First and foremost, the Archon of Tyrosh never expected things to turn out this way...

  For Tyrosh had always been a proud city.

  It stood upon an island north of the Stepstones, where the waters of the Narrow Sea met the Disputed Lands.

  What began long ago as a Valyrian military outpost had grown quickly into something greater.

  For in the nearby waters swam a small sea snail whose secretions produced a dye prized by Valyrian nobles. Making it so that merchants came by the thousands. Wherein wealth followed.

  Within a generation, the outpost became a city.

  High walls ringed Tyrosh, and its inner fortifications were fused black dragonstone from the days of the Freehold.

  At the harbor’s mouth stood the Bleeding Tower, watching the ships that came and went from every corner of the known world.

  Trade was the city’s pride.

  Tyrosh became a mercantile power under this process.

  Ships carried dyed silks, pear brandy, and fine craftwork to distant ports. Tyroshi armorers fashioned ornate helms shaped like beasts and birds, chased with silver and gold.

  Its people were known everywhere for their color and noise.

  Tyroshi men dyed their hair and beards in bright hues... blue, green, purple, vermilion, and stranger shades besides.

  Their hats were tall and curious to Westerosi eyes.

  Their speech, a corrupted Valyrian tongue, rolled through the markets like music.

  Temples lined the streets and harbor fronts, for the city kept no single god.

  The Temple of Trios stood among them, its great statue watching the harbor. Priests of great gods preached nearby, while others honored lesser gods whose names changed from street to street.

  The Fountain of the Drunken God flowed in one of the city squares.

  Pleasure houses stood along the waterfront much like those of Lys. Slaves filled the docks and workshops, for in Tyrosh they outnumbered the freeborn three to one.

  The Archon, and other Archons before him, ruled through the will of the wealthy... chosen from among the richest families in the city.

  It was not a throne but a seat of merchants and power.

  And for centuries... under these circumstances, Tyrosh prospered.

  Yet Tyrosh also had its habits.

  The Tyroshi quarreled constantly with Lys and Myr over the Stepstones and the Disputed Lands.

  Fleets were raised, mercenaries hired, wars fought and forgotten. It had become a way of life.

  So when the Triarchy was formed and earned glory against Volantis... their eyes sought conquest once more, and a select agent of theirs sailed west...

  To test Westeros.

  And for the most part, the Crabfeeder had shown his worth... camping in that part of the Broken Arm for three years.

  As troubling as the bronze legend that rose from that final confrontation may be... it didn't hinder their belief in their better soldiers and an improved leader that can take the helm.

  The Archon himself appointed someone like Ryndoon from their ranks, thinking it should be enough... more so when the Lyseni and Myrmen contributed formidable forces of their own.

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  There also happened to be a divergent Westerosi kingdom to aid them as well.

  With all these factors, many in Tyrosh believed it merely another contest for control of the seas.

  The Archon also was more than appeased.

  But that was a mistake.

  For the first warning with the Crabfeeder should have been taken by them.

  However, it was only the second warning that truly woke them from their hubris... when that newer and much-improved fleet failed to return.

  When those ships reportedly vanished in the waters around the Stepstones. Any form of reinforcement soon followed suit.

  Aside from the expected dragons, panicked and haunting last missives spoke of monsters beneath the waves... Krakens dragging warships under as though they were toys.

  At first such tales were dismissed as sailors' madness.

  Then the blockades began.

  Moon after moon passed.

  No merchant fleets exited or entered Tyrosh’s harbor. Fishing boats that dared sail too far did not return. For the Krakens had become masters of the surrounding waters.

  Soon the proud fleet of Tyrosh was as good as gone. Due to the giant limbs that broke them down daily and methodically.

  And with the navy rendered into nothing... trade also halted... and the city that had lived by commerce began to be plagued with trouble.

  Slaves hoping for true independence filled the streets. Soldiers demanded pay. And influential merchants demanded answers for their mounting problems.

  Making it so the Archon spent his days counting grain and arguing with nobles over rationing.

  While each moon brought new riots, new shortages, and new fears.

  Accordingly, the city waited for relief from its allies.

  Instead came mirrored requests from Lys who share the same plight.

  And soon enough... word also reached them only slowly that Dorne had bent the knee to the Iron Throne.

  For dragons had burned the desert strongholds. While the Martells had already sworn loyalty to King Viserys.

  Still the Archon hoped.

  For there were still letters from King’s Landing.

  Carried along by certain friends in Westeros. Specifically Otto Hightower, the King’s Hand... had been receptive to negotiation. A truce, perhaps even protection, might yet be arranged.

  The Archon clung to that hope.

  But then, another raven came.

  That Otto Hightower had been dismissed.

  After which, the letters stopped.

  Soon after, new sails appeared upon the horizon.

  The Archon watched them from the harbor walls.

  At first, he thought them merchants returning at last. That the monsters of their bays were finally gone.

  With the informed rest of the city gathered along the docks to see their assumed salvation arrive.

  But the incoming ships flew an unfamiliar yet dreaded banner.

  And it just so happens that a select number of these ships were big and grand and unlike anything that Tyrosh seamen have ever encountered.

  Which should be the infamous Santa Ma-Rheas. Scorned by local drunks as mere tales yet left them tongue-tied once they finally laid eyes on it.

  And if it wasn't clear yet... they were Westerosi vessels, hardened by long voyages and war.

  And since it was a bronze sigil that marked their sails... it meant that they were not to be underestimated.

  For they were manned by the Royces.

  Who docked by the harbor slowly... unchallenged. Since there were so few left in Tyrosh capable of opposing them.

  And when some of their planks were finally lowered, armored men of bronze stepped onto the ground.

  As much as the Archon wanted to rain arrows or call swords upon them... he couldn't. Given their dwindled forces and loss of military control.

  Even their loyal and remaining guards would just be fodder.

  So, with not much choice, the Archon could only meet them with his council...

  To voice their protest. To show some pretense that they still commanded this city. That they still had worth and that they should be heard.

  For the rulers of Tyrosh still had their dignity. They had ruled this land for centuries. And no foreign lord should have authority here... much less brazen entrants that surely meant ill.

  Consequently, the leading bronze-armored knight listened politely enough. To whatever the Archon and his cohorts spouted.

  Then he just outright ignored every word.

  Apparently, the Order of the Bronze had come with their own terms, not requests.

  That Tyrosh would submit to the rule of the Prince Consort of Westeros. Its remains would be surrendered. And its ports would open to Royce authority.

  Refusal was not advised.

  For the Krakens still surrounded the island. And above the clouds, it was mentioned, that dragons were circling unseen.

  The Archon considered resistance.

  But the truth was plain enough.

  The city’s armies were weakened by hunger and unrest. Its fleet lay broken. And their prized trade was gone.

  Under those circumstances, any form of resistance from his fellow Tyroshi collapsed within days.

  The high walls made of fused dragonstone meant nothing when there were desperate traitors that simply let the enemy in.

  The ones that bent their knees early. With the slaves of that bunch actually made free.

  Some of the wealthy and noble tried fleeing... but failed. And the religious settlers amounted to nothing.

  Whilst the remaining remainder fought with all they had and died for it.

  And after all that... it all officially ended.

  The independence of Tyrosh ended.

  The bright-haired Free City that once ruled near the Stepstones had fallen not to siege or storm... but to monstrous blockade, uncanny patience, and the steady arrival of bronze-armored men in its destitute harbor.

  Its glory... as the Archon recalled... had lasted centuries. From the peak of Old Valyria and even after the Doom...

  But its eventual fall had only taken a little more than a year.

  Orchestrated by a Bronze Demon that they never should have provoked.