Game of Thrones: I Am The Heir For A Day

Chapter 364: The Battle of Myr

Chapter 364: The Battle of Myr

Several days had passed, the conflict escalating mercilessly.

A fleet of dozens, launched from the Stepstones Islands, bypassed the disputed lands near Tyrosh and sailed into Lysene waters with the precision of a sharpened blade.

At Lys harbor, a hundred pirate warships emerged, marshaling tens of thousands of mercenaries and preparing an army to confront the advancing enemy fleet.

From a distance, the two forces eyed each other, the brink of battle looming.

With a piercing shriek, a scarlet dragon, its wings broad and neck serpent-like, cleaved through the clouds and descended over the sea, initiating its attack.

Suddenly, a blast of dragonfire streaked from the skies, targeting a pirate ship of the Triarchy.

The haunting sound of a war horn echoed as dozens of warships, adorned with seahorses and red crabs, aligned impeccably. Catapults loaded with oil-soaked stones stood ready on their decks.

"Counterattack! Surround them!" bellowed voices from the Triarchy, as scorpion crossbows, laden with steel bolts, aimed at the assaulting fleet and the dragons above.

"Dracarys!" Daemon, astride Caraxes, commanded. His attire, a pitch-black dragon scale armor with a crimson cape, marked him as the battlefield commander of the Lys Sea engagement.

Caraxes let out a high-pitched scream, its echo a sonic wave, as it elegantly soared, unleashing continuous torrents of dragonfire on the pirate ships below.

"Release the crossbows!" shouted a robust man with red curls and olive skin, wielding a scimitar as he directed the mercenaries in a calculated counter.

This was Sharako Lohar, a famed mercenary leader from Myr and the Navy Commander of the Triarchy.

Daemon’s eyes gleamed with sarcasm as he ordered another onslaught of "Dracarys!"

Caraxes responded with continuous roars, its wide, scarlet wings flapping vigorously as it spewed fire over a pirate ship.

The dragon, seasoned in naval combat, adeptly dodged incoming bolts, safeguarding both itself and its rider.

Despite their numbers, the mercenaries were clearly at a disadvantage, their inexperience with dragons causing disarray and panic.

"Crossbows on that dragon! And if you miss, use the crossbows on yourselves!" Sharako roared as he shoved aside panicking crewmen, seizing the ship’s wheel to take aim at the looming Blood Wyrm.

At just the right moment, as the Blood Wyrm dove to release its fire, Sharako's eyes hardened and he triggered the launcher.

The steel bolt shot forth, narrowly missing the unsuspecting Blood Wyrm.

Daemon, commanding the fleet's advance, felt a chill as danger approached.

"Roar..." Caraxes sensed the peril, swiftly curling its body to ascend, instinctively seeking cloud cover to evade the enemy.

The bolt grazed its slender tail, causing no damage. Daemon’s gaze turned icy as he watched the enemy ship that had fired.

"Fire!" he commanded, as a barrage of steel spears rained down, forcing Caraxes to retreat once more.

"Damned fools!" Daemon cursed, maneuvering his dragon into a defensive loop.

Meanwhile, warships flying the flags of the Houses of Velaryon and Celtigar rammed the Triarchy's ships with suicidal fervor.

The impact was catastrophic: wood splintered, screams filled the air, and the sea became a chaotic mess of men and debris. The battle became a brutal melee.

That night, under the eerie glow of torchlight, the makeshift Dragonpit in Lys echoed with the unsettling sound of a dragon’s roar.

The low, guttural call of Morghul reverberated through the chamber, mingling with the harsh clank of chains. The captive dragon, in a fit of fury, snapped violently, unleashing a blast of smoky gray dragonfire, desperate to incinerate the confinements of its prison.

The creature was plagued by incessant disturbances from the mercenaries, growing weary of the meager fare it was forced to consume.

Outside the bronze gates, a group of mercenaries watched the masterless beast’s rage with a mix of fear and fascination.

"We’re close to breaking its will," Bambarro declared, barely containing his excitement.

Beside him, a gaunt old man with a white beard and hair, his eyes clouded and distant, peered intently at the dragon. Draped in a blood-red robe and leaning on a gnarled scepter, he rasped, "After sacrificing hundreds from Valyrian blood by feeding it, we’ve finally seen the dragon’s resilience wane."

Known as Priest Roth, this blood wizard had journeyed across the vast Dothraki Sea to serve in this grim endeavor. His methods involved blood sorcery intended to sap the will of dragons.

With reverence, Bambarro asked, "Priest Roth, shall we attempt another taming tonight?"

Roth shook his head, his voice gravelly, "This dragon's intellect rivals that of man. Giving it a rest tonight may make it easier to control later."

After a few final instructions, the old priest limped away on his staff.

Rubbing his hands in eager anticipation, Bambarro then received reports from his subordinates. "The Iron Throne’s fleet was defeated at sea, and Daemon Targaryen refuses to unleash the dragons for another strike, fearing a second confrontation."

Chuckling, Bambarro mused, "We've secured the Stepstones Islands and blocked all trade through the Narrow Sea. Do the Targaryens really think a few dragons can take Lys unaided?"

Despite his bravado, a flicker of concern crossed his mind. "Keep your eyes on Volantis, those territories are watching Lys closely."

"Yes, Magister."

"Send word to the Archon of Tyrosh. The Iron Throne may be splitting their forces for a pincer attack. Tell them to strengthen their naval defenses."

Bambarro's strategies had been shaped by whispers and warnings of Targaryen tactics, including their previous stealth attacks on Lys, proving that he was as cunning as he was ruthless.

...

