Tyrosh had been reduced to an island in a sea of its own blood. Stripped of its holdings in the Disputed Lands, the mercantile giant was little more than a gilded cage.
Generations ago, the Narrow Sea had boiled during the Battle of the Gullet, when the Triarchy's fleets clashed with the dragons of the Black Queen. While no dragons shadowed the skies today, the waters off the Tyroshi coast were just as choked with splintered timber and sinking men. The banners of the Three-Headed God slipped beneath the waves, leaving only the roaring wolf to snap in the gale.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
On the seawall, three massive trebuchet arms snapped upward, hurling boulders the size of draft horses into the grey sky. The stones plunged into the surf, shattering Myrish decks and reducing men to pulp and splinters. But the bombardment was short-lived. Along the docks, the enslaved winch-turners and loaders turned their tools into weapons, bludgeoning their overseers and setting torches to the siege engines.
"Kill the masters!" The chant rose from the harbor, a ragged chorus of the damned welcoming the Wolf Pack ashore. Tyrosh was splitting open like overripe fruit dropped on cobblestones.
With the outer gates forced by the rioting slaves, Gendry stepped onto the stone piers. He wore heavy black scale armor, the Valyrian arakh sheathed at his hip, and his massive warhammer gripped in both hands.
"Form the wedge!" Ser Jorah Mormont roared, his sword already drawn. He fell in step beside Gendry, his heavy boots pounding the Tyroshi stone.
For a fleeting moment, the ash and salt in the air transported Jorah back to the siege of Pyke. He was young again, second through the breach, feeling the heavy slap of King Robert's hand on his shoulder as he was elevated to knighthood. The memory tasted of iron and glory—uncorrupted by the sweet perfumes of the Hightower woman who would later reduce his honor to ashes.
A company of Tyroshi sellswords, locked out of the Inner City by their own fleeing masters, turned to face the landing party. They were a riot of color, their armor ornate and their hair dyed in vibrant pinks and greens.
"Die, you Northern dog!" the sellsword captain spat. He was a lithe, smooth-faced killer with a mouth full of gold teeth, wielding twin bravos' swords topped with the three-faced pommels of Trios.
He moved like water, his blades becoming a blur of singing steel. One of the swords bypassed Gendry's guard, striking his black scale armor with a sharp clack, leaving a deep silver scratch but failing to pierce the iron beneath.
Gendry did not break stride. He pivoted, driving the head of his warhammer in a brutal, upward arc. The heavy iron connected with a sickening crunch, obliterating the captain's skull and sending a spray of bone and dyed hair across the cobblestones. The sellsword crumpled, his dual blades clattering uselessly to the ground.
"All that gold in his mouth," Gendry muttered, stepping over the twitching corpse, "and he wouldn't buy a helm."
Behind him, the Wolf Pack cavalry hit the remaining sellswords like a tidal wave, trampling the flamboyant defenders under armored hooves. Jorah fought like a bear roused from winter, his broadsword clearing a path of ruin. Crossbow bolts hissed from the balconies above, but the archers were panicked, their quarrels shattering harmlessly against the street.
The Wolf Pack and the Free Army flooded the labyrinthine alleys. Gendry's knights drove forward in tight formations, crushing any pocket of resistance.
They pushed past the shadow of the Bleeding Tower, halting only when they reached the Fountain of the Drunken God. The plaza was wide and defensible, though the marble waters were already running pink. The outer city was a cacophony of slaughter as the freed slaves tore into the remaining garrisons.
"The docks and the outer districts are ours, Commander," Jorah reported, wiping his blade clean on a Tyroshi banner. He gestured to a massive man flanked by Wolf Pack guards. "One of the rebel leaders requested an audience."
The man dropped to one knee, the cobblestones cracking under his weight. He was a giant, reeking of blood and sweat. Though his beard was dyed a vivid Tyroshi scarlet, the pale skin and broad, harsh features spoke of colder climates.
"Your name," Gendry commanded, leaning on the haft of his hammer.
"Raymun," the giant rumbled. "They call me 'the Wildling.' I was born Free Folk, far beyond your Wall. The painted ships came north and stole us from the snow. I bled in their fighting pits and guarded their manses until I won my own chains back. I have not forgotten what the masters owe me."
Gendry looked at the man. Tyroshi slavers were notoriously aggressive, sailing past the fringes of the known world to fill their pens.
"The Tyroshi took your freedom. The gods, old and new, will not judge you for taking it back," Gendry said, offering a gauntleted hand and pulling the massive Northman to his feet. "But you will control your people, Raymun. If this becomes a mindless butcher's yard, we are no better than the men who held the whips."
"It will be done, Commander," Raymun grunted, his eyes alight with a grim respect.
Gendry turned back to Jorah. "Where is the Archon? And the priests of Trios?"
"Sealed inside the Black City," Jorah replied, pointing toward the center of the island. "Along with the remnants of the nobility."
"Secure the banks, the warehouses, and the merchant vaults. Put our own men on the doors. I will not trust surrendered sellswords with the city's gold." Gendry paused, his brow furrowing. "And what of Magistrate Aquido?"
"Imprisoned by the Archon. He was thrown in the dungeons for suggesting we would strike so soon."
Gendry exhaled slowly. "Let us hope the Archon hasn't shortened him."
He looked up at the Inner City. The walls of fused black dragonstone rose two hundred feet into the air, smooth and seamless, mocking any thought of ladders or grappling hooks. To storm it directly would be to drown his army in their own blood.
"Ring the walls," Gendry ordered, his voice echoing off the ancient stone. "Cut off their water and burn their granaries. Bring the remaining trebuchets off the ships. We will starve them in their black cage... and pray that Myr holds while we wait."