These mercenary captains walked out of the fortress together.
Their men were all waiting outside in the square, scattered as they waited.
They watched the dragon in the sky with anxious faces as it rampaged across the city of four hundred thousand.
Gordon suddenly stopped and looked at his subordinates.
"Boss, are we really going to the city wall?" the one-eyed deputy commander asked. "That's a dragon…"
Gordon raised his head and looked at the sky again. Three dragons were soaring above, and thick smoke from the harbor had already covered half the sky.
"Go to die?" Gordon sneered. "No. We're going to get rich."
He gave the order. "Listen. Tyrosh is finished for sure."
"But the Targaryens will need someone to help them open the city gates."
"We'll start causing chaos inside the city now. When the city falls, they'll still give us another payment."
"Two payments, plus whatever we loot. That's enough for us to live in pleasure for the rest of our lives."
The men's eyes lit up at once as they looked at Gordon. Could it be that the boss had connections with the Targaryens? Some kind of contact?
"What about the other mercenary companies?"
"I'll go talk to them," Gordon said.
"'Bloodbeard' Maros isn't an idiot, and Madrid is a smart man. The Bronze Shields? …If their captain doesn't know what's good for him, we'll kill him."
"As for the remaining mercenary companies, they're just small groups of a few hundred men. If they won't listen to us, then let them die on their own."
Gordon lowered his voice. "Move now. The Second Battalion and the Third Battalion go to the armory, then stab those guards in the back."
"The Fourth Battalion goes to loot the rich district and stir up trouble. Once the wall garrison is forced to send men to suppress the chaos, I'll personally lead the First Battalion to open the west gate."
"…This…" The heads of the Second and Third Battalions looked at Gordon.
Gordon understood what they were worried about and said, "Relax. The Fourth Battalion will be looting those rich men, but I'll send people to supervise them. Afterward, we'll divide everything equally."
With that said, all the men nodded.
Someone suddenly asked, "How will the Targaryens know it's us?"
Gordon took a strip of white cloth from his coat. "Tie it on both arms."
"The Targaryens said that anyone with this is one of their own."
The men no longer hesitated. These desperadoes recognized only money.
Gordon led his men to find the other mercenary captains. He first went to find "Bloodbeard" Maros. The scar-faced man and his men had not moved either; they seemed to be deliberately slacking off.
"Maros, want to earn another ten thousand?"
Maros glanced up at him. "You have a way?"
"As long as we help the Targaryens open the city gate," Gordon said. "They promised to pay another share."
Maros fell silent.
From afar came the shouts of battle from the city walls, together with the roars of dragons.
"The wall is still fighting."
"Not for long." Gordon pointed at the sky. "See those dragons? Tyrosh can't hold."
"If we choose our side now, we can take two payments."
Gordon tossed him a gold coin, and Maros caught it.
"If you surrender only after the city falls, you'll be nothing but a prisoner."
Maros weighed the coin in his hand and nodded. "Fine."
Next came Madrid of the Blood Bead Company. Madrid agreed readily—rather than oppose dragons, it was better to take two payments. Even if their reputation would stink afterward, then so be it.
They mercenaries were just like that. Mercenaries were like that. If there was money to be made and you didn't take it, you were a fool. And asking them to face dragons they couldn't possibly defeat—ptui, ptui, ptui—whoever wanted to go die could go.
The Bronze Shield Mercenary Company. Its captain was an old knight in his fifties named Lyke, his armor polished until it shone, with a seven-pointed star hanging on his chest—the emblem of the Seven.
"Betray the employer?" Old Knight Lyke glared at Gordon. "That is honor!"
"Can honor be eaten?" Gordon sneered. "Look outside, you old fool."
"Three dragons, and at least ten thousand soldiers. Tyrosh was caught completely off guard. Today, the city will definitely fall."
"Do you want to die with honor, or do you want to stay alive and take the money?"
Old Knight Lyke gripped the hilt of his sword and hesitated for a long time before saying, "The pay has to go up…"
Gordon smiled, patted him on the shoulder, and said, "Don't worry. I'll help you go talk to them. I believe your payment will only be more than mine, not less."
Within an hour, two-thirds of the mercenary companies in Tyrosh had already changed sides.
They did not go to the city wall, but scattered throughout the city, waiting for the signal.
On the broad drill ground of the inner castle, five hundred black-armored cavalry stood in formation.
Commander Kaspar looked at the gate through the slit of his visor.
This forty-year-old veteran had three scars on his face and had fought in seventeen wars.
At this moment, his scalp was tingling. Those three dragons had been circling overhead for far too long.
