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Game of Thrones: House of Black Dragon
Game of Thrones: BLOODTHIRSTY BASTARD
Game of Thrones: Dragon Knight of Harrenhal
Game of Thrones: Archer's Ordinary Life
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Viserys Targaryen stepped into his command tent and paused at the threshold.
Outside, the camp was alive with noise—shouts, curses, and the constant calls of runners. Even through the heavy canvas he could feel the restless energy.
Not far beyond the tent stood the wealthy city-state that had been the target of his army's march. Yet this city had never shown the slightest intention of bending the knee.
Tyrosh had been a fortress since the day it was founded.
In the days of the Freehold, the western legions of Valyria had been stationed here. Dragonlord commanders appointed by the triarchs had made their homes within these walls.
From this city the Freehold had traded with the wild peoples of the Sunset Kingdoms.
It was from this base that Valyria had kept an iron grip on every settlement along the shores of the Narrow Sea.
A place of such strategic importance had naturally been turned into an unbreakable stronghold.
After the Doom, the years had worn away at its defenses, but they had never fallen into the same state of neglect as Lys. The walls of Tyrosh remained almost untouched.
The people and rulers of Tyrosh had always been known for their harsh, unyielding nature. They were drawn into war and conflict more often than the citizens of other cities. Because of that, their walls stood strong and the soldiers who manned them were the best they had.
Viserys knew this siege was going to be a brutal fight.
But it was also here, in battle against the Tyroshi, that his new army would receive its true baptism of fire.
After leaving garrisons in the border strongholds of the Disputed Lands, the Triarch of Volantis had returned to Lys and thrown himself into the bloody, grinding campaign in the Stepstones.
For the Second Daughter, his arrival had not been a surprise.
The desperate men who served Tyrosh's governors also understood that Viserys would not repeat the mistake of marching on Myr a second time.
So they had prepared for him in the Stepstones, gathering every fighting man they could find and pouring every resource into new defenses.
What the three whore-cities had not expected was that even in its youth, the Volantene legion could fight like a veteran army.
The soldiers' coordination, the hard-won supply lines, and the iron discipline that had been drilled into former farmhands gave the Volantene army an overwhelming edge over Tyrosh's patchwork force of sellswords, pirates, and privateers.
Mercenaries, reavers, and raiders had never been known for endurance or courage.
Tyrosh's militiamen were armed with whatever they could scrounge. They could not hold a line against disciplined troops for long.
The balance of the war tilted again and again toward Volantis. After the hard-won capture of Grey Gallows, landing the main army beneath the walls of Tyrosh became only a matter of time.
A week earlier the Volantene host had come ashore on the largest of the three islands. Yet it was only two days ago that the rebuilt legions had fought their first major battle.
The governor of Tyrosh had refused to sit behind his black stone walls. He had chosen to attack, determined to drive Viserys back into the sea.
In their eyes the Volantenes had been weakened by months of fighting in the Stepstones. They believed they still had a chance.
The goddess of war had other ideas.
The Volantene legionaries had thrown up field fortifications in time. Every Tyroshi assault broke against them. They never reached the camp, nor did they get close enough to burn the ships.
After five failed charges the Volantenes seized the initiative. A bold counterattack by the Black Knights broke the enemy's spirit. The Tyroshi—more accurately, what remained of them—fled back inside their walls in panic.
Another clash. Another victory.
But this victory had come at a cost.
The string of earlier successes had already taken a heavy toll.
Soldiers had died in pitched battles, in skirmishes, and while fighting over bare rock. Part of the army had been scattered across the captured islands to hold what they had taken. That was a necessity that could not be ignored.
In the end, of the thirty thousand men Viserys had gathered to assault Tyrosh, barely half now stood beneath its walls.
They were the best—hardened veterans who had survived the Dothraki invasion and the taking of Lys—but if he ordered a direct assault tomorrow, even victory would destroy the army.
Then he would have to raise an entirely new force across all of Volantis, tearing husbands and fathers from every family. The patience of the First Daughter's people was already stretched thin.
Viserys had fought hard to avoid that future.
Now he had no choice but to tighten the noose around Tyrosh and wait for the defenders' will to break.
Admiral Gemon Goneris had also given everything.
He had driven Euron Greyjoy's reavers back to the western side of the Stepstones and kept them pinned there, but he had never managed to trap and destroy the pirate fleet. Now the admiral's ships were needed elsewhere.
Nearly half the fleet had been pulled away to enforce the blockade of Tyrosh. The rest were busy ferrying reinforcements from the mainland and guarding the islands already taken.
