Third Person POV
299 AC, Astapor – Morning
The dawn sun painted Astapor's red-brick palace in hues of fire, its rays glinting off the Unsullied's bronze spears as they stood guard. Within the council chamber, Dominic Augustus, King of Uruk, sat at a polished obsidian table, his golden eyes sharp, his black silk tunic pristine despite the sleepless night spent rescuing Eddard Stark and his daughters from King's Landing. Daenerys Targaryen, her silver hair braided, sat to his right, her violet eyes curious but wary. Missandei, her quill poised, recorded every word, her telepathic senses attuned to the room's undercurrents. Ser Jorah Mormont stood by the door, his hand on his sword, his gruff face etched with loyalty. The air hummed with purpose as Dominic prepared to reshape Essos.
A stack of sealed parchments lay before him, each bearing Uruk's sigil: A sun symbol with a black background. "Letters," Dominic said, his voice smooth but commanding, his grin sly. "To every magister, prince, and lord of the Free Cities—Pentos, Norvos, Qohor, Lorath, Volantis. They'll know Uruk's name, its strength, and its terms. Braavos gets a special missive—unique, given their… peculiarities."
Daenerys arched a brow, her voice soft but probing. "Terms, what do these letters say, and why Braavos separately?"
Dominic leaned back, his fingers drumming the table, his golden eyes glinting with ambition. "The Free Cities cling to their independence, their wealth, their petty squabbles. But Essos is changing, Dany—Slaver's Bay is ours, a beacon of freedom under your dragons and my power. These letters offer alliance: join Uruk's dominion, trade freely, prosper under our protection, and pay a modest tax—ten percent of their profits. Refuse, and they face obliteration. Braavos, though… they're different. Proud, secretive, with their Iron Bank and Faceless Men. My letter to them is a velvet gauntlet: rule themselves as they wish, pay the tax, or face Uruk's wrath. They'll see reason—or they won't, and I'll carve reason into their canals."
Jorah's voice rumbled, his brow furrowed. "Bold, Your Grace, but dangerous. The Free Cities are rich, they will try to hire vast armies—mercenaries, Dothraki screamers, even sorcerers in Qohor and Volantis. They won't bend easily, and Braavos… their wealth funds half the world's wars. If they call your bluff—"
Dominic's grin widened, his voice laced with confidence. "It's no bluff, Jorah. Let them send their sellswords, their khals, their shadowbinders. Their walls will break against my might, and I'll build anew on their ruins. Missandei, ensure the ravens fly today—every letter delivered swift and true."
Missandei nodded, her voice calm, her quill scratching. "It is done, Dom. The ravens will reach Pentos, Norvos, Qohor, Lorath, Volantis, and Braavos by week's end. The words are sealed, the sigils unbroken."
Daenerys's eyes narrowed, her voice firm. "And if they resist, Dom? What then?"
Dominic's gaze met hers, unyielding, his voice steel. "Then we fight, Dany. We burn their fleets, shatter their walls, free their slaves. With my power, your fire, and our will, Essos will kneel—or it will fall. But I wager most will see the merit in joining us. Fear and reason are powerful persuaders."
The letters were dispatched, ravens soaring into the dawn, each carrying Uruk's ultimatum to the Free Cities, and a shadowed promise to Braavos.
Braavos – The Sealord's Palace
In Braavos, the Sealord's palace gleamed with opulence, its walls adorned with mosaics of ships and sea gods, its halls echoing with the murmur of commerce. Sealord Ferrego Antaryon, a lean man with silver hair and sharp black eyes, sat at a long table, flanked by keyholders of the Iron Bank and magisters of the city's great houses. Before them lay Dominic's letter, its black wax seal broken, the words within read and reread in stunned silence.
Ferrego's voice was low, laced with incredulity, his fingers tracing the parchment. "This… Dominic Augustus, this so-called King of Uruk, dares to demand Braavos bend the knee? Ten percent of our profits as tax, in exchange for 'self-rule' under his dominion? And if we refuse, he promises destruction? Who is this man, this upstart, to threaten the Titan's city? Braavos, which has never knelt, not to Valyria, not to any king or khal? The arrogance is staggering."
Tycho Nestoris, a keyholder of the Iron Bank, his face pale and pinched, leaned forward, his voice cold. "Arrogance, yes, but not empty, Sealord. This Dominic holds Astapor, Yunkai, Meereen—Slaver's Bay, and he already has Lys, Myr and Tryosh under his control once a cesspool of chains, now a fortress under his banner. His power is not mere swords or gold—it's something darker, older. We cannot dismiss him as a braggart."
A magister, Belicho Staegone, slammed his fist on the table, his jowls quivering, his voice booming. "Then we crush him! Braavos bows to no one! Send the Faceless Men—let them slip into Astapor, cut histhroat, and end this nonsense before it begins. A single death, and Uruk falls!"
