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Before the gate of the northern wall of Tyrosh was breached, Saba, the commander of the Rangers' Company, had already sensed the tide turning. He had just received reports that the Unsullied had climbed onto the northern battlements.
"Leave several squads behind to operate the ballistae and delay the enemy. The rest of you, retreat with me!" he ordered without hesitation.
"Use the ballistae? Commander, those are meant for deterring dragon attacks..." one of the Ranger captains protested, glancing up at the enormous emerald-green dragon that had just soared over the sea and now hovered high above their heads.
"Deterring a dragon? Are you out of your mind?" Saba barked furiously. "The slave soldiers up north have already lost half their number. There is no way they can hold off the Unsullied. Once they take the wall, the dragon will be able to fly straight through the breach and into the city."
Waving off any further argument, he turned and sprinted toward the stone staircase that led down from the central section of the wall. His voice rang out behind him as he snapped, "Quit wasting time. Move now."
With the commander abandoning his post, the rest of the Ranger captains no longer hesitated. Aside from a few squads forcibly left behind to cover the retreat, the remaining mercenaries withdrew in an orderly fashion, pulling back squad by squad.
Meanwhile, one of the attacking foot soldiers—little more than expendable cannon fodder—suddenly felt the pressure above him ease. Seizing the opportunity, he clambered up one of the assault ladders and leapt onto the battlement, only to be met with the sight of the enemy in full retreat.
His spirits surged. Believing the tide had turned, he immediately gave chase, only to hear the sharp twang of a bowstring.
A thunderous crack followed as a massive ballista bolt, thick and long as a spear, tore through his chest. The sheer force of the projectile lifted him off his feet and flung him backward with brutal force.
The deadly bolt did not stop there. It skewered another unfortunate attacker who had just reached the top of the wall behind him before finally embedding itself deep in the ground, nearly a dozen meters away.
The two corpses impaled upon the shaft twitched weakly for a few moments before falling still, their bodies twisted into grotesque shapes by death.
Though these heavy ballistae had proven ineffective against the might of Vermax the dragon, their power against human targets was overwhelming. It was, quite literally, like using a sledgehammer to crush ants.
A single volley from the central wall's ballistae was enough to terrify the advancing waves of cannon fodder.
With no stones crashing down and no arrows raining from above, the panicked attackers clung to their ladders, frozen in place. They neither advanced nor retreated, paralyzed by fear.
Seizing the opportunity, the few Ranger squads assigned to cover the retreat slipped away unnoticed, vanishing into the shadows below the wall.
In stark contrast to the now-abandoned central wall, the southern battlements were engulfed in brutal and chaotic fighting.
Strangely, the conflict there was not between the sellswords and the attacking foot soldiers, but between the sellswords and the slave soldiers stationed behind them to enforce discipline.
This, more than anything else, laid bare the fundamental difference between the Seven Kingdoms and the Nine Free Cities.
Noble houses in Westeros maintained their own armies, a costly investment, given the need to feed men and horses and to equip them with proper arms and armor.
But in return, they commanded loyalty. Soldiers in Westeros rarely wavered, and in the most extraordinary cases, entire battalions would perish beside their lords without hesitation.
The Free Cities, on the other hand, seldom kept standing armies. Instead, they relied on slave soldiers to fill their ranks and hired mercenaries only when war was imminent.
These freelance fighters, though easy to recruit and abundant in number, pledged allegiance to gold alone, not to honor or duty. As the battle for Tyrosh made clear, their loyalty was as unstable as shifting sand.
Suddenly, a dark and terrible shadow swept over the southern wall, plunging everything below into a suffocating gloom. It was as if death itself had descended from the sky.
Having secured the northern gate, Jacaerys wasted no time. He soared into the air atop Vermax, flying low along the battlements with a clear and deadly purpose—to tear apart Tyrosh's remaining defenses.
Yet to his surprise, the central wall lay silent and empty. There were no defenders, no attackers—only corpses scattered across the stones like discarded dolls.
It was clear the enemy had destroyed the ballistae themselves rather than let them fall into his hands. Without pause, Jacaerys gave the order to eliminate what remained.
Vermax responded with a thunderous roar, releasing a torrent of dragonfire as he banked sharply toward the southern wall.
A moment later, another roar followed—a bone-rattling explosion as dragonflame slammed into the ramparts with devastating force.
The orange-red fire poured across everything in its path, bringing with it an unbearable wave of searing heat. Anyone caught in the blaze was reduced to ash within seconds. Corpses were incinerated to cinders, their remains scattered by the wind.
Panic erupted. Dozens of sellswords and slave soldiers hurled themselves from the wall in a desperate bid to escape the inferno.
Some retained enough presence of mind to leap from the outer side of the wall, aiming for the massive pile of bodies below. If fortune favored them, they might survive with only broken bones.
But many, consumed by blind terror, fled inward and threw themselves from a height of fifteen or sixteen meters onto the stone streets of the city. Even if they lived through the fall, such grievous injuries meant certain death in an era with no real medicine.
The dragonfire spared no one. It made no distinction between friend and foe.
Among those who had just climbed onto the southern wall during the earlier infighting were dozens of attacking foot soldiers. They too were caught in the blaze and reduced to smoking husks.
