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Tyrosh rose from the morning mist like a jewel set in the Narrow Sea's glittering expanse. The dawn light caught on its famous facades—buildings in shades of teal, crimson, and indigo that would have seemed garish elsewhere but here created a riot of color that had dazzled traders for centuries. The city's famous three-tiered walls circled in ascending rings: the outermost a weathered gray granite, the middle a pale sandstone imported from distant Qohor, and the innermost gleaming white marble streaked with veins of gold. Atop the highest hill stood the Archon's fortress, its nine slender towers capped with azure domes that mirrored the color of the surrounding waters.
From his position on Cannibal's back, far above the approaching fleet, Aenar Targaryen studied the city with the cold calculation of a man who had conquered before. The black dragon's massive wings beat a steady rhythm against the dawn sky.
"Look at them scurrying," Aenar murmured, watching tiny figures rushing along Tyrosh's harbor walls. "Like ants who've just noticed the shadow of a boot."
Below, spread across the waves like a forest of wooden masts, the Velaryon fleet approached from the east. Their sea-green sails billowed in the morning breeze, the silver seahorse of House Velaryon catching the first light of day. Smaller vessels with black sails hugged the western coastline.
Aenar angled Cannibal downward, flying low enough to pass over the flagship, the Sea Snake. On its deck, Corlys Velaryon stood tall, his silver-gold hair bound in a warrior's braid, wearing green armor. The old sea lord raised his sword in salute as the massive black dragon passed overhead, sending a spray of seawater across the deck.
"Your grace," Corlys called out with a grin that bared teeth like a predator's, "try not to burn the whole city before we have a chance to plunder it!"
Aenar answered with a nod before pulling Cannibal back into the sky, circling higher to survey the battlefield once more. The morning air was crisp in his lungs, tinged with salt and the faint, acrid scent of Cannibal's wildfire breath. The dragon was excited, and so was Aenar.
Further east, three more dragons approached: Caraxes with his blood-red scales, bearing Daemon Targaryen; massive Vhagar, ancient and battle-scarred with Laena Velaryon upon her back; and golden Syrax, carrying Rhaenyra Targaryen, her silver-gold hair streaming behind her like a banner.
From the north came Meleys, the Red Queen, her scales gleaming copper in the morning light, Rhaenys Targaryen sitting proud upon her back. They were a sight to strike terror into the hearts of their enemies—five dragons, five riders, and a fleet that darkened the horizon.
On the deck of the Sea Snake, Corlys Velaryon surveyed his approaching armada with pride. Decades of sailing had etched lines into his face, but none could mistake the keen intelligence in those eyes. Beside him stood his most trusted captains, men who had followed him around the world and back.
"Lord Admiral," Vaemond Velaryon approached. "The western squadron reports they've found the safe channels. They await your signal."
Corlys nodded, measuring the distance to Tyrosh's harbor with an experienced eye. "The Tyroshi think themselves clever with their chain and their walls." He gestured to where a massive iron chain could be raised to block the harbor entrance. "But cleverness is no match for preparation and overwhelming force."
"And dragons," added Ser Morden Massey, eyeing the great beasts circling overhead.
"And dragons," Corlys agreed with a tight smile. "Though I'd prefer to win this battle with ships and steel. Dragons burn what they touch, and burnt gold has less shine to it."
A young sailor approached, offering Corlys his sword, Seafoam. The blade caught the morning light like captured lightning as Corlys fastened it to his hip.
"Send the signal to Admiral Oakenfist," Corlys commanded. "Begin the eastern approach precisely as planned. And signal Captain Farman—his ships are to remain hidden behind the Isle of Tears until they see my banner change."
As his orders were relayed, Corlys studied the harbor defenses through a Myrish far-eye. The Tyroshi had raised their defensive chain halfway—a mistake. They were trying to allow their own ships out while blocking the larger Velaryon vessels.
"They're sending out their fleet to meet us," Vaemond observed.
"Of course they are," Corlys replied, his lips curving into a smile. "Their pride demands it. Tyroshi captains can't conceive of hiding behind their walls while foreigners sail their waters." He closed the far-eye with a decisive snap. "Their pride will be their undoing."
In the highest tower of the Archon's fortress, Drazenko, the elected Archon of Tyrosh, watched the approaching fleet with growing dread. His famous green-forked beard was freshly oiled for battle, but his hands trembled slightly as they gripped the stonework of his balcony.
"How many ships?" he asked the commander of his city guard, not taking his eyes off the horizon.
"Over two hundred that we can count, Archon," the man replied grimly. "And five dragons."
"Five?" Drazenko's voice cracked slightly. He had expected three at most.
"The black one is one the largest I've ever seen," the commander continued, his professional demeanor barely concealing his fear. "They say it breathes green flame that burns hotter than any fire known to man."
Drazenko turned to face the small council assembled in his chamber. Among them stood Commander Jaaran Nerazys, a lean, scarred man with blue-tinted hair and gold rings in his ears—one of Tyrosh's most renowned military strategists.
"Your plan had better work, Commander," Drazenko said, his voice low with threat. "We've spent a fortune on this wildfire and these contraptions."
Jaaran smiled, though the expression didn't reach his eyes. "Have faith, Archon. Dragons can be killed—we've studied their weaknesses for years. Today, the Targaryens will learn that their beasts are not invincible."
"And if they do not?"
"Then I suggest you practice saying 'Your Grace' in the Common Tongue," Jaaran replied with a cold chuckle. "Though I doubt mercy will be on their minds today."
Drazenko turned back to the window, taking in the beauty of his city—perhaps for the last time. The morning markets should have been opening, filling the air with the scent of spices and the sounds of haggling. Instead, soldiers rushed through streets where terrified slaves were barricading themselves in cellars and inner rooms.
"Signal the fleet," he ordered finally. "And prepare the special weapons. We will not surrender Tyrosh without a fight."
A horn sounded from the harbor below, deep and sonorous, calling the city to war. Across Tyrosh, more horns answered, the sound bouncing off colorful walls and echoing across the water toward the approaching Velaryon fleet.
"And so it begins," Jaaran murmured, his dark eyes tracking the dragons circling overhead. "Fire against fire, blood against blood."
