The harbor mouth was sealed.
A dozen royal warships crowded the entrance. Behind them came a great host of transports—merchantmen seized from King's Landing, hastily converted, bearing thousands of royal soldiers.
«All vessels—heave to at once!»
«All hands—disembark immediately!»
«Lay down your arms! Surrender and you will not be harmed!»
Aboard the royal flagship, a herald bellowed through a brass trumpet.
An arrow from a Driftmark warship was his answer.
Thwip.
It whistled past the herald's helm and buried itself in the mast behind him.
«Waugh!»
«Stubborn.» Ser Erwin Redwyne, upon the command deck, did not raise his voice. «Herald. Free fire.»
«Sink the ship that loosed that arrow first.»
The order was given.
Scorpions loosed from the royal fleet.
THRUM. THRUM. THRUM.
Iron-shod bolts tore through the air. They were aimed not at men, but at the ships themselves.
The first bolt struck a Driftmark galley amidships. The heavy missile punched through oak planking as if through parchment. Left a gaping wound. Sea water rushed in. The hull began to list.
The second bolt shattered another ship's rudder. She slewed wildly, spinning across the harbor, colliding with two fishing boats and capsizing them.
The third bolt found a mainmast. The thirty-foot spar of pine snapped like a twig and crashed down, rigging and crow's nest and all, crushing the sailors beneath.
But this was only the beginning.
The royal warships drew closer. Their gunwales bristled with bowmen. A storm of arrows swept across the wharves and the ships that still resisted.
«Raise shields! Raise shields!» Driftmark officers roared.
Where could they find enough shields, and in such haste?
The arrows fell. The crowds upon the pier shattered.
Men were struck. They screamed and toppled into the sea. Others were trampled. Some curled behind cargo crates and prayed.
Worst of all were the civilians—the crowds who had flocked to the gangplanks, desperate to flee. They had nowhere to hide. They became the meat between two armies' blades.
Blood slicked the dock planks. Trickled between the gaps. Stained the water red.
«We yield! We yield!» At last, a ship raised the white flag.
«Prepare the ram,» an officer ordered. «Sink any that still fly Velaryon colors.»
The flagship turned. Its bronze prow-ram aimed at a two-decked galley—one of Driftmark's finest.
Accelerate.
Impact.
*CRASH. *
The sound of splintering timber was deafening. The flagship's ram punched through the enemy hull and lodged there, deep in her belly. Sea water rushed in with a greedy gurgle.
The Driftmark galley lurched violently. Sailors on her deck pitched overboard like dumplings into a pot.
«Abandon ship! Abandon ship!»
«I cannot swim!»
«Help me!»
None came.
The royal marines watched the men thrash in the water. Some raised their bows and shot those who tried to swim ashore. The sea turned red.
The harbor's resistance ended within the hour. Only three Velaryon warships had fought. The rest had yielded or burned.
The eastern merchantmen had already furled their sails and anchored. Their crews gathered on deck, hands empty, weapons laid at their feet.
This is Westerosi butchery. We are not part of it.
Bodies lay upon the pier. Some were soldiers. Many were not.
The survivors knelt in pools of blood, heads bowed, waiting for the axe to fall.
Ser Erwin stepped onto the wharf. His boots trod on bloody planks.
«Tally the results,» he told his adjutant. «Repair what can be repaired. Break up what cannot.»
«The prisoners are to be bound and kept for His Highness's judgment.»
«And these civilians?» The adjutant gestured at the trembling folk huddled at the pier's edge.
«Send them home,» said Erwin. «Let them await His Highness's pleasure.»
The royal host began to disembark in force.
Knights and men-at-arms poured into the streets of Spicetown. Shopkeepers barred their doors and peered through the cracks. Heralds rode through the lanes, their voices echoing in the dead silence:
«By the decree of His Grace Viserys, First of His Name, and Her Grace the Queen Regent Alicent Hightower, and the Green Council!»
«Be it known to all soldiers and civilians of Driftmark!»
«The heirs of House Velaryon—Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey Velaryon—are attainted of high treason!»
«Driftmark is called to answer for their crimes! Yet the Iron Throne is merciful!»
«Hear now the command: All defenders of Driftmark who yet hide in arms shall lay down their steel! All civilians shall come forth and greet the king's men!»
«Any man who yields shall be spared, regardless of his station!»
«This grace is granted only until sunset this very day!»
«Should any fail to comply—» The herald's voice turned to steel. «—he and his kin shall be attainted of treason and suffer the full punishment of the law!»
Three blasts of a war horn rang out. Then silence.
The people of Spicetown looked at one another. Some showed hope. Most showed ash.
Unconditional surrender.
Come forth and greet the king's men…
Upon the cliff, in the tall tower of High Tide's fortress, Kaerion Velaryon watched.
His heart was cut with a thousand knives.
There is no resisting Targaryen dragons. This weapon of war knows no equal.
He had watched the fleeing Velaryon fleet be annihilated. Watched a century of wealth—amassed by Corlys the Sea Snake, won through a lifetime of voyages to the far ends of the earth—seized in a single morning.
