[152] A Kingdom Forged in Fire

Chapter 152: A Kingdom Forged in Fire

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The molten metal glowed like the sun's heart, waves of heat distorting the air above what had once been Myr's legendary Adamantine Gate. The proud gate standing for a millenia, granting the Myrish Magisters their confidence, melted away against Dragonflame.

Viserys Targaryen didn't pause at the threshold. He walked straight through the liquid fire, his fur-lined cloak disintegrating instantly while his skin remained untouched by temperatures that could forge steel.

Behind him, Ironborn raiders stopped mid-charge, their war cries dying in their throats. Even hardened reavers who'd seen death in a hundred forms couldn't process what they were witnessing.

"Seven hells," Qarl the Maid muttered, lowering his axe. "He's not even sweating!"

The Myrish defenders on the other side fared worse. Seeing their wall crumble, seeing a man walk through the magma, everyone swallowed in fear. A crossbowman, hands trembling, loosed a bolt that struck Viserys square in the shoulder. The king barely flinched, pulling the projectile free with the same casual motion one might use to brush away a fly. Blood welled for a heartbeat before the wound sealed itself, leaving only smooth skin behind.

"That tickled," Viserys said, tossing the bolt aside.

The crossbowman dropped his weapon and ran. Viserion swept down from the sky, picking him by the talons, and throwing him inside her mouth. The Myrish people screamed in fear as Viserion spewed flames across their buildings.

Viserys enjoyed the heat, staring up at his dragon. As per his order, she was careful not to burn civilians. But she did burn many soldiers, and Experience Points notifications filled his vision.

Fire cannot kill a dragon, Viserys thought, spreading his wings, those magnificent appendages of shadow and scale that marked him as something beyond mortal. But apparently, it can make for one hell of an entrance.

He rose into the air, hovering above the cowering defenders like an avenging angel. "I’m certain you know me already from stories and nightmares. Otherwise, you’d have fought back harder. For the children unaware, I am Viserys Targaryen, the Dragon King, and I offer you a simple choice. Kneel and live. Fight and burn."

Steel clattered on stone as weapons fell from nerveless fingers.

"We yield!" A captain in elaborate armor dropped to his knees. "Mercy, Dragonking! We yield!"

The surrender spread like wildfire through the ranks. Within minutes, the famed defenders of Myr's inner city were prostrate before a man who'd walked through the city’s molten walls and shrugged off a crossbow bolt like a mosquito bite.

From the palace balconies, the Magisters watched their world end. They emerged in their finest silks—purple and gold and crimson—looking like exotic birds about to be plucked. Magister Orthys, his perfumed beard trembling, led the procession.

"Your Radiance," he began, clearly unsure of the proper address for a conquering dragon. "We offer unconditional surrender! Please, please tell your dragon to stop!” Genuine fear filled his voice. “The wealth of Myr, our ships, our knowledge… All yours!"

"Your women too?" Viserys asked as a test to see his conviction. To piss off the man, his violet eyes found a particularly beautiful figure among the Magister's retinue. She seems like a family member? She had the olive skin of Myr, with hair dyed in streaks of blue and gold, wearing silks so sheer they might as well have been mist.

Orthys swallowed hard at his gaze, no sign of defiance. That was good. "If... if it pleases Your Grace. My daughter Lysara is considered the jewel of Myr."

The girl—no, she was a woman—stepped forward with surprising grace. Where her father trembled, she was a little more reserved. She sweated just like the others, but perhaps because of Viserys’ reputation with women, she moved with the confidence of someone who'd been trained since birth to navigate powerful men.

Her eyes, lined with kohl, held hope and calculation. "It… it would be an honor to serve the Dragon King," she said, her voice like honey over steel.

They think to control me through their daughters and courtesans, Viserys mused. As if I'm some green boy who thinks with his cock.

"I didn’t mean you when I asked about women," he said dismissively, enjoying how her perfect composure cracked slightly. He clapped his hands, and Viserion stopped her chaos. "First, let's discuss how Myr will serve its new king."

The next hours blurred together in a rhythm of conquest and consolidation. Everyone moved with fear around him, and he liked the feeling. Lately, that factor had decreased among the people of Westeros. In the Magister's own throne room, Viserys laid out his new order with the casual certainty of someone rearranging furniture.

"Yara Greyjoy will govern the port and naval defenses," he announced, gesturing to where the Iron Queen stood, still splattered with blood from the morning's fighting. She grinned like a shark scenting chum. "Any ship that enters or leaves Myr's waters does so at her pleasure."

"Your Grace," Magister Orthys ventured, "the merchant guilds—"

"Will adapt or drown," Yara finished, her hand resting on her axe. "The Iron Fleet doesn't do negotiations."

