Prince Daemon Targaryen
The Gods be witness, Daemon did not wish to bring it to this, but they had been left no choice. When, by the middle of the eleventh month, they had finally seized the last fortresses shielding the Free City from the land and approached its outer walls, the Prince-Hand had expected that an army at the gates and a few demonstrative flights over the city would suffice for its capitulation. Yet the Magisters were in no haste to open the doors.
"Well, it seems we must needs knock somewhat louder," he said then to his brother.
The outer walls of Tyrosh, hewn from limestone blocks, rose forty feet high, while the projecting hexagonal towers with narrow arrow-slits rose ten feet further. Every few yards along the upper gallery of the ramparts, scorpions and trebuchets were arrayed, already loosing volleys toward the besiegers, alongside heaps of stones and vats of pitch prepared to repel an assault. Unlike King's Landing, which was entirely encircled by a defensive ring, Tyrosh's perimeter of defense stretched only from one shore of the bay to the other; evidently, the Archons and Magisters believed the fleet would shield them from the sea—a fleet now sent to the bottom by the efforts of the dragons, the Velaryons, and the Tarths. The primary fortification of the harbor was the red-stone Blood Tower—at once a lighthouse and the residence of the slain Prince-Admiral Craghas Drahar. Each of the five gates into the city, situated within square towers recessed into the wall, was protected by portcullises and heavy wooden valves sheathed in iron.
At dawn, all four dragons took to the air and began to methodically burn the walls. Each made a circuit over the city, approaching from the inner side of the fortifications; while the Tyroshi archers hurriedly attempted to wheel the frames of their overgrown bolt-throwers, dragonfire had already overtaken them. Volleys were loosed at them, to be sure, and judging by the angry roar of Meleys, someone had even managed a hit, yet it scarce hindered the dragons. Daemon turned in his saddle and saw the Red Queen, boldly perched upon one of the towers, enthusiastically rending the defenders, an arrow lodged in the scales of her chest troubling her not a whit.
Soon they achieved their aim, and the city found itself within a ring of flame: the wall burned from end to end, and every tower became a bonfire. Watching the tongues of fire leap skyward from the limestone walls—walls that had nearly become his walls—Daemon thought absently that the upper tier would have to be dismantled to remove the melted and disfigured blocks and rebuilt. Harrenhal in the heart of the continent might afford to look like weeping candles, but here, such ruin would surely be exploited.
However, only the upper tier of the walls, their open galleries, and towers burned; all five gates still held. While he and Caraxes dashed above, torching everything that might yet pose a threat, Aegon landed Vermithor before one of the gate towers. The Bronze Fury (Vermithor), baring his teeth and arching his neck, exhaled a stream of bright golden flame directly into the leaves of the gate. Daemon followed his brother's example. Beneath the heat of dragonfire, the metal ran in puddles upon the ground, and the wood beneath it turned to charcoal and ash; the resulting breach looked like a true gateway to the Seventh Hell or a road into the maw of one of the Fourteen Flames.
When the remaining gates shared the fate of the first two, the dragons took to the sky once more to allow that which could burn to consume itself in peace. That night, Daemon could not close his eyes; to exhaust himself with night training on the eve of battle made little sense. He had decided to try another proven method, but Aegon interrupted him.
"Do you know the instructive tale of Monfryd and Durran Durrandon?" his brother inquired in a courtly tone from the threshold of the tent.
"Which of the Durrans?" Daemon clarified. "There were more of them than even the Garths, mayhaps."