High above the city, Laena Velaryon leaned forward on Vhagar's massive neck, her heart pounding with anticipation. The old she-dragon rumbled beneath her, smoke curling from her nostrils.
"Soon, old friend," Laena whispered, patting the warm scales. "Soon we'll make them pay for Laenor."
She caught sight of Aenar on Cannibal, circling above his father's position. Even at this distance, there was something magnificent about the pair—the black dragon and his dark-haired rider, moving as one through the morning sky. Laena felt a flush creep up her neck that had nothing to do with the coming battle.
The wind carried the sound of a horn from the Sea Snake below—her father's signal to begin the attack. Vhagar responded to the subtle pressure of Laena's knees, banking toward the western harbor where the smaller ships were beginning their approach through the hidden channels.
Further east, she saw her mother on Meleys, the Red Queen's scales gleaming like fresh-spilled blood in the morning light. Beside them, Rhaenyra on Syrax and Daemon on Caraxes formed a deadly aerial vanguard.
Laena took a deep breath, tasting salt and freedom in the wind. Today, Tyrosh would learn why the Targaryens had conquered Westeros and why the Velaryons ruled the seas. Today, blood would pay for blood.
Five dragons against one city. The odds seemed almost unfair.
But as her gaze caught a glint of something metallic being wheeled onto Tyrosh's walls, Laena remembered her father's warning: "Never underestimate a cornered enemy."
Corlys Velayron
The Sea Snake cut through the waves. At its bow stood Corlys Velaryon as he surveyed the approaching Tyroshi fleet. Thirty ships formed their front line, their hulls painted in the same gaudy colors as the city behind them, figureheads carved to resemble various sea creatures baring teeth and claws.
"They've taken the bait," Corlys observed with satisfaction, turning to his first mate. "Signal Admiral Oakenfist to maintain course. Let's draw them out further from their chain."
The signalman raised colored flags in a complex pattern, and across the water, the eastern contingent of the Velaryon fleet adjusted their approach. On the deck around him, sailors prepared for battle—some securing ropes, others loading the massive scorpions mounted on swiveling platforms.
"Scorpions ready, my lord," called the weapons master, a burly man with arms thick as small trees.
"Hold fire until they're within two hundred yards," Corlys ordered. "I want no wasted bolts today."
Vaemond approached, buckling on his sword belt. "Brother, the western squadron reports they've reached position three. They await the signal to proceed through the reef passage."
"Good." Corlys nodded, never taking his eyes off the approaching enemy. "Tell them to hold position until they see the Tyroshi commit fully to our feint."
The first volley of arrows arced from the Tyroshi ships, falling short of the Velaryon line but sending a clear message—the battle had begun. Corlys remained impassive, watching as the distance slowly closed between the fleets.
"They're eager," remarked Ser Morden, coming to stand beside him. "Too eager."
"Pride before sense," Corlys agreed. "Just as we expected." He raised his voice to carry across the deck. "Prepare to come about on my command! Scorpion crews at the ready!"
The Sea Snake continued its direct approach, leading the vanguard of the Velaryon fleet. Above them, Daemon and Caraxes circled, staying just out of range of whatever defenses the Tyroshi had prepared. The plan called for the dragons to hold back until the naval engagement was fully committed—no sense risking them against unknown defenses when ships could do the initial work.
At one hundred and fifty yards, the first substantial volley of Tyroshi arrows rained down on the deck. Shields were raised, though several sailors cried out as they found their marks.
"Now!" Corlys shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Come about! All ships, execute turning maneuver!"
With well-practiced precision, the Sea Snake began a sharp turn to port, presenting its starboard side to the enemy. Along its rail, six massive scorpions swiveled into position, their oversized bolts gleaming wickedly in the morning light.
"Loose!" Corlys commanded.
The scorpions released with a tremendous thwack, the deck shuddering beneath the force. Massive bolts, each as thick as a man's arm, whistled through the air toward the approaching Tyroshi ships. Four found their marks—punching through colorful sails, shattering railings, and in one spectacular case, impaling a Tyroshi captain where he stood at his helm.
The Sea Snake continued its turn, beginning what appeared to be a retreat. Behind them, the rest of the eastern Velaryon fleet executed the same maneuver, turning away from the Tyroshi pursuers in what seemed to be a loss of nerve.
"They're following," Vaemond reported with satisfaction, watching the Tyroshi ships adjust course to pursue.
"Of course they are," Corlys replied. "What captain can resist chasing a fleeing enemy?" He reached for the Myrish far-eye hanging at his belt, extending it to check the position of the harbor chain. "And there's our real prize—they've lowered the chain completely to let their full fleet engage us."
He turned to his signalman. "Send the command to Captain Farman. The western squadron is to proceed at full speed through the reef passage." Then to his sailing master: "Bring us about in pattern Seahorse. Let's give our Tyroshi friends a proper welcome."
The sailing master grinned. "Aye, Lord Admiral. Pattern Seahorse it is."
The Sea Snake began another turn, this time to starboard. As it came around, the port-side scorpions were revealed, already loaded and ready. Behind them, the Velaryon fleet executed a complex maneuver, the seemingly retreating ships splitting into two formations that would soon flank the pursuing Tyroshi.
"They've realized the trap," Ser Morden observed, pointing to where the Tyroshi ships were attempting their own turn.
"Too late," Corlys said with grim satisfaction. "Fire catapults!"
From the deck of the Sea Snake, three catapults launched their deadly payloads—clay pots filled with a mixture of pitch, wildfire, and oil. They arced high into the morning sky before crashing down onto the decks of the nearest Tyroshi ships. Green flames erupted instantly, spreading across wooden decks with terrifying speed.
"Again!" Corlys ordered, his face illuminated by the distant flames. "Focus fire on their flagship!"
As the catapults were reloaded, the scorpions fired again, their massive bolts tearing through the rigging of the nearest enemy vessel. One lucky shot struck a Tyroshi ship's mast at its base, sending the entire structure toppling across the deck in a tangle of wood and rope.
A horn sounded from behind them—three short blasts followed by one long.