Ferrego's eyes narrowed, his voice measured. "A prudent thought, Belicho, but costly. The Faceless Men demand prices beyond gold—lives, secrets, gods. I've already sent an envoy to the House of Black and White, seeking their aid. Their response was… unsettling."
Tycho's voice was a whisper, his eyes wide. "What did they say, Sealord? Surely the Faceless Men fear no man, no matter his titles."
Ferrego's lips tightened, his voice grave. "The envoy returned pale, trembling. The priests refused the contract, Tycho. They said, 'A man cannot kill the Master of Death, for he walks with the Many-Faced God's shadow. To strike him is to invite ruin.' They would take no price, no offering. The Faceless Men, who fear nothing, turned away from this Dominic Augustus."
The room fell silent, the magisters exchanging uneasy glances, the air thick with dread. Belicho's bluster faded, his voice faltering. "Then… what? We pay this tax? We, Braavos, the richest city in the world, grovel to a foreign king? Our fleets, our bank, our pride—what becomes of them?"
Tycho leaned back, his voice calm but resolute. "Pride is a luxury, Belicho. Survival is not. Uruk's strength grows—Slaver's Bay's slaves are freed, its cities fortified, its armies loyal. If we fight, we risk our fleets, our trade, our very city. If we join them, pay this tax, we keep our freedom, our power, and gain a shield against the other Free Cities' envy. Ten percent is a small price for peace and profit."
Ferrego nodded, his voice weary but decisive. "Tycho speaks wisdom. War with Uruk would bleed us dry, win or lose. We'll send word to Uruk—Braavos agrees to the terms, retains its rule, and pays the tax. But we watch this Dominic closely. If he falters, if his power wanes, Braavos will be ready to reclaim what is ours."
The council murmured assent, their pride stung but their reason prevailing. A raven was prepared, its message accepting Uruk's dominion, sealed with the Titan's mark.
Pentos – The Prince's Palace
In Pentos, Prince Tregar Moro, corpulent in emerald silks, sat in his gilded hall, magisters and sellswords around him, Dominic's letter crumpled, mocked with laughter.
Tregar's voice boomed, rings flashing. "This Uruk, this Dominic, thinks Pentos will kneel? Our wealth, our power, taxed like slaves? Pentos, city of trade, bows to no desert king! He's no dragonlord, just a man with dreams too big. His head will grace my gates!"
Magister Ordello sneered. "Slaver's Bay's a mirage—his freedmen will rebel when hunger bites. The Golden Company, ten thousand strong, will crush him. Pentos leads, others follow."
Captain Harro grinned, scarred. "Add Khal Pono's khalasar—twenty thousand screamers, hooves like storms. They'll burn Astapor, feast on his dragons. He'll beg before we're done."
Magister Lyseno raised a goblet, oily. "And sorcerers—Asshai's shadowbinders, Qarth's warlocks. They'll curse his men, blind his dragons. No tax, only blood!"
Tregar laughed, malicious. "Send ravens to the Golden Company, Khal Pono, the sorcerers. Arm our fleets, muster our men. Pentos will shatter Uruk, its spoils ours!" The hall roared, defiance drowning fear, ravens summoning war.
Volantis – The Triarch's Hall
In Volantis, behind the Black Wall, Triarch Malaquo Maegyr, a tiger-cloaked noble with amber eyes, read Dominic's letter to his fellow triarchs, Nyessos Vhassar and Doniphos Paenymion. The hall's braziers cast flickering shadows, the air heavy with incense and anger.
Malaquo's voice was cold, his fingers crushing the parchment. "This King of Uruk insults us, demands our gold, our fealty, as if Volantis, first daughter of Valyria, is some petty village. Ten percent of our profits? Protection under his banner? He's a fool or a madman, and either way, he'll burn for it. Our fleets rule the Summer Sea, our sorcerers wield the old magics. We'll send his corpse to R'hllor's flames."
Nyessos, his voice smooth, his eyes calculating, leaned forward. "A fool, perhaps, but not weak. Slaver's Bay bends to him, its slaves call him liberator. Daenerys's dragons grow, we must act, but not alone. Qohor's shadowbinders, Norvos's bearded priests, Lorath's maze-runners—unite them. Hire the Second Sons, the Stormcrows, every sellsword we can. Summon sorcerers from the Red Temple. Uruk will face a storm it cannot weather."
Doniphos nodded, his voice grim. "And Dothraki—Khal Jhaqo's khalasar roams near. Fifty thousand riders, their arakhs thirsting. We'll crush Uruk's walls, enslave its freedmen, and chain those dragons. Volantis will lead, and Essos will follow."
Malaquo's smile was cruel, his voice a vow. "So be it. Send the ravens, summon the armies, call the flames. Dominic Augustus will learn the cost of challenging Volantis. We'll drown his dreams in blood."
The triarchs raised their fists, their voices a chorus of war, their defiance a fire that burned against Uruk's rising shadow.