Viserys continued, "The High Priestess Kinvara will oversee the spiritual needs of the city. The largest temple will be converted to serve R'hllor."

Kinvara stepped forward, her red robes seeming to glow in the afternoon light streaming through stained glass windows. "There is no need for that, Your Grace. There’s a temple of R’hllor here already, among other false gods’ temples. Thankfully, our Lord of Light offers redemption to all who seek his flame. Even those who worshipped false gods may find salvation."

"And the nobility?" Another Magister asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"Will be managed by my dearest Princess Arianne Martell." Viserys watched Arianne move into view, noting how every man in the room suddenly paid attention. As always, she looked gorgeous in the Dornish silks the color of burnt orange, the fabric clinging to her curves like water. The ritual had done more than grant her regeneration, it had restored a vitality that made her devastating to behold.

"Gentlemen," Arianne said, her accent making the word sound like a caress, "We aren’t barbarians here, are we? I know our greetings were a little rough, but I have a good feeling about this. I understand you're accustomed to certain privileges. Those who cooperate will find their positions secure. Those who resist..." She shrugged, the motion doing interesting things to her cleavage. "Well, there are always vacancies in any organization."

She's learning to weaponize her beauty even more effectively, Viserys noted with approval. Good.

As the sun set over Myr, painting the city in shades of conquest, Viserys stood on the palace balcony with his three lieutenants. Below, the Iron Fleet filled the harbor like a forest of black masts, while the city's famous glass towers caught the dying light.

"One down," Yara said, taking a pull from a wine bottle she'd liberated. "Two to go."

Viserys wasn’t going to attack the other Free Cities yet. Just burning these cities wasn’t the point behind this journey. He needed to conquer them, and a proper conquest needed a few months more than flames. First, the plan was to stabilize Myr and then delve into the other cities.

"Lys won't fight," Arianne predicted, leaning against the balustrade in a way that displayed her figure to advantage. "They're merchants and poisoners, not warriors. The moment they hear what happened here, they'll be tripping over themselves to surrender."

"Tyrosh might resist," Kinvara added. "They have pride, and their sellsword companies—"

"Will run the moment they see dragons," Viserys finished. "Sellswords fight for gold, not glory. And there's no amount of gold worth facing dragonfire."

He turned to face them, these three women who'd become the pillars of his eastern empire. "Prepare the ravens. Let every city from here to Qarth know that the Dragon King has come to Essos. Let them know that Myr bent the knee in a single day."

“Of course, Your Grace.”

"And let them know," he added, his smile sharp as Valyrian steel, "that I'm just getting started."

****

Three Months Later

The chronicles would call it the Summer of Dragons, though for many in Essos, it felt more like the world ending.

Lys surrendered without a single sword drawn. Their Magisters, famed for their cunning and their poisons, proved equally skilled at reading the wind's direction. A delegation met Yara's fleet before the Iron Born even reached Lysene waters, their ships laden with tribute: gold, slaves they were ordered to free, and casks of their famous wines and poisons.

"We would be honored to serve the Dragon King," the lead envoy had said, practically prostrating himself on the deck of the Black Wind. "Lys has always known when to bend rather than break."

Tyrosh tried to resist. For a month, they held out behind their sea walls, their famous sellsword companies manning the defenses. The Dust Scorpions, the Company of the Cat, even a detachment of the Golden Company that had survived—all took Tyroshi gold to stand against dragons.

It was, predictably, a disaster.

Yara's fleet strangled their sea trade while Viserion and Rhaegal turned their nights into hell. Not full assaults as there was no point in killing civilians. Instead, precision strikes. A warehouse full of grain here, a barracks there, always keeping the city on edge, never knowing where the next blast of dragonfire would fall.

"They're not sleeping," Qarl reported after capturing a fleeing merchant ship. "The whole city's on edge, jumping at shadows. The sellswords are demanding triple pay just to stay."

"Triple pay they won't get," Viserys had replied, studying maps in his command pavilion outside the city. "Tyrosh's wealth comes from trade. No trade, no gold. No gold, no sellswords."

He was right. After a month of siege, the sellsword companies broke their contracts en masse. The Dust Scorpions were the first to leave, their captain sending a polite note explaining that their contract didn't cover 'acts of gods or dragons.'

The others followed within days.

Tyrosh surrendered on a grey morning, their Archon personally opening the gates. The city that had resisted conquest for centuries fell without a proper battle.

Pentos didn't even try. The Magisters, already shaken by Illyrio's death and the loss of their Golden Company connection, threw open their gates the moment Viserys approached. They presented him with keys to the city on a golden cushion, along with chests of gold and promises of eternal loyalty.

"We have always been friends to House Targaryen," the new Prince of Pentos claimed, conveniently forgetting that they'd harbored Viserys's enemies mere months ago. "We rejoice in your restoration."

