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Game of Thrones: Nero King of Knight
Viserys circled high above Tyrosh on Sunblaze's back. The city sprawled far larger and louder than Sunspear, a chaotic sprawl of noise and color. Once a Valyrian military outpost, it still carried a sharper martial edge than the other two Daughters. But that edge was hardly true steel.
"Dragonfire!" Viserys commanded.
A bright golden-red fireball slammed into the row of statues honoring past Archons outside the town hall. Marble exploded outward in jagged shards. Water in the fountains boiled into steam. The Archon himself wasn't inside the domed palace, but the high buildings were easy targets. Viserys swept dragonfire across the Archon's residence, the town hall, and the harbor where the Tyroshi fleet lay at anchor. It was meant as a lesson, nothing more.
The anchored warships sat like floating fortresses. Crossbowmen and scorpion crews lined their decks, but none came close to hitting Viserys. The Tyroshi had clearly prepared for war. Dragonfire couldn't reach underground, so Viserys doubted he had killed many of the real power brokers. That didn't matter. The raids and siege preparations were simply meant to make the Tyroshi angrier with every passing day.
Provoke the enemy. Make them furious. Force the fight onto ground that favored you. That was the philosophy of war.
Bells tolled across Tyrosh. Fires sprang up inside the black walls as the city woke in panic. Nobles and wealthy merchants huddled in terror while guards on the battlements lit torches and cranked scorpion bolts toward the empty sky. In the darkness it was useless. Viserys watched the chaos for a moment longer, then turned Sunblaze away. His own fleet was closing in. All he needed now was the right stretch of sea.
"Revenge!"
"Revenge!"
The Tyroshi nobles and merchants shouted it loud enough to shake the walls. They even rushed the steps of the Archon's palace. The loss of the Disputed Lands and the slaughter of so many citizen-soldiers had shattered the Archon's and the governors' credibility. The town hall lay in ruins. Only after the lookouts confirmed the dragon had truly gone did the panicked governors gather again.
The governors had never suffered such humiliation. Not since the days of the Ninepenny Kings, when the Silverhair king had seized power and ruled Tyrosh like a tyrant. They descended into the underground chambers beneath the palace, torches flaring in the narrow passages. The Archon brushed dust from his robes and grimaced. Hiding like rats was no way for rulers to live.
"The Disputed Lands are finished," one governor said, voice hollow. "We lost three governors, thousands of slave soldiers, and half our estates in a single stroke."
Three governors gone was catastrophic. The citizen-soldiers who had died beside them made it worse. Yet none of the survivors had the heart to curse the Archon. Those three men had volunteered, chasing votes and glory. Instead they had shown their asses to the world.
"This is life or death," the Archon said quietly. "Their wives and children will demand blood. We must show courage, or the mob will tear us apart with its own hands."
He had wanted greater profit. He had never expected to summon a monster like Viserys. But that was the Tyroshi way: dyes, trade, and slave raids. Sooner or later they were bound to clash with the Dragon King.
"Viserys is a bloodthirsty tyrant," another governor wailed.
First the disaster at Viserysfort. Now the total collapse in the Disputed Lands. They had even lost their own vassal estates. "He won't let us live," a third governor snarled. "Then he doesn't get to live either."
"Two choices," the Archon said. "Hold the walls and wait for help, or strike first. Assassins and sellswords are too slow. Viserys already holds the Disputed Lands. If his fleet seals the Stepstones and our harbor, Tyrosh will choke."
Fight or endure? The question hung in the smoky air. If they waited, their estates would burn and the Dothraki would vanish. The citizens would rip them to pieces.
"Hold the core with scorpions and crossbows," one governor suggested. "Let Viserys waste his strength. We have grain enough for months. Lys or the Iron Throne will come."
"Not if the Disputed Lands are ashes and the horse lords are gone," another snapped. "Lys won't arrive in time. Our supplies travel by sea. He can strangle us whenever he chooses."
"Then let him rampage until he grows bored and leaves."
"And if he doesn't?" the first governor shot back. "We wait for plague or a starving mob to finish us?"
The Tyroshi admiral spoke at last, voice cold as iron. "Or we fight. The Andal fleet is small. Even with Myr's help and the escaped slave ships, they cannot match our numbers."
"But he has the dragon," someone muttered.
The admiral's eyes flashed. "What would you have me do? Viserys and that beast appear and vanish like ghosts. My sailors are already cracking. The fleet shrinks every day he raids us."
"If I give you the entire fleet," the Archon asked, "can you beat him?"
"Many things come down to courage, not certainty. With our giant scorpions, we have a chance."
The governors leaned in. "What do you need?"
"Slave sailors are useless. I want only native Tyroshi crews I can trust. Some ships will have to stay behind."
"How many can you sail?"
"After repairs and losses from the Disputed Lands, I can put a hundred warships to sea."
A hundred ships. Even against seventy, the advantage was slim.
"You forget our tonnage and the quality of my men," the admiral said flatly.
While the Tyroshi argued in their cellars, Viserys met Morosh's fleet under cover of night. The Andal ships slipped along the calm Myr coast until every vessel had gathered. The waters of Myr Bay were gentle; the ships arrived safely. Morosh anchored in a quiet harbor inside the Disputed Lands. With the escaped Tyroshi slave fleet added, Viserys now commanded eighty warships.
Most were smaller vessels, pieced together from whatever Morosh, Myr, and the freed slaves could provide. But the sailors' morale burned hot. These men fought for their freedom and for revenge against the most hated slavers in the world. The Tyroshi still believed their own fleet was larger. They had not yet learned that Myr had already joined the fight.
"Use the speed of your ships," Viserys told Morosh. "Draw their fleet into the strait between Tyrosh and the Disputed Lands."
"Understood, Your Grace." Morosh grinned like a shark that had scented blood.
Around the campfires, Andal soldiers and freed slave sailors sat together. The Dothraki kept to their own fires, still half-wild, answering only to Viserys. He moved among them, sharing bread and roasted meat.
"To the Warrior!" Viserys raised his cup.
"To the King!" the men roared back, steel cups clashing.
A sea battle between a rising kingdom and an ancient city-state was about to begin.