"Western squadron has breached the harbor," Vaemond reported, unable to keep the excitement from his voice. "They're engaging the ships left to guard the chain mechanism."
Corlys nodded, satisfaction evident in his expression. "Signal Daemon. The dragons may join the battle."
Across the water, the Tyroshi fleet was in growing disarray. What had begun as a confident sally to drive off the Velaryon assault had transformed into a desperate fight for survival. Ships burned with unnatural green fire, and the Velaryon forces now surrounded them on three sides.
On the deck of the Blue Claw, Admiral Maresso cursed fluently in three languages as he watched his carefully ordered formation dissolve into chaos. "Hard to starboard!" he shouted at his helmsman. "Get us back to the harbor!"
"The chain, Admiral," his first mate reminded him urgently. "We need to raise the chain!"
Maresso spat over the side. "The chain is lost. Look!" He pointed to where the smaller Velaryon ships were already entering the harbor, engaging the handful of vessels left to guard the massive winches that controlled the defensive barrier. "Signal the retreat. All ships to fall back to the harbor walls. We'll make our stand there."
A shadow passed overhead, momentarily blocking the sun. Maresso looked up and felt his blood freeze in his veins. The massive red dragon Caraxes swooped low over the water, its terrible head tracking the movements of the ships below.
"Valyria save us," Maresso whispered, the words of prayer unfamiliar on his lips. "Sound the--"
Before he could finish, Caraxes opened his maw, and a stream of fire engulfed the nearest Tyroshi ship. The vessel seemed to crumple inward as the flames consumed it, and the screams of its crew carried across the water.
"Sound the full retreat!" Maresso shouted, his voice cracking. "All ships break formation and return to harbor however you can!"
Corlys watched with satisfaction as the Tyroshi fleet broke formation. Ships peeled away individually, each captain now concerned only with his own survival. It was the beginning of the end.
"They run like scattered sheep," Vaemond observed.
"And into the jaws of wolves," Corlys added, nodding toward the western harbor entrance where the smaller, faster Velaryon ships had already engaged the defenders of the chain mechanism. Above them, Caraxes unleashed another stream of flame, cutting off the Tyroshi retreat.
Corlys turned to his sailing master. "Bring us directly into the heart of their formation. I want to split their forces completely."
"A risky move, Lord Admiral," the man replied, though he was already shouting the necessary orders.
The Sea Snake surged forward, its ram cutting through the waves as it drove straight toward the disorganized center of the Tyroshi fleet. Behind them, the rest of the Velaryon vanguard followed in arrow formation.
A Tyroshi vessel loomed directly ahead, its captain clearly unsure whether to stand and fight or attempt to flee. Corlys drew Seafoam.
"Brace for impact!" he shouted.
The Sea Snake's reinforced ram struck the Tyroshi ship amidships with a thunderous crack. Wood splintered, and men screamed as they were thrown from the deck into the sea. The Velaryon ship pushed through, its momentum barely checked by the collision.
"Grappling hooks!" Corlys commanded as they drew alongside another enemy vessel. "Boarding parties ready!"
Hooks sailed through the air, biting into the Tyroshi ship's railing. Lines went taut as sailors hauled the vessels together. Along the rail, Velaryon marines waited, swords drawn, their green cloaks fluttering in the sea breeze.
"With me!" Corlys shouted, leading the charge across the narrow gap between ships. Despite his years, he moved with the vigor of a man half his age, Seafoam flashing as it claimed its first victim—a Tyroshi officer who barely had time to raise his blade.
The deck became a chaos of clashing steel and shouting men. Corlys fought like a man possessed, each stroke of hissword finding its mark. Behind him, his soldiers poured onto the enemy ship, overwhelming the defenders by sheer ferocity and superior numbers.
A burly Tyroshi rushed him, axe raised high. Corlys sidestepped the clumsy blow and ran the man through in one smooth motion. As he withdrew his blade, he caught sight of the harbor beyond.
The western squadron had reached the chain mechanism—a massive series of winches housed in a sturdy stone structure at the harbor's edge. Even from this distance, he could see that the battle there was all but won. Green-cloaked marines swarmed over the defenses, and the remaining Tyroshi ships were being systematically cut off and surrounded.
Above, dragons circled like massive birds of prey. Caraxes dove again, unleashing flame on a cluster of Tyroshi ships that had attempted to reform a defensive line. The harbor waters reflected the crimson fire, turning momentarily to blood.
"The harbor is ours, Lord Admiral!" Vaemond shouted, dispatching a Tyroshi sailor with a quick thrust of his sword. "The chain mechanism is captured!"
Corlys nodded, wiping blood from his cheek where a stray cut had caught him. "Signal all ships—push forward to the harbor walls. Prepare landing parties." He turned, raising his voice to carry across the water to his flagship. "And signal the dragons—the harbor is secured. They may proceed with the attack on the city proper."
As if in answer, the massive black form of Cannibal swooped low over the water, Aenar Targaryen visible on its back. The dragon's wings cast a shadow that seemed to darken half the harbor as it passed overhead, climbing toward the first tier of Tyrosh's famous walls.
"May the gods have mercy on this city," Corlys murmured, watching as the first gout of Cannibal's green flame struck the outer wall, "for I fear dragons shall have none."
The Dragon Riders
Daemon Targaryen leaned forward along Caraxes's neck, feeling the blood-red dragon's muscles flex beneath him as they banked sharply over Tyrosh's harbor. Below them, the Velaryon fleet had broken through the defensive chain, and green-cloaked soldiers swarmed over the docks. Smoke rose from burning ships, black against the morning sky.
"Let's remind them why they call you the Blood Wyrm," Daemon murmured, patting the dragon's scaled neck. Caraxes responded with a low rumble that Daemon felt through his entire body.
They dove toward the harbor's defensive towers where Tyroshi crossbowmen desperately loosed volley after volley of bolts that fell harmlessly short of the dragon's height. Daemon narrowed his eyes, gauging the distance.
"Dracarys."
Caraxes unleashed a stream of flame that engulfed the nearest tower. Stone glowed red-hot before cracking, and the screams of the defenders were mercifully brief. Daemon guided Caraxes in a sweeping arc, targeting each tower in succession. The dragon needed little direction—he knew what Daemon was thinking.
