The Disputed Lands. The battlefield after victory was a total wreck.
Sunblaze spewed golden flames, then settled in to feast on dead horse carcasses. The dragon roasted the meat until it was charred and black, then tore into it with huge, greedy bites.
A dragon fights harder on a full belly. Dusk was still falling—the battle wasn't quite finished.
Viserys didn't even bother worrying about the prisoners. In the total collapse, the Tyroshi center had been wiped out completely.
Besides the Unsullied guards, every Tyroshi citizen-soldier the governors had brought along was slaughtered by the rebelling slave troops and mercenaries.
The slaves had been ground down for too long. When they finally turned their blades on their masters, they showed zero mercy.
Truth was, Tyrosh sat at a low latitude with booming trade and plenty of coin. Some of these slaves had lived better than the poorest smallfolk back in Westeros.
But slaves were still slaves. No freedom. No right to live. Beatings and killings were just part of the job.
You could say the bottom rung always got the short end—whether it was lords or slave masters doing the grinding.
"Land. And people." Viserys had no intention of giving back the Tyroshi territories he'd seized. There weren't many actual Tyroshi citizens living on them anyway.
Same as Pentos. The vassal lands were worked by peasants and laborers—orchards, farms, mines. The pleasure-loving nobles of a free trading city rarely dirtied their own hands.
Viserys planned to take the great estates for himself and hand the newly cleared land out to free men.
There was more than enough land. The real problem was how empty it was.
"Your Grace, we've cut off one of Tyrosh's arms," Ser Agos said. "Next comes their fleet."
Viserys nodded. Tyrosh's two arms had always been its auxiliary forces in the Disputed Lands and its navy.
He'd already destroyed the army. Now it was time to deal with the ships.
"Myr's fleet can't match Tyrosh at sea. We'll have to be careful," Viserys said. Numbers still mattered. That was one fight he'd have to finish himself.
Ever since the war in Andalos began, he'd been carrying the team.
"What's your name?" Viserys asked the turncoat mercenary. The accent was pure Westerosi.
"Rosor Brune, Your Grace." The man looked ordinary enough—gray hair, crooked nose, square jaw, thick and strong.
Built like a bull, but his robe had been washed so many times it was nearly white. Coin wasn't exactly flowing.
"You from House Brune of the Crabclaw Peninsula?"
"I'm distantly related to the Brunnes of Brownhollow. That's it." Rosor shrugged.
This branch wasn't real nobility—just bastard cousins the main line never claimed.
Relations were ice-cold. After his father died, Rosor had ridden to Brownhollow looking for kin. They refused to acknowledge him and tried to dump a bucket of shit on his head for the trouble.
As a hedge knight he'd clawed his way up the hard way, blood and bruises and all.
"Why throw in with the Tyroshi?"
"We needed the gold, Your Grace." Rosor looked embarrassed. The Tyroshi had paid stupid well.
"We weren't planning on dying for them. Grab the coin, then run."
The Tyroshi hadn't wanted these freelance sellswords at first. But the market had flipped hard. They'd scraped up every last old onion they could hire from the Disputed Lands.
These men weren't idiots. Take the money and bolt—that was the plan. Loyalty was nonexistent.
"Good. From now on you're with me."
"Rosor Brune swears loyalty to King Viserys. Until death." Rosor's eyes went wide with excitement.
This wasn't climbing the ladder. This was a rocket straight to the top.
He couldn't even touch the second- or third-tier Brunnes before. One word from the king and everything changed.
No guilt either. The Crabclaw Peninsula had always been royalist country. And there was no better offer coming.
With Viserys's army and a living dragon, even toppling the Baratheons wasn't impossible.
"Excellent." Viserys pointed at the surrendered men. "Keep these sellswords in line. The war isn't over."
"As you command, Your Grace."
Viserys settled it in a few words. He didn't need long speeches. Winning was enough.
He mounted Sunblaze and lifted into the sky. Before the battle he'd spotted the docks in the Disputed Lands. A sea lane ran straight between Tyrosh proper and the Disputed Lands.
Tyrosh kept a squadron there to patrol the waterway.
Now it was a race—could he catch the escaping warships before they slipped away?
"Move! Move!"
Out on the water, dozens of Tyroshi warships bolted like panicked rabbits.
They normally patrolled the route and ferried troops, but they were far too late to land reinforcements now.
The fleet commander had no idea how the land battle had gone, but the thunder of hooves didn't sound like victory.
The fate of the three governors and all those slave soldiers was out of his hands. Time to save his own skin.
"Roar!"
Viserys put Sunblaze into a tight turn, then dove straight at the warships.
"Scorpions!"
"Longbows—loose!"
Viserys watched the rain of spears and arrows.
"Kill the rider! The dragon will flee!"
"Quick—aim for the dragonrider's head! Get him!"
The Tyroshi weren't strangers to fighting dragons. They'd faced Targaryens before.
Back in the Triarchy days their sailors had traded blows with dragonriders and picked up a few tricks.
"I am the Lord of Fire!" Viserys swept his hand. A ring of searing flame spun slowly around him.
He only needed to shield the vital spots. The arrows and spears never got close.
The few shafts that actually struck his gleaming Valyrian steel armor bounced off harmlessly—only making Sunblaze angrier.
The dragon wheeled and danced—climbing, diving, spinning away.
Arrows arced through the air in hopeless curves.
Blazing golden fireballs roared to life, brighter with every pass.
Unlucky ships exploded into splinters. Some even set off their own oil barrels and burst into flames.
Lookouts tried throwing grappling hooks. Pointless. They burned alive instead.
"No!"
Desperate sailors jumped into the sea—better to drown than burn.
Besides the shattered and burning ships, several vessels saw slave revolts. Slave soldiers tossed Tyroshi overboard and turned their ships toward Viserys's side.
Viserys had won the naval fight. These dozens of warships were only part of Tyrosh's grand fleet, but it was still a brutal loss.
He ordered the slave soldiers to sail the captured ships back to the Disputed Lands while he kept soaring above Tyrosh itself.
If the Tyroshi holed up behind their walls and waited for Lysene help, that would be the smart move.
But if they sent their whole fleet out to fight him at sea—that was exactly the battle Viserys wanted.
He was determined to give them another taste of terror and force a decisive fight sooner rather than later.
By seizing their vassal lands, burning their fleet, and hitting them with night raids, he'd make them choose.
The sky was darkening, but Tyrosh felt wrapped in a heavy, suffocating dread.
Viserys saw the black dragon walls. Tyrosh was a fortress city ringed by high stone.
Sunblaze streaked across the sky. The tallest dome-topped tower belonged to the Archon's palace.
"Boom!" Searing flames slammed into the domed building. The fire wasn't hot enough to melt stone, but flying debris still made one hell of a statement.
"Scorpions!"
"Scorpions!"
The Archon had already fled to the cellars. Only loyal guards remained on the walls.
Long bolts streaked toward Viserys, but Sunblaze was too fast.
"I hit him!" a green-haired Tyroshi mercenary shouted, dancing with joy.
Then another blast of dragonfire. Golden-red flames swallowed him whole. His scream echoed across the courtyard.
The stench of burning flesh hit the air. The other mercenaries who'd been ready to fight to the death suddenly decided running was the smarter play.