The Sea Snake had made Driftmark the crossroads of the Narrow Sea. The Velaryons had grown rich beyond measure. Four million golden dragons, some said. Corlys had taken more than two million with him to Pentos.
The rest now lay in green hands.
And worse: the shipwrights, the carpenters, the smiths, the sailmakers, the seasoned sailors—the men who had built that wealth. They would serve the greens now.
Kaerion was fifty-three. His hair was grey, though a few silver-gilt strands yet remained. His back was straight. His blood was Velaryon.
He looked at the letter of terms that had been delivered to him.
Unconditional…
His squire stood behind him. The boy's face was tight with fear.
«My lord. The harbor has fallen.»
«A thousand royal soldiers have landed. More arrive with every ship.»
Kaerion turned to face him.
«I am a Velaryon. I do not yield so easily.»
«But, my lord—can we hold?» The boy's voice was very small.
«My lord… Vhagar. If that beast breathes fire upon the walls…»
«We cannot hold,» Kaerion admitted. «A ten-foot wall is paper before Vhagar's flame.»
«We have scarce a thousand men left in the castle. The harbor is lost. Morale is broken. We have food for a fortnight, no more.»
He met his squire's eyes. His gaze was grey iron.
«But surrender is not so simple.»
«Unconditional? Give them everything? That is not surrender. That is butchery with a painted face.»
«We must prove our worth.»
The boy was silent.
«Go. Prepare a white flag,» Kaerion said. «But not for surrender.»
«My lord…?»
«For parley.» Kaerion walked to the tower window. Below him lay the white walls of High Tide. Beyond, the harbor—and the green fleet.
«Aemond Targaryen gave us until sunset. Not out of mercy. Because he does not wish to burn Driftmark to the ground.»
«A century of Velaryon labor—the harbor, the shipyards, the storehouses, the craftsmen—that is what he truly wants.»
«If he burns it all, with what shall he build the green fleet?»
He paused.
«So he must negotiate. And we must use that.»
At midday, seven white flags flew from the towers of High Tide.
Upon the walls, the defenders yet stood to their posts—but every scorpion and trebuchet was shrouded in canvas.
The main gate groaned open. A dozen men emerged: stewards, maesters, clerks. Not a man of them bore steel.
At their head walked Maester Mathos, an old man of learning, keeper of High Tide's histories.
They crossed the field before the castle and approached a white pavilion raised a mile from the walls.
Twenty guardsmen stood without the pavilion. Black cloaks, silver scale, dragon-crested helms. Their swords caught the sun.
Within, Aemond Targaryen sat upon a camp chair. Beside him lounged Aegon, wine cup in hand.
Their dragons rested in the field beyond.
Aemond wore no armor—only a simple doublet of black wool. Blackfyre, the Conqueror's blade, rested in the hands of a guardsman behind him.
Mathos entered. Bent low.
«Your Highness. I come on behalf of Lord Kaerion Velaryon and the defenders of Driftmark, to offer you greetings.»
Aemond did not bid him rise. Did not offer him a seat.
He leaned forward. His single eye—drowned deep violet—studied the old man's face.
«Unconditional surrender,» Aemond said. «By sunset. This is the will of the Iron Throne.»
«You have come out. Do you yield?»
Sweat beaded Mathos's brow.
«Your Highness… Driftmark is prepared to submit to the Iron Throne. But there are… details. Small matters I would crave Your Highness's leave to discuss.»
«Details?» Aemond raised an eyebrow.
«Yes, Your Highness. Yes.» Mathos spoke quickly, the words tumbling forth. «Lord Kaerion has three requests. First: that the officers and men of the garrison be permitted to retain their personal effects and depart Driftmark unharmed.»
«Second: that the city be not sacked nor put to the torch.»
«Third: that a portion of House Velaryon's property upon Driftmark be preserved to us.»
He stopped.
Aemond was smiling.
«Requests,» Aemond murmured. «You misunderstand the nature of this conversation.»
He rose. Took Blackfyre from his guardsman. The blade sang as it cleared the scabbard.
He walked to Mathos. Looked down at the trembling old man.
«The Iron Throne does not ask you to surrender.»
«The Iron Throne commands you to surrender.»
«This is not a negotiation. This is an order. Do you understand?»
«Whether House Velaryon keeps Driftmark—that is not for you to decide. The one who decides…»
A pause. The faintest curve of his lips.
«…is me.»
Prince Aegon, drinking, interjected: «And me. What you said doesn't count.»
Aemond glanced at him. His smile did not waver.
He turned back to Mathos.
«When a man commands his dog to lie down, does the dog haggle over terms?»
Mathos's face had gone white.
«Go back,» said Aemond. «Tell Kaerion Velaryon this.»
«I give him one final grace. Now. Immediately. Open every gate. Your defenders are to lay down their arms and march out of the city. They will kneel in rows on either side of the causeway.»
«My men will enter the city and receive its submission.»
«If there is no resistance, I swear upon my honor: no man shall be harmed.»
«But. »
«If, at sunset, the gates remain shut. If a single man yet stands upon the walls.»
«I will consider that Driftmark has chosen war.»
«And war,» Aemond seated himself once more, his fingers tapping lightly upon Blackfyre's pommel, «has no requests. Only victories. And defeats.»