Politics makes liars of us all, Viserys thought, accepting their surrender with appropriate gravity.

By summer's end, the western coast of Essos flew Targaryen banners.

From the Stepstones to the Bay of Pentos, Yara's iron grip controlled the waters. Her reavers, now bearing royal writs, had transformed from pirates to coast guard, crushing actual piracy while enforcing Targaryen tariffs with brutal efficiency.

In each conquered city, Kinvara established grand temples to R'hllor. The red priests fed the hungry, healed the sick, and preached of the Dragon King who walked through fire. The smallfolk, long ignored by their merchant princes, flocked to the already prominent Faith of Red in droves.

"You're building something interesting, darling," Arianne observed one evening in Myr, reviewing reports in what had become their de facto capital. She wore a gown of Myrish lace that left little to imagination, her bronze skin glowing in the candlelight. "Not just conquering like any other king, but converting them to your followers. I think it’ll bear fine results."

"Fear is good," Viserys replied, signing orders that would reshape trade routes across half the known world. "But so is love and respect. Love, properly cultivated, grows stronger with time." He looked up, meeting her eyes. "Isn't that how you’re managing Dorne nowadays? Through love as much as strength?"

Every two weeks, he’d leave Viserion in Essos with Yara and leave for Dorne atop Rhaegal with Arianne. Without her being present there every now and then, Trystane might make some stupid choice. And if he did… Viserion would have to take action, which might ruin the development between him and Arianne. So he took Ari there to perform her authority regularly.

She smiled, moving to sit on his desk with feline grace, her thigh peeking out from the tailored cut. "Flattery, my king? How unlike you."

"Statement of fact," he corrected, pulling her into his lap. "You've done exceptional work both here and in Dorne. The Myrish nobility eat from your hand."

"Among other things," she said with a giggle, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest. "They're surprisingly eager to please once they understand the new order. That Lysara woman has been particularly instructive about local customs. I think she wants to be in your bed."

"Does she now?" Viserys was amused. The Magister's daughter had indeed proven useful, though not in the way her father had hoped. Instead of seducing the Dragon King, she'd become one of Arianne's most effective agents, using her connections to smooth the transition of power.

"She's teaching me some interesting things," Arianne continued, her breath warm against his neck. "Did you know the Myrish have texts on lovemaking that would make a Lysene pillow house blush? Very educational~"

"Perhaps you'll demonstrate later," Viserys suggested, his hands finding the curves he'd memorized but never tired of exploring.

"Perhaps I will," she agreed, kissing him deeply before pulling away. "But first, you have a visitor. A raven arrived from Braavos an hour ago."

The playful mood evaporated. Viserys took the scroll she offered, breaking the seal to read the coded message within. His expression darkened with each line.

"What is it?" Arianne asked, all business now.

"Our friends in Braavos are getting nervous," he said, setting the message aside. "This comes from one of Ros's agents. Tywin Lannister isn’t hiding himself as much as before, and can be seen in the streets of Braavos by my spies. Recently, he has been meeting with keyholders of the Iron Bank. And worse—" He paused, weighing how much to reveal. "The Faceless Men have accepted a contract. The agent couldn't determine the target, but given the client..."

"You," Arianne finished. "They're coming for you."

"Of course they are, that’s a no-brainer. Let them come." Viserys stood, moving to the window that overlooked Myr's harbor. His fleet filled the water like iron serpents, while overhead, Viserion circled lazily. "I've been preparing for this. I defeated an assassin last time, and I’d do that again."

"No," Arianne agreed, joining him at the window, hugging his back gently. "You're not. But… be careful. Tywin Lannister doesn't make moves without backup plans. He’s the only man who’s been running from under your nose for so long."

"Then it's fortunate I have backup plans of my own." He turned to her, his violet eyes hard as gemstones. "Send ravens to Norvos and Qohor, and a separate one to your mother. Tell them the Dragon King comes in peace, seeking trade and alliance. Let's see if they're smarter than their sister cities."

"You’re not going to conquer them from the get-go?’

“No. They’re too close to Braavos. Ideally, I’d want to crush Braavos first before wasting time with those two places.”

“And if Norvos and Qohor don’t listen?"

Viserys smiled, and there was nothing warm in it.

"Then I’ll reconsider making them wait. Then they'll burn like all the rest."

The game was accelerating now, pieces moving across the board at dragonspeed. But Viserys had learned patience in his years of exile, strategy in his months of conquest. Braavos could wait for its turn, nursing its refugees and plots.

He had an empire to build first.

And empires, true empires, were forged in fire.

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Author Note: A speedrun chapter. Since I don’t think you guys want to read the same burning cities again and again, I just sped through the early conquest.