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Boom—
A column of crimson dragonfire slammed into a warship like a falling pillar. The mast shattered. Fire exploded across half the deck.
Sellswords on board barely had time to run before the flames swallowed them. Their screams cut off as they tumbled into the sea.
Splash. Splash.
Toothless and Grey Shadow refused to be outdone.
Toothless hovered in place, wings beating hard, and unleashed a thick cloud of sickly green dragonfire that drifted down like poison fog. Any ship it touched caught fire instantly and spread fast.
Grey Shadow was faster and more agile. It wove between the ships, gathered a bright orange fireball nearly four meters across in its throat, then spat it like a sneeze. The fireball slammed into one warship and detonated on impact.
Daeron glanced over, surprised by the power behind Grey Shadow's flames. Not only did it form into a sphere, it carried a real explosive punch.
Shame the dragon was still so small. That was why the others kept bullying it.
Good at fighting outsiders. Bad at fighting its own kind.
"Attack!"
Lord Paxter Redwyne roared from the lead ship, one foot already on the ram as his vessel charged forward like a wild horse.
With the royal fleet and Iron Fleet still tied up elsewhere, the Redwyne fleet was currently the strongest naval force the Seven Kingdoms had on this side of the sea.
Having the young king himself leading dragons into battle while the great houses fought alongside him was too good an opportunity to waste. House Redwyne intended to make the most of it.
The Myr ships trying to hold the line were already terrified. After the dragons tore through their formation from above, their defense collapsed completely. The Redwyne fleet smashed straight through them.
"Useless!"
Kradara's voice was ice cold, though a thread of fear he refused to acknowledge ran beneath it. He kept forcing the sellsword ships forward to block the enemy.
"Want us to die for you?"
Daario Naharis received the order and gave a strange smile. He sheathed his curved arakh.
"My life's valuable. I'd rather spend it on sunshine, good horses, and beautiful women than throw it away for nothing."
"You're breaking the Brave Companions' contract?"
Prendahl na Ghezn was scared too, but as one of the captains he couldn't be the first to run.
Daario saw right through him and laughed. "Why not give ourselves another choice? We do enough to earn our pay, then we keep our heads attached."
"Fine," Prendahl agreed at once.
On a battlefield, rigid thinking got you killed. Sellswords were the most cunning and greedy people alive.
The moment Kradara's order spread, over a dozen sellsword companies started fighting among themselves. Large numbers of ships turned and fled in the opposite direction.
The few ships that stayed were scattered and half-hearted. It was like throwing a handful of beans on the ground and expecting them to form a wall.
"Dragonfire!"
Two more dragons appeared over Myr Bay — one bronze, one deep green. They swept in and poured fire across the remaining Myr ships.
The sellswords' last bit of courage died on the spot.
Three dragons had already been bad enough. Now there were five.
Even Aegon the Conqueror had only used three dragons to take the Seven Kingdoms.
"Brother, they're running."
Jaehaerys flew close and gestured toward the Myr ships turning to flee. He offered to handle the ones still fighting while Daeron chased the runners.
Daeron couldn't hear the words clearly, but he understood the meaning.
"Catch them, Caraxes."
Out of nearly two hundred Myr ships, maybe a third were still trying to fight. Most were already running for the city.
Daeron turned Caraxes after the ones fleeing toward Myr.
The beams of the palace trembled. Bits of plaster fell from the ceiling.
"The Iron Throne is here. Myr is about to fall apart."
Tyrion sat on a low stool in the study, calmly blowing dust off the pages of his book.
Tristan was pacing in circles. "The king's coming, but Graven's faction is still refusing to surrender. The neutrals are refusing too. When this war ends, Myr is going to look like a second Tyrosh."
He was supposed to become governor here. If the city got burned to the ground, he would be the one left trying to stitch it back together.
And Tywin Lannister was still hanging nobles and rich merchants every day in Tyrosh. People were terrified. There was no safety left.
That kind of slaughter would destroy any Free City's economy. Myr couldn't afford to end up like that.
"Relax, my friend."
Tyrion finally looked up. "When men pick up knives, they usually do something stupid with them. We're still breathing. That's already lucky."
Tristan stared at him, eyes narrowing.
