deserter. I'll hang you myself!"
This was what happened when you let a soft, wealthy city hire its defenders like it was hiring party planners. The magisters hadn't wanted to panic the citizens, so they'd kept the news of the Andalos war quiet. Now their "defenders" were acting like it was still peacetime.
A few bolder Pentoshi merchants had heard rumors about the insane battle at Viserysfort — the cheers had apparently sounded like thunder even from miles away. Pentos was the closest Free City to Andalos, connected by the old Valyrian Road, so the magisters had been holding emergency meetings for days, waiting to see who won.
Most of them had bet on the Dothraki. The horse-lords had dominated the Century of Blood; a brand-new kingdom like Andalos shouldn't have stood a chance.
But the proof was riding right up to their walls. Khal Drogo was gone. Khal Jhaqo was gone. The coalition had been wiped out.
The knights pulled up just out of easy bow range. One of them — a huge Andal in black armor — cupped his hands and shouted.
"Send out Magister Illyrio! And every other magister who sucked up to Khal Drogo and cut deals with the Tyroshi Archon!"
Ser Agos's voice carried like a war horn. "The Seven-Pointed Star demands justice!"
Then the sky itself answered.
A dragon's roar rolled across the plains like thunder.
"Dragon!" someone on the wall screamed.
Panic exploded along the battlements. The screamers and heavy knights were already terrifying — add a living dragon and the entire garrison line started to crumble before the enemy had even reached the gates.
Behind the knights, the Dothraki raised their arakhs and cheered in one voice.
"True Dragon Khal!"
"True Dragon Khal!"
The Pentoshi commander stared at the sky, face pale. The survivors who'd limped back from Andalos hadn't been lying. The Andal king really did have a dragon — a fire-breathing monster big enough to roast a city.
The strong walls of Pentos could hold off Dothraki for a while. Against dragonfire? They were kindling.
"Tell the magisters to get out here!" the commander shouted down at his own men. "Their asses are the dirty ones — no reason the whole city has to burn for them!"
Ser Agos raised a mailed fist. "You've got half an hour! If we don't get what we came for, we're coming over the walls!"
Behind him, the steel forest of knights stood motionless, radiating cold confidence. These were the same men who had survived blood and fire at Viserysfort. They weren't here to negotiate.
A clean sea breeze still blew across the walls, but it couldn't touch the fear gripping every Pentoshi defender. All they could do was keep ringing the alarm bells like their lives depended on it.
Inside the magisters' council hall, the arguing had reached full chaos.
The long, ornate chamber was packed. The puppet prince's throne sat empty on its dais — he was never allowed anywhere important anyway. Only the magisters remained, shouting over one another in their silk robes and jewel-heavy fingers.
Most wore their hair and beards glistening with scented oil, the Pentoshi fashion. They'd been holding these emergency sessions nonstop since the war started.
Pentos had always feared war. They'd once thrown everything they had at Braavos and gotten crushed. Ever since, the city had stayed rich, open, and soft — the fattest sheep among the Free Cities. The magisters smiled at everyone: other cities, Dothraki khals, whoever held the bigger stick. They'd spent years bribing the horse-lords with gifts and gold so the screamers would raid east of the Rhoyne instead of burning Pentos.
"You're the one who brought the Andals down on us!" an old magister screamed at a younger one. "Why the hell did you send gold to the Tyroshi Archon?"
"I thought… I thought the Dothraki would win for sure," the young man stammered. "And the Tyroshi promised me a shipment of pretty young slaves…"
"Where's Illyrio?" another magister whispered.
"Haven't seen him. He took a leave of absence."
"That's odd. Diplomacy is his specialty. He was friendly with both the Andal king and the khals. Now the Dragon King is specifically asking for him…"
The oldest magister — gray-bearded, voice carrying real weight — suddenly looked at the young one who'd funded Tyrosh. "Kalos, you're young and ambitious. Why don't you go out and talk to the Dragon King?"
Kalos's eyes bulged. "Are you insane? I'm the one who was cozy with the Tyroshi! You want me to walk out there and meet a dragon? No chance!"
The old magister didn't blink. "A living Kalos can negotiate. A dead one can still talk."
The words had barely left his mouth before hidden side doors behind the silk curtains flew open. Silent Unsullied and hired sellsword killers poured into the chamber.
"What is the meaning of this?" Kalos sputtered.
An Unsullied stepped forward, grabbed the young magister by his oiled hair, and drove a dagger straight into his heart. A quick twist and it was done.
The old magister pointed at the next guilty face. "And you."
More Unsullied moved in. Fresh blood spilled across the marble floor.
"Don't take me for a fool," the senior magister said coldly. "I know exactly who sent money to the Tyroshi Archon to support his little adventure. This is what happens when you lose the bet."
He looked around at the stunned survivors. "Now I believe we can go outside and have a proper talk."
One magister swallowed hard. "What about Odrero?"
The old man smiled thinly. "Odrero is keeping an eye on Illyrio… The Dragon King asked for him by name, after all."