As they climbed higher after their attack run, Daemon caught sight of his son on Cannibal, the massive black dragon hovering like a storm cloud over the city's first wall. Even from this distance, he could see the cold determination on Aenar's face.
"Don't lose yourself in this, boy," Daemon muttered, though there was no way his son could hear him.
A flash of movement caught his attention—Rhaenyra on Syrax, her silver-gold hair streaming behind her as the golden dragon swooped low over the city's barracks. Daemon felt a surge of pride mixed with concern. She'd become a skilled rider, his niece, though this was her first true battle. The pirates were one thing, but this was more dangerous.
Caraxes snarled, drawing Daemon's attention back to their own task. Below, Tyroshi soldiers were wheeling something large into position on the harbor walls—some new defense. The Blood Wyrm didn't wait for a command, diving toward the threat.
Laena Velaryon guided Vhagar toward the outer wall with grim determination. The ancient she-dragon responded to the lightest touch, her massive wings creating gusts that sent roof tiles clattering to the streets below. At over a century and a half old, Vhagar was the largest dragon alive, and her battle experience exceeded that of all other living dragons combined.
"First wall, old friend," Laena said, leaning close to the warm bronze scales. "Let's break their pretty city open."
Vhagar rumbled in response, smoke curling from her nostrils. The dragon didn't need the instruction—she had broken walls and armies since before Laena was born. Below them, Tyroshi defenders pointed up in terror, some fleeing their posts while others stood frozen in fear.
"Dracarys!"
Vhagar's flame struck the wall like fire from hell, melting mortar and cracking stone. Unlike the younger dragons, whose fire wasn't as strong—the older a dragon was, the stronger its fire became—Vhagar's attack was a focused fire of destruction that could carve through fortifications like a knife through butter.
Laena guided her mount in a slow circuit of the outer wall, systematically weakening its structure at key points. She felt none of the exhilaration that combat brought to Daemon or the righteous fury that drove Aenar. For Laena, this vengeance.
"You took my brother," she said quietly, watching a section of wall collapse inward, crushing the defenders stationed behind it. "Now I take your city."
Through the smoke and dust, she caught sight of Aenar on Cannibal, directing his massive mount to target the second wall. Even in the midst of battle, he moved so beautifully that stirred something within her.
"Focus," she chided herself, turning Vhagar toward the next section of wall. "The fight first. The rest will follow."
Rhaenyra Targaryen clenched her teeth as Syrax dove toward the military barracks. The golden dragon was the youngest and smallest of the five in the attack, but what she lacked in size, she made up for in agility. They weaved between the colorful towers of Tyrosh, so close that Rhaenyra could see the terror on the faces of civilians and slaves watching from hidden alcoves.
"The barracks only," she reminded herself. "Soldiers, not civilians."
Unlike her uncle and Aenar, Rhaenyra had no taste for unnecessary slaughter. War was necessary, yes, but it should be directed at those who could fight back. Below, she spotted her target—a sprawling compound where Tyroshi soldiers mustered, preparing to defend against the Velaryon forces now breaching the harbor district.
"Dracarys!"
Syrax's flame was bright gold tinged with orange, beautiful even in its deadliness. It washed over the barracks courtyard, scattering soldiers and setting wooden structures ablaze. Rhaenyra guided her dragon in tight circles, targeting armories and stables while trying to avoid areas where civilians might be sheltering.
A squadron of Tyroshi crossbowmen formed a hasty line, raising their weapons toward the golden dragon. Rhaenyra almost laughed at their futility—ordinary bolts were useless against dragon scales—but guided Syrax higher nonetheless. No sense taking unnecessary risks. She remembered how it had felt when the wildfire had damaged her and Syrax. She didn't want Syrax to be harmed again.
Through a gap in the buildings, she caught sight of Aenar and Cannibal attacking the inner defenses. The black dragon's green wildfire breath consumed an entire street, the unnatural flames racing up walls and across rooftops with terrifying speed. Unlike her targeted approach, Aenar seemed intent on maximum destruction.
"Gods," she whispered, watching the conflagration spread. "Is this what conquest truly means?"
Syrax sensed her disquiet, warbling softly as they banked away from the sight. Rhaenyra patted the golden scales beneath her.
"Let's keep to our task, sweet girl. Our way, not theirs."
Aenar Targaryen sat astride Cannibal like the Warrior incarnate, his face an emotionless mask as he surveyed the chaos below. The black dragon's massive wings held them stationary above Tyrosh's second wall, where they could oversee the entire battlefield. The harbor was secured, the outer wall breached in multiple locations, and the Velaryon ground forces were pouring into the city's lower districts.
"Not enough," Aenar murmured, his voice cold. "They need to feel what true defeat means."
Cannibal rumbled beneath him, the dragon's eagerness for destruction matching his rider's. Of all the dragons in Westeros, only Cannibal breathed the rare green wildfire—a flame that burned hotter and spread faster than normal dragonfire, nearly impossible to extinguish once ignited.
Aenar spotted a concentration of defenders rallying at the base of the second wall, preparing to repel the advancing Velaryon forces. With the slightest pressure from his knees, he directed Cannibal into a dive.
"Dracarys!"
The wildfire erupted from Cannibal's maw in a concentrated stream, striking the assembled defenders with devastating accuracy. Men screamed as the unnatural flames consumed them, burning through armor as if it were parchment. The green fire spread outward, racing along the ground and climbing walls with a life of its own.
Aenar watched dispassionately, memories from another life flickering at the edges of his consciousness—a battle in the snow, the dead advancing in endless waves, the desperate last stand at Winterfell. He pushed them away. That man was gone, consumed by dragon fire just as surely as the Tyroshi soldiers below.
From his vantage point, he could see the other dragons at work—Daemon and Caraxes destroying harbor defenses; Laena and Vhagar breaking the outer wall; Rhaenyra and Syrax targeting military installations with careful restraint; and Rhaenys on Meleys, the Red Queen's copper scales flashing as she circled toward the Archon's fortress.
"Time to break their second defense," Aenar decided, guiding Cannibal along the length of the wall. "Make a path for the ground forces."
