Two dragons and two thousand men, such a host was nothing short of a deathblow to the trade-fat, war-starved people of Tyrosh.
The blood-red fire of Tyraxes swept across the scorpions mounted upon the city walls, melting iron and burnt wood into slag. The sellswords manning the battlements were taken so utterly unawares that their will to fight collapsed within minutes.
Under Cantrell's command, the forces from Claw Isle seized the harbor. From there the men scattered into smaller companies, each setting out to fulfil the tasks they had been given:
Killing. And looting.
They obeyed Prince Baelon's orders with ruthless precision, men and women, young and old. None were spared.
Wading through Tyroshi corpses, their boots slipping in blood, the soldiers from Harrenhal plundered with the ease of seasoned reavers, stripping wealth from every body they overturned.
For the Tyroshi, lovers of lush splendor and peacock finery, gold, silver, and jewels were indispensable marks of status. Many merchants wore enough glittering wealth on their persons to purchase several warships in Westeros.
Seasmoke, wounded and exhausted from the opening assault, could no longer descend to fight on the ground. Instead the dragon circled above in sweeping arcs as Laenor Velaryon sought out nobles and officials to burn from the sky.
The elite of Tyrosh were easy to discern, and "drenched in jewels" barely captured the truth. Even from far above, Laenor could spot them at a glance, their gaudy brilliance catching the sun like flares.
And so he guided Seasmoke through one precise execution after another.
Baelon, by contrast, killed without discrimination.
Tyraxes bathed street after street in sheets of red flame. Countless Tyroshi shrieked as they burned, their bodies collapsing in blackened heaps before the horrified eyes of those who had not yet fled.
The sight shattered the last remnants of courage in them. The survivors broke, screaming, racing for the gates, babbling of "a demon-dragon" or "the Red God's doomfire."
To them, this crimson flame was divine punishment, an omen of the world's end.
Seated atop Tyraxes, Baelon watched the thin, ant-like figures scatter into the countryside. He made no move to pursue. Dragonfire drained strength, and Tyraxes was not yet fully grown. For all the power he wielded, Baelon knew he was no god.
Tyraxes loosed a ragged roar as he descended upon the harbor. There Baelon's household guard awaited him, along with several knights who had refused to take part in the slaughter or the plundering, clinging stubbornly to their "knightly virtues."
"My prince," one young knight burst out, his face flushed with anger. "We came to wage war, not to behave like pirates. Slaughtering smallfolk, ransacking homes, this is no conduct befitting knights."
"Seven hells with your knighthood!" Baelon barked back at once. "Today, I am a pirate."
"You clutch your vows as though they shield you, but these Tyroshi are no knights. The Crabfeeder was no knight!"
"How many did he kill upon the Stepstones? A thousand? Two thousand? Were they not people? Tell me, were they not human?!"
The young knight fell silent. To him, the men who died on the Stepstones were distant, faceless. His mind held only the bright, naive image of "honor" won on a sunlit field.
"They were the pillars of their families, sons carried in their mothers' bellies for ten long months. Why should they die on foreign stones like cast-off beasts?"
"Who were they? Subjects of House Targaryen. To kill and torment them at will is an insult to our dynasty."
Baelon leaned forward in the saddle, voice roughened by smoke. "Let me speak plainly. Sacking Tyrosh is only the first stroke. Next comes Myr. Then Lys. I will drown their city-states in dragonfire. My soldiers will cut down every last one of their citizens until the world understands-"
"-that the dignity of House Targaryen, the dignity of the Dragonlords, cannot be challenged."
He held nothing back. To Baelon, war was war, and its sole purpose was victory.
And to win, he would employ every tool at hand.
This entire speech, he had crafted it long before he left Harrenhal.
He had expected the footmen and sellswords to obey without question. It was the young knights, sons of highborn houses, raised on songs of chivalry, who would falter at the brutal truth of real war.
So he forged this rhetoric of righteous vengeance, ready to unsheathe the moment a knight's conscience became troublesome.
The Crabfeeder had butchered the people of the Seven Kingdoms. The Triarchy had spilled Westerosi blood. Therefore this war, this sack, was just.
A crusade to avenge the dead.
Not, of course, a convenient means of filling Harrenhal's coffers.
"War is a filthy game," Baelon said coldly. "Either you learn to play upon the board… or you die nameless, clutching your prattling ideals."
"I will give you a choice. Strip off your armor. Drop your weapons. Gather every knight who shares your sentiments. Take any ship in this harbor and sail away. Wherever you go, I will not chase you. I will not punish you."
The young knight stared at him, stunned into silence.
Baelon turned away and beckoned to a nearby courier.
"Pass my orders on. Tell the men to focus their plundering on banks, armories, noble manors, merchant villas. There is nothing worth the trouble in a commoner's hut, do not waste the time."
From the sky he had already seen soldiers stripping the poorest Tyroshi bare.
These folk had no coin worth stealing. And the raid depended on shock and speed; once the Tyroshi mustered their strength, losses would soar.
"Yes, my prince!"
A dozen couriers bowed, mounted horses seized from Tyroshi stables, and scattered through the city to carry out his will.
As the hours passed, raiding parties returned with their spoils, goldwork, gemstones, and Tyrosh's distinctive lozenge-shaped iron coins stamped with the Three-Headed Tower of their gods.
They had obeyed Baelon to the letter: both city armories were emptied, and a great granary had been reduced to smoking ruin.
"Gods," Baelon muttered as the Claw Isle soldiers hauled in crates of captured gear. "Tyroshi armor is this damned extravagant?"
Nearly every cuirass was gilded or silvered, etched with flowers or beasts. Others were set with gemstones, their edges trimmed in gold.
A far cry from the stark practicality of Westerosi steel, too gaudy to trust, too delicate to inspire any knight of the Seven Kingdoms.
-------
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.
32+ advanced chapters on Patreon.
www.patreon.com/Baelon