Blackfyre.
A name which, at one point, might have inspired awe and fear into the hearts of many. Now, it was mocked and scorned in the annals of history.
To Serra Blackfyre, the name of her family was nothing more than a shackle that had been stuck to her neck since her birth. A prison which seemed to have no end. It was an honor which she had never asked for.
She genuinely despised it. Unfortunately, she was not able to choose her own blood. Perhaps if she could, she might have a happy ending waiting for her.
In the back of her mind, Serra was keenly aware that her predecessors might be looking down at her from the beyond with resentment for thinking such things. So many of them had died so that their blood could take its rightful place on the Iron Throne, but what could she do? Westeros was not a land which she could call home. How could she? She had never been there. The Iron Throne was even more of a difficult concept for her to grasp. To be king or queen….well, to a young girl like her who had only ever known the depravity of a Lysene pleasure house, she could not even begin to comprehend the nobility and the majesty that came with being a king or queen.
And yet, she was forced to, simply because of her name.
As far as the world was concerned, she was the last legitimate Blackfyre remaining at this point. Sure, there were probably bastard branches out there. The youngest son of the Black Dragon, Maelys Blackfyre, from whom the Monstrous took his name, had never taken a wife. That had not stopped the man from taking on a number of lovers while he lived. It was possible that he had sired quite a number of bastards in his time, and he was just the best well-known example. Who knew how many carried the blood of the black dragon within them without knowing about it.
Conversely, Serra could trace her lineage back to her mother, Daella Blackfyre, to her grandfather, Daemon Blackfyre, the one whom the Monstrous saw fit to kill with his own hands, to her great-grandfather Aemon Blackfyre, the second son of Haegon Blackfyre, to then Haegon Blackfyre, and finally to the Black Dragon himself.
In essence, she was the "Last Blackfyre." A secret known only to a select few. As far as the Targaryens were concerned, the Blackfyres had all died when the Monstrous was slain. But through the whims of the gods, she remained to carry on the Blackfyre name.
How fortunate for her.
'Brother, you were supposed to be here.'
Perhaps then, Serra would not be beholden to the expectations of so many. Instead, her brother was lost, dead just like her mother. She never knew her father. Her overseer would not speak of him to her. Serra only knew that her grandfather had married a Rogare woman for the benefits it could provide him with. While the Rogare family had been diminished greatly, they still held sway in certain circles. Sadly, her grandmother had perished alongside her grandfather when the purge in the Golden Company began all those years ago. There was a rumor that her grandmother had been pregnant at the time, which might have resulted in a son who could have inherited the legacy of the Black Dragon.
More regrets of the past. Maelys the Monstrous would never have let such an heir exist for too long. The only reason Serra's mother had not been killed was because Maelys sought to marry her to strengthen his hold over the Golden Company. This desire had given her mother the opportunity she needed to escape before Maelys could claim her.
Serra was grateful for that. She did not want to think what would have happened to her had Maelys gotten what he wished.
'Stop shaking.'
Serra had never met the Monstrous, but every time she thought of the monster that killed her grandparents it always caused her to start shaking in fear. A part of her worried that the monster would come back to life and seek her out to claim the Blackfyre bride that he had so desperately wanted in life.
But Maelys was dead. He was dead just like every other Blackfyre before him. Realistically, Serra knew she had nothing to fear. Yet, she feared anyway.
Not just because of the ghost of a man she never met but because of life itself.
Serra was forced to work in a despicable place like this pleasure house in order to keep her hidden from the world. The name of the pleasure house was the Silk Pearl. It was not the most popular of locations, which was the point of keeping her here. Because of this, Serra was forced to witness the less than stellar clientele that walked through these halls. Serra's one small miracle was that she was not forced to service these men and women like the other slaves.
At least, not yet.
Serra was not naive. During the day, when she was forced to fend for herself, she would often hear whispers of the owner seeking to put her to work. To most of the clients who saw her, she was considered the most beautiful woman in the pleasure house, and they wanted the so-called honor of taking her for the first time.
Serra had long since come to terms with her own beauty even if she secretly despised it. If she was not considered beautiful, then perhaps these lecherous bastards would not be so interested in her.