This damned dwarf. It was his father causing the slaughter in Tyrosh that had him so worried.
"Alright, alright, I'll stop teasing." Tyrion hopped off the stool. "The king isn't the type to kill everyone in sight. We just need to deal with that old fanatic Graven. After that we can slowly bring the rest of the governors around."
"I've already gathered my people."
Tyrion nodded in approval. "Good. Then we wait for the right moment."
"My lord, there's no chance left. We should run."
Kradara had retreated to the port. One of the bolder sailors tried to reason with him. None of them wanted to die with him.
"Run?"
This time Kradara didn't kill the man. He grabbed him by the neck and pulled him close until their foreheads touched.
"Then tell me," he said in a low, dangerous voice, "where exactly are we supposed to run to?"
He looked around. The once-busy Myr harbor was completely empty. Every ship that could sail had already fled.
Where could they go?
The sailor turned red and couldn't answer.
"We're fighting for the Triarchy. We're holding back the Iron Throne's invaders. There's nowhere left to run. And the Iron Throne won't let us run anyway."
Kradara slowly turned his head, eyes locked on the dragons circling above. His pupils had shrunk to pinpricks.
There was no winning this.
"My lord—"
The sailors looked at him, finally understanding there was no escape. They would have to keep fighting.
Kradara was not a good man. Right now he was worse.
"Abandon the ships," he ordered. "Fall back into the residential districts. Use the buildings as cover. We'll fight them in the streets."
He didn't care how many civilians died or whether it would push the Iron Throne into burning the entire city.
Pirates lived short lives. They didn't plan for retirement.
Hiss-graa—
Caraxes flew low over the port. When he saw the Myr soldiers retreating in good order into the city, he swept a line of dragonfire straight through their ranks.
Screams and fire rose together.
"They're giving up the harbor fight and pulling into the city?"
Daeron watched from above. After seeing over a hundred good ships abandoned, he understood what they were trying to do.
Street fighting. Using civilians as shields.
On open ground, dragons were unstoppable. Once the enemy hid among buildings, however, using dragonfire risked killing large numbers of civilians and creating even more hatred.
Most commanders would hesitate.
"But conquest without blood has never existed."
Unfortunately for them, Daeron was not most commanders.
He was a predator who held the tools of violence.
Whether he was merciful or not, war was always cruel. So he would win the war first and worry about the rest later.
"Dragonfire."
Daeron didn't hesitate. Caraxes dove after the Myr soldiers who hadn't made it into the city yet, pouring fire without pause.
"Run!"
"The dragon's coming!"
"Don't push— get into the residential areas—!"
The Myr soldiers panicked, shoving and trampling each other. Those in the back burned. Those in front were crushed. The death toll climbed fast.
Kradara ran at the front, his old injury making him limp badly. He kept glancing back, terrified the red dragon would catch him.
Then he saw the shadow.
Caraxes came in low, wings spread wide, chest nearly scraping the rooftops as it followed the narrow street.
Kradara looked up and froze. The massive red dragon was right in front of him, hovering, jaws opening.
He couldn't breathe.
"Dragonfire."
Daeron's voice was flat, like he was stepping on an ant.
Caraxes obeyed.
Kradara threw his hands up at the last second, as if that could stop it.
The fire swallowed him and everyone around him, then blasted out the other end of the alley and into another group of soldiers.
Caraxes finished and drifted higher, golden eyes cold, thin trails of smoke curling from the corners of his mouth.
"Let's go, Caraxes."
Daeron didn't spare the burning street another glance. He kept hunting.
"Damn it! That twisted, sick bastard Kradara!"
Graven's face was red with rage as he shouted at his men.
"Look at the piece of shit you picked as admiral! Instead of fighting at sea, he leads the dragons straight to Myr and then abandons his ships so the enemy can follow him into the city!"
Lys and Tyrosh had already burned under dragonfire. Did Myr have to suffer the same?
"My lord, please calm down."
His subordinate looked uneasy. They still couldn't reach Kradara.
"Stop wasting time," Graven snapped. "Dragon King Daeron is here. We're not handing Myr over without a fight."
"My lord, then what—"
Graven's expression turned calculating.
"Go gather the blood slaves. Have them resist the Targaryen dragons."