Game of Thrones: A Song Of Blood & Fire

Tyrosh – The Band of Nine's Stronghold

Across the Narrow Sea.

Tyrosh was a city of silk and slaughter.

From afar, the glittering towers of the Free City seemed almost unreal, a mirage of green marble, turquoise domes, and golden spires rising from the wine-dark sea. The streets wound like serpents between rich bazaars, brothels filled with perfumed courtesans, and shadowy alleys where whispers carried daggers.

The Citadel of Tyrosh was a temple of decadence—perfumed with spiced wines and filled with whispers of war.

Beneath its vaulted ceilings, were great painted tapestries of Old Valyria hunged.

The air smelled of salt, spices, and the pungent dyes for which the city was famed. The very stones of Tyrosh's streets were streaked with colours of sapphire, emerald, and amethyst, the result of centuries of dye-rinsing from the city's booming trade.

But beneath all the paint and perfume, Tyrosh was a city of blood and ambition.

And in its heart, within the Citadel of the Silken Crown, the Band of Ninepenny Kings ruled.

The Citadel of the Silken Crown was neither a palace nor a fortress—it was a throne of power built upon treachery.

Unlike the Red Keep of Westeros, this was a place of decadence. The grand hall was lined with carpets woven with gold thread, walls painted with fantastical murals of Tyroshi conquests, and pillars carved into the forms of ancient warriors, their swords forever drawn.

The ceiling was a vast mosaic of painted glass, allowing the sunlight to shimmer in a thousand colours across the long, polished table where the Ninepenny Kings feasted and plotted.

Each chair at that table belonged to a tyrant, a murderer, or a warlord.

And each of them had sworn a blood pact beneath the Tree of Crowns, vowing to carve out their own kingdoms—no matter the cost.

At the centre of the table, lounging in his high-backed chair, was Alequo Adarys, the Silvertongue, the ruler of Tyrosh himself.

He was a man of perfumed oils, sharp cheekbones, and a smile that could turn blades to butter. His lavender robes shimmered with the embroidery of a silver seahorse, and rings of sapphire and opal adorned his long fingers, clicking together whenever he gestured.

Alequo did not command armies. He commanded men's desires.

To his left sat Ser Tybero Istarion, a former Westerosi hedge knight turned mercenary lord and also the famed sub-general of the Golden Company. His face was lined with old scars, his eyes like flint, and his armour was blackened steel polished to a deadly gleam. He had long since abandoned the vows of knighthood—honour had no place in conquest.

Beside him loomed Nine Eyes of Lys, a spymaster cloaked in dark violet silks, his face hidden behind a half-mask of ivory and black. His fingers were always ink-stained, for he dealt not in steel, but in parchment, secrets, and poison.

At the far end of the table, toying with the hilt of his curved dagger, was Seracaro the Red Reaver, a pirate lord from the Stepstones. His wild hair was streaked with blood-red dye, his eyes sharp as a hunting falcon's, and his smile never without malice.

There were others still—Corsairs of Myr, merchant lords of Volantis, warlords from the Disputed Lands.

The Old Mother is a pirate queen.

Samarro Saan, known as the Last Valyrian, is a notorious pirate from a notorious family of pirates from Lys.

Xhobar Qhoqua the Ebon Prince, an exile prince from the Summer Isles who founded and led a sellssword company in the Disputed Lands.

Liomond Lashare, the Lord of Battles, is a famed sellsword captain.

Spotted Tom, known as the Butcher, from Westeros, captain of a free company in the Disputed Lands.

Ser Derrick Fossoway, known as the Bad Apple, is an exile from Westeros, a knight with a black reputation.

—all bound together by one ambition.

To carve out empires from the ashes of the old.

And the true power behind all this Tree of Crowns is the one named The Monstrous.

Maelys the Monstrous, The Last Blackfyre and The greatest of Bittersteel's heirs.

Maelys Blackfyre's POV: The Monstrous King

The meat was still warm.

He ripped another chunk from the roasted thigh in his hands, tearing through the flesh with jagged teeth, his one good eye glinting with satisfaction. Grease dripped down his chin, staining his thick, corded neck, and his tongue lapped the juices from his lips like a starving beast.

The hall of the Silken Crown had grown silent, save for the wet, tearing sounds of Maelys feasting.

