The smoke from the fighting at the Gate of Flowers still hung in the air. Dark red blood mixed with dust still ran in slow rivulets across the stone street.
Viserys Targaryen sat his warhorse, the crimson cloak snapping in the wind. His gaze passed over the ranks of Black Knights and locked on the massive closed gate beyond them.
Behind that gate waited the commander of all Lysene forces—Karon Valaros. A man of ancient Valyrian mixed blood, he spent his days strutting between brothels and merchant guilds, forever boasting of Lysene courage and honor, and taking any slight against Lysene fighting ability as a personal insult.
When the Targaryen army had appeared and the whole city fell into panic, Karon had puffed himself up and declared that he would defend Lys with the blessed sword of his people. He challenged Viserys to single combat, wagering the fate of the entire city on the outcome.
"Triarch! I will show you that Lysene warriors are not to be insulted by some exiled bastard like you!" the flag officer's voice trembled as it carried from behind the gate. "I, Karon Valaros, speak for Lys… and I demand trial by combat! Winner takes the city. Loser lowers his banners and surrenders!"
The square fell deathly silent.
Viserys raised an eyebrow and lifted a hand to quiet the restless Black Knights around him.
He could see the man's silhouette behind the gate—the bulging fat under his mail, the jeweled broadsword clutched in both hands like it might fall at any moment.
"Very well," Viserys said, his voice calm but carrying. "Come out."
The gate groaned open.
Karon Valaros rode out on a fat, short-legged pony, moving slowly. His armor was too tight; every motion made it creak. The broadsword was so heavy his horse staggered beneath it.
"Viserys Targaryen," Karon tried to sound regal, but fear made his voice shake. "I, Karon Valaros, chief governor of blessed Lys, challenge you in the name of our Valyrian ancestors! If you win, Lys surrenders at once. If I win, you and your Volantene army will withdraw immediately!"
Viserys didn't answer. He simply drew Sunset.
The Valyrian steel blade gleamed cold and deadly, still stained with the dried blood of yesterday's fighting—dark red and silver-white, like dragon scales.
"You are not worthy to speak of our ancestors," Viserys said flatly. "You are only worthy of paying the price for your stupidity."
He spurred his horse forward.
Karon clearly hadn't expected such speed. His eyes went wide. He raised the broadsword with all his strength and swung at Viserys's neck.
CLANG!
The crash of steel on steel rang like a bell.
Karon's blade slammed into Sunset. Sparks flew. A massive jolt shot up his arms; his hands went numb, blood ran from his palms, and he nearly dropped the sword.
His horse reared in terror, front hooves lashing the air, almost throwing him.
Viserys leaned aside, unharmed. His wrist flicked. Sunset flashed along the edge of Karon's armor and drove straight into his chest.
"No—!"
Karon screamed in terror and tried to twist away, but his fat body moved far too slowly.
The blade punched through mail and padded jerkin and into his heart.
Blood sprayed, soaking the man's fine purple robes.
He looked down at the sword in his chest. Terror turned to despair.
His mouth opened, but only wet, gurgling sounds came out.
The fat body swayed once on the horse, then crashed to the ground in a spray of dark red.
The broadsword slipped from his fingers and hit the stones with a dull thud.
The square stayed silent except for the wind in the banners and the dying horse's screams.
Viserys reined in, flicked Sunset clean of blood onto the stones, and looked up at the mass of Lyseni behind the gate. His voice rang cold and clear:
"Your commander is dead.
Organized resistance ends here.
Lay down your weapons and live. Keep fighting and you die like Karon."
A wave of panicked cries rose from behind the gate.
Then weapons clattered to the ground by the hundreds. Lyseni dropped to their knees, begging for mercy.
The Black Knights erupted in thunderous cheers. The dragon banner snapped high, painting half the sky red.
"Anyone who tries to stand against the dragon deserves exactly this fate."
Moments later Viserys wheeled his horse and rode into Lys itself.
With the flag officer dead, organized resistance collapsed completely. Targaryen forces took the entire city in almost no time.
Now the long, inevitable surrender ceremony began.
The men who stepped forward in place of the dead flag officer were the chief governor and the entire ruling council.
The drawn-out ritual was deliberate. It would burn the shame deep into the citizens' minds.
They would see their humiliated governors, their disgraced merchants, their pathetic would-be warriors.