Aegon chuckled and, finally entering, made himself at home upon one of the chairs. Tucking a cushion behind his back, he adopted his most Maester-like tone:
"One must begin with Monfryd Durrandon, the first of his name; he ruled even before the Andal invasion. Monfryd was styled 'the Mighty' for having surpassed his father: under him, the Storm Kings extended their power north of the Blackwater. He crushed the kingdoms of the Darklyns and the Mootons, began to collect duties from their ports, wed them to his daughters—in a word, he became the master of those lands. When he died, the throne was inherited by his only son, Durran, the eleventh of his name. Unlike Monfryd, he was a laggard, a spendthrift, a poor judge of men, and if he took to affairs, he spoiled more than he mended. Sensing the weakness of their distant liege, Maidenpool rebelled, and Duskendale followed. Durran set forth with an army to punish the defiant vassals. He reached the Blackwater in the evening and commanded a camp be struck, intending to cross to the other shore by morning. All night the King drank—surely out of a sense of injustice—and when the sun rose and they began to ferry him across the river, he leaned over the side to void his stomach, lost his footing, and fell into the water."
"And was he not saved?" Daemon inquired; truly, his brother would have made a fine Maester—one was not bored listening to him.
"In the Blackwater, even without armor, 'tis hard to swim," the other shrugged and, raising an index finger toward the ceiling, concluded sententiously. "And the moral of the tale is thus: a commander ought not drink during war."
"I was not so eager as all that," Daemon grunted.
The brothers exchanged glances and burst into laughter. Having laughed his fill, Aegon wiped a stray tear and spoke:
"I see that I have nearly persuaded you."
"It counts not."
"Then pour for me as well."
Dornish wine gurgled from the flagon into the cups.
"To Tyrosh?"
"May its walls fall."
"So you too cannot sleep?" the Hand asked, setting aside the lightened cup.
"As always: I think," Aegon grimaced. "Mayhaps in vain. Have you already devised what you shall write to Viserys when the city falls?"
"And what is there to write? The city shall surrender if not tomorrow, then the day after. We have almost won."
"That counts not," his brother returned the barb. "But I speak of another matter. If you present Tyrosh to Viserys, along with his Essosi domains and the Stepstones to boot, you shall have no enemies."
"Save for the babe-nephew, his whore-mother, and the scoundrel-grandfather. Do you truly believe, valonqar (younger brother), that they will now simply hand the Iron Throne to me? The Hightowers will not lose what is theirs. Your theory of succession is fine, but Otto is a man of law as well, and he will find a way to dispute it. He can do so, can he not?"
"He can, but..."
"But that means I must needs have something to set against him; let deeds speak louder than laws. Even now that I have become Hand, I am still accused of being a cruel tyrant. I wish to prove that I shall be a just King, capable of ruling wisely."
"You have Dragonstone for that," Aegon reminded him, taking another sip from his cup.
Daemon laughed hoarsely:
"Dragonstone? Which can be taken from me at any moment? I need my own land, valonqar, my own kingdom, of which no one shall deprive me." My own kingdom, strong enough to stand alone, to depend on no one, he added to himself.
Aegon measured him with a long gaze. In the light of numerous candles, his green eyes seemed especially bright and piercing. Daemon felt his brother might guess what he was counting on, yet his face remained imperturbable. Setting his cup on the table by the flagon, the younger Prince thoughtfully picked up the end of the broad belt wrapped around his tunic and began to systematically fold and smooth it. The Hand knew him well enough to recognize deep thought in this unconscious occupation.
"Suppose you proclaim these lands your own by right of conquest," he finally said. "You have the strength and wealth to buy supporters, and the charisma to hold them. But what shall you do when Viserys demands an answer?"
"The same as ever: I shall bend the knee and recognize him as my liege."
"I do not think that accords with the degree of independence you so crave."
He had guessed after all. Well, it was not only Daemon who knew his brother well.
"I shall ask him for Rhaenyra's hand. He promised us both that we should enter a marriage of our own choosing. I shall ask for no other dowry save that which will already be mine."
"And if he should be against it?"
"Then let him try to take it away," Daemon snapped, leaning back.
"Does it not seem to you that all of this is very like Maegor?"
Vexation and irritation spread through his chest. As he had feared, support from Aegon was not to be expected. The Maester-lawyer within him knew the line of defense he had built for Daemon's right to the throne was unreliable, and now he was ready to surrender it without a fight. All the better that he had refused the offer to take Tyrosh for himself; otherwise, Daemon himself would have been left without land and without a reliable shoulder at the deciding moment.
