The city of Myr—the last surviving jewel of the Three Daughters—was now completely encircled by Lo Quen's vast host.
The once-bustling port, once bathed in the warmth of summer breezes, now lay in utter silence.
The sea was littered with the shattered hulls of sunken ships, severing all hope of rescue or supply from the water. On land, Lo Quen's army had spread like an iron forest, surrounding the great city by the bay so tightly that not even a mouse could slip through.
The tall, proud walls that had once guarded Myr were now torn and battered, covered with gaping wounds and jagged craters. Massive catapults roared without pause, day and night, hurling boulders that screamed through the air before crashing against the stone defenses.
Each thunderous impact shook the earth, showering the walls with debris and dust, carving new pits and web-like cracks into their battered faces.
Lo Quen's supply of wildfire had long been spent. He had already written to Qyburn, ordering the production of a new batch to be sent to the front. But until it arrived, he had no intention of letting the Myrish rest easy.
He commanded the catapults to keep up their bombardment, grinding away at the enemy's resolve.
From the top of a hill overlooking the battlefield, Lo Quen stood with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes sweeping across the besieged city, his brow furrowed.
It was not the battle itself that troubled him, but the stubborn tenacity of his foes.
His forces had swept through every manor, workshop, and outlying fortress around Myr, cutting the city off completely. By all reason, the Myrish Magisters—deprived of land, resources, and hope—should have understood that resistance would only multiply their losses. Surrender was the only sane path.
Yet the reality before him said otherwise.
The city walls bristled with the figures of slave soldiers.
Most bore warm olive or deep brown skin and stood tall and lean—the unmistakable traits of Rhoynar blood.
The Myrish were not like the Lyseni, who claimed Valyrian ancestry, but rather shared distant kinship with the Rhoynar.
Now, these slaves were being driven onto the battlements by Lysene officers under the Magisters' command, their flesh and blood serving to plug the gaps in the walls.
Their armor was a patchwork of scavenged gear—rusted chainmail, coarse leather, and, for many, nothing but tattered hemp tunics. They trembled beneath the rain of stone fragments that filled the air.
Their weapons were crude spears with rough wooden shafts and dull, unsharpened tips.
Under the relentless storm of falling stones, these slave soldiers, marked by their Rhoynar features, toiled numbly—filling breaches with rubble, mud, and hastily chopped timber, struggling to mend walls already riddled with ruin.
Each crashing boulder brought a chorus of screams, followed by the sickening thud of bodies torn apart.
Yet those who survived did not flinch. They pressed forward with vacant eyes, continuing their grim, mechanical labor.
"How many slaves has the Magister conscripted?"
Lo Quen's voice was low as he turned to Jaelena beside him.
Her gaze was steady, her tone cool and precise. "Your Grace, judging by the number of figures on the walls, no fewer than thirty thousand. All of them armed—though poorly equipped."
Lo Quen's eyes swept once more across the city walls.
The battlements were crowded with defenders—figures packed shoulder to shoulder at every breach and parapet.
The Myrish bore none of the pale, refined features of Valyria; instead, their faces carried the sun-warmed tones of the Rhoynar. Their dark curls clung to sweat-streaked foreheads, their tall, slender frames moving with the weary rigidity of exhaustion.
Their armor was mismatched—patched leather, rust-eaten mail, coarse cloth. Most clutched long spears, their dull points glinting weakly in the fading light.
These slave soldiers—descendants of the Rhoynar—stood upon the battered walls, risking death with every falling stone, struggling ceaselessly to rebuild what the catapults had already reduced to ruin.
Jaelena frowned.
"What makes the Magisters of Myr think they can hold us off? They have no chance of victory. Sending more slave soldiers is meaningless. Our catapults may not be able to bring down the main walls immediately, but once the wildfire arrives, those defenses will crumble before us. Do they truly expect slave soldiers to work miracles?"
Lo Quen couldn't make sense of it either.
He paced slowly, his eyes drifting toward the distant horizon before sweeping over the vast, fertile plains stretching east of Myr.
"Unless," he said evenly, "they're waiting for reinforcements."
The Tattered Prince, clad in silver-gray armor, stepped forward and replied, "Your Grace, most of the Free Cities are ruled by merchants. They think in terms of profit and loss, and their vision rarely extends beyond the next transaction. I doubt any of them would commit a large army to rescue Myr.
"As for the mercenary companies—most of the great ones in Essos were wiped out by your campaigns in the Disputed Lands. Of those remaining, only the Golden Company could stand against us in open battle. But the Golden Company has shown no desire to involve itself in this war. They're not even in the region."
Lo Quen nodded.
The Tattered Prince spoke with reason. And besides, aside from Braavos and Volantis, the other Free Cities sending aid would make little difference.
After a brief silence, Lo Quen made his decision.
"Send urgent word to Qyburn," he ordered. "Tell him to use every resource available—produce wildfire around the clock if he must. Also, have Meizo's intelligence network set into motion. I want to know which Free Cities the Magisters of Myr have appealed to for help. What replies did they receive? Are any fleets assembling? Any armies on the move? Report every sign, no matter how small. Pay special attention to Volantis and Braavos."
...
Meanwhile, in King's Landing, within the lavish residence of House Tyrell.
Inside a private study adorned with rich Myrish carpets and tapestries woven with the golden rose of Highgarden, the air hung heavy with tension.
The Great Lord of Highgarden, Mace Tyrell, was a far cry from his usual self-satisfied splendor.
His plump frame sank deep into a cushioned goose-down chair, his round face flushed red as he waved his stubby arms, spittle flying as he furiously recounted his humiliating exchange with Eddard Stark. Across from him sat Renly Baratheon, graceful in posture but unable to hide the dark weight clouding his expression.
By the time Mace had finished, Renly's mood had sunk further still.
His sharp eyes fixed on the blustering lord as he cut him off. "Lord Mace, it seems you failed to understand Eddard Stark. I've received word—he already knows of our plot."
Mace Tyrell's eyes went wide with disbelief. "That's impossible! We clearly—"
His words choked off. He had thought Eddard Stark's warning came from jealousy over Highgarden's influence. Now he understood—Stark had been warning them about their scheme to replace the queen.
The realization drained the color from his face. His heavy body slumped deeper into the chair, leaving him pale and trembling.
His hands fidgeted nervously as he stammered, "My lord… what should we do?"
Renly's irritation deepened as he looked upon the flustered lord.
"Lord Mace," he said coolly, "we now stand opposite the Hand of the King. If he exposes our secret to the king, I'll be ruined—and House Tyrell won't escape retribution either. The Lannisters will seize the chance to grind us both beneath their heels.
"So perhaps, my lord… what we need is a new Hand of the King."
Mace drew in a sharp breath, his heart pounding.
He hadn't expected Renly to speak so boldly—to even consider deposing Eddard Stark. For a moment, fear tugged at him, and hesitation flickered across his face.
"But wouldn't that…" he began weakly.
Renly's expression hardened, his tone like steel. "It must be done. Only then can we continue this game."
He regarded the disoriented Lord Mace with cold disdain. The sight of the blubbering, uncertain lord filled him with disgust.
How he wished it were not this puffed-up fish before him, but Lady Olenna—the sharp-witted Queen of Thorns—sitting across the table.
The room fell silent. Expensive incense burned quietly, its curling smoke filling the air between them.
Lord Mace's body trembled, his face caught in a tug-of-war between fear and ambition.
And in the end, ambition won.
He swallowed hard, his voice shaking as he forced out a single word.
"Very well…"
Renly exhaled, the tension in his chest loosening ever so slightly.