The black dragon needed no further encouragement, unleashing a sustained blast of wildfire that melted stone and set wooden reinforcements ablaze. Aenar felt nothing as he watched sections of the wall collapse—no joy, no regret, only the cold satisfaction of a task efficiently performed.
Below, Velaryon soldiers cheered as they saw the breaches forming. Aenar acknowledged them with a raised fist before directing Cannibal toward the third and final wall protecting the Archon's fortress.
"Burn it all," he whispered, memories of a daughter he'd never hold again fueling the ice in his veins. "Burn it to ash."
In the highest tower of the Archon's fortress, Drazenko gripped the stone balustrade with white-knuckled hands, watching his city burn. Green dragonfire spread through the lower districts, and the famous first wall—which had withstood a hundred sieges over the centuries—now lay breached in a dozen places.
"All according to plan," murmured the Master of Defense beside him, though his voice betrayed his terror. "They've committed their dragons fully to the assault."
"Plan?" Drazenko laughed bitterly. "Look at my city! It burns while we hide behind walls that will not stand another hour."
"The walls were always meant to fall," the Master replied, his eyes tracking the movements of the five dragons circling above Tyrosh. "Our true defenses lie elsewhere."
A messenger burst into the chamber, his green-dyed beard singed and his face streaked with soot. "Archon! The second wall has fallen! The harbor district is lost!"
Drazenko closed his eyes briefly, steadying himself. "Very well. Signal the third phase."
The Master of Defense nodded sharply, turning to dispatch runners to the various defense sectors. "Remember, Archon—Prince Lykard assured us this strategy would work. One dragon crippled is worth a hundred scorpions destroyed."
"Let us hope he was right," Drazenko replied grimly. "For all our sakes."
Across the city, in the burned-out husks of what had once been merchant homes and warehouses, hidden mechanisms began to activate. Rooftops split open, floors retracted, and walls pivoted to reveal specially designed platforms. On each platform sat a modified scorpion, larger than standard design, with bolts tipped in carefully contained wildfire capsules. The artisans of Tyrosh, famous for their intricate mechanisms and dyes, had labored for months on these devices—their last, best hope against dragons.
Teams of operators who had waited silently in concealed chambers now sprang to their stations, adjusting their weapons toward the dragon-filled sky.
"Remember your training," barked a grizzled captain to his nervous crew. "You get one shot—make it count. Aim for the wings or the belly, nowhere else, the eyes and the neck are too small."
Daemon and Caraxes swooped low over the harbor district, finishing the destruction of the defensive towers. The Blood Wyrm was in his element, crimson scales glistening with reflected firelight as they executed a graceful turn between two smoldering structures.
"One more pass," Daemon called, guiding Caraxes toward the last intact watchtower.
As they leveled out for their attack run, a section of roofing on a nearby warehouse suddenly retracted, revealing a platform that rose rapidly into position. Daemon registered the threat too late—a massive scorpion, already aimed and primed.
"Up!" he shouted, yanking on Caraxes's spines. The red dragon responded instantly, his powerful wings driving them sharply upward as the scorpion fired.
The massive bolt whistled through the air where they had been a heartbeat earlier, missing Caraxes's belly by inches. It struck a distant tower and exploded in a burst of green flame.
"Seven hells," Daemon cursed, his heart hammering in his chest. "Wildfire bolts."
All across the city, similar platforms were appearing—hidden scorpions emerging from concealed positions to target the dragons above. Daemon pulled Caraxes higher, eyes scanning frantically for his family members.
"AENAR!" he bellowed, though the wind whipped his voice away. "RHAENYRA! BEWARE!"
Laena noticed the ambush unfolding a moment before the first scorpion fired at her. Vhagar's centuries of battle experience saved them both—the ancient dragon banking sharply without waiting for guidance, the bolt passing harmlessly through empty air.
"Clever bastards," Laena hissed, scanning the city below. Everywhere she looked, hidden platforms were rising from seemingly intact buildings, each bearing a scorpion aimed skyward. "They let us think we were winning."
Vhagar growled, the sound reverberating through her massive body as she climbed higher above the city. Even the ancient dragon seemed to recognize the new threat these strange weapons posed.
Through gaps in the smoke, Laena spotted Rhaenyra on Syrax, dangerously close to several emerging platforms. The golden dragon's smaller size made her more maneuverable but also more vulnerable to a direct hit.
"RHAENYRA!" Laena shouted, waving frantically. "UP! GET HIGHER!"
Syrax reacted before Rhaenyra could, twisting away from the emerging threat with serpentine grace. The scorpion fired, its bolt streaming green liquid as it passed through the space they had occupied moments before.
"Gods be good," Rhaenyra gasped, guiding Syrax higher with shaking hands.
Below, more platforms continued to appear, rising from ruined buildings and intact ones alike. Rhaenyra realized with growing horror that the entire assault had been anticipated—the Tyroshi had prepared these defenses well in advance, waiting until the dragons were fully committed to the attack before revealing them.
"We need to regroup," she decided, turning Syrax toward Aenar's position. Her cousin would know what to do—he always did.
Aenar spotted the emerging weapons before they fired, his experience from countless battles in two lifetimes allowing him to recognize the trap for what it was. Cannibal hovered above the third wall, his massive wings creating downdrafts that scattered roof tiles and awnings below.
"A clever ploy," Aenar conceded coldly, counting the platforms as they rose into position. "But not clever enough."
Unlike the others, he didn't pull away. Instead, he guided Cannibal into a steep dive directly toward one of the scorpion platforms. The operators below panicked at the sight of the massive black dragon descending upon them, frantically trying to adjust their aim.
"Dracarys!"
Cannibal's wildfire struck the platform before they could fire, consuming the weapon and its crew in an explosion of green flame. Aenar immediately banked toward the next platform, repeating the maneuver.
"Target the weapons!" he shouted to Rhaenyra as Syrax flew past. "Don't give them time to aim!"
Across the city, dragons and scorpions engaged in a deadly dance. The element of surprise lost, the Tyroshi weapons operators found themselves targeted by enraged dragonriders. Daemon and Caraxes destroyed three platforms in quick succession, while Laena and Vhagar crushed another beneath the ancient dragon's massive talons.
