The first light of morning broke across the eastern horizon, staining the sky a cold, pale white.
Another dawn.
Aegon stood at the flagship's prow.
The damp sea breeze stirred the hem of his black robe, outlining his tall, spear-straight figure.
With his head tilted slightly upward, he gazed at the distant, awakening sky, fire and thunder seemingly reflected in the depths of his violet eyes.
His gaze pierced the thinning night mist and settled on the hazy outline along the distant coast.
The pointed towers, the rise and fall of the walls, and farther beyond, a swath of... black that looked exceptionally deep even in the dim morning light.
Tyrosh.
At last, the morning light broke free of the horizon and spilled across the city.
It first illuminated the golden roof of the palace at the city's heart, then the Bacchus Fountain.
The fountain was said to gush wine-laced water day and night. Now, in the morning light, its ripples shone an eerie dark red, like diluted blood.
The city was waking. People with hair dyed every color began moving like ants through its streets and alleys. Cooking smoke rose from homes, and faint clamor drifted from markets and temples.
Prosperous, peaceful, and utterly unprepared.
In a side hall of the Archon of Tyrosh's palace, a routine morning meeting had just begun.
The man seated at the head of the table had the same burly build as the Archon away on campaign, and the same neatly trimmed full beard, painstakingly dyed dark green.
He was the Archon's elder brother, Valaro, temporarily entrusted with the city-state.
A few inconsequential documents lay scattered across the long table before him, alongside an almost empty silver wine jug and several crystal cups.
The seven or eight people seated around the table were senior