She had curly and thick silver-blonde hair which she was told resembled the hair of Daena the Defiant. Her blue eyes were what marked her apart from her ancestor. To her, it was a sign that perhaps her father was a magister from Lys, which could help to explain why she was being hidden away here of all places. It would perhaps give her an extra layer of protection if her father was a powerful magister. The bastards here would be less willing to touch her then.
Or perhaps she was just searching for any hope, no matter how small.
Serra did not know.
What she did know was that these talks, of having her become a pleasure slave rather than continuing with her menial tasks, were becoming more and more frequent, to the point that Serra wondered when the last of her dignity would be taken from her.
The only time she found any semblance of peace was when she retreated to her private chamber during the night. It was one of the few rooms inside the pleasure house that offered her privacy. In here, she not only slept in peace, but Serra could also converse with the only person who knew of her situation. This person also happened to be her overseer, employed by either the Golden Company or someone else entirely.
Septa Auriela.
The septa was old. Serra did not know the woman's exact age, but she was clearly very old already. To be honest, Serra did not know much of the woman's past. All she had gotten from the septa was that she grew up in the Crownlands in Westeros before she became a septa. Serra could not fathom how such a woman could ever end up employed in Essos of all places.
The rest of their time was spent educating Serra in the ways of a princess, or so the septa claimed. History, duty, poise, faith. Everything was crammed into her head. It was a strange disposition for her, to be instructed in the ways of the Faith of the Seven while living in a place that the Seven would condemn as heretical. Not just for the lust but also for the slaves.
That was another big distinction that Serra had to learn. The Faith spoke out against the evils of slavery, but in Essos an entire market had been created around the practice of slavery. These were two very contradictory viewpoints, and Serra was exposed to both from an early age.
More to the point, if the Faith spoke out against slavery, then Serra wondered why she felt like a slave herself.
It wasn't a good comparison in all honesty. Deep down, despite everything that she had gone through, Serra knew that she was still better off than most slaves in the pleasure house. They had less freedom than she. It was why she desperately tried to suppress the thought of becoming one of them while trying to learn as much from Septa Auriela as she could.
On this night, things were a little different. Septa Auriela still came to the pleasure house. She was the same as always, wearing her modest gray robe which stood in contrast to all the provocative wears Serra saw throughout the day. Her locks, which had long since gone gray, fanned her face. Her brown eyes were alert and full of movement. Serra always thought that such eyes belonged to a younger person.
Serra did not know where Septa Auriela went off during the day. She only knew that the woman always came back. The owner always let her in.
But that was where the routine ended. For instead of lecture, the septa announced that there was something of great importance that they needed to discuss. Beneath the familiar authority in the septa's voice, Serra sensed fear.
"Has something happened?" Serra wondered once the two of them were seated inside her room.
"The Targaryens are coming here."
It was only a few words, but those words put together caused an uncomfortable feeling to settle in the pit of her stomach.
The Targaryens. Now there was a name which Serra had heard one too many times. The Targaryens were supposed to be the family that she hated. Septa Auriela taught her that the Targaryens had stolen the throne from the one true king, Daemon Blackfyre, almost a century ago. That it was the black dragon who carried the true blood, not the red dragon.
And yet, there had been many whispers about the Targaryens floating around in the city in recent years, more than what was common. Talks of magic and fire….and of dragons.
Even inside the halls of the pleasure house, the men who sailed to King's Landing to do business would come back to tell stories of what they had seen. Of a new city with black stone. Of expansion. And the dragons. They would always talk about the dragons as if they had seen the beasts up close.
Serra would always let her mind wonder when she heard a new tale about the dragons. The dragons were her legacy too as a Blackfyre. She carried the blood of the Conqueror in her just as the Targaryens did. And yet, she had no dragon.
Septa Auriela was forced to address the rumors as no one in the city could escape them.
"These stories are mere fantasies," she would say, lecturing her about the dangers of believing in every little fairy tale. "The dragons are long dead. Many have attempted to bring them back, only to fail. This is merely a ploy by the Targaryen king to secure his rule after so many of them died."
"But what about the crown prince?" Serra further probed. While the talks of dragons had only emerged around three to four years ago, tales of Rhaegal Targaryen's magical abilities had endured far longer than that. "They say he has magic. Does that not mean he could achieve what others failed to do?"
"Magic cannot be trusted. It will only lead you down a path of your own destruction."