But for every platform destroyed, another seemed to emerge. They had been positioned throughout the city, hidden in every district, and their operators had clearly been trained to target specific vulnerabilities in dragons.
"We need to finish this quickly," Daemon called to Aenar as Caraxes and Cannibal passed in the air above the city center. "Before one of those bolts finds its mark!"
Rhaenys Targaryen guided Meleys toward the Archon's fortress, determined to end the battle by capturing or killing the city's ruler. The Red Queen's copper scales gleamed in the morning light as they climbed above the smoke of the lower city, circling the nine azure domes that crowned Tyrosh's highest point.
"Almost there, girl," Rhaenys murmured, patting Meleys's neck. "One decisive strike and—"
Her words cut off as she spotted movement on either side of their approach—not one but six scorpion platforms rising simultaneously from concealed positions around the fortress. Unlike the others scattered throughout the city, these were larger, clearly reserved specifically to protect the Archon.
Rhaenys pulled hard on Meleys's spines, trying to turn away, but they had committed too deeply to their approach. The Red Queen roared in defiance, twisting in the air as the first scorpion fired.
The massive bolt missed Meleys's body but tore through the membrane of her right wing, the wildfire capsule at its tip shattering on impact. Green flame erupted along the wing's edge, spreading rapidly across the delicate membrane.
Meleys screamed—a sound unlike any Rhaenys had heard from her mount before—and rolled uncontrollably in the air. Rhaenys held on desperately as the world spun around her, the sounds of battle replaced by the rush of wind and her dragon's agonized roars.
"Hold on!" she shouted, though whether to Meleys or herself, she couldn't say. "We can make it!"
The remaining scorpions fired in sequence, a deadly volley of wildfire-tipped bolts converging on their position. Meleys, wounded and disoriented, couldn't evade them all. A second bolt grazed her tail, while a third tore through the already damaged wing, leaving a gaping hole that immediately compromised their ability to stay airborne.
Rhaenys felt the horrible sensation of freefall as Meleys lost her battle against gravity. The Red Queen fought valiantly, her one good wing beating frantically against the air, but it wasn't enough to maintain flight. They began to spiral downward, smoke trailing from the burning wing as they fell.
"The water!" Rhaenys shouted, tugging Meleys's head toward the harbor. "Aim for the water!"
Whether the dragon understood or simply had the same instinct, Meleys adjusted their falling trajectory, angling toward the blue waters of Tyrosh's harbor. The ground rushed up to meet them at terrifying speed, and Rhaenys had just enough time to take a deep breath before they struck the water with force.
The impact knocked the air from her lungs and nearly tore her from the saddle. Seawater closed over her head as Meleys plunged beneath the surface, the dragon's momentum carrying them deep into the harbor. Rhaenys felt a sharp pain in her arm as it twisted unnaturally in the crash, and the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth where she'd bitten her tongue.
For a terrifying moment, darkness surrounded them, and Rhaenys feared they would both drown. Then the wounded dragon kicked powerfully with her back legs, driving them back toward the surface. They broke into the air with a tremendous splash, Meleys gasping and Rhaenys coughing violently to clear her lungs.
"Good girl," Rhaenys managed between coughs, patting the dragon's neck with her uninjured arm. "Swim for the shore. Just a little further."
Meleys paddled awkwardly through the harbor waters, her damaged wing trailing uselessly at her side. Blood from the scorpion wounds tinged the water red around them, and the dragon's movements grew increasingly labored with each passing moment.
Rhaenys wiped blood from her nose, fighting to stay conscious as pain radiated from her broken arm. Above them, the battle continued—dragons roaring, scorpions firing, buildings collapsing. But all she could focus on was survival, guiding her wounded mount toward the shallow waters near the harbor's edge.
"Almost there," she murmured, her vision blurring slightly. "Just a little more, my brave girl."
With one final effort, Meleys dragged herself onto the shallows, collapsing onto her side in exhaustion. Rhaenys slid from the saddle, landing awkwardly in knee-deep water. Every breath sent pain shooting through her chest, suggesting broken ribs to accompany her shattered arm.
She staggered to Meleys's head, resting her good hand on the dragon's snout. The Red Queen's eyes were glazed with pain, her breathing labored. The once-magnificent wing was now a charred, tattered ruin, blood seeping steadily from the bolt wounds.
"We'll survive this," Rhaenys promised, her voice barely audible over the sounds of battle. "We've survived worse."
Aenar
Aenar saw it happen as if time itself had slowed—Meleys struck by multiple scorpion bolts, her magnificent copper wing shredding under wildfire's assault, the terrible spiral toward the water. Rhaenys clinging desperately to her wounded mount as they crashed into Tyrosh's harbor.
"They will burn," he whispered, his voice carrying an unnatural stillness. "All of them."
Cannibal sensed the change in his rider, the massive black dragon rumbling deep in his chest as Aenar guided him toward the city center. The dragon's green eyes narrowed, reflecting the destruction below like twin mirrors of wildfire.
"DRACARYS!"
The word tore from Aenar's throat like a physical thing, no longer a command but a sentence of death upon Tyrosh itself. Cannibal's jaws gaped wide, unleashing not the controlled streams of flame they had used before, but a torrent of green wildfire that engulfed entire city blocks at once.
Stone melted. Wood vanished in an instant. Metal ran like water down the sides of collapsing buildings. And people—soldiers and civilians alike—became silhouettes of ash frozen in their final moments of terror.
Aenar's face was a mask of cold fury as he guided Cannibal in widening circles around the Archon's fortress, methodically destroying everything between the second and third walls. The dragon required no urging to inflict maximum devastation, his ancient hatred of all lesser creatures finding perfect outlet in his rider's rage.
From above, Tyrosh's famous colors—the blue and purple and crimson buildings—disappeared beneath a sea of green flame that spread with unnatural speed through the city's winding streets.
Across the city, Laena Velaryon watched Meleys fall, her heart stopping in her chest as she saw her mother and her dragon crash into the harbor waters. Fear, grief, and rage warred within her for one frozen moment before rage won out completely.