And they would see the victors in all their glory—
The bloodstained Sunset sword. The disciplined, merciless captains. The hard-eyed warriors.
The era of merchants who acted like whores and whores who acted like merchants was over.
The age of fire and blood had arrived.
They needed to remember that.
The ceremony was held in Lys's largest trade square.
Beneath the red dragon banner, surrounded by Black Knights and watched by thousands of eyes, the conqueror would receive the surrender of the defeated.
Viserys refused a throne, a litter, or any raised platform. Sitting his warhorse was more than enough.
The once-proud rulers of the city—still in their fine clothes but looking thoroughly wretched—were brought forward.
First to speak was a sweating fat man that Allyn Wood had practically had to drag forward.
"I, Aenys Ottis, chief governor of blessed Lys…" the fat man wheezed, every word sounding like it was being squeezed out of his chest.
Viserys didn't rush him. The longer the ritual, the deeper the shame sank in. "I acknowledge that the Free City of Lys has been defeated and place the fate of my people in the hands of the honorable victor."
"I, Rhaenella Galtaris, seven times mistress of blessed Lys's pleasures, acknowledge that the Free City of Lys has been defeated and place the fate of my people in the hands of the honorable victor." The woman—bosom half-bared and still trying to look seductive—added boldly, "And I believe in your wisdom and justice."
Viserys silently thanked her. Meeting Doreah had been one of the best things to come out of this war.
After the famous courtesan came a man in bloodstained mail.
"I, Baelor Penderis, chief swordsman of blessed Lys and deputy to the flag officer, acknowledge that the Free City of Lys has been defeated and place the fate of my people in the hands of the honorable victor."
There was no flattery in his voice, only grim acceptance. This warrior had fought until the very end with a small band of loyal men before laying down his arms.
Viserys knew his face. Of all the Lyseni, only he and that handful had kept fighting until the last moment.
"I, Trigg Omoren, master of the Dawnlight Guild, acknowledge that the Free City of Lys has been defeated and place the fate of my people in the hands of the honorable victor."
Viserys's brow twitched almost imperceptibly. He quickly searched his memory for the name.
He remembered. This man—and his mistress—would need a private conversation.
And that conversation would not be pleasant for them.
Without changing expression, Viserys gave Loren a subtle signal. The old knight understood at once.
The moment the ceremony ended, Omoren would be seized by Black Knights and thrown in the dungeons.
Ser Jorah would soon receive an unexpected gift.
Ten more men followed, each swearing surrender in turn.
Proud names. Ancient families. Many could trace their bloodlines back to the days of Old Valyria.
When the last lamb had bleated its submission, it was finally the victor's turn to speak.
"I, Viserys Targaryen, Triarch of the Black Stone Throne, rightful heir to the Iron Throne."
That title could never be forgotten.
"I accept the surrender of the Free City of Lys and its rulers. From this day forward, and for all time, Lys bows to the First Daughter of the glorious Freehold—Volantis."
"From this moment, the Lysene governors, executors of the new Freehold's will, shall be led by Fleet Admiral Gemon Goneris, the glorious Valyrian."
"All new laws and decrees will be announced by my heralds."
Above him, the banner of his ancestors flew proudly.
Another step forward.
On this long, hard road home, how many more steps remained?
"The alliance between Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr is dissolved immediately. All Lysene citizens must leave any city hostile to the Freehold at once and cease all resistance. Those who remain among our enemies will be treated as rebels… and will bear the consequences themselves."
Viserys paused, then continued in a voice that carried across the entire square.
"Volantis never wanted this war.
We have no wish to spill more Valyrian blood.
There is already so little of it left in the world."
He drew a deep breath and raised his voice until it rang from every wall.
"But today I declare the beginning of a new age.
The dragon has returned to the world.
And with it, hope has returned.
The shattered fragments of past glory and power will be reforged into one sword of unity—a sword worthy of matching the might of Old Valyria!
The old Free Cities will be reborn in fire and blood, stronger and more terrible than ever before!"
"Fire and blood!"
Thousands of warriors roared the ancient words in reply, drunk on easy victory and hungry for the pleasures and glory they had earned.
The cheers and shouts did not go to Viserys's head.
He knew perfectly well that one brilliant victory did not win the entire war.
There were still countless difficult tasks ahead, and his instincts told him the hardest part was still to come.