Despite how decisive the non-answer was delivered, Serra could tell that the septa did not believe her own words. There was doubt. After all, far too many people spoke of the dragons and their immense size for it to be a mere lie. There was something happening in Westeros, but Serra had no way of knowing to what extent. More than that, she had more immediate concerns than worrying about the affairs of the Targaryens.
Or so she had thought. And yet, with a few words, Serra was forced to acknowledge that those concerns were now a lot closer than before.
"Why are the Targaryens coming here?" Serra could not keep the fear from her voice. In the back of her mind, she was frightened by the possibility of them coming for her. Even though she told herself that there was no way that could be true, she could not shake that feeling from her heart.
"There is war over the Stepstones again." It was the first time Septa Auriela was telling her of this. Serra had already overheard many of the men who visited the pleasure house speak of it. "I'm sure you remember our earlier lessons. After the Monstrous was killed and his fellow sellswords retreated to their own domains, the Free Cities were embroiled in a trade war. The Iron Throne took advantage of the situation to expand their trading empire across Essos. By the time Lys and the other Free Cities could do something about it, the Targaryens had already constructed a formidable fleet."
No wonder so many merchants were going to King's Landing then. They must have grown comfortable with the familiar markets.
Serra began to understand where this was going. "So these Targaryens are coming to attack?"
That would be a first. Traditionally, the Iron Throne had never attacked the Free Cities directly. Only the Conqueror had participated in a skirmish, and even then he only burned ships, not cities.
Septa Auriela's eyes expressed approval, but she shook her head.
"Nothing is certain. The magisters think that the Targaryens remain in the dark. The pirate captain they hired is a notorious one. He was one of the nine kings who followed Maelys into the Stepstones. The Targaryens might just believe that he's carrying on the fight and wanting a slice of those miserable islands for himself."
"Then why come here?" That part still did not make sense to Serra.
"Who can say? Rhaegal Targaryen might just be a fool who's walking into a trap without realizing it."
"Rhaegal Targaryen is coming here himself?" Serra's trepidation grew. She thought that maybe someone else would be representing the Targaryens, not the crown prince himself.
"Yes." While not as extreme, Septa Auriela looked wary. "There is little chance that he knows of you, but we will have countermeasures in place to get you out of the city just to be safe. With any luck, the magisters will kill him for us."
"And his dragon?" Serra still could not shake that from her mind.
"Put that out of your mind. Even if the dragons somehow returned, they cannot be older than four years. In that short span of time, they would be of no threat to anyone."
Serra should have felt reassured, but she was not.
Yet, there was little she could do but pray for the best.
---
The day when the Targaryen prince was meant to arrive in Lys had come. It was a cloudy day, which was not wholly unusual, so no one thought too much of it. Despite the clouds, the sun would still peek through at times.
Varo had hoped that he would feel nothing but satisfaction when this day arrived. With all the steps that he had taken to get here, victory was all but certain.
Instead, he felt anxious.
'Even if he makes it on time, his fleet must have been battered. With any luck, the fool died fighting alongside his men.'
The reinforcements Lys had sent would see to that. They had acted before Tyrosh or Myr had a chance to coordinate with them. Typically, it was Tyrosh who held a slightly larger number of ships than either Lys or Myr, but in recent years Lys had managed to match their rivals/allies due to the ongoing skirmishes in the Stepstones. It became a practical necessity to empower their fleet. Varo would never risk the safety of Lys herself, so a number of ships had been left behind, anchored in the harbor for protection. After all, it was not just the Targaryens who were posing a threat. Volantis was stirring up again.
Thankfully Tyrosh and Myr had acted more decisively on that front, and the Golden Company was already on the move. The two cities had hired the famed company of sellswords to go into the Disputed Lands once more
'Another legacy of the dragons.'
It was funny to think about a whole company of sellswords fighting in conflicts a world away just for the chance to go to a home that they had never seen before.
Varo did not think too deeply about it. None of that was his concern. The Golden Company fought well. That was all that mattered.
Despite the small disparity in the number of ships between the two Free Cities, Lys and Tyrosh were traditionally on equal footing, never able to hold supremacy over the other. But right now, it was better to work together to contain the Targaryens rather than fight each other.
Many arrangements had been made, all to prepare for the arrival of the crown prince. The most noticeable of these preparations were the large array of scorpions and ballistae set up all along the high walls of the city. While Varo did not believe that the dragons could pose any real threat as young as they were, it would be a good show of force to remind the Targaryens that their dragons were not invincible. Was it not a single shot that brought down the dragon of Queen Rhaenys three centuries ago? If Rhaegal Targaryen was foolish enough to bring his young dragon, then a similar fate would befall it.