As Bambaro anticipated, the waters near Tyrosh were not spared from conflict.

A fleet of ten warships bearing the seahorse flag boldly initiated an assault on Tyrosh’s patrol vessels, triggering a fierce skirmish at sea. The Velaryon ships, adept in their maneuvers, dominated the encounter, seizing control of the disputed waters and systematically targeting isolated patrol ships.

Archon Milov Strode of Tyrosh, infuriated by the audacity and success of the Velaryon fleet, took matters into his own hands. With a fiery resolve, he commanded a squadron of thirty ships to pursue and engage the enemy.

In a relentless battle on the turbulent seas, Strode’s forces decisively defeated the Velaryon fleet, sinking their ships and quelling their threat.

This victory marked the downfall of both fleets from the Iron Throne that had ventured forth from the Stepstones Islands, each being systematically dismantled in their respective encounters.

...

Myr.

Nestled in the Bay on the continent of Essos in the Sea of Myrth, this city-state enjoys a strategic location.

Inside the Magisters' Palace, the Council Chamber feels emptier than usual without Khaeldor Astor. Only an elderly man and a young man remain.

Their conversation does not revolve around taming dragons or repelling an attack from the Iron Throne. The fate of the Valyrian descendants sent to Lys is now in the hands of the gods.

Geographically, Myr stands independently on the continent, meaning any assault from the Iron Throne would require circumventing the Tyrosh blockade and traversing the entirety of the disputed lands.

The elder, his skin dark and hair dyed purple, spoke in a resonant tone, "We need to choose a new Magister to replace Khaeldor. The wealthy merchants of the city are already vying for the position."

The young man, with dark hair, nodded, "The Corhos Houses has proposed a significant gold offering to settle our debts with the Iron Bank. They're quite generous."

At the mention of the Iron Bank, the elder's expression darkened, his voice tight with frustration, "It's regrettable that our Unsullied were intercepted by the Braavos Sealord." This legion of five hundred Unsullied would have been more cost-effective than hiring five thousand mercenaries.

The discussion continued unabated, even delving into the estate of the late Khaeldor, considering selling his concubines and offspring to raise funds.

Soon a servant interrupted with a letter and handed it to the elder. He squinted at the contents with obvious disdain: "Bambaro is a fool, Myr's position is not that easy to attack, we would be the last standing at the end of this war."

The young man scoffed as he read over the letter, "With dozens of warships at our harbor, what threat does the Iron Throne’s fleet pose?"

Their only real concern was a potential attack by dragons.

"If the Iron Throne’s King rashly decides to unleash several dragons to incinerate our city, their losses would be catastrophic. Yet, our scorpion crossbows are formidable too," the elder mused, confident that the King's timidity would prevent him from risking his dragons against their fortified city.

Just as they were reassuring themselves of their preparations, a terrifying dragon roar shattered the silence.

"Roar--"

A colossal evil dragon, its scales as dark as charcoal, erupted into the sky above Myr. It blotted out the sun, its thunderous roar echoing across the city and beyond.

On the northern city walls of Myr, Rhaegar stood with an icy gaze, draped in a black cloak. Riding the dragon Cannibal, he commanded in a steely voice, "Dracarys!"

With a ferocious roar, Cannibal, its wings vast and dark as night, swooped toward the towering stone fortifications. As it descended, a torrent of eerie green dragonfire spilled forth, engulfing the defenses. Soldiers scrambled desperately, their screams piercing the chaos as they fled from the consuming flames, as ephemeral as autumn leaves in a gust.

Unmoved by the fleeing figures below, Cannibal glided at a low altitude, its fiery breath relentlessly melting the stone walls which sizzled and hissed under the extreme heat. The stone and steel, no match for the dragon's breath, melted away, distorting and collapsing into molten pools.

Outside the city, an imposing force was assembled. Five hundred Unsullied stood at the ready, backed by two thousand black-armored Fearless. Behind them, Robb led eight hundred heavily armored Second Sons atop warhorses, followed closely by two thousand knights of the Vale, their banners of the Sky-blue falcon fluttering above.

The rear was bolstered by a 5,000-strong contingent from Pentos, a mixed force of mercenaries, sellswords and hired Dothraki cavalry, all united in dread and awe of the black dragon overhead.

This siege tactic was unprecedented, awe-inspiring and terrifying in its execution.

As a significant portion of the city walls crumbled under the dragon's assault, the cries of despair from the defenders filled the air. Returning to the fray, Cannibal roared menacingly. On its back stood a silver-haired young man, bathed in sunlight, his presence almost godlike.

With all eyes upon him, Rhaegar's purple gaze pierced the chaos below as he raised his arms commandingly and roared, "Send the troops, attack Myr!"

At his signal, over a thousand Dothraki cavalry responded first. With wild shouts, they drew their swords and charged, leading the charge. The rest of the army followed in a relentless wave, cavalry thundering ahead, infantry close behind.

Cannibal roared again, its massive form casting a shadow over Myr as it dove towards the city center, unleashing more torrents of green dragonfire to clear a path.

Above, the sky filled with the roars of dragons—Red Queen Meleys, Blood Worm Caraxes, the light silver Sea Smoke, and the light gray Gray Ghost. Together, they descended in a devastating cascade, their dragonfire painting the city in spectral hues.

Despite the Triarchy's naval prowess, the strategic infiltration of the Pentos army through the coastal route rendered the city-states' defenses as fragile as parchment-easily shredded.

The strategy was cunning: divide the forces into three, two to distract and one to stealthily breach the defenses. As the foot soldiers charged through, the dragons above orchestrated a ballet of destruction, their fiery onslaught ensuring that Myr would soon surrender to their combined might.