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Daeron burned two more streets clean, roasting another wave of Myr soldiers as Caraxes carried him deeper into the eastern district.
A squad of guards stood watch over a warehouse when a shadow fell across them.
It was long, serpentine, and blood-red.
"Dragon—"
The captain stared up at the massive crimson beast, its scales gleaming like fresh blood in the sunlight. He didn't hesitate. He turned and ran.
"Run! Run!"
"Dragon! Dragon's here!"
The moment their captain bolted, the rest broke. Men scattered in every direction, abandoning their posts.
Daeron heard the shouting and spotted the guards. He didn't need to think twice.
"Dragonfire."
Caraxes opened his jaws. Crimson flame slammed into the squad and blew the warehouse doors apart in a roaring blast.
Convenient.
Daeron was about to fly past when something caught his eye through the smoke—pale white cloth, stacked in neat rows.
"Down, Caraxes."
He patted the dragon's neck and banked hard. Caraxes circled once, wings beating slow and heavy, then dropped onto the open ground in front of the burning warehouse with a ground-shaking thud.
Daeron slid off the saddle and waved smoke out of his face. He ignored the flames licking at the doors and strode straight inside.
Just as he suspected.
Rows of secret wind-rider sails hung on drying racks, untouched and ready for market. No markings. Brand new.
Daeron grinned.
He waved a hand. The twin iridium rings on his fingers flared, and the entire half-warehouse of sails vanished into his inventory.
He checked the count.
One hundred and twelve.
At fifteen hundred gold dragons apiece, that was a hundred and sixty-eight thousand dragons' worth of sails. Enough to outfit a whole fleet.
He climbed back onto Caraxes, still smiling.
"Up."
He kept flying low after that, eyes scanning for more warehouses. If the Myr governors were hoarding war materiel, he was happy to relieve them of it.
---
Down at the harbor the fighting had turned savage.
"Secure the docks!" Paxter Redwyne shouted from the rear. "The rest of you—push inland!"
The Northmen had already broken through the first line. Eddard Stark fought at the front, Ice rising and falling in great silver arcs. Smalljon Umber and Lord Karstark fought on either side of him, carving through sellswords like they were made of paper.
But the real spectacle was farther ahead.
A huge bear-islander in battered mail swung a Valyrian steel sword like it weighed nothing. Beside him, a red priest fought with a blade wreathed in living flame. The two of them moved together like they'd been born for this, cutting down anyone who got in their way.
Stannis watched from the second line, face set like stone.
"Signal the charge," he ordered.
The Dragon Tongue Knights answered.
Eight hundred heavy riders in black plate and crimson cloaks thundered forward as one. The ground shook. The sellswords trying to hold the barricades looked up and went pale.
The front ranks broke before the charge even hit them.
Stannis led from the front, Obsidian Blade flashing. He cut down the Brave Companions captain in a single stroke, splitting the man from shoulder to hip. The rest of the knights crashed through the barricades behind him, lances punching through shields and bodies alike before they drew their swords and kept killing.
The sellsword line collapsed.
Up on the ridge, Randyll Tarly watched the black-armored tide roll forward and gave a short nod.
"That," he said quietly, "is how you end a battle."
---
Two Myr governors stood in the eastern district, whips in hand, driving a ragged column of men and women toward the outer canal.
The prisoners were pale, filthy, and half-starved—Andals, Rhoynar, Valyrians, Ghiscari, even a few Lhazareen. They shuffled forward with their heads down. Some had fresh welts across their backs.
Ahead of them walked a group of black-robed warlocks, hoods up, moving with purpose.
One of the governors cracked his whip against the ground.
"Faster! The dragon's already burning half the city!"
A warlock at the front turned his head slightly. "We need water. Deep water."
"You'll get your damned water," the other governor snapped. "There's a canal that runs straight to the bay. You can have all of it you want."
The warlock nodded once and fell back into line.
Behind him, one of the blood slaves stumbled on purpose, smearing something dark across the cobblestones with his fingers while he muttered under his breath. A whip cracked across his shoulders. He cried out and kept moving.
Others copied him when they thought no one was looking—biting fingers, spitting, tracing symbols in the dirt. The governors saw it anyway. The whips came down harder.
The column finally reached the wide canal that fed into Myr Bay. Hundreds of Myr soldiers waited there in tight formation, shields locked, spears ready.
The two governors shoved the prisoners and warlocks toward the water's edge.
"Get to work," one of them ordered. "If those dragons get through, you're all dead anyway."
The warlocks began chanting. The blood slaves stared at the dark water with hollow eyes.
Up above, the sound of dragonfire still rolled across the city like thunder.