The Harbor of High Tide, Driftmark.
At this moment, the only exit from the harbor was completely sealed.
Over a dozen Royal warships poured into the inlet, followed by a vast number of merchant vessels conscripted in King's Landing and converted into transport ships carrying over several thousand Royal troops.
"All vessels halt immediately!"
"All persons disembark at once!"
"Lay down your arms! Surrender, and you shall live!"
From the flagship of the Royal Fleet, a herald bellowed through a copper megaphone.
His answer was a single bolt fired from a Velaryon warship.
Whiz!
The bolt grazed the herald's helmet and thudded into the mast.
"Obstinate fools," Ser Erwin Redwyne remarked coldly from the command deck.
"Signal the fleet: free fire. Target the ship that fired first."
The order was given. The scorpions on the Royal warships opened fire.
Thung! Thung! Thung!
Iron-shod heavy bolts tore through the air. Their targets were not men, but the hulls.
The first bolt struck a turning Velaryon vessel in the beam; the shaft, thick as a bowl, punched through the oak planks, leaving a jagged crater.
Seawater rushed in, and the ship listed. The second bolt sheared the rudder off another, leaving it spinning out of control in the harbor, where it crushed two small fishing boats.
The third struck a mainmast, snapping thirty feet of cedar, which collapsed along with its rigging onto the deck, crushing the sailors below.
But this was only the beginning.
As the Royal ships closed in, the firing ports along their hulls bristled with archers.
A rain of arrows blanketed the docks and the resisting vessels.
"Shields up! Shields up!" a Velaryon officer shrieked.
But there were nowhere near enough shields. The arrows fell like rain, and the crowds on the quay collapsed in heaps.
Those on the gangplanks, caught in the crossfire of the melee, became living targets with nowhere to hide. Blood stained the wooden piers, flowing in small rivulets into the sea.
"Surrender! We surrender!" White flags finally began to rise from the ships.
"Prepare the rams," an officer commanded.
"Sink the ones still flying the Seahorse."
The flagship pivoted, its bronze ram aimed at a double-decked galley, one of the mainstays of the Velaryon home guard.
Acceleration. Impact.
BOOM!!!
The sound of splintering timber was deafening. The ram wedged into the enemy's hull, and the sea poured in.
The ship tilted violently, and sailors fell into the water like dumplings.
"Jump! Jump!"
"I can't swim!"
"Help me!"
No help came. The Royal soldiers watched coldly as men struggled in the water.
Some raised bows to pick off those trying to swim to shore. The water turned a murky crimson.
The resistance in the harbor ended within half an hour.
Only three Velaryon ships had offered a true fight; the remaining Eastern merchant vessels had quietly docked, their crews gathered on deck with hands raised.
This was a Westerosi civil war; it was no business of theirs.
Ser Erwin stepped onto the quay, his boots clicking on the blood-slicked wood.
"Count the spoils," he told his adjutant.
"Repair the ships that can be saved; dismantle the rest. Bind the captives and wait for the Prince's command."
"And the smallfolk?" the adjutant asked, gesturing to the cowering civilians.
"Tell them to go home and wait for judgment," Erwin said.
A massive wave of Royal troops began to land. For the first time, Royal cavalry thundered through the streets of Spicetown.
Civilians locked their doors, peering through cracks in their shutters.
Herald riders galloped through the alleys, their voices carrying through the deathly silence:
"By order of King Viserys I, Queen Regent Alicent Hightower, and the Small Council!"
"An announcement to all people of Driftmark!"
"The Velaryon heirs Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey have been executed for high treason!"
"Driftmark should be held liable for their crimes! Yet the Iron Throne is merciful and offers clemency!"
"All hiding defenders must disarm immediately! Civilians are to welcome the King's army!"
"Those who lay down their weapons shall be spared! The deadline is sunset today!"
"Failure to comply," the rider's voice turned sharp, "will result in the execution of both the offender and their family for treason!"
The riders blew three long blasts on their horns. The harbor was silent.
Men looked at each other, some with a spark of hope, others with the hollow eyes of the defeated.
High Tide Castle.
