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Game of Thrones White Dragon Rising
Game of Thrones The Sun Dragon Descends
Gemon Goneris's plan had gone off perfectly.
The admiral had led the Volantis fleet past every Lysene patrol ship, privateer, and pirate, bringing the entire squadron safely to the island of Donnes.
Only a handful of ships had drifted off course and lost contact with the main body—something the commanders of the First Daughter had long since stopped worrying about.
But the blessed citizens of Lys had never imagined the red dragon would appear on their shores so suddenly and so fast.
The Lyseni had always understood only sea warfare and poison—sometimes both at once. Anyone who'd read a traveler's account or listened to dockside gossip knew that much.
Even the most learned maester couldn't recall a single story of Lysene bravery on land.
For generations the governors had trusted the false safety of the waves and spent almost nothing on walls, swords, or spears.
As the locals liked to say, the sea didn't need clothes or food, and it made a more reliable guard than any man.
Now they could only curse their own arrogance and stupidity.
In just a few days Viserys's army had taken the entire island of Donnes almost without a fight. Every town, village, and walled noble estate had opened its gates and surrendered rather than face plunder.
Only the main city of Lys still held out.
The Triarch had moved quickly. He'd left garrisons and barriers across the island and made no immediate demand for war reparations.
The fattest prize was still waiting inside the defiant Free City itself.
And the man the entire army called the Red Dragon was personally leading the advance on the walls.
The Lysene governors had slammed the gates shut, put men on the walls, and scraped together every scrap of food and supplies they could find.
It was all useless.
Viserys Targaryen had never planned on a long, grinding siege. That would only give the Lyseni time to breathe and hope.
No pirate fleet was coming to help them. No allied army could arrive in time. No storm was going to hit Goneris's fleet on the Summer Sea.
This war would be decided by one brutal, direct assault.
Viserys hadn't shared the plan with Ser Barristan, nor invited him to the war council.
But the old Lord Commander of the Kingsguard didn't need words to understand the logic.
Lys's gates and walls were old and neglected. Their militia had never been known for courage. The citizens were lost in panic and confusion.
One sharp, decisive strike would shatter their resistance completely.
Viserys had brought battle-hardened, bloodthirsty, disciplined, relentless warriors.
The Lyseni were about to face a mob of pampered rich men, soft catamites, and pleasure-loving citizens.
They were about to run straight into a pack of wolves who had fought entire Dothraki hordes and were used to killing.
So on the day of the assault, Ser Barristan Selmy felt no tension at all.
He stood calmly in the position assigned to the Black Knights' vanguard, as if this were just another ordinary fight, just another charge—nothing more.
A fresh, well-sharpened longsword rested steady in his hand. Mail and helm protected his body. Reliable comrades stood on either side.
What more could a man about to go into battle ask for?
Perhaps only a leader worth dying for.
As that thought crossed his mind, Ser Loren unfurled the king's banner amid the army's wild cheering.
The old Kingsguard stood in the press of men, silent, fighting to steady the storm inside his chest.
Above him the red dragon banner snapped in the wind.
Six months ago, could he have imagined this moment?
Standing under the Targaryen banner again, ready to fight.
As a young man he had done exactly that—cut through the Golden Company's finest, taken the terrible Maelys, and ended the last living descendant of Daemon the Pretender.
After that battle the Blackfyre cause had collapsed.
Mercenaries were only ever mercenaries.
He had never felt such savage joy.
It was also under the red dragon that he had marched to the Trident.
That river cursed seven times over had taken Prince Rhaegar, Prince Lewyn, Ser Jonothor, and the entire dragon family… and it had taken him too.
More precisely, his honor had died there.
When King's Landing fell he had been lying wounded and unable to rise.
By the time he could stand again, everything was over.
He had been nothing but an unarmed prisoner. He could change nothing.
Robert Baratheon had spared his life and given him command of the Kingsguard. In the victors' eyes he had become a hero.
So the defeated knight had agreed to keep the white cloak, switch sides, and serve a new dynasty.
Now, at last, the knight understood he had been lying to himself for years.
He had no right to question the true heir of the Iron Throne. He had no right to stain the white cloak by serving a usurper.
He should have crossed the Narrow Sea like the others, found his rightful king, and protected him with everything he had.
The Kingsguard were supposed to be the example every knight in the realm looked up to.