In short, after the legions' steady advance, the war had once again settled into a tense, grinding stalemate.
This war had already consumed vast resources. Every extra day of uncertainty cost him dearly.
His own health only made things worse.
For a full month his cold had refused to leave. The damp chill that clung to the rocks and sea had finally broken him.
Feverish and weak, the prince had been able to do little in the recent fighting.
While he fought the sickness, Viserys had handed field command to the legion officers he trusted most. He issued only the broad orders.
The First and Second Legions—the main striking force—had performed adequately.
The new formation was still unfamiliar to most Volantenes. The early days of the campaign had been chaotic and costly. But once they found their rhythm, the legionaries proved they were no mere name.
After the fighting ended, Viserys had praised the officers who had stood out. Overall he was satisfied. Compared to the early battles in the Stepstones, the army had improved dramatically.
Discipline, clear ranks, and proper organization could truly turn a rabble into a force that made men tremble.
Viserys walked to the table and drained a cup of hot wine in one swallow. His body needed warmth. The chill inside him needed to be driven out the same way.
His eyes fell on the map of the Stepstones and the surrounding waters. Even he had lost count of how many times he had stared at these cursed island outlines as if they might reveal some hidden answer.
Bloodstone, Grey Gallows, the Weeping Town, Grey Ring… names that sounded almost pretty, yet belonged to nothing but barren rocks covered in bird shit.
He had spent months here, paving the road to Tyrosh with fire and blood.
The Volantenes now held a long chain of islands along the Essosi coast. Legionaries had thrown up hasty forts and watchtowers and repaired the ruined little harbors. It all consumed resources without mercy, but at least now they could besiege Tyrosh without fearing that their rear would be cut off.
Even so, Viserys knew how dangerous his position remained. He wanted to end this faster.
He had sent envoys to the rulers of Tyrosh with terms he considered generous.
The governors could keep most of their wealth and their personal safety in exchange for the city's freedom and independence.
He would forgo slaughter or enslavement of the merchant nobles if they swore fealty, broke their alliance with Myr and Euron Greyjoy, and paid a moderate indemnity to the Volantene treasury—far less than what Lys had been forced to give.
The terms were carefully worded. No one could accuse the Triarch of hidden treachery. The leaders of Tyrosh might actually have accepted.
Of course, their refusal had not surprised him in the slightest.
He always planned for the worst and built every strategy around that possibility. That was why his men had already begun building siege engines.
The machines could never break the black stone walls around the inner city, but with enough patience they could take the outer city where most of the common people lived.
After all, the governors' food stores were not endless. And an army in a foreign land could not afford to sit idle. Idleness and laziness were the surest poisons to discipline and morale.
Staring at the map of the Stepstones, Viserys thought again of another stubborn problem.
Goneris had still failed to catch Euron Greyjoy. The Ironborn pirate's flagship seemed to carry some kind of curse. It slipped every trap the Volantene fleet laid and vanished, only to reappear and strike at weakly defended supply convoys.
Most of the captains sent after him returned empty-handed. The unlucky ones never returned at all.
So Gemon had abandoned the pointless chase and changed tactics. He was methodically clearing every hidden cove and secret harbor. Captured pirates, desperate to avoid slavery or execution, were quick to name every location.
After the disaster at Grey Gallows, Euron had been forced to retreat with what was left of his fleet to Bloodstone—the last large island in the Stepstones that could still shelter and repair his ships.
Viserys once more considered Goneris's request. The admiral wanted the Fourth Legion, still training in Lys, to be sent against Bloodstone for a decisive blow.
The idea had merit. If Bloodstone fell, Euron would either flee to Myr or be driven from the Stepstones in disgrace.
That victory would give them complete control of the islands and change the entire war.
But the memory of Weymond's disastrous expedition against Myr would not leave Viserys's mind.
The Fourth Legion was still raw. It lacked experienced officers and real combat experience.
The Ironborn villain had already proven how cunning and ruthless he could be. He could not be underestimated.
And if the Fourth Legion were destroyed, the enemy would have a clear path straight to Lys.
That was the heart of his entire campaign. He could not risk it.
In the end he had ordered Gemon to continue with the original plan while the new recruits were trained harder.
The Triarch's thoughts were cut short by the sudden entrance of a young squire.
A handsome boy with clear Valyrian features stepped into the tent, bowed, and spoke in pure, classical Valyrian.
"Lord Viserys, Ser Barristan Selmy requests an audience."