High above on the cliffs, atop the Eyrie Tower of High Tide, Cleon Velaryon watched with a bleeding heart.
Against the Targaryen dragons, weapons of war that defied all reason, they were helpless.
Seeing the escape fleet intercepted and destroyed pained him most; it was the accumulated wealth of centuries.
After the Sea Snake gained hegemony over the Narrow Sea, he had turned Driftmark into the trade hub between Essos and Westeros.
Over the years, the Velaryons had amassed over four million Gold Dragons.
Though Corlys had taken half for his crusade, the remaining fortune was now being plundered by the Greens.
But the gold wasn't the core loss.
It was the shipwrights, the carpenters, the smiths, and the veteran sailors... all now falling into Green's hands.
Cleon, the fifty-three-year-old commander of the home guard, straightened his back as he read the surrender demand.
"Unconditional..."
"My Lord," his adjutant whispered.
"The harbor has surrendered. Thousands of Royal troops are landing, and more are coming."
Cleon turned to him.
"As a Seahorse, I cannot simply surrender without terms."
"But... Vhagar..." the adjutant's voice dropped.
"If that dragon breathes fire, we..."
"We cannot hold," Cleon admitted flatly.
"Ten-foot walls are like paper before Vhagar's flame. We have barely a thousand men left, the harbor is lost, and we have only two weeks of grain."
He looked his adjutant in the eye.
"But surrender is an art. 'Unconditional'? Giving up everything? That is no different from baring one's neck to the axe. We must prove we have value."
"Prepare the white flags," Cleon ordered.
"But not for surrender."
"Then for what?"
"For negotiation." Cleon looked down at the white castle.
"Aemond Targaryen gave us half a day not because he is merciful, but because he doesn't want to turn Driftmark into a wasteland. The ports, the shipyards, the master craftsmen, those are what he truly wants. If he burns it all, what will he use to build a Green Navy?"
At noon, seven white flags were raised over High Tide.
The main gate creaked open, and a delegation of twelve scribes and maesters, no warriors, stepped out.
They were led by the old steward, Maester Mathos.
They walked to a white tent pitched a mile from the castle. Outside stood twenty of Aemond's personal guard in black and silver.
Inside, Aemond and Aegon sat on folding chairs. Their dragons rested nearby.
Aemond wore no armor, only simple black leathers, with the greatsword Blackfyre held by a squire behind him.
Maester Mathos entered and bowed deeply.
"Noble Prince Aemond, I represent Lord Cleon Velaryon. We offer our greetings."
Aemond did not bid him rise or sit. He rested his chin on his hand, studying the old man.
"Unconditional surrender by sunset," Aemond said flatly.
"That is the King's decree. Have you come to comply?"
Mathos wiped sweat from his brow.
"Your Grace... Driftmark is willing to submit, but there are details we hope to discuss..."
"Details?" Aemond raised an eyebrow.
"Yes. Lord Cleon asks for three things. First, the garrison is allowed to keep their personal property and leave safely. Second, the castle must not be looted. Third, a portion of the Velaryon family assets be retained by them."
Aemond laughed. "Requests?" he repeated softly.
"Have you misunderstood the situation?"
He stood up and took Blackfyre from the squire.
He walked to Mathos, looking down at the trembling man.
"The Iron Throne is not asking for your surrender. The Iron Throne is ordering it. It is a command. Do you understand?"
"And me," Prince Aegon added, sipping wine.
"You don't get a say."
Aemond gave Aegon a brief, cold look before turning back to the maester.
"When a master tells a dog to lie down, does the dog negotiate? You seem to have trouble understanding human speech."
Mathos turned pale.
"Go back and tell Cleon Velaryon," Aemond turned his back.
"I give him one last chance."
"Now. Open all gates. Have the garrison disarm and kneel on both sides of the main road. I will send my army in to occupy. If there is no resistance, I promise no one dies. But if the sun sets and the gates are still closed, I will assume Driftmark has chosen war."
"And war," Aemond sat back down, tapping the hilt of Blackfyre, "has no requests. Only winners and losers."
-----
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