"With me, Vhagar," she snarled, guiding the ancient she-dragon into a steep climb. "We end this now."
Vhagar rumbled her agreement, muscles bunching beneath Laena as they soared toward the highest point of Tyrosh—the Archon's fortress with its nine azure domes. Around it, the remaining scorpion platforms continued to fire at the circling dragons, their operators desperate to claim another victim.
Laena's eyes narrowed as she spotted a cluster of defenders atop the fortress's central tower, a man in ornate robes—the Archon himself—barking orders to his guards. Their gazes met across the distance, and Laena saw the moment he realized his death approached.
"For Laenor," she whispered. "For Mother."
Instead of approaching directly into the scorpions' firing arcs, Laena guided Vhagar into the rising smoke, using the thick black clouds to mask their approach. The ancient dragon, veteran of a hundred battles, understood the strategy immediately, her massive form disappearing into the roiling darkness that now engulfed much of the city.
The Archon and his guards scanned the skies nervously, losing sight of the bronze dragon. One moment passed, then another. A guard lowered his weapon slightly, turning to the Archon with relief beginning to form on his face.
It was the last expression he would ever make.
Vhagar erupted from the smoke directly beneath the tower, surging upward with a speed that belied her enormous size. Before the scorpion crews could adjust their aim, the ancient dragon was upon them, crushing one platform beneath her massive claws while her tail swept another from its moorings, sending men and machinery plummeting to their deaths.
"DRACARYS!"
Vhagar's flame engulfed the tower's peak, a concentrated inferno that melted stone and flesh with equal indifference. The Archon's scream was cut mercifully short as the flames consumed him, leaving nothing but ash drifting on the hot wind.
Laena felt no satisfaction, only a cold emptiness as she guided Vhagar to destroy the remaining defensive positions. One by one, the scorpion platforms fell—crushed, burned, or torn apart by the ancient dragon's claws and teeth. Where once Laena might have shown restraint, now there was only methodical destruction.
"No mercy," she murmured, watching a platform operator beg for his life before Vhagar's flame silenced him forever. "Not a single one lives."
On the ground, the scene was no less nightmarish. Lord Corlys Velaryon led the assault through the breached walls, his Valyrian steel blade Seafoam running red with Tyroshi blood.
"Forward!" Corlys shouted, his voice carrying over the screams and the roar of flames. "Secure the treasury and the spice warehouses! Everything of value belongs to the crown!"
His men surged through the streets, their green cloaks darkened with soot and blood. Where Tyroshi defenders surrendered, throwing down their weapons and begging for mercy, they found none. The orders had been clear—this was not to be a gentle conquest.
Daemon Targaryen watched the unfolding destruction from Caraxes's back, his face grim beneath his helm. The Blood Wyrm hovered above the burning city, wings beating slowly to maintain their position against the hot updrafts rising from below.
This was no longer a battle—it was annihilation.
He had led armies before, had earned his title of Prince of the City through blood and fire. But what he witnessed now transcended even his understanding of warfare. Cannibal's wildfire had transformed large sections of Tyrosh into a hellscape unlike anything Daemon had ever seen, green flames racing up the sides of buildings and consuming entire districts.
And at the center of it all, his son—Aenar.
"Lyanna, what is happening to our son?" Daemon murmured, watching as Cannibal unleashed another torrent of wildfire upon a district that had, until moments ago, been untouched by the battle.
A movement to his right caught Daemon's attention—Rhaenyra on Syrax, the golden dragon keeping a careful distance from the worst of the conflagration. Even from here, Daemon could see the horror on his niece's face as she witnessed the city's destruction.
He urged Caraxes toward Cannibal, the Blood Wyrm reluctant to approach the larger, more aggressive dragon. For a moment, Daemon feared Caraxes might refuse, but the bond between dragon and rider won out. They drew alongside Aenar and Cannibal, close enough for Daemon to see the eerie stillness in his son's expression.
"AENAR!" Daemon shouted over the wind and flame. "ENOUGH! THE CITY IS DEFEATED!"
Aenar turned slowly, as if waking from a trance. His violet eyes, so like Daemon's own, seemed empty of all emotion save for a cold, distant rage.
"They hurt Rhaenys," he said, his voice unnaturally calm. "They tried to kill our dragons."
"And they have paid," Daemon responded, gesturing to the devastation below. "Look around you! There's nothing left to burn!"
For a moment, Aenar said nothing, surveying the destruction as if seeing it for the first time. Vast swathes of Tyrosh lay in ruins, green wildfire still consuming buildings that had stood for centuries. The famous three-tiered walls were breached in dozens of places, and of the nine blue domes that had crowned the Archon's fortress, only three remained standing.
"You are right, it's over." Aenar said finally, guiding his dragon to land somewhere. The Battle was Over.
.
.
As the sun began its descent toward the western horizon, casting long shadows across the smoking ruins of Tyrosh, a white flag rose above the remains of the Archon's fortress. The makeshift banner, fashioned from a torn bedsheet, fluttered weakly in the hot winds still rising from the burning city.
Lord Corlys Velaryon stood in what had once been the Archon's audience chamber, his armor streaked with soot and blood, surveying the Tyroshi nobles who knelt before him. The grand room, with its famous blue marble columns and mosaic floor depicting sea creatures, was largely intact, though the ceiling bore a gaping hole where dragonfire had breached it hours earlier.
"The terms are simple," Corlys stated, his voice carrying the weariness of battle but no hint of compromise. "Unconditional surrender. All ships, all gold, all trade agreements now belong to the crown of the Stepstones and Tyrosh." He paused, fixing the kneeling men with a cold stare. "Your lives are forfeit by right of conquest, but may be purchased back with information and cooperation."
The highest-ranking survivor, a portly man whose green-forked beard was singed on one side, bowed his head lower. "Great lord, we accept your terms without reservation. Tyrosh is yours." His voice trembled slightly. "We ask only that the slaughter of our people cease."
Corlys studied the man dispassionately. "The fighting ends when resistance ends. Those who surrender will be spared." He did not mention that many had already surrendered only to be cut down anyway in the chaos of battle. Some truths were better left unspoken.