"I understand why you strive for this," his brother added in an unexpectedly calm tone.
"To obtain what is mine."
"Precisely. Only, one cannot strike a bird in flight without loosing an arrow. One cannot have all: Tyrosh, Rhaenyra, and the Iron Throne to boot."
"I shall try, and, by Balerion, so it shall be," Daemon said stubbornly, deciding to give his brother one more chance. "Are you with me?"
Aegon, clearly not expecting the conversation to take such a turn, blinked in bewilderment; naturally, the meaning of what was said reached him at once, but the fact that he gave no immediate answer spoke louder than all his former words. It was all clear. Daemon chuckled mirthlessly and, reaching for the wine again, asked almost indifferently:
"So, how many dragons am I to expect in the sky tomorrow?"
"As many as today," his brother answered. "I am no deserter, lekia (brother)."
. . . . . .
Contrary to the apprehensions of many, the Tyroshmen chose not to sally forth under the cover of night through the shattered gates. Perchance the conflagrations hindered them, or mayhaps 'twas their own cowardice and the sight of dragons treading the sky in ceaseless rotation. Cousin Rhaenys appeared surly and wan from lack of sleep when she yielded the watch to Aegon, yet at the least she kept her displeasure to herself; his brother mounted his dragon without protest or display, as he had promised the eve before, and in all ways bore himself as though naught had occurred.
As the sun finally broke from the horizon, Daemon, clad in his Valyrian steel plate, brandished Dark Sister. In that selfsame instant, horns brayed, drums thundered, and his host, with Ser Elston Tully at their head, marched into Tyrosh. Between the outer wall and the Black Boundary—behind which the Magisters and their Archon had closeted themselves like anchorites in a cell—lay some three miles as the crow flies. From each gatehouse, five of the city's principal thoroughfares led straight to the solitary passage through the inner walls, roads so broad that Vermithor might have comfortably traversed them on foot. How simple the Valyrians had made all things—straight roads, rather than the twisted alleys and crooked gables one found in King's Landing or Oldtown. And yet, those three miles had to be overcome, the city brought under total dominion, and all with minimal support from above: Daemon had no desire to consign the residential districts to the flames.
The dragons took to the sky, and it proved that the mere sight of them sufficed for the remnants of the mercenary host to yield to those marching beneath the dragon banners. To be sure, from above it was plain that in scattered places folly or hatred had triumphed over the fear of death, and the Westerosi were forced to give battle, yet even there the resistance did not tarry long. Meleys nested upon the summit of the Red Tower in the harbor; Vermithor sat like a king upon a throne atop one of the gatehouses; and Seasmoke surveyed all from the firmament. When the sun reached its zenith, each of the five key streets was under their control, and upon the square before the Black Boundary, five black standards were raised, upon which the red three-headed dragon coiled into a ring. The square was of a size just sufficient to land a dragon.
Caraxes settled upon the stone flags with a playful clucking, raising a cloud of dust with his wings and nearly sweeping the banners aside—the Blood Wyrm was in a rare humor, and Daemon took it as a fair omen. The dragon's confidence flowed into his rider, who dismounted the saddle feeling as though Balerion himself stood at his side.
Keeping his hand upon the hilt of Dark Sister, Daemon stepped into the first line of knights, standing slightly in the van. Some of them had stood there for an hour or more, yet the enemy had not even thought to loose a bolt at them! Jerrel and Sam immediately slipped through the ranks and froze beside him like two shadows; both were lathered in sweat and slightly tattered, yet appeared whole. On his other side, the Cargylls rose up at once in their white cloaks.
"Well? How fares the day?" the Prince inquired lazily.
As ever, Bracken was the first to answer:
"The Lower City is ours, my Prince! Nigh without loss!"
"The last embers of resistance are being extinguished even now, my Prince," there was more gravity in Blackwood, and he saw the broader tapestry more clearly. "Alas, Ser Elston has fallen."
The buoyant mood was instantly eclipsed.
"How came this to be?"
"A crossbowman loosed from a balcony, and Ser Elston rode with his visor up."
