Dragonfire, in its ordinary form, was terror enough. Yet compared to the flame that poured from Tyraxes's jaws, common fire seemed almost merciful. His blood-flame behaved like some volatile fusion of liquid and burning gas, clinging to the world with a malign will of its own.
At first glance it resembled dragonfire merely tinted redder, richer, as though steeped in fresh blood. But the moment it touched flesh, its true nature unfolded.
Where normal dragonfire burned a man to charcoal in an instant, death swift, brutal, and absolute, the blood-flame denied such release.
It did not kill at once. It clung.
It crawled over skin and armor, seeping into crevices, burrowing beneath plates of metal and the layers of a man's garments. It burned and consumed, yet refused to finish its work, as though savoring each heartbeat of agony it inflicted.
Those struck by it writhed uncontrollably, limbs snapping and jerking in desperation, their contortions grotesque and frantic. Their flailing resembled some madman's dance, an obscene pantomime, a terrible beauty rendered in the palette of pain.
The heat was so vicious it blackened the Tyroshi flesh into crisped husks. The flames shriveled their eyes into hollow pits, the moisture in their blood boiling away before it could escape. Each burst of vapor fed the fire that devoured them, intensifying it, deepening the crimson glow around their dying bodies.
Men rolled across the deck in panic, hoping to smother the flames, but every motion only smeared more blood-fire across the planks. The warship became a churning crimson inferno, as though the ship itself bled flame.
Some leapt overboard, screaming, hoping the sea might quench the torment.
But the blood-flame burned beneath the waves.
The moment water touched it, the pain redoubled, the sting of cold crashing against searing heat, driving fresh shrieks from throats already flayed raw.
"Ahhhh! Gods, it hurts! I'm burning alive!"
"Mercy! Mercy! Take everything-just save me!"
Driven to madness, Tyroshi sailors clawed at their own burning flesh. Charred strips tore free beneath their fingernails, slapping wetly against the deck before crumbling to ash. The blood trapped within their ruined bodies boiled, then burst into vapor. Scalding steam rolled into the lower cabins, cooking alive the men who had hidden there, believing themselves safe behind wood and iron.
"Seven save us… why is Tyraxes's fire... why is it like that…"
From atop Seasmoke's back, Laenor Velaryon felt a chill run through him, stark and sudden.
Only now did he understand why his cousin never unleashed dragonfire on them during their sparring bouts. If that scarlet flame ever so much as brushed him, the pain alone would shatter him. He doubted even the strongest knight in Westeros could endure its kiss.
The Tyroshi patrol fleet had sailed with three warships and several longboats. One warship and most of the longboats now floated as charred wreckage, victims of Tyraxes's first pass. Another vessel had been split apart by Laenor and Seasmoke, torn nearly in two under dragon claws and sea-spray. The final warship, seeing both dragons wheeling above, had raised the flag of surrender in blind terror.
A thunderous roar shook the morning air.
At Baelon's signal, Tyraxes descended upon the surrendering ship, alighting atop the mainmast in a storm of wingbeats. Under the dragon's shadow, the Tyroshi sailors, already broken by the sight of their burning comrades, collapsed to their knees. Their weapons clattered across the deck. Not one dared lift his eyes toward the blood-red wyrm.
They would accept anything, chains, drowning, a headsman's stroke, anything but the blood-flame.
Their captain was the same bearded man in purple robes who had tried earlier to parley.
"Spare us! We surrender! We surrender everything!" he cried, dropping so quickly to his knees he nearly slid across the blood-slick deck.
His hair and beard were dyed Tyroshi blue, but the pale roots showed plainly. Valyrian features sharpened beneath the dye. Only one ship remained to him now. The rest lay smoldering at the bottom of the sea.
When Baelon's own fleet drew alongside, sailors hauled the Tyroshi captain aboard and dragged him before the young prince.
At Baelon's side stood Brayden, the Black-Heart Knight, his dark armor gleaming with sea-spray. His voice carried across the deck like a tolling bell.
"Bow low, foolish Tyroshi. You stand before the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord of the White Hart, the Morning Prince, Lord of Harrenhal, and Creator of the Eight Knights- Prince Baelon Targaryen."
The captured captain dared lift his eyes.
Baelon looked scarcely older than a boy, but the presence around him pressed heavy on the air, like the sky before a storm breaks. And as the Tyroshi stared, Tyraxes shifted atop the mast behind the prince. From the man's angle, Baelon's body obscured the dragon, save for the immense wings framing him like the heraldry of some ancient god-king.
"Dragon-king…" the Tyroshi whispered, voice cracking. "The great Dragon-king…"
His pupils shrank. His legs folded. He fell prostrate, forehead striking the deck.
In halting High Valyrian he stammered, "Mercy, great Dragon-king… mercy…"
Baelon tilted his head, curiosity glinting. "Oh? You speak High Valyrian?"
Most Tyroshi knew a creole descended from Valyrian, but true High Valyrian often eluded them more than it did Summer Islanders or Braavosi. The man swallowed and tried again, switching back and forth between tongues.
"A little, great Dragon-king. My… my family descends from a minor branch of the Freehold's nobility. Some books survived the Doom."
Words came spilling then, tumbling from him in plain Tyroshi. His name was Equis, born in Tyrosh proper, now serving as Admiral of their modest fleet.
"Equis," Baelon repeated thoughtfully. "Tell me, are you wealthy? No. A better question, do you have children?"
The bearded Tyroshi misread the intent at once, assuming the prince meant to ransom him.
"M-my lord, my family is not the richest, but we can raise a proper ransom-"
"No." Baelon waved a hand. "Answer the question. Bastards count."
Equis licked his lips, throat bobbing.
"Great Dragon-king… I married only a few years past. My wife bore me a son. As for… bastards…" He flushed with shame. "The Pleasure Gardens discourage such things. I have none."
"Good."
Baelon pushed himself to his feet, slapping the arm of the chair he had taken for the parley.
"Equis, I have an opportunity for you, a fortune beyond imagining. But it demands a price. Are you willing?"
Without awaiting an answer, he began to speak, calmly, almost conversationally.
After this strike, Baelon explained, the Prince of Tyrosh and most of their nobility would need to die. But he could not claim Tyrosh openly; doing so would unite every Free City against House Targaryen. What he required was a puppet, someone raised by Tyroshi law, acceptable enough to avoid suspicion.
Equis, first nobleman to fall into his hands, fit the role perfectly.
Tyrosh's elections were famously easy to sway. Threats, bribes, secret murders, none of it unusual. With the right pressure, Baelon could have Equis elected Prince of Tyrosh with little resistance.
Shock and incredulous joy washed over the bearded man's face. He had set out on a simple patrol, and stumbled into a destiny beyond his wildest imaginings.
"Of course," Baelon added lightly, "I will need to ensure your loyalty."
Equis nodded so vigorously his blue-dyed curls flopped over his brow. If the price of power was servitude, he would pay it without hesitation.
"Excellent." Baelon reached out and clapped him on the shoulder. "Men, take Equis below and castrate him. When it's done, send his only son to Harrenhal. The boy will serve as my page."
The prince turned away, brushing his hands together, as if the matter were settled beyond question.
The Tyroshi captain's breath hitched.
"W-what…?" he whispered.
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A/N:The war begins here. If you think you know what comes next, you don't. BUT It's already waiting in the chapters ahead.
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