The sea breeze swept through the harbor of Tyrosh, sending ripples across the azure water. On such a crisp morning, the docks should have been a cacophony of merchants and sailors. Instead, an unnatural silence blanketed the shoreline, thick with the metallic tang of impending slaughter.
Just offshore, two immense armadas faced each other. The combined naval might of Tyrosh and the Westerosi Narrow Sea Fleet stared down the encroaching Myrish armada across the swelling tide.
Banners snapped wildly in the wind. The purple Trios of Tyrosh, the silver three-headed dragon on black, the traditional red three-headed dragon on black, and the Myrish flag bearing their famed far-eyes all danced above the water. The Myrish had deployed forty of their finest warships, their decks bristling with the sellswords of the Golden Company. Myr prided itself on its peerless artisans and advanced industry, but in a direct naval clash, they lacked Tyrosh's raw martial weight, relying heavily on hired steel to tip the scales.
Tyrosh held the absolute high ground. Their internal rot had been cauterized, and they now boasted the backing of the Iron Throne's fleet and live dragons. Stripped of Magister Dario's sabotage from within, the invading Myrish fleet found its fangs severely dulled.
High above, piercing shrieks echoed through the clouds. Three dragons circled and glided, their roars answering the creaking timber and shouting captains far below. They swooped low over the waters near the harbor, their scales catching the morning sun like thousands of forged coins.
The daylight laid the beasts bare: their jagged maws, serpentine necks, and the stark contrast of their horns and wing bones against their glittering scales. The thunder of their beating wings rolled across the sky, and their roars possessed the weight to scatter a hundred lions. They were the world's last magnificent leviathans. The silver and gold of the Silver Emperor, the purple and bronze of the second beast, and the black and red of the third—reminiscent of Balerion the Black Dread—all radiated an ancient, primal fury.
Rhaegar guided the Silver Emperor into a high glide. The wind whipped his silver hair around his black scale armor. His leather-gloved fingers rested on the hilt of Orphan-Maker at his hip. He had stowed the Shadowblade, the recurve dragonglass longbow, the True Dragon Spear, and his other artifacts inside the Dragonlord's Ring. Today, he wanted to feel the weight of his newest prize. A greatsword carried unmatched momentum, but nothing rivaled the fluid control of a bastard sword. Spears, bows, axes, and hammers populated every battlefield in the world, but every prince and lord hungered for Valyrian steel. If Tywin Lannister could see this blade, his eyes would bleed with envy.
Looking down at the fluttering banners, Rhaegar noted the sheer wealth the Myrish magisters had burned to hire the Golden Company. They were the most expensive and massive sellsword brotherhood in the world, and a lingering nightmare for Tyrosh. Decades ago, Alequo Adarys the Silvertongue—one of the Ninepenny Kings—had seized the Tyroshi seat using the Golden Company's blades. Old grudges bled easily into new ones.
Atop the mast of the Myrish Admiral's flagship, spears adorned with gilded skulls pierced the sky. Rhaegar's sharp eyes traced the gruesome display. One skull was grotesquely massive; dangling just below it was another, no larger than a child's fist. These were the remains of Maelys the Monstrous and his absorbed, unnamed twin, both slain in the Stepstones. The other skulls bore the marks of violent ends: one caved in by a warhammer, another boasting filed, pointed teeth. These were the former Captain-Generals of the Golden Company, their gilded eye sockets forever gazing west, yearning for a homeland they would never touch again.
"Do you thirst to make new orphans?" Rhaegar whispered, rolling the dark, rippling hilt of his new sword in his palm.
Along the Tyroshi docks, a fresh row of spikes had been erected. Magister Dario's charred head sat at the center, flanked by his guards, the traitorous priests of the Trios, Myrish agents, and Meereenese pit fighters. The gruesome display served as a raw, bleeding reminder of the previous night's purge.
"Brothers of Tyrosh! The Myrish fleet comes to enslave our beautiful mother city, dragging the Golden Company to our shores!" Shireen Dary stood high above the docks, the rising sun catching the links of her tailored chainmail. She pointed a gauntleted hand at Dario's severed head. "This is our hour of peril. We must stand united. I can forgive past grievances, but anyone who colludes with foreign invaders will share this fate!"
Below her, Tyroshi mercenaries, the Archon's personal guards, temple slave-soldiers, and a hastily assembled civilian militia stood in tight formation, their weapons raised in a roaring salute.
Dario's treason was absolute, his faction dismantled, and House Dary's grip on the city had solidified into iron. Rhaegar watched the Acting Archon work the crowd. He doubted she would offer any true pardons once the dust settled, but the Myrish had arrived too quickly. The purges would resume later. She was young, but she breathed politics like air.
"The Trios guides our path! Destroy the invaders!" the High Priest bellowed, raising his arms to offer a blessing.
The crowd erupted. "Death to the invaders! Death to the Golden Company! Death to the traitors!"
The roars from the harbor drifted across the water, reaching the ears of the Myrish sailors. Aboard his flagship, the Myrish Admiral gripped the railing, his knuckles turning white. The dragons alone were a nightmare, but seeing the Tyroshi unified under a new Archon twisted the knife. Magister Dario had promised an easy coup. Lys and Myr had poured mountains of gold and sellswords into his pockets. Overnight, Dario had burned, taking their gold and inside advantage with him.