There was yet more proof of Tyroshi treachery. This nest would require a long cleansing before he could ride through the city from end to end upon a horse rather than a dragon. Elston was a loss, to be sure... A worthy heir to Lord Grover he had been, a paragon of knighthood, unlike his father.
"And Elmo?"
"He is hither, my Prince."
"Bring him to me."
Fortunately, Elmo took after his father and not his grandsire. He had followed his father and uncles as a squire, yet he would return to Riverrun a knight of renown, the heir to a Great Lord, and fabulously wealthy to boot—especially by the standards of such a backwater. And he was but seventeen namedays!
"My Lord Prince," the lad appeared.
"Ser Elmo," Daemon nodded politely—it was necessary now to show respect to the dead and their heirs alike. "I offer my condolences for your bereavement. Ser Elston was a true model of chivalry and would have been the greatest of the Lords of the Riverlands. I ever heeded his counsel—he wasted no words, and thus their value grew. Alas, the Stranger knocks at every door..."
"I thank you, my Prince," Tully answered with genuine sincerity; his eyes were reddened, and his face was grey. Viserys had looked just as impossible to behold after Aemma's passing.
"Stay close, Ser Elmo. I feel that all shall be decided shortly."
The boy merely nodded and withdrew a few paces; Blackwood edged him aside with a faint sense of satisfaction. A vain peacock, that one, not a raven!
Scarce had they finished speaking when the solitary gate in the Black Boundary began to open; the mechanism groaned with a thunderous clatter, parting the enormous bronze valves—nigh as large as those of the Dragonpit—and Daemon thought fleetingly that they might not have been mended since the Doom. The gates had opened but a narrow slit when figures hurried through.
Onto the square spilled a disordered throng of Tyroshi Magisters, with the Archon at their head. Clad in velvet, silk, satin, and brocade, with hair dyed so garishly they resembled the songbirds of the Summer Isles found in Lysene brothels, their very appearance provoked a surge of nausea and giddiness—so violently did their brightness assault the eyes. The distance of several hundred yards from the laboriously creaking gates to Daemon was covered by the Tyroshmen with startling haste. Finally, drawing near him, a bald man of middle years with a thick blue mustache and a green beard—evidently the Archon—bent himself exactly in half before the Prince, and his companions followed suit.
"The Free City of Tyrosh greets the most illustrious and most puissant Prince Daemon Targaryen!" the Archon proclaimed, without unbending.
"Straighten yourself, my good man," Daemon cast out lazily. "I am not in the habit of addressing a man's lumbar."
The Archon instantly assumed a vertical posture, allowing all to see his reddened face and a fawning smile.
"I am the Archon of Tyrosh, Ollo Tumitis. I bring to your most puissant Highness the deepest regrets for those atrocities and treacherous dishonors wrought by my predecessor upon your Highness, your most noble brothers, the glorious King Viserys the Second and Prince Aegon, and indeed all the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. For those crimes..."
"And how long is it since you attained the seat of your predecessor?" the Prince interrupted.
"Since this morning," the man answered without blinking an eye. Well, 'twas only to be expected.
"I trust you divine what it is I desire?"
"Of a certainty. Tyrosh capitulates and stands ready to pay your Highness any indemnity in gold, silver, jewels, and thralls."
There it was—the moment.
"Your terms interest me not, Master Ollo. We shall proceed thus: I shall name the conditions for the cessation of hostilities, and then you shall submit to them."
"As your Highness commands," the almost-former Archon bowed submissively.
"First. You surrender to me the city with all its inhabitants, riches, and domains in the Stepstones and Essos, in their entirety, without exception, condition, or reservation. Second. The rule of the Archon, the Council of Magisters, and the institution of slavery in all Tyroshi domains are hereby abolished, now and forevermore. Third. You shall swear fealty to me as your immediate liege and protector, and to all my descendants. Do you understand the nature of homage? Then upon your knees, the lot of you."
And the garish herd obediently thudded onto the stone flags, into the dust of the street.
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