A whole company of sellswords was stationed within the city as per Varo's orders. They were the Gallant Men. They were not a dominant military force like the Golden Company, but then Varo did not need them to be. They possessed enough men to bolster the defense of the city. He doubted that the Targaryen prince was bringing an entire army with him, so it would suffice.
'If they meant to start a war, then they would not resort to such roundabout methods.'
The modest sellsword company, along with their traditional guards, would be more than enough.
Despite all this planning, despite wanting to feel fully satisfied with his actions, Varo still could not shake the feeling that something was very wrong. Maybe it was because he was still trying to understand why Rhaegal Targaryen would dare risk a journey as treacherous as this. For as arrogant as the Targaryens were, surely they could not all be ignorant too? Surely they must realize that Lys wanted to prevent the Iron Throne from annexing the Stepstones into their sphere of influence? And because of that, coming to Lys at this time would be a death sentence, dragon or no dragon.
Or was Varo overestimating them?
Maybe it because he had yet to hear from Samarro Saan even though several days had passed. It could just be that the pirate lord was more interested in securing his hold over the Stepstones. Maybe he was just too busy to send a message.
So many maybes.
So much uncertainty.
Varo did not like it.
He tried not to let these thoughts sour his mood too much as he sat within the privacy of his great manse inside the city. In his hand he held one of the treasures that he had managed to acquire during his rise as a merchant and then a magister: the crown of Aegon the Conqueror. The fact that the rubies still remained on the crown was a miracle. The histories said how one of the past Targaryen kings lost the crown during one of their failed conquests of Dorne. Perhaps Varo was just greedy, but he would have taken the rubies for himself first before selling the crown.
'What am I thinking? Intact, the crown is worth more than the rubies put together.'
The history behind the Valyrian steel circlet that he held in his hands could not be denied. Many in the Free Cities had wished to have it in their collection as a way to not only mock the man who once wore it but also to begrudgingly respect him for the dynasty that he had created.
'I wonder how much the Martells got for this.'
That was a mystery that Varo had not managed to figure out yet, for the one he bought it from was not the original buyer which the Prince of Dorne had sought out. The way the story went was that it was through the sale of the crown that Sunspear was able to afford its famous Water Gardens.
'Their place of leisure, paid by their would-be conquerors.'
There was a great irony there which never failed to make him laugh.
"We are going to be making history next, Vandor," he murmured.
Varo got no response, but then again he was not expecting one. Not from the giant brute of a man who stood behind him in silence.
The man, whom Varo had named himself, stood just over seven feet tall. His skin was pure black, with his long hair as white as the wool of a sheep. The hair fell down his back, tied into a ponytail. His eyes were a set of dark brown pools which were intense enough to cow any man. It was for that purpose that Varo had bought him in the first place….well, that and his build. The fact that he spent a small fortune to forge armor large enough to fit him was inconsequential.
Varo did not know where Vandor was from. The man could not speak. He had long since lost his tongue. How? Varo did not know that either, nor did he care. All that was left of whatever happened to him was a horrible scar that ran from the bottom of his lip all the way up across his cheek.
The giant brute could probably read, though. There were times that Varo saw him eyeing books with interest, and he was not wholly unintelligent. It was just that his talents were better served wielding his giant curved sword than reading scrolls. It was only a pity that the sword was not of Valyrian steel. Such treasures were not sold or given away lightly. Even with his massive fortune, to many Valyrian steel was worth more than gold itself.
Varo could understand the sentiment even if he did not agree with it. Better to be rich without Valyrian steel than to be poor with nothing but a weapon to his name.
Fortunately, Varo did not have to choose. Despite his relative young age, he had already reached the most prestigious position within Lys. From here, he could go anywhere. This old relic in his hands would be nothing next to what he could accumulate in the future.
As Varo basked in thoughts of the future, a messenger came running into his manse unannounced, almost forcing his way through the guards.
"First Magister! First Magister! Urgent news!"
The servant's shouts echoed through the manse. He was so desperate that the guards let him through before he could properly identify himself.
