Tyrosh now stood as little more than an isolated city. With the loss of the Disputed Lands and its vassal towns, it was, at best, a vast metropolis clinging to its own walls.
In years past, the most brutal naval clash had been the Battle of the Gullet, when the Black Party's dragons descended upon the fray. Of the Triarchy's ninety first-rate warships, most had sailed out never to return.
Today's war, though not as savage as that one, would still decide Tyrosh's fate. The fighting erupted along its coastline.
What remained of the Tyrosh fleet—ships destroyed, ships surrendered, and the few stubborn vessels that fought on—met their end. The banners of the Three-Headed God fell one after another. Only the Wolf Pack banner continued to howl in the wind.
"Thud!" "Thud!"
One, two, three catapult arms rose along the city walls of Tyrosh. Hundreds of stones arced into the crimson sky, each the size of a man's head.
They came crashing down—some exploding into towering sprays of seawater, others punching through oak decks, smashing men into shattered bone, pulp, and spilled entrails.
But the catapults' fury did not last. Many of the slaves had already overturned them or forced them to swing their arms in a different direction.
"Kill!"
"Slaughter the slave masters!"
The dockslaves of Tyrosh seized weapons of their own, welcoming the Wolf Pack and the Narrow Sea Fleet into the harbor. They bore the harshest and most grueling labor, and they felt no loyalty to Tyrosh.
Tyrosh was like an overripe fruit hurled to the ground, bursting open and spilling its juice.
The city had descended into chaos. With the rebelling slave army acting from within, many of the outer gates were thrown wide open.
Gendry set foot on Tyrosh's soil clad in heavy armor, a warhammer in one hand and an Arakh scimitar in the other.
"Charge!" Ser Jorah roared as he followed close behind, riding into Tyrosh at Gendry's side.
For a moment, Jorah felt as though he had returned to his youth—when he had been so young, so dazzling. Then he had met her, that woman from the Reach.
He had fought to suppress the Greyjoy rebellion, the second man to scale the walls during the assault on Pyke. For his valor, King Robert himself had knighted him.
Dust billowed beneath pounding hooves as the cavalry slammed headlong into a band of gaudy Tyrosh Sellswords, their hair dyed in every imaginable color.
"Die, boy!"
Their leader was lithe and smooth-skinned, dressed in ostentatious finery, his mouth flashing with rows of gold teeth. Trapped and desperate, the Sellswords seemed to be searching for a way out, unable to force their way into the Black Wall.
The leader wielded two gleaming swords, their hilts fashioned in the likeness of the Three-Headed God.
Steel rang against steel in a storm of flashing blows, too swift for onlookers to follow.
The Sellsword's longsword struck Gendry's black-scaled armor with a sharp, ringing clang.
"Bang!"
Gendry's warhammer roared down and smashed Tyrosh's so-called hero's head like a rotten melon.
Battle was the union of strength, speed, and courage. The Tyrosh Sellsword's body crumpled to the ground like a fish clubbed to death on the shore.
"Why come to war without a helmet?"
Gendry pressed forward. The Wolf Pack knights surged after him like a flood, swallowing the remaining Sellswords whole.
Ser Jorah swung his longsword in wide arcs, carving a bloody path. In battle, he truly resembled a roaring bear—dark-skinned, thickly haired, a little bald at the crown, yet still powerfully built.
Some of the defenders atop the walls began loosing crossbow bolts at Gendry and Jorah, but the distance was too great. The quarrels hissed harmlessly past.
The Wolf Pack and Free Company soldiers poured endlessly into Tyrosh. In streets and alleys alike, the fighting grew ever more savage.
"Lay down your arms!"
Gendry's knights advanced in an arrow formation, smashing through all who dared resist.
At the harbor stood the Bleeding Tower, and within the city flowed the Fountain of the Drunken God. Gendry spared them not a glance. As Tyrosh bled, Myr might already be trembling as well.
Across the city, the turmoil spread outward from its core. Enraged slaves shouted and howled, seizing weapons from the garrison and throwing open the gates.
The diehard slaveholders and nobles of Tyrosh had withdrawn into the Black Wall, determined to hold out to the end.
Tyrosh truly did breed Sellswords, Gendry thought. They far outnumbered those of Myr. And after the Disputed Lands had been divided and many slaves freed, a great number of embittered mercenaries had fled instead to Lys and Tyrosh.
Spears, crossbows, battle-axes, and the shrill screams of slaves drowned out all else. With the exception of Tyrosh's inner city, this campaign had already broken their formations and secured victory.
Gendry established his command post near the Fountain of the Drunken God, a conspicuous and central position.
"Lord Commander, we've taken the outer city and the docks! Only the inner city remains!" Ser Jorah reported, bringing with him one of the slave uprising's commanders.
A tall, broad-shouldered man with a red beard dropped to one knee before Gendry, the scent of blood still clinging to him.
"What's your name?" Gendry asked, studying him closely. Though his hair and beard were dyed red like a Tyroshi's, his features and build still carried the rough stamp of the ancient North.
"Raymun. They call me the wildling. I was one of the free folk beyond the Wall, sold to Tyrosh when I was young. I served as a guard, trained children, fought in the pits. After buying my freedom, I became a Sellsword. I have never forgotten what the Tyroshi slave masters gave me."
"The Tyroshi steal a man's freedom. The old gods and the new alike would spit on them," Gendry said, pulling the wildling Raymun to his feet. Among the Free Cities, Tyrosh had always been the most ruthless in its slave raids. Now that fury had turned inward, and the uprising was all the more terrifying.
Tyrosh's slave trade was highly developed, and its slavers were notoriously aggressive. They had even sailed north beyond the Wall, hunting free folk to chain and sell.
"Keep the freed slaves under control. I won't have this uprising descend into blind slaughter. If it does, we'll be no better than the slave masters."
"Yes, Lord Commander," Raymun replied.
"Where are the Archon of Tyrosh and the priests of the Three-Headed God?" Gendry asked Ser Jorah.
"The Archon has taken the High Priest with him and is holed up inside the Black Wall."
"Maintain order in the city. Secure the banks, the warehouses, the shops."
"If those who surrendered fail in their duties, put our own men in charge."
"Where is Alequo, the Magister?" Gendry asked.
"The Archon had Alequo imprisoned. He told the Archon you wouldn't strike so quickly."
Let's hope Alequo survives this, Gendry thought.
"And the Black Wall of Tyrosh?" Ser Jorah pressed.
Gendry looked toward it. The Black Wall rose before him—an immense, elliptical barrier of fused black stone, two hundred feet high. A direct assault would not be easy.
"Lay siege first. Cut off their food and water. Bring up the remaining catapults."
"Yes!"
"Clear out the strongholds the Tyroshi left behind, and deal with any diehard slave ringleaders. And we may need to wait for news from Myr."