The gate was opened, and Adrian personally led men inside.
"Kaspar! The wall is about to break! Move out! Exit through the west gate and smash their beachhead!"
Kaspar raised his right hand and made a signal.
The five hundred cavalry moved.
They charged out through the inner castle gate and onto the broad streets, turning into a full-speed assault.
The sound of hoofbeats was like thunder, shaking the windows of the houses by the street until they rattled.
Civilians hiding from the war peered through cracks in their doors and saw the black torrent of iron rushing past.
They had only charged through two streets and entered Smith's Square when the attack came.
From directly above.
Caraxes dove straight down, then, when it was a hundred feet above the ground, suddenly spread its wings, flew almost flush with the ground, and then breathed fire.
It was not a sheet of flame, but a pillar of fire. The dark red dragonflame spewed by Caraxes burned into the middle of the cavalry formation like a column of fire.
The first cavalryman struck was instantly carbonized, both man and horse.
The extreme heat carbonized his body in an instant, and then the armor softened and melted as well, collapsing onto the ground like wax.
The flames kept pushing forward.
The second, the third, the fourth…
Commander Kaspar was at the front of the formation. When he turned back to look, it was like seeing hell itself, with screams without end.
A burning passage had been torn through the cavalry formation, and on both sides of that passage were melted armor and charred black bones.
"Scatter! Spread out!" he roared hoarsely.
Too late.
Syrax cut in from the left, and golden dragonflame swept across the east side of the square.
More than twenty cavalrymen were swallowed by the flames. The horses panicked and ran madly, throwing those riders from their backs.
Meleys was responsible for the right side.
The Red Queen's giant claws snatched up two cavalrymen, lifting both men and horses into the air, and then gave them a shake.
Men and horses were hurled down from a height of fifty feet, smashing into the mass of cavalry, followed by the violent clashing of armor and the sound of bones shattering.
"Retreat! Fall back to the inner castle!" Kaspar shuddered with fear, knowing this was simply impossible to fight.
But in the narrow streets, turning five hundred heavy cavalry around was itself a disaster.
Horses crashed into horses, men into men. Riders fell from their mounts and were trampled by the hooves of the horses behind them.
One young cavalryman had his visor knocked off. Suddenly the horse beside him panicked and slammed into his own horse. Without warning, he was thrown to the ground, then struck by hooves. His breastplate caved in, ribs piercing his lungs, blood pouring from his mouth.
And the three dragons in the sky began the hunt.
Meleys struck the rear of the formation, a single breath of fire killing more than a dozen cavalrymen packed together.
Syrax flew low above the street, beating its wings and tearing roof tiles from the houses. Broken stones rained down into the cavalry formation.
Caraxes was the most ruthless. With a single bite it seized a cavalryman together with his horse. The iron can was slowly chewed; in its jaws it was nothing but iron wrapped around blood.
All the cavalry still alive on the ground had already completely lost their morale.
In barely ten minutes, the five hundred heavy cavalry—Tyrosh's most elite force—had half been reduced to charred corpses, scattered flesh, and melted, twisted shells of iron across the ground.
Kaspar ordered the remaining cavalry to dismount and scatter for cover where they were. He himself hid inside a smithy by the roadside, while the blacksmith's apprentices stared at him in terror.
From the window he watched the slaughter outside. His stomach churned. This was not a battle; it was a one-sided massacre.
While the black-armored cavalry were being slaughtered, inside the city of Tyrosh, Gordon began shouting in fury.
"Move!"
The Iron Hand Mercenary Company moved first.
They began frenzied looting—killing and setting fires.
Thick smoke began to rise into the sky. This was the signal for the Black faction fleet, and also the signal for the other mercenary companies.
"Bloodbeard" Maros's men began looting the rich district.
They smashed open jewelry shops, silk shops, and spice warehouses, taking whatever was valuable and killing anyone who resisted. Within half an hour, Goldsmith Street had turned into a slaughterhouse.
Gordon's mercenary company betrayed the garrison and seized the armory.
Other mercenary companies saw the looting and joined in.
Some mercenary companies did not even tie the white cloth on their arms. They did not care. The city was about to fall anyway—if they did not loot, it would be a waste.
The looting quickly turned into full-scale rioting.
When civilians saw the mercenaries looting, some of the bolder ones also began smashing their neighbors' doors.
Despair and greed spread through the city like a plague.
And on the city wall, the garrison still holding their ground saw the thick smoke rising from the city.
"Captain! The city is on fire!" a soldier shouted to Rosso.