Varo, sitting in the top level of his manse in one of his viewing balconies, was on alert when the man came rushing in. Vandor did not react, but experience taught Varo that the giant of the man was always ready to act on a single command.
"Speak. Why are you disturbing me?"
"First Magister, there are news from the watchmen! A whole fleet has been spotted approaching the harbor!"
Varo instantly glanced out toward the sea. From his vantage point on the balcony, he had a good view of not only the city and some of the nearby islands but also the harbor. At first, he did not see anything. But when he focused, he could start to make out distant silhouettes on the water.
And there were many of them. Too many for him to count right away.
He had been too engrossed in his own thoughts to notice them until now.
If he could see them, then they were not far. It would not take long for the ships to reach the city.
But Varo did not panic. He was surprised by the fleet's timely arrival and at the sheer number of ships, but that was it. More than surprised, he felt anger.
'That damn Samarro. Did he not slow them down at all?'
There were more ships than what had been reported, but the fleet Samarro had been supplied with, along with his own vessels, was no small number either. If that damned Samarro hadn't been able to put a dent on the Targaryen fleet, then of what use was he? What confidence could they have in holding the Stepstones at this point? They might as well be pissing away the gold.
Even though his initial plan had failed, Varo steeled his nerves. The overall situation had not changed. Even if he did not kill Rhaegal Targaryen, capturing and imprisoning him would work just as well. Lys might actually secure better terms this way. The king would pay any price to get his heir back.
'And no dragons.'
The fleet in the distance was massive, true. But they were not dragons.
'It's just as I thought.'
Rhaegal Targaryen was going to be walking into his city, ready to be taken captive. Varo would hold all the cards then.
Reassessing the situation, Varo convinced himself that everything still fell within his expectations.
He gestured to the messenger.
"Tell the guards to-"
The words died in his throat when two distant roars suddenly vibrated in his ears. Perhaps everyone else in Lys heard the distinct sounds too, for it seemed as if the entire city came to a sudden halt.
Not even a bird flew.
Varo was not certain, but it was possible that for a few moments he did not even breathe. Even Vandor looked uncharacteristically unsettled.
Varo finally spoke, "What was that?"
There was no answer. Neither the messenger nor Vandor could give him an answer, for neither knew what those roars were or where they were coming from.
Doubt began to creep into Varo's heart as he looked toward the distant silhouettes on the water.
'It cannot be-'
His thoughts were drowned out as another pair of roars rang out, stronger this time. It was only then that Varo realized where the roars were coming from.
"First Magister, look!" The messenger panicked as he pointed to the clouds.
It was already too late, for Varo was already looking toward the skies. A horrifying sight emerged through the clouds which blanketed the heavens from view: two dragons. One was black, the other white.
And they were big. Bigger than anything Varo could have dreamed.
'No.'
He nearly fell back to his chair where he had spent most of the day. The same chair where he had been dreaming about his upcoming triumph.
All those thoughts were forgotten by the sight of the two beasts which now flew over his city.
'The stories. They were no exaggerations.'
The dragons were alive, and in only four years, maybe less, they had grown to such lengths.
Varo realized then that any thoughts about trying to capture Rhaegal Targaryen were no longer feasible. He also realized, with a terrible certainty, that Samarro and all the ships they had sent to intercept the Targaryens were burned or at the bottom of the sea.
'I miscalculated.'
Varo had assumed that he was overestimating the Targaryens, when it was the opposite.
He had allowed his instincts to relax over the years. Now, at what was perhaps the most critical hour, he was saying the price for it.
No. Not all was lost yet. There were two dragons here, but they were not attacking. They were merely flying over the city. If they meant to attack, then they would have done so already.
This confirmed what Varo already suspected: the Targaryens knew nothing.
'If Rhaegal Targaryen does not yet suspect of our involvement, then perhaps-'
Whatever thoughts Varo had on this new development died when, without warning, a whole section of scorpions and ballistae shot their missiles from their position. When that happened, it was almost like a domino effect. The rest of the scorpions and ballistae began to fire at the dragons.
Varo's eyes widened at this.
'Who gave the order!?'
This was not part of the plan! Even if Varo decided to aim for the dragons later, better to let the beasts land first and then strike at them! They were harder targets while in the air. Why would his men begin to open fire without his orders!?
Much to Varo's anger and frustration, the missiles missed their targets as the two dragons evaded the iron bolts with relative ease.
