Offshore Tyrosh, Southern Waters
The Southern Fleet of the Allied forces surged toward the harbors of Tyrosh like a wedge of armored knights charging a gap. It was a sprawling armada of varied hulls and rigging, but the vanguard held the true terrors: the trebuchet ships and the great ballista galleys.
Constructed in the dry docks of Slavers' Bay, these vessels were engineered solely for the slow, brutal business of breaking cities. Their presence alone signaled the end of diplomacy.
The trebuchet ships were gargantuan, their hulls reinforced with ancient, hardened oak to withstand the violent snap of the heavy counterweights. These machines did not hurl mere stones; they were designed for Fire Oil. While the alchemists of the Seven Kingdoms guarded their Wildfire, various recipes for Fire Oil circulated through the Free Cities—a sticky, viscous nightmare that made stone walls feel like kindling.
To counter the Tyroshi fleet, the Allied forces had spared no expense on ballista ships. These were lethal predators of the sea. Massive scorpions mounted on the prow and stern could launch iron-shod bolts several meters long. With enough velocity to punch through a galley's hull or sweep a battlement clean, they granted the fleet an uncontested long-range superiority.
However, power came at the cost of grace. These ships were lumbering beasts, requiring a screen of swifter cogs and longships to protect their vulnerable flanks.
Ser Barristan stood at the center of the chaos, his eyes scanning the horizon with the practiced calm of a man who had seen a dozen wars. Jon had placed the veteran knight in command not just for his tactical brilliance, but for the weight his name carried. Under Barristan's steady hand, the Chainbreakers were a coiled spring. Morale was a physical heat; the soldiers checked their grips and adjusted their armor, ready for the visceral reality of a boarding action. Behind them, the sellswords and pirates roared, their faces smeared with crude warpaint in shades of red and blue.
"Three-headed god preserve us! Sound the bells! Signal the towers!" "Get to the armory!" "Close the harbor! Raise the chain!"
The cries atop the city walls were frantic. Normally, the Tyroshi Purple Sails would have been patrolling the offshore waters, but their recent sortie toward the Stepstones had left the home waters hollow. Only a few requisitioned merchant cogs remained on watch—slow, fat targets that stood no chance. They were picked off by ballista fire or boarded before they could even turn to flee.
The South Port served as the primary inlet, where the Valyrians had once extended the legendary black stone walls directly into the surf. Two massive watchtowers flanked the entrance. At the command of their officers, the Tyroshi soldiers threw the winches. With a groan of straining wood and pulleys, a massive iron chain broke the surface of the water, spanning the gap to bar the harbor.
Awoooo—!
From the prow of the Sea Fox, Jon's flagship, a long, mournful horn blast answered. The chain could halt a war galley, but it was useless against the shallow-draft longships.
Rather than funneling into the kill zones Tyrosh had designed—narrow channels where the walls could rain death from both sides—the Alliance brought forward their centerpiece. It was a ship of Jon's own design, a massive siege platform that loomed over the water like a floating fortress.
Lacking sails, the siege ship was towed into position by massive rowing galleys. It resembled a floating tower, its base constructed from two lashed hulls to ensure a stable platform. Five stories tall, its tiers were packed with crossbowmen and scorpions, designed to suppress the battlements at eye level.
Awoooo—!
Boom! Boom! CRASH!
The trebuchets released. Wood-cased barrels of Fire Oil streaked through the air like falling stars, shattering against the South Port's docks and storehouses. The harbor erupted in orange blossoms of flame. Simultaneously, the ballista ships raked the battlements, pinning the City Watch behind their parapets.
The Tyroshi were paralyzed. A standard siege involved days of warning, allowing for the deployment of heavy counter-trebuchets and naval sorties. This was a lightning strike, a storm of fire and iron that gave them no room to breathe.
"Ser Barristan, the rest is in your hands," Jon said, his gaze fixed on the signal flags flying from the siege tower. "The Purple Sails will eventually return. Hold the sea."
"Aegon, my Prince..." Barristan hesitated, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He knew Jon possessed strange, formidable gifts, but the chaos of a breach favored no man. "Is this wise? Many kings have fallen in the first hour of a fight."
He thought of Daemon Blackfyre at Redgrass Field—the greatest warrior of his age, turned into a pincushion by Brynden Rivers' archers because he stalled for honor.
"A boy must be tempered in fire to become a True Dragon," Jon replied, his eyes cold and certain. "If my men see me bleed on those walls, they will follow me into the Seven Hells."
Barristan saw the steel in the young man's gaze and bowed his head. "As you command."
Jon left the Sea Fox, dropping into a longship that rowed hard for the towering siege ship. Around him, the Chainbreakers pulled at their oars, their eyes fixed on the black stone looming ahead.
The siege ship had no deck for soldiers; they had to board from the sides once it made contact with the wall.
CRUNCH—SHATTER—!
The massive vessel slammed into the right flank of the South Port's wall. Despite the frantic rowing to slow its momentum and the heavy buffers on the prow, the impact was a bone-jarring roar of grinding stone and splintering wood. The towers groaned, but the weather held—the sea was a mirror, allowing the platform to settle firmly against the ramparts.
Jon climbed the internal ladders as the soldiers flooded the lower chambers. Crossbow bolts hissed through the arrow slits, and the air was thick with the scent of salt and smoke.
"Up!" Jon shouted, his voice ringing through the wooden ribs of the tower. "Our brothers in the pits have waited a lifetime for this! Don't make them wait another minute!"
"FOR THE CHAINBREAKER!"
Clad in black plate and clutching his scepter, Jon looked less like a lord and more like a vengeful god to his men. They roared back, a singular, terrifying sound that drowned out the Tyroshi bells, and surged toward the battlements to begin the slaughter.