Rosso rushed to the inner side of the wall and looked into the city. Smoke was rising from the direction of the armory as well, and screams and shouts of killing came from the rich district.
"The mercenaries…" Rosso ground his teeth. "Those bastards betrayed us!"
"Captain! At the west gate—mercenaries are attacking the gate! The gate guards can't hold much longer!"
Rosso's vision went black.
Outside the city, the Black faction army was climbing the walls in an endless stream. Inside the city were the rebelling mercenaries. Above them were the three dragons—an enemy with no solution.
The wall was still in their hands, but it no longer meant anything. If the gate was opened from the inside, no matter how high or thick the wall was, it would be useless.
Worse still, the soldiers of the garrison had also seen the chaos inside the city.
"My family is in the city…" a young soldier murmured.
"My wife is still working by the granaries…" another soldier said.
Panic spread among the garrison like wildfire.
They were still fighting, but their hearts were no longer in it. Many secretly glanced down from the wall, thinking about how to run back to their families.
At that moment, from the direction of the west gate came a thunderous crash.
Gordon himself was leading the attack on the west gate.
Only fifty Tyroshi soldiers were guarding the gate, while Gordon had two hundred mercenaries.
Worse still, the street inside the gate was packed with fleeing civilians and looters taking advantage of the chaos. The garrison could not organize any effective defense at all.
"Hold the line! Hold the line!" the gate captain roared.
But an axe chopped into the back of his neck from behind.
He turned his head in disbelief and saw a mercenary with white cloth tied around his arm grinning savagely as he pulled the axe free.
The gate was broken.
Gordon's men turned the capstan, and the heavy iron-banded wooden gates creaked open.
Outside the city, the main force of the Black faction had been waiting a long time.
The moment the west gate opened, the psychological defenses of the Tyroshi garrison completely collapsed.
"The city's fallen!"
"Run!"
"Go home! Protect your families!"
The garrison began to rout.
They threw away their weapons, stripped off their armor, climbed down from the walls, and poured down the stairs, fleeing into the depths of the city like a frightened flock of sheep.
Some officers tried to stop them, but were knocked down by the fleeing soldiers and even killed.
Rosso watched all of this and felt a deep sense of helplessness. He cut down three deserters, but more ran past him. In the end, he also lowered his sword.
The wall was lost.
No—not taken by assault, but collapsed from within.
The Black faction army surged through the gate like a tide.
This time, they met no real resistance.
Corpses lay everywhere in the streets—garrison soldiers, mercenaries, and civilians.
Burning houses collapsed and blocked the roads. The air was thick with the smell of blood, scorched wood, and human filth.
Gordon stood beside the gate, the white cloth on his arm fluttering in the wind.
He watched the Black faction army enter the city and smiled.
A Black faction officer rode up to him and looked at the white cloth on his shoulder. "One of ours?"
Gordon nodded.
The officer tossed him a purse of coins. "You did well. This is an extra reward."
Gordon caught the purse, weighed it in his hand, and his smile widened even more.
From the watchtower of the inner castle, the acting commander Oliver saw all of this.
The wall was lost. The gate was open. The main force of the Black faction had entered the city.
Fires had broken out in many places within the city, and riots were spreading. Meanwhile, only five hundred defenders remained inside the fortress.
He remembered the fate of the black-armored cavalry in the square, and the sight of dragonflame melting stone.
"Let's surrender," he said to the officers beside him.
An hour later, the bronze gates of the Tyroshi inner castle slowly opened.
Oliver, leading twenty officers and the soldiers behind them, walked out empty-handed and surrendered to Daemon Targaryen.
The city had fallen.
Not to overwhelming assault, but brought down from within by dragons, betrayal, and chaos.
The walls still stood, and the garrison still existed—but morale had collapsed, order had collapsed, everything had collapsed.
At dusk, Daemon and the others entered the great hall of the inner castle.
They found Archon Adrian, who had taken poison and killed himself.
The fat man, weighing around 150 kilograms, sat in his seat, dressed in full formal attire, holding an empty wine cup, black blood flowing from the corner of his mouth.
"Poison," Daemon said. "He died with some dignity."
Rhaenyra looked at Adrian's corpse and remained silent for a moment.
"How many did we lose?"
"About eight hundred," Daemon said. "The garrison lost at least several thousand."
"As for the civilians… probably tens of thousands. The fires in the city are still burning."
Tens of thousands of lives in exchange for one city.
But they were all enemy lives, which made it worthwhile.
The dragon had come.
And before dragons, men were as weak as nothing.
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