Jacaerys turned his gaze toward the eastern battlements, now engulfed in flames. Satisfied, he nodded and guided Vermax toward the harbor of Tyrosh.
As a Free City with a strategic position along the Narrow Sea, Tyrosh's port was teeming with ships. Official naval vessels, merchant galleys, and every kind of civilian craft imaginable filled the harbor.
Some, sensing the city's downfall, had already raised their sails in a frantic attempt to flee.
Jacaerys knew he could not stop them all. But he was certain of one thing. Archon Pachek and the captain of his personal guard, who had led troops to the north to rescue his family, had not yet escaped.
In truth, Pachek had quickly reunited with his family. His personal guard had successfully led them out of the northern district.
But as they made their way toward the southwestern harbor, they ran straight into Jacaerys' vanguard, which was now pouring through the broken northern gate.
Without hesitation, Pachek abandoned several hundred slave soldiers to cover his retreat, choosing to preserve his own life.
But news of the city's fall spread like wildfire.
The southern district, already overflowing with merchants, commoners, and slaves—many of whom had already fled the inferno in the north—erupted into chaos. Order collapsed instantly, and the streets filled with stampedes and violence.
Caught in the heart of this human storm, Archon Pachek and his entourage moved slower than a wounded beast struggling through a mire.
Each step forward was a struggle, their path blocked by the flood of desperate souls. The weight of the collapsing city pressed down on them like a suffocating shroud.
Yet fate offered a slender thread of reprieve. By sheer luck, they encountered Saba and his Ranger Company, who were withdrawing from the battlefield.
After Pachek made a lavish offer of gold that was enough to buy loyalty even from the most hardened mercenaries, the group reluctantly agreed to serve as their escort.
Under the protection of seasoned warriors, Pachek and his party resumed their push toward the southwestern harbor.
Suddenly, an ominous sound shattered the clamor below.
WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
The terrible beat of enormous wings stirred the air, slicing through the sky like a blade. A dark shadow swept across the crowd. Faces turned upward, eyes wide with fear, and then they saw it.
The emerald dragon, radiant and terrible in its beauty, soared low over the city. Its shimmering scales caught the last glimmers of sunlight like a living tapestry of jade and fire.
To the people of Tyrosh, steeped in a culture that revered art and splendor, the sight was both breathtaking and petrifying.
There was no longer any threat from the city's anti-dragon ballistae. With nothing to fear in the skies, the dragon dipped low, its massive form gliding just above the rooftops. The onlookers could clearly see the scales lining its underbelly, smooth and iridescent and strong as steel.
And where the people could see the dragon, the rider upon its back could just as easily see them.
Saba's heart clenched as he watched the dragon sweep past overhead and then, with a thunderous beat of its wings, begin banking sharply in the air. A grim realization struck him with icy certainty. The dragonrider had spotted them.
There were only two possibilities. Either Archon Pachek himself was the target or it was Saba's mercenary band, the last remaining unit in fighting shape and formation.
Acting quickly, Saba scanned his surroundings and made a sudden decision. Adopting a posture of theatrical terror, he shouted at the top of his lungs, "What are you standing there for? Run! The demon and his dragon are here to devour our very souls."
His lieutenants, catching on instantly, echoed the cries in practiced coordination, their voices amplifying the panic.
The effect was immediate.
The momentarily frozen crowd, still paralyzed by the close encounter with the dragon, now erupted in blind fear.
Screams filled the air. Like a breached dam, the people surged westward, fleeing for the harbor with wild abandon.
Amid the confusion, Saba led his mercenaries swiftly into a narrow, almost deserted side street, seeking cover and escape.
High above, mounted on the dragon's ornate saddle, Jacaerys never let his eyes stray from his prey.
The target was unmistakable. Archon Pachek, still accompanied by a group of heavily armed men, stood out like a gilded standard among the fleeing masses.
Jacaerys narrowed his gaze as the dragon veered toward the southeast.
That must be the Eastern District of Tyrosh.
He remembered it well. Prior to the campaign, he had studied the maps of Tyrosh in meticulous detail.
The Eastern District was famed for its production of the prized "Purple Conch," a specialty that sustained much of the city's artisanal trade. It was the beating heart of Tyrosh's economy, second only to maritime commerce.
Not only that, the district housed temples and shrines dedicated to a wide array of gods and foreign deities. It was a sacred space, one where even common criminals dared not provoke violence for fear of divine retribution.
To burn the Eastern District would be akin to severing the city's lifeline, destroying half its wealth and inviting the wrath of countless religious factions across Essos.
Clearly, Saba believed that no sane man, not even a Targaryen dragonrider, would dare unleash dragonfire upon such a place.
The mercenary had wagered on Jacaerys' restraint, hoping the sanctity of the district and its sacred buildings would stay his hand.
But the moment the dragon Vermax soared over the rooftops of the Eastern District and dipped low above the now eerily quiet streets, Jacaerys saw through the ruse.
Those crowded avenues, now deserted, concealed the movements of his quarry. The mercenaries and the Archon were attempting to lose him in the maze of shrines and workshops.
He smiled grimly to himself.
"You still do not understand me," he muttered under his breath, voice cold with resolve.
Then he leaned forward and whispered the word of fire.
"Dracarys."
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[Chapter End's]
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