He knew then that any chance to talk things out ended. Even though he had not given the order, Lys had just openly attacked the crown prince of the Iron Throne.
There was only one ending to this tale.
Sure enough, the two dragons changed course. They were no longer just flying in circles around the city. No. Now, they headed straight for the walls.
Then their flames began to spew out, and men burned.
---
Even though Monford was already aware of Rhaegal's plan, he did not think it would work to this extent. Not only destroying a large portion of the pirates in the Stepstones but now also burning Lys with justification….well, it was a bolder plan than Monford could have imagined.
'It helps to have people in the inside,' he thought as he recalled the red priests residing within Lys.
As expected, none of the Free Cities yet realized to what extent that red priests had aligned themselves with Rhaegal. While the Faith of the Seven was structured and followed a rigid hierarchy, the red temples acted more independently from one another. The same was true for the red priests. To many in the Free Cities, it only seemed as if a small group of the religion had chosen to relocate to Westeros.
At the very least, Lys was not aware of the traitors within their own city.
It was thanks to the red priests who still resided inside the city that Rhaegal knew about the magisters' trap. Combined with Malora Hightower's glass candle, and Rhaegal had a clear picture of the happenings within the city.
It almost wasn't fair.
It was also because of the red priests forging orders that a section of the scorpions and ballistae had fired upon the dragons. The sight of the dragons themselves had already caused many in the city to start panicking. They only needed a little push to fall into total chaos. They would act first and think later....well, if they lived long enough to get to that point.
And now, Rhaegal had the cause to act as he saw fit.
Monford saw for himself what this meant as Ancalagon and Aegorax aimed their flames right at the walls of the city. From a distance, it almost seemed as if Ancalagon was spewing forth wildfire. The dragon's flames were black, but the bright green mixed in gave the flames a unique color that were all too reminiscent of the wild substance.
In contrast, Aegorax's flames were a pure white with some red mixed in.
The contrast was almost poetic. It was as if the flames represented the twins themselves.
Monford had already seen what the dragons and their flames could do to an entire fleet. Now, it was time to see what they did to an entire city.
"Cousin." Aemon Velaryon slowly approached him at the helm. The sight of the dragons and their flames gave the young Velaryon some pause. "Euron Greyjoy and his fleet are moving in."
Monford nodded, his eyes never leaving the dragons.
"Good. You know what to do."
While Euron would enter the city with his own raiders and some of Rhaegal's own men, Monford's job was decidedly a lot more easy. He just needed to keep any ships from escaping the city.
According to the information the red priests had provided them with, Lys still kept a sizable number of ships anchored for protection.
'Not for long.'
Sure enough, Aegorax, commanded by Rhaegar, began to fly toward the city's harbor.
Monford was prepared for what was about to happen. During the Dance, it had been his family's ships, and subsequently their fortune, that had been wrecked during the Battle of the Gullet. That damned battle and the whole of the civil war had cost the Velaryons too much.
It was over a century later, but Monford would still savor the sight of the Lysene ships burning before his eyes.
---
None of the missiles struck.
Aegorax moved swiftly and efficiently through the air, gliding with practiced ease. This was the result of the combined practice Rhaegar had with his dragon over the past two years.
Technically this was their second battle, but the pirate fleet had been unable to put up a fight. Now, bolts, arrows, and all sorts of projectiles were being shot at them in the vain hope of ending the slaughter that was taking place.
In other words, there was a lot more excitement now compared to before, and Rhaegar was not complaining.
As was part of the plan, Rhaegar and Aegorax would follow Rhaegal and Ancalagon's lead and approach Lys from high above. They would make use of the clouds when they began to descend in order to hide their approach. Then, they would emerge at the last second to strike the most amount of fear into the men on the walls. The sudden appearance of two dragons would cause their hearts and minds to falter. Then, it would just take one single push to shove them over the edge. Once they opened fire, it would remove the need to walk into the magisters' trap and fight their way out. Ancalagon and Aegorax could unleash their flames over the whole city.
Which was what they were doing.
They started with the walls. Rhaegar made sure to follow Rhaegal's orders and aim for the siege equipment first. Once the scorpions and ballistae were out of commission, they would have free reign over the skies.
It was easier than expected.
The men, not only fearful but also caught completely off guard, had a hard time reloading among all the chaos. Apparently none of them had been expecting to actually face a dragon today, let alone two of them. Their morale was not very high. Many were already fleeing from the walls.