The promised private talks with Trigg Omoren and Lynesse Hightower had to be postponed.
The conqueror had more urgent business.
Appointing a new garrison commander, inspecting the city defenses, assessing battle losses… and most important of all, counting the spoils and stopping his over-excited soldiers from continuing to loot Lys.
The lightning-fast assault had left the governors and rich merchants no time to hide their wealth.
Viserys's clerks were busier than they had ever been—calculating war indemnities from the old governors, counting captured slaves, seizing mountains of gold and jewels, and making sure every common soldier received his rightful share.
Fortunately, Lys's treasures were rich enough to pay the warriors, the captains, and still fill Volantis's treasury to the brim.
Two million gold dragons would be shipped back to Volantis in stages—enough to arm another full army.
An equal value in treasure stayed behind in conquered Lys to serve as a base for the coming campaign in the Stepstones.
Seventy thousand slaves were sent to the First Daughter. Skilled craftsmen and artisans stayed to work; ordinary laborers were sent to the reviving farms and fields on the left bank of the Rhoyne.
The fall and looting of Lys, combined with the fighting in the Stepstones, would send every slaver in Slaver's Bay rushing to sell their living wares in Volantis.
The cheaper and more numerous the slaves, the happier the old-blood nobles would be. The free citizens would stay employed. During war, everyone had work.
But Viserys's concerns went beyond gold and jewels.
He still had to decide the fate of the surrendered governors and the great families that had ruled Lys for generations.
Every case required the fairest judgment he could give.
Fate had prepared the cruelest lesson for Aenys Ottis.
The chief governor would be shackled and sent on the first ship to Volantis, where the common people could vent their anger and vengeful old-blood nobles could amuse themselves. He would become a living warning to every Lysene.
This was what happened to anyone who made an enemy of the First Daughter.
It was the Ottis family that had pushed Lys into the alliance against the rightful king across the Narrow Sea. Now the entire family paid the price.
Lands, plantations, apartments, slaves, and workshops were all seized. The entire family was reduced to slavery.
And Viserys moved into their palace.
Even an illiterate freedman could understand the message: the nest of Lys's warmongering leaders now belonged to the conqueror.
Baelor Penderis offered his loyalty without being asked.
He said a man like him couldn't sit idle, and a former sellsword had no reason to stay loyal to a fallen regime anyway.
Viserys had heard of his reputation back when he still led the Dragon Claw Company. The man had fought bravely and skillfully in the Second Sons until a dispute over loot made him break with his new captain—a common story in the Disputed Lands.
After a long conversation, the Triarch accepted Penderis's oath, but placed him under close watch.
Rhaenella Galtaris's pleasure house had been opened free of charge to the victors for the first five days after the city fell.
With that simple gesture the cunning old schemer had saved most of her fortune.
But her submission didn't stop there. She was eager to prove her usefulness. She handed over the exact voting records of every governor during the rebuilding of the Triarchy and promised to turn over her entire network of spies and informants to the conqueror.
The instincts of a professional courtesan told her it was time to abandon the sinking ship.
If she continued performing this well, she might even secure a place in the new Lys.
One unfortunate man who wasn't even in the city was the pirate Salladhor Saan.
According to the other governors, the privateer Goneris hated so much had taken his men and sailed to join Stannis Baratheon—making him an enemy of the rightful king of Westeros.
All of Salladhor's property, slaves, jewels, and accounts were seized for Viserys. The Black Knights cheered.
The warriors saw it as a good omen. If even one Lysene pirate could lose everything for serving a usurper, then the rebel lords should expect far harsher punishment.
After all, Salladhor had never betrayed the true dynasty. Those who broke faith deserved stricter judgment.
Targaryen received reports that the exiles were already talking more and more about what castles, villages, pastures, and mines would change hands once they returned.
Everyone had a target. Everyone had their eye on some land that had been stolen, some ancestral holding, or simply something they wanted.
Let them dream.
Hoping for a better tomorrow was the best comfort a man could find while enduring the hard trials of today.
The rest of Lys's rulers and noble families met different fates.
Some were sold into slavery. Some were stripped of everything they owned. Some lost all titles and honors.
But most followed Rhaenella's example and rushed to pledge themselves to Gemon Goneris, trading honor for their lives.
You could not rule a city without local help.
And these people would be watched very carefully.