"What do we do?" the Admiral's vice-commander asked, his throat bobbing.
The Admiral swallowed hard. The Tyroshi Archon lived, his daughter and the High Priest held the city, and the Targaryen dragons had returned. A suffocating weight pressed down on his chest. Defeat loomed like a tidal wave. He led the war faction in Myr's Magisterial council; his family ran the slave caravans and controlled the Narrow Sea lanes. If he retreated now, his political rivals would strip his flesh from his bones. The Free Cities relied on mercenaries for land wars, but their navies were their true strength, and he was standing on the precipice of losing Myr's entire armada.
"Should we attack, my lord?" the vice-admiral pressed, his voice strained. Caught between a rock and a hard place, perhaps a desperate, suicidal charge was their only option.
"Attack? Tyrosh can field at least fifty warships, plus the Narrow Sea Fleet from Westeros, plus three dragons! We are walking corpses!" the Admiral snapped, his composure fracturing.
"This does not void our contract," the Captain-General of the Golden Company stated from the quarterdeck, his voice devoid of sympathy. "We took your gold, and we do not issue refunds. If you choose not to fight, that is your decision. Beneath the gold, the bitter steel remains."
The Myrish Admiral flinched, the words twisting the blade in his gut. My gold! Only after desperate, heated persuasion had the Captain-General agreed to keep his men on the ships until a diplomatic resolution could be reached.
The Silver Emperor descended, its talons striking the deck of Lord Corlys Velaryon's flagship. Rhaegar remained in the saddle. "Sound the drums. Advance on the Myrish line." He watched the enemy formation closely; perhaps a display of fire would break their spirit before a single boarding plank dropped.
"At once, my Prince!" Lord Corlys Velaryon commanded. The Narrow Sea Fleet surged forward, cutting through the waves toward the Myrish ships.
Seeing the Westerosi fleet move, the Tyroshi Admiral gritted his teeth and signaled his own galleys to advance. The two fleets thrust forward like the horns of a bull, forming a massive crescent to envelop the Myrish line. High above, the three dragons took flight once more.
They began to circle directly over the Myrish warships, spiraling downward, their roars vibrating through the wooden hulls. Ten thousand eyes on the Myrish decks stared up into the sky, watching the winged shadows pass over the sun.
Sweat cut tracks down the Myrish Admiral's face. He knew exactly what this circling meant. Dragons preferred to dive from high altitudes. Once they positioned themselves between their prey and the sun, they would tuck their wings, shriek, and plummet, unleashing a torrent of melting fire.
He clutched a missive from Lord Corlys Velaryon. The parchment seemed to burn his fingers. "Westeros has awakened and charts its own course. We hope the Myrish will open their eyes and see the world as it is today. Years ago, you slaughtered a Velaryon in the Gullet. Since we can never truly repay that debt, let us settle the ledger on the waves."
"My lord, give the order! We brought down a dragon in the Gullet, we can do it today!" his lieutenants urged, drawing their swords. Every scorpion on the deck was cranked tight, aimed at the sky.
The Golden Company officers remained completely silent. They would not make tactical decisions for their employer.
The three dragons hovered menacingly over the sea just off the flagship's port bow, unleashing bursts of fire into the water and sending massive plumes of boiling steam over the decks. It was a naked provocation. To the Myrish officers, the steam felt like the heat of their own funeral pyres.
"Admiral, give the order to fire! That Targaryen whelp is humiliating us, and he is within range. If we kill him, their morale shatters!" a young vice-admiral yelled, unable to stomach the sheer impotence of waiting. The largest dragon was barely a hundred yards away. A volley of scorpion bolts and grappling hooks could reach it.
"Have those three dragons taken a single wound? Has the Targaryen prince?" the Admiral countered, his voice trembling. "If you enrage the dragons without killing them instantly, this entire fleet burns." His mind flashed to historical accounts of naval infernos: warships turning to floating ovens, sailors boiling alive in their armor, the sea turning black with ash.
"Raise the white flag. Surrender," the Admiral ordered, his voice dropping to a harsh rasp.
"My lord, we have brought down dragons before! We killed the heir to the Iron Throne! We triumphed in the Gullet! The enemy is offering us a chance!" the vice-admiral pleaded.
"He is right, Admiral," another captain spat, gesturing wildly at the sky. "The Westerosi boy is right there. One bolt from a heavy scorpion ends him. Even if we burn, I will drag him into the hells with us. Kneeling now is nothing but cowardice born of dragon-fright."
"If the Battle of the Gullet was a victory, I pray we never win again," the Admiral said, staring dead-eyed at his mutinous officers. "Call me a coward if you must. Myr bled too much fighting dragons last time. Look around you. Our ambush failed. We are encircled. We have no element of surprise. Forty ships against all of Tyrosh, Westeros, and three dragons? I am willing to die to prove my courage, but I will not drag these green boys and sailors into the watery abyss with me. If the council wants a scapegoat, let them hang me. I led them out of Myr, and I will lead them home."
In that fleeting moment, the defeated Admiral stood as tall as a giant.