They were burned all the same.
Rhaegar, dressed in his draconic-esque plate armor, took a great deal of pleasure in burning through the men stationed on the walls. Their screams did not move his heart. Even as portions of the walls began to crack and even melt due to the intensity of the flames, Rhaegar felt no sympathy. It was the opposite.
He felt powerful.
'So this is what our ancestors wrought to Essos for thousands of years.'
Rhaegar was certain that he would not forget the emotions that he felt at this moment for as long as he lived.
He did not let his emotions get the better of him, though. The walls were just the start.
Rhaegal signaled to him as they began to ascend once more when most of the siege equipment was taken care of. The few that remained had been abandoned already as the few men who remained began to flee into the city. The streets themselves were chaos as people ran to their homes or somewhere else to hide.
Rhaegar understood his brother's signal. Rhaegal would deal with the siege equipment that remained.
Rhaegar had to burn the ships that were anchored in the harbor.
'Such foolishness.'
Rhaegar could not believe the arrogance of the magisters. To not even have their fleet prepared….did they really think that the Iron Throne was unaware of their involvement in the Stepstones? That they would leave themselves exposed like this was just the height of stupidity.
It made Rhaegar's job easier at least.
Aegorax soared from the walls of the city toward the harbor while men and women continued running through the streets below. From the skies, they almost seemed like ants.
Some of those ants were already moving in the harbor, trying to get the ships out into sea. Rhaegar spotted Euron and his own ships slowly approaching. On board were not only the reavers but also Arthur and a contingent of the Dragonguard. Euron had his own orders to pillage through the city. He and his men could kill any slaver they liked. Beyond that, they were to stay their hand.
Time would tell if the Ironborn could follow such a simple instruction. Rhaegar did not have high hopes for them.
For now, the reavers were not his concern. No, the enemy ships still anchored were.
The men on the ships began to scream as they spotted Aegorax quickly approaching them. Unfortunately, there was nothing they could do.
"Aegorax, naejot."
Rhaegar urged his dragon forward.
Aegorax did not hesitate. He could sense Rhaegar's intentions.
Within seconds, he was flying over the assembled fleet.
Rhaegar's eyes burned with intensity behind his helm.
"Burn them all."
Aegorax opened his maw and loosed another torrent of white and red flames onto the ships down below.
Screams were all that followed.
---
Ser Michael of the fallen House of Lothston watched with fascination and dread from the streets of Lys as two dragons descended upon the city.
Not just any dragons, but two large dragons. Dragons large enough to cause a lot of devastation. The very same dragons that were supposed to have all died more than a century ago.
'Impossible.'
He could hardly believe what his own eyes were showing him. He, like everyone else in Essos, had heard the tall tales coming out of Westeros in the past several years. Like many of his compatriots in the Golden Company, he had assumed it was just the Targaryens trying to act tough when they were at their weakest. They believed that reports of the dragons and their growth had to be fabricated.
They were wrong.
The sword he carried with him suddenly felt like a child's toy. What could he do against such monsters?
Nothing.
He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat.
'I have to let the others know.'
Lys was certainly going to collapse, or at the very least it would suffer so much damage that it would take years for the city to recover.
Michael did not know all the details, but he and Ser Myles Toyne, the captain-general of the Golden Company, were aware that Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr were stirring up trouble in the Stepstones. It was as if history was repeating itself, with the three Free Cities coming together to fight against the Iron Throne. No formal alliance had been formed as of yet, and based on what was happening it was already too late for that.
When Michael saw the black dragon turn its attention away from the walls after burning down the last of the siege equipment, he ran. He ran as fast as his feet could take him. It clearly wasn't enough as with a powerful roar the black dragon flew over his head.
All around him people were running for their lives, masters and slaves alike. The sight of the dragon over their heads only caused these people to scream more, their faces stricken with tears.
For a moment, Michael prayed to the Seven that the black dragon would not turn to the streets, but his prayers were not answered as the dragon began to spew its fire indiscriminately over the whole city. Now that the siege equipment had either been destroyed or abandoned, there was nothing that the guards could do against the beast.
Worse still, the other dragon had headed for the harbor. No doubt to burn down the ships that were anchored there. This would leave Lys defenseless.