Even among cutthroats, pirates, and warlords, Maelys was a thing to be feared.

His presence alone was an insult to gods and men alike.

He was a creature of twisted majesty—a giant of a man, his bald scalp gleaming under the golden torchlight, his broad shoulders covered in the black and red of his stolen House. His left eye burned like molten gold, sharp and cruel, but it was the other thing—the thing that grew from his neck—that made him monstrous.

A second head. A thing of flesh and failure, a shriveled parasite with its own half-formed mouth, about the size of child's fist. Some claimed it was formed by devouring his twin in the womb,which resulted in his grotesquely large upper body and vestigal second head. It whispered sometimes—mutterings only he could hear.

Some men called him a beast. Others, an omen.

He was a monster in the flesh and in the soul.

And he knew it.

Maelys the Monstrous, they called him. The Last Blackfyre.

The others in the room pretended at strength, but Maelys could smell their fear.

Alequo Adarys, the silken snake, lounged lazily in his chair, his rings clicking together, but his eyes were sharp, watchful. He feared Maelys, though he hid it behind perfumed lies.

Ser Tybero sat stiffly, his hand always near his sword. A true warrior, but not bold enough to challenge Maelys outright.

Nine Eyes of Lys remained silent in his shadows, but Maelys knew—he was already calculating, scheming, wondering how long this game would last before Maelys turned his monstrous eye toward him.

Seracaro the Red Reaver grinned, but it was the grin of a man who knew that a single wrong word would see his entrails painting the floor.

Even the pirates and mercenary captains—men who had gutted soldiers and raped queens—shrank beneath his gaze.

They all feared him.

Good.

Because fear is what made men kneel.

And soon, all of Westeros would kneel.

(Memories of Maelys Blackfyre's Past)

Maelys had been born into exile, the last pure Blackfyre heir to the throne that was stolen from his family.

His great-great-grandfather, Daemon I Blackfyre, had been the true king, the strongest warrior of his time, the wielder of Blackfyre, the sword of Aegon the Conqueror himself. But that coward Daeron II had crushed him beneath deceit and treachery, forcing the remnants of his house to flee to Essos.

Then came Bittersteel, the founder of the Golden Company, who swore on his dying breath that no true Blackfyre would forget their claim.

But time had made the Blackfyres weak.

Daemon's heirs fought among themselves, generation after generation. Brothers killed brothers. Sons betrayed fathers. Each Rebellion failed, and each time, another king of Westeros laughed at their ruin.

Until only two were left.

Maelys.

And his cousin, Daemon Blackfyre IV.

A pretender, a weakling, a pale shadow of what their ancestors had been.

Maelys had seen the sickness of his kin, the pathetic squabbling, the cowardice.

And so, he had cleansed it.

(The Day He Seized the Golden Company )

Daemon IV had sat upon his silver throne in exile, believing himself a king, but Maelys had been the stronger one.

He had challenged his cousin for command of the Golden Company, a duel by blood and steel.

But Maelys had never intended to fight fair.

Before his cousin could even draw his sword, Maelys had lunged.

His hands—twice the size of any man's—had wrapped around Daemon's throat, crushing it with monstrous strength.

His cousin had gurgled, clawed, and kicked, but it had been pointless.

Maelys had torn his throat out with his teeth.

Then, one by one, he had slaughtered Daemon's entire family.

His cousin's sons, screaming as he ripped them apart with his bare hands.

His cousin's daughters, whose skulls he had crushed against stone.

His cousin's wife was forced to watch before he snapped her spine like a dry twig.

When it was done, Maelys spat the blood from his mouth and roared his victory to the skies.

The Golden Company had knelt before him, not out of loyalty—but out of terror.

From that day forward, he was Maelys the Monstrous.

And none had dared to challenge him since.

General POV

The continent of Essos had always been a land of shifting alliances, fragile pacts, and ambitions as vast as the Dothraki Sea.

News of Summerhall's burning and the rise of the Band of Nine sent ripples through the Free Cities, each reacting according to its own interests, fears, and desires.

The Ninepenny Kings sought a kingdom, but their war would not be fought in isolation.

In the shadowed halls of the Free Cities, gold, politics, and steel dictated the future.

And already, some had chosen sides.