The chamber doors swung open, admitting Vaemond Velaryon along with a squad of soldiers escorting a chained figure—a Tyroshi military commander, his once-fine uniform torn and bloodied.
"Brother," Vaemond announced, pushing the prisoner forward, "this one claims to have been in charge of the scorpion defenses."
A murmur ran through the assembled nobles, and the kneeling spokesman blanched visibly. Corlys's expression hardened as he approached the chained man.
"You designed the traps for our dragons?" he asked quietly.
The commander lifted his chin defiantly. "I executed the plan. The design came from Prince Lykard Martell."
Corlys felt his blood boil at the mention of that name but kept his composure. "You nearly killed my wife and her dragon. For that alone, you die." He turned to Vaemond. "Take him to the harbor square. Let him be the first example."
As the prisoner was dragged away, shouting protests that fell on deaf ears, Corlys addressed the kneeling nobles once more. "Your city now belongs to King Aenar Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Stepstones and Tyrosh. Those who accept his rule may rebuild their lives under his protection. Those who do not..." He let the sentence hang unfinished, the implication clear.
One by one, the Tyroshi nobles murmured their acceptance, heads bowed in defeat.
Outside, the scale of destruction became fully apparent. Entire districts had been reduced to smoking ruins, the famous colorful buildings now blackened shells leaking green flame from shattered windows. The streets were littered with debris and bodies, many burned beyond recognition by wildfire's unnatural heat.
Daemon Targaryen walked those streets alone, having left Caraxes to rest near the harbor. The Blood Wyrm had sustained minor injuries during the battle—nothing serious, but enough to warrant caution. As he navigated the devastation, stepping over fallen masonry and charred timber, the sounds of suffering surrounded him—moans from the wounded, wails from those who had lost everything, the occasional sharp cry as Velaryon soldiers dispatched Tyroshi who still resisted.
He passed a square where once a vibrant market must have stood. Now it was filled with huddled civilians—women clutching silent children, old men staring blankly at nothing, young men with hands bound behind their backs under the watchful eyes of Velaryon guards. Their faces were hollow with shock, eyes vacant or overflowing with tears as they surveyed the ruins of their lives.
A young woman sat alone on a broken fountain, rocking back and forth as she clutched a blackened doll to her chest. Daemon paused, something in her devastation cutting through his hardened exterior. He reached into his belt pouch, retrieving a waterskin, and approached her slowly.
"Water," he offered, holding it out.
She flinched away, terror flashing across her face before recognition dawned—not of Daemon personally, but of what he represented. "Dragon," she whispered in heavily accented Common Tongue. "You burn all."
Daemon set the waterskin beside her and stepped back. "Not all," he said quietly, though he knew the distinction meant little to those who had lost everything.
Moving on, he encountered a group of slaves being freed by Velaryon soldiers—collar-breaking had already begun, with smiths working to remove the famous Tyroshi slave collars. These men and women showed a different kind of shock—the disbelief of unexpected freedom amid apocalyptic destruction.
"Prince Daemon." A soldier approached, saluting with a fist to his chest. "Lord Corlys requests your presence at the harbor. King Aenar has landed there with the wounded Queen Rhaenys."
Daemon nodded, turning toward the harbor. As he walked, he passed more scenes of Tyrosh's fall—soldiers looting homes and shops, hauling crates of valuable spices and silks toward the harbor; wounded being tended in makeshift field hospitals; prisoners being marched under guard toward holding areas.
And everywhere, the distinctive smell of wildfire lingered—a sharp, acrid scent, unlike normal smoke that made the skin crawl and the lungs burn.
At the harbor, a different scene unfolded. Velaryon ships dominated the waters; their green sails furled as sailors unloaded supplies and loaded captured goods. On the main dock, a space had been cleared where Meleys lay, the Red Queen's massive form taking up most of the available area. The dragon's breathing was labored but steady, her eyes alert as they tracked movement around her.
Beside Meleys sat Rhaenys, her broken arm splinted and bound in a sling, her face cleaned of blood but still showing dark bruising across her nose and cheeks. Rhaenyra attended her, offering water and speaking in low, comforting tones.
Nearby, Aenar stood with Corlys, deep in conversation as they surveyed a map spread across a makeshift table. Laena hovered close to Aenar, her expression unreadable as she listened to the discussion.
As Daemon approached, he caught fragments of their conversation.
"...secure the dye vats first," Corlys was saying. "They're the source of Tyrosh's wealth. With them, we control the market across both continents."
Aenar nodded, his face composed once more, the earlier rage buried beneath a mask of regal authority. "And the remaining ships?"
"Seventeen captured intact," Corlys replied. "Another dozen can be salvaged with work. The rest are lost."
Daemon joined their circle, noting how both men straightened slightly at his approach. "The city?" he asked simply.
Corlys grimaced. "About a third utterly destroyed. Another third heavily damaged. The rest..." He shrugged. "Salvageable, in time."
Before Daemon could respond, horns sounded from several ships in the harbor—a triumphant fanfare announcing victory. Across the docks, Velaryon soldiers raised their weapons, cheering as Corlys stepped forward to address them.
"Men of the Narrow Sea!" The Sea Snake's voice carried across the water. "Today you have won a great victory! Tyrosh, the proud, has fallen to your valor!" He gestured to Aenar. "Tomorrow, we crown a king—the first King of the Stepstones and Tyrosh!"
The cheers redoubled, echoing off harbor walls and the hulls of captured ships. Daemon watched as his son stepped forward to acknowledge the acclaim.
Behind this tableau of victory, green flames still flickered among the city's ruins, casting an eerie light across the water. Smoke rose in columns that twisted into fantastic shapes against the darkening sky. And from the gathering places throughout Tyrosh, the sounds of weeping could still be heard beneath the soldiers' celebrations.
"All hail King Aenar!" the soldiers chanted, the cry taken up across the harbor. "All hail the Dragon King!"
Amid the celebration, Daemon saw Rhaenyra standing apart, her face troubled as she gazed not at her victorious cousin but at the burning city beyond.
Lyanna. I promised you our son would grow happy and safe. I will keep that promise and another one. I will not allow our son to become like me. Never like me...
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