As for the Gallant Men? Michael was certain those cravens were already trying to find someplace to hide. They were not going to throw away their lives to honor their contract. Not that he could blame them, not really. Conventional warfare meant nothing against a dragon. He was also certain that the magisters hadn't paid the Gallant Men to fight a dragon in the first place.
Even from a distance, Michael felt the heat from the dragon's fire as it consumed building after building. It was indiscriminate destruction, plain and simple.
Despite the black-green flames engulfing whole districts, Michael found the gods to be merciful for once as the dragon spared the portion of the city that he needed to head to. This meant that his charge was safe for now.
"Michael! Over here!"
Through the screams and panicked shouts bellowing through the streets Michael was just barely able to make out the voice of Septa Auriela. The old woman was standing by the entrance of the Silk Pearl. The usually composed septa was shaken by the dragons' arrival, but Michael did not spare a moment to take this in. He had bigger concerns on his hands.
"What has happened!?" she hissed as she dragged him inside the pillow house. The building seemed to have been abandoned by not only the owner but also by all the pleasure slaves that were meant to be working here. Now, only the old septa and one young girl remained. Michael knew who she was. It was the same girl he was meant to be watching over as ordered by the captain-general: Serra Blackfyre.
The girl was more charming and beautiful than any pleasure slave Michael had laid eyes on. Unfortunately, he could not claim her as his, no matter how much he wanted to.
As far as he was aware, he was the last of his house. And even then, he was only a bastard. His father had been a bastard too. Michael was born from one of the pleasure slaves that Lys was so famous for. Because of that, he was born with more traditional Valyrian features than his predecessors. Michael was only lucky that, rather than abandoning him, his father took him away to be raised in the Golden Company.
His story was no different from many who claimed descent from numerous houses in Westeros. Others were more fortunate. Their fathers married, and their unions were acknowledged under the Faith.
Or so the men claimed. It was not as if they had a group of septons following them across Essos. Septa Auriela was an exception, and she was employed by sheer luck and necessity.
No one bothered to question the validity of these marriages under the Faith, with the captain-general more than happy to accept the marriages as they came.
But now was not the time to think about such things.
"I'm not all that certain," Michael confessed as he tried to catch his breath. It was times like this that he was thankful that he kept his blond hair short. More comfortable this way. "Two dragons suddenly appeared over the city, and then the guards tried to shoot them down."
"Are those fools mad?" the septa almost shrieked, and Michael did not blame her. "I thought the magisters were only going to imprison the Targaryen prince!"
Michael didn't know. It was not as if their information about the Conclave's decisions was solid. They had assumed that a fight like this would not break out, mostly because they did not think that two dragons would be showing up.
"But the dragons." Serra's voice was soft, yet it pierced through the commotion. "They are so big. How is that possible?"
That was something else Michael could not answer.
"We can wonder about such things later." The old septa began to compose herself. "We must leave the city at once."
Michael scoffed. "No chance. I saw one of the dragons head to the harbor. Any ship will be burned before it can set sail."
There was no way off the island. Forget reaching the mainland. Even reaching the neighboring islands would be difficult.
"We must wait then," the septa said. "The dragons will tire soon enough. Then we will slip away. This is a war between the Iron Throne and the Free Cities. It does not concern us."
Michael could agree to that.
"Fortunately, the other dragon was heading in the opposite direction. We might just be able to hide here for the duration of the attack-"
"Cowardice rarely befits a knight, Ser."
Michael felt his heart stop for a second time as another voice made its presence known in the pleasure house, a voice that he did not recognize.
When Serra gasped and the old septa's eyes narrowed, Michael realized that somehow they had been found out.
'It cannot be.'
Even as he thought this, he slowly turned to the entrance of the pillow house. In the spot that had been vacant before now stood a young man wearing an intricate gleaming suit of white enameled armor with a pristine, pure-white cloak hanging from the shoulders. Most eye-catching of all was the greatsword that he held in his hands, with a blade as pale as milk glass.
The man was not alone. All around him stood heavily armored men in dark plate armor with dragon motifs. They were bigger than any man Michael had ever seen. There was only one exception: another young knight wearing plate armor with fiery red hair.
The man in the white armor stepped forward with a smile as his eyes landed on the frightened Serra.
"Good day, Lady Serra Blackfyre. On behalf of my prince, Rhaegal Targaryen, I, Ser Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard, am here to liberate you from your prison."