TYROSH

Tyrosh had once been a city of merchants and mercenaries, a Free City known for its dyes, its pleasure houses, and its intricate lace trade.

Now, it was the domain of Alequo Adarys, self-styled King of Tyrosh, a man who had abandoned the old ways of trade in favour of conquest.

The city had become a bastion for the Blackfyre cause, the streets filled with Golden Company banners, its harbours swarming with corsairs sworn to the Ninepenny Kings.

From his palace of green marble and golden domes, Alequo entertained Maelys Blackfyre and his generals, feeding them dreams of Westeros while ensuring Tyrosh reaped the greatest rewards.

"We shall rule both coasts," he had promised Maelys over wine and roast fowl. "Essos and Westeros alike. You will have your Iron Throne—and I will have dominion over the Free Cities."

Tyrosh had committed itself fully—providing ships, soldiers, and gold to fuel the war machine of the Ninepenny Kings.

But not all Free Cities welcomed this new order.

BRAAVOS

The halls of the Iron Bank were cold and silent, lit by candles that never seemed to burn out.

Here, wealth moved not through swords, but through ledgers, loans, and quiet threats.

The bankers of Braavos cared little for kings or conquerors—they cared for stability.

The rise of the Ninepenny Kings and their looming war in Westeros threatened trade, threatened debts unpaid, and threatened order.

"War means uncertainty," whispered Serion Nestoris, a high-ranking banker with raven-dark eyes and ink-stained fingers. "And uncertainty means lost investments."

"We should cut them off now," argued Magister Othrio Vyras, his voice cold. "No coin. No support. Let them fall."

"Not yet," another countered, older, wiser. "Maelys Blackfyre is a beast, yes. But beasts often fall upon their own swords. Let us watch. Let us wait."

And so, the Iron Bank remained patient.

For now.

VOLANTIS

In the great black walls of Volantis, the Triarchs convened in secret.

Volantis was the oldest of the Free Cities, the last remnant of Valyria's first great colony, still clinging to its dreams of empire.

To them, Maelys Blackfyre was not just a conqueror—he was an opportunity.

"He could be a tool," suggested Triarch Neraquo, a merchant prince with eyes like polished obsidian. "A weapon wielded to weaken Westeros before we take what is ours."

"A blunt weapon," countered Triarch Maelor Pynephos, his lips curling. "One that cannot be controlled. If Maelys wins, he will not bow to Volantis—he will make war on all who do not kneel."

"But if he loses?" The third Triarch, Lady Nyessara, smiled over her goblet of sweet Myrish wine. "Then we shall claim the spoils without lifting a single blade."

And so, Volantis did not commit.

Not yet.

But the fires of ambition burned behind their veiled smiles.

MYR and LYS

The twin cities of Myr and Lys had long been rivals, competing in trade, pleasure, and influence.

To the Merchant Lords of Myr, the war in Westeros was another game of profit.

"Blackfyre gold spends as well as any other," noted Lord Sorellio Vyrion, a Myrish spymaster known for his elaborate glasswork masks. "We invest now, we profit later."

But others disagreed.

"The Targaryens have ruled for centuries," warned the Lyseni Magister Velcaro Lysayn. "And they do not forget. If Maelys loses, Westeros will turn its eyes on all who aided him."

The Free Cities had seen what happened to those who supported Blackfyres before—exiled, destroyed, cast aside.

Some would hedge their bets, aiding the Ninepenny Kings in secret, while keeping ties to Westeros open.

Because in the end, gold mattered more than thrones.The Growing Storm

In Tyrosh, Maelys Blackfyre sharpened his sword, eager to carve a kingdom.

In Braavos, the Iron Bank watched and waited, calculating every possible outcome.

In Volantis, the Triarchs debated whether to back Maelys—or wait for his fall.

In Myr and Lys, the merchant lords whispered in dark corners, torn between profit and caution.

The world of Essos did not move by strength alone.

It moved by gold, secrets, and waiting for the right moment to strike.

And soon, the Ninepenny Kings would make their move.

Would Westeros be ready?

TYROSH GENERAL POV

The doors to the grand hall of Citadel of the Silken Crown crashed open.

A breathless Tyroshi rider, his dyed green hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, stumbled in, his silk robes damp with salt spray from the voyage. His eyes were wide with fear.