But he had been worse than the illiterate border knight Kevan or Tristifer, who had once ruled three small villages.
Those men had remembered their vows and answered the call without hesitation or regret.
Ser Barristan, for all these years, had known nothing but disappointment.
Why had he hidden behind his memories for so long?
Pretending it wasn't he who had broken his oath, but that the dynasty he served had simply vanished.
When Varys's disgusting little birds had brought news of the Dragon Claw Company, Barristan had only remembered a pathetic, sullen prince who was the spitting image of his father.
When the Spider spoke of his victories and good fortune, the old knight had only remembered the cat Viserys had gutted.
When the Spider finally reported that the Dragon Claw Company was marching on the Rhoyne, he had even secretly hoped the last dragon would die there.
Listening to tale after tale of his triumphs, then turning around to guard that fat, lecherous fool whose courage had long since rotted away—it had been unbearable.
If this was the gods' punishment for his cowardice, then their design was exquisite.
Perhaps he should thank Joffrey, that little idiot, and his mother.
If they hadn't stripped him of the white cloak, he would still be in King's Landing wearing armor and playing the part of a pointless, hopeless clown.
Thanks to Joffrey, Ser Barristan had finally remembered everything.
The gods had spoken through Lannister mouths and given him one last chance to choose.
He could have accepted Cersei's offer—castle, wealth, a quiet life where he would never touch a sword again, dying in comfort…
All he had to do was sell the last of his honor, become the first Kingsguard in history to break his vows for personal gain, and throw in with the Lannisters.
But that day, Barristan Selmy had made a different choice.
His long life had been filled with hollow victories and bitter regrets.
In the twilight of his years, he would finish it on his own terms.
Fighting for a king worth serving. Fighting for the rightful ruler of these lands.
Late courage might not erase years of hesitation and retreat…
But he would give everything he had left.
The horns suddenly split the air.
It meant only one thing: the time Viserys had given the Lysene council to think had run out.
Since no one had come out to greet the red dragon, it was time for sharp steel to do the talking.
Lys was about to reap what it had sown.
This crowded, constantly expanding and rebuilding city had ignored land defenses for centuries.
Why build walls when you could build brothels?
Why repair gates when you could turn them into shopping districts?
During the Century of Blood that kind of talk would have been laughed at, but in years of peace and plenty people had believed it.
Privateers, the waves, and gold had protected the governors during the peaceful decades when the elephant party ruled Volantis.
Now it was time to pay the price for that short-sightedness.
Only the city center—the governor's palace, the magistrates' residences, and the finest pleasure houses in the world—still had walls that were high enough to matter.
The rest of the city, including the harbor, had to rely on the defenders' swords, spears, and bows…
And they would soon discover that wasn't nearly enough.
Leading their company was Allyn Wood, an experienced and trusted captain, a former poacher.
The former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard now took orders from a convicted criminal and a Summer Islander sellsword nicknamed "the Meat Seller."
But Ser Barristan was willing to accept the humble lesson. He saw it as another test from the gods.
Since the gods had given him one more chance, he would endure every hardship on the road.
"Up ahead," Wood drew his sword and shouted over the noise, "we've got nothing but soft catamites and a bunch of old bastards who piss the bed at night! They can't stop real knights of the true king! Crush them!"
Right behind Allyn, the old Kingsguard spurred forward.
Hundreds of warriors surged with him, their excited, hungry battle cries filling the morning sky:
"For Volantis!"
"For Viserys!"
"Red dragon!"
"We will return!"
"Fuck those whores!"
The Lyseni had refused to come out and fight in the open. They had just signed their own death warrant.
They planned to meet the enemy on the wide streets of their own city, trusting houses and walls to protect them.
That plan might have worked… if their defenders had been braver, more experienced, and more united.
On the stone-paved street Barristan charged down, what waited for them wasn't an army—it was a mob of citizens, slaves, and servants who had been forced to pick up weapons they didn't know how to use.
They tried to resist, but the only thing they were good at was dying on other people's swords.
One man had his skull split by Barristan's blade. Another lost an arm. The third was lucky his spearhead had already broken; otherwise Allyn Wood would have finished him.
The rear ranks of the citizen militia broke first.
When they saw how the Volantenes fought—brutal, relentless—they decided their lives were worth more than a lost cause.
In an instant the street filled with panicked shouting. Lysene officers tried to drive the deserters back into line while the Black Knights mocked them without mercy.