Tyrosh was isolated. It had lost the Disputed Lands and its vassal towns; it was now merely a giant, besieged city.
Years ago, the most brutal naval battle in history had been the Battle of the Gullet, where the Triarchy lost most of its ninety warships to dragonfire. Today's war was not as savage, but it would decide the fate of Tyrosh just the same.
The battle raged along the coast. The few stubborn Tyroshi ships that hadn't surrendered were being hunted down and destroyed. One by one, the banners of the Three-Headed God fell into the sea, leaving only the roaring wolf of the Wolf Pack to dominate the waves.
*Bang! Bang!*
From the walls of Tyrosh, three trebuchet arms swung up, hurling hundreds of stones into the red sky. Each rock was as large as a man's head. They crashed down, smashing oak decks and crushing men into paste, or splashing harmlessly into the churned water.
But the bombardment didn't last. Inside the city, slaves had risen up, overthrowing the crews and turning the machines or destroying them.
"Kill!"
"Death to the slavers!"
The dock slaves, who did the hardest labor for the least reward, took up arms to welcome the invaders. Tyrosh was like a ripe fruit thrown to the ground—bursting open, its juice spilling everywhere.
Gendry landed on Tyroshi soil, clad in heavy armor, his warhammer in one hand and his curved blade in the other.
"Charge!" Ser Jorah shouted, following close behind his commander.
For a moment, Jorah felt young again, dazzling and brave. It reminded him of the siege of Pyke, where he had been the second man through the breach and won his knighthood.
The cavalry kicked up dust as they clashed with a group of brightly dressed Tyroshi mercenaries.
"Die, boy!" The mercenary leader was a lithe man in flamboyant clothes, his mouth full of gold teeth. He wielded two swords with hilts shaped like the Three-Headed God, moving with the speed of a storm.
The mercenary's sword rang against Gendry's black scale armor.
*Thud!*
Gendry's warhammer swung with terrifying force, smashing the man's head like a rotten watermelon. The Tyroshi hero dropped to the ground, twitching like a dying fish.
"Why don't you wear a helmet?" Gendry muttered, stepping over the body. His knights surged past him like a flood, overwhelming the remaining mercenaries.
Ser Jorah fought like a bear, carving a bloody path with his longsword. Though older and balding, he was still a force of nature.
Bolts from the city walls hissed through the air, but the range was too great; they skittered harmlessly across the ground.
Soldiers poured into the city, filling the streets with the clamor of war.
"Lay down your weapons!" Gendry's knights formed a wedge, smashing through anyone foolish enough to resist.
Gendry ignored the famous Bleeding Tower and the Fountain of the Drunken God. His eyes were on the prize. The city was blooming with chaos from the inside out—angry slaves were seizing weapons and throwing open the gates.
The die-hard slavers and nobles had retreated to the inner city, the Black City, to make their final stand.
*Tyrosh really does breed a lot of sellswords,* Gendry thought. The city was crawling with them—men who had fled the Disputed Lands or arrived from Lys, bitter and looking for a fight.
But the screams of the slaves drowned them out.
Gendry established his command post near the Fountain of the Drunken God.
"Commander, the outer city and the docks are ours," Ser Jorah reported, bringing a massive red-bearded man with him. "Only the inner city remains."
The big man knelt, smelling of blood and sweat.
"What is your name?" Gendry asked. Though the man had dyed his beard red in the Tyroshi style, he had the look of the North about him.
"Raymon," the man rumbled. "They call me Wildling. I was born beyond the Wall, sold to Tyrosh as a boy. I was a guard, a trainer, a pit fighter... until I bought my freedom. I have never forgotten what the slavers took from me."
"The Tyroshi stole your freedom," Gendry said, helping him up. "The gods, old and new, despise them for it."
"Keep your people in check," Gendry added sternly. "I don't want a massacre. If we butcher them all, we are no better than the slavers."
"Yes, Commander," Raymon said.
"Where are the Archon and the High Priest?" Gendry asked Jorah.
"Hiding in the Black City," Jorah replied.
"Maintain order," Gendry ordered. "Secure the banks, the warehouses, the shops. Use our own men; I don't trust those who surrendered."
"And Aquido?"
"Imprisoned by the Archon," Jorah said. "He told them you wouldn't attack so soon. They didn't take it well."
*I hope he's still alive,* Gendry thought.
"What about the Black City?" Jorah asked, looking toward the massive inner walls of fused black stone. They rose two hundred feet high, an elliptical fortress that would be hell to storm.
"Besiege it," Gendry decided. "Cut off their food and water. Bring up the captured trebuchets."
"Yes, sir."
"Clear out the remaining strongholds in the outer city," Gendry said. "And now... we wait for news from Myr."
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