Alequo Adarys did not move. He simply raised a single elegant brow.

"You interrupt a feast," he said, swirling his goblet. "Why should I not have you flayed for this?"

The messenger dropped to his knees.

"My lords," he gasped. "Urgent news, Summerhall has burned."

Silence fell.

Even Seracaro the Red Reaver, ever-smirking, stopped playing with his dagger.

Alequo's hand tightened on his goblet. "Say that again."

The messenger swallowed. "Summerhall has burned. The Targaryens—King Aegon, Queen Betha, Prince Duncan, his wife, the Kingsguard—they all perished in the fire."

Tybero Istarion leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "You lie."

The messenger shook his head violently.

"No, my lords! The news is everywhere!

The Great Sept of Baelor rings its bells in mourning, and the lords of Westeros whisper among themselves!

The King is dead—burned alive! The red dragons have burned!"

"Summerhall is gone," he had said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking the words aloud would summon ghosts. A silence lingered in the air as the news was read aloud. The messenger, a gaunt man in tattered finery, trembled as he finished his account, his voice quivering at the enormity of what he had just spoken.

"Aegon the Unworthy's great dream turned to ash. The King and Queen are dead. The Prince is dead. Prince Duncan—dead. His wife, Jenny of Oldstones—dead. Ser Duncan the Tall—dead. The greatest warriors of House Targaryen—gone."

The Band of Nine had listened in silence.

And then—the laughter began.

"Aegon the Fool is dead," Ser Tybero Istarion sneered, his sharp teeth glinting as he drank deeply from his cup. "The dreamer-king burned in his own madness."

"The Targaryens have lost their sword and shield," added Nine Eyes of Lys, his whispering voice like silk over steel. "A king. A prince. A warrior without a peer. And most of all… Ser Duncan the Tall."

That name hung in the air like a curse.

The man who had slain the last pretender king, Daemon III Blackfyre.

The man who had shattered the Fourth Blackfyre Rebellion.

The man who had stood between House Blackfyre and the Iron Throne for years.

Gone.

"And now, only weaklings and children remain."

Alequo Adarys, the self-styled King of Tyrosh, swirled fine Lyseni wine in his goblet, his lips curling in amusement.

"Who stands in our way now?" he mused. "An untried weak man, soon to be crowned king—Jaehaerys, the last son of Aegon the Fifth."

"A weak king can be moulded," Seracaro the Red Reaver grinned, his red-stained teeth flashing beneath his thick beard. "Or broken."

"And his heir?" asked Tybero Istarion, his voice laced with scorn.

"Aerys Targaryen," Nine Eyes answered. "Weak. Arrogant. A fool in the making."

"A poor heir," Alequo sighed. "And a worse king, should he live to wear the crown."

Laughter rippled through the room.

The Targaryen line was weak—ripe for destruction.

The new King, Jaehaerys, had no great warriors to defend him.

His heir, Aerys, was nothing but an arrogant boy, blind to the world outside the Red Keep.

And beyond them?

Nothing but women and children.

The great defenders of House Targaryen were dead.

There was no dragon left to protect their throne.

Even the last great warrior of their house—Ser Duncan the Tall—was now nothing but ash.

The dragons were leaderless.

And a kingdom without a shepherd is ripe for the wolves.

Then, Nine Eyes leaned forward, his voice cutting through the laughter.

"Not all of them burned."

The room fell silent.

Maelys had not yet spoken. But his single eye narrowed in curiosity.

Nine Eyes smiled thinly.

"The boy lives."

"Aemon Targaryen," Alequo mused.

"The son of Duncan the Small," Tybero added. "A child barely months old."

"He was untouched by the fire," Nine Eyes murmured. "Not a single burn. Not a single scar."

"A tale for fools," Seracaro grunted. "Nothing but Targaryen trickery."

"Perhaps." Nine Eyes' thin fingers traced the map of Westeros, stopping over King's Landing. "Or perhaps… something more."

Maelys listened.

The monstrous prince of House Blackfyre had never feared any man.

But this?

This intrigued him.

A boy was untouched by wildfire.

A prince who survived the flames when kings and warriors perished.

A true dragon.

A slow grin spread across Maelys' grotesque face.

Perhaps this child deserved more attention.

Perhaps the gods had left a single ember unburned for a reason.

Maelys licked the last of the grease from his fingers and grinned, his massive teeth gleaming like a wolf's.

A rasping chuckle broke the silence.

"The gods are merciful," Maelys Blackfyre sneered, his lips curling over sharp, discoloured teeth. He was a towering figure, broad-shouldered and grotesquely muscled, his appearance an abomination.

"For years, the Targaryens have clung to their throne, cursing my name, spitting on my claim." He exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring.

"And now, their line burns, their king reduced to cinders."

There was no sadness in his voice. No reverence for the dead. Only hunger. A hunger for war, for power, for vengeance that had been generations in the making.

"I will rip the Iron Throne from their broken fingers," Maelys declared, his voice booming like thunder.

"And every last Targaryen whelp will die screaming."

"The Red dragons are dying," he growled.

"Their king is dead. Their warriors are burned. Their realm is weak."

His single good eye burned with madness, with triumph.

"Soon, I shall take what is mine."

He rose from his seat, his massive frame casting a shadow across the war table.

Then, Alequo Adarys smirked. "You would march on Westeros now, Maelys?" His fingers drummed lazily against the gilded armrest of his seat.

"The Targaryens still hold the Iron Throne. They still have the Red Keep. They still have dragons in their blood. The war is not yet won."

Maelys sneered his twisted second head twitching.

"They have only one dragon, and even that whelp is barely more than a boy." He leaned forward, placing a heavy hand on the war table.

"House Targaryen has lost its greatest warriors. The Stormlands are the only loyal shield they have left. The Reach will hesitate, the Lannisters will count their gold, and the Starks will not march unless threatened."

Not all shared his confidence.

Alequo Adarys smiled thinly. "And yet," he mused, "the throne remains. The blood of the dragon still flows. We may celebrate Summerhall's ashes, but we must not forget that fire does not die so easily."

A low murmur of agreement rippled through the hall.

Kojja Mo, the fearsome pirate queen of the Basilisk Isles, leaned forward, her dark eyes narrowing. "You assume the Seven Kingdoms will bow to you, Maelys. But they are not so quick to kneel. And their armies still vastly outnumber ours."

The Volantene warlord, Liomond Lashare, nodded. "What of the Free Cities? Do you think Braavos will stand idle while we claim Westeros?"

Maelys sneered. "Braavos is always watching, always scheming. But they do not have the numbers to stop me."

He turned his gaze to the others. "And as for Westeros… they are fractured. Their king is dead. Their lords are uncertain. If ever there was a time to strike, it is now."

But Alequo was not convinced. "You still assume that Westeros will rise for you. Have you forgotten the lesson of your forebears? Bittersteel fought, and he failed. Daemon Blackfyre fought, and he failed."

He gave Maelys a measured look. "Why will this time be different?"

Maelys' eyes darkened, his lips curling in rage.

"Because I am not them."

Without warning, he moved. A flash of monstrous speed, a blur of violence. The messenger who had delivered the news of Summerhall barely had time to cry out before Maelys' hands closed around his throat.

A sickening crack filled the chamber.

The man's lifeless body hit the marble floor, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. The Ninepenny Kings fell into silence.

Maelys turned to them, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths.

"I am not Daemon. I am not Bittersteel. I am the last Blackfyre." His voice was quiet now, all the more terrifying for its restraint. "I will not fail."

"And then, I will burn their castles."

"I will rip their lords from their thrones."

"I will drink from their skulls."

"I will sit upon the Iron Throne."

He let his words sink in before delivering his final strike. "The Golden Company is ready."

Alequo Adarys raised a goblet, his voice like silk.

"Then let us begin, Maelys. Let us claim the the Throne."

Maelys laughed, the sound like a beast tearing through flesh.

"We strike now. We take the Stepstones. We cut their trade. We choke their fleets. We prepare our armies."

"A fortress at the gates of Westeros," Alequo Adarys murmured. "A perfect staging ground."

"A foothold before we march upon the Iron Throne," Tybero added.

Maelys grinned.

"The first step in taking back what is mine."

And the Band of Nine made ready for war.

That night, the fires of Tyrosh burned bright—not in mourning, but in celebration.

Westeros was weak.

The Red Dragons were dying.

The Black Dragon will claim its due.

And soon, the storm would come.