Chapter 151: The Battle of Tyrosh, 6 PM
Robb liked to use ice, while Ashara preferred fire.
There was no sound, and the spherical fireball suddenly expanded, engulfing the entire small square.
The edges of the spherical magic were smooth, with countless flowing red hues on its surface, while the interior was a fiery red, making everything invisible.
The magic lasted less than 10 seconds before the fireball vanished, like a popped soap bubble.
"Oh!"
"My gods!"
"Seven gods, have mercy!"
A circular area appeared on the ground of the small square, the red bricks burned to a scalding heat. The rising hot air distorted the vision, and all wooden items turned white, turning to ash with the slightest breeze. Those within the magic's range were reduced to blackened charred corpses, their bodies lying in various positions on the square, making the area look like hell through the distorted heat.
The lucky mercenaries who weren't affected and were outside the small square dropped their weapons and surrendered, kneeling on the ground with their heads in their hands.
No one dared to step into the circular area. Only Qyburn, Thoros, Tyene, and Nymeria, wearing Valyrian steel armor, were the first to enter.
Every magic spell is designed so that the caster is not harmed. Ashara, completely exhausted, sat in the center of the square, leaning on her swords, lost in a daze, exuding the strong scent of excrement.
"Are you alright, Ashara?" Nymeria asked.
Ashara looked up, her eyes red and full of tears. Tyene quickly moved to her, cupping Ashara's face in her hands and wiping away the tears with her thumb.
Despite her fierce combat, Ashara was still just a teenage girl, and after being covered in excrement in front of the warriors of the Seven Kingdoms, she instantly broke down.
"It's alright, Ashara, look at me and Thoros, we've both been covered too," Qyburn said.
"Yeah! Yeah! Just find somewhere to clean up," Thoros added.
Seeing that the two were in the same condition, Ashara didn't sob out loud but started crying in earnest.
Tyene comforted Ashara, holding her head in her arms to shield her from others' view.
The heat slowly dissipated, and other leaders and soldiers gathered around, pushing the surrendered Windblown mercenaries to the center of the square to await their fate.
Oberyn, the highest-ranking officer present, should have been the one to speak, but he moved to the side to direct soldiers to continue the assault.
Nymeria raised her spear, placing its tip against the mercenary's throat.
"Tell me! Who came up with the idea of using these filth to attack the mages? And what other secret weapons do you have?"
Many had heard the enemy shout about mages and secret weapons.
The mercenaries were just following orders for money, and having fought this way, they felt they had done their job well. They honestly confessed:
"It... was Wr...i ...ght... Ba!" His teeth had been knocked out, making his speech unclear.
Qyburn, with his experience with such damaged individuals, roughly understood: "You're saying it was against Wright Baratheon?"
The mercenary nodded repeatedly.
"Why use these filthy things?" Nymeria asked.
The mercenary answered: "Wright... ... raises... women… horse!"
"What?!" Nymeria slapped the mercenary across the face.
He covered his face. What he meant to say was: "Wright doesn't keep horses, just two women—those women are Nymeria and Tyene. That's the intelligence I received from Tattered Prince's spies!" But his broken teeth made it impossible for him to speak clearly.
Nymeria asked again: "What other secret weapons do you have?"
The mercenary clutched his face. The Valyrian steel gauntlet had struck him hard, and now the pain was unbearable. "Wright... kill... wo..."
Tyene's expression changed the moment she heard that. Nymeria wondered whether he meant Wright or herself—she had killed quite a few women during the chaos in Ny-Sar.
Thoros kicked the mercenary to the ground and grabbed another one whose mouth was still intact. "You talk!"
"I really don't know! He was our captain. I was only in charge of preparing the filth. I had to save up for over ten days just to gather enough!"
Tyene scoffed. "These men are worthless. Just small fry. But it's definitely connected to Wright. Kill them!"
"Behead them all!"
As Wright's lawful wife, Nymeria held authority over the situation, and the mages present were all familiar with her. They immediately carried out her order. The air was soon filled with screams and wails as over a hundred heads rolled.
"Keep pushing into the inner city!"
---
The Tattered Prince, covered in dust and grime, looked furious. "What about the dragon in the sky? You hired us to defend the city, not to fight dragons! No amount of extra pay is worth this!"
The Archon of Tyrosh was equally anxious. "The heavy ballistae on our towers were built using designs from the Valyrian Empire. If you remove the base locks, they can be angled to fire into the sky."
"You want me to shoot at a dragon?" The Tattered Prince sneered. "Do you take me for a fool? I don't have a death wish!"
The Archon lowered his head. "The man using magic on the dragon's head—that's Wright Baratheon. The armies of the Seven Kingdoms have already begun slaughtering the city. If you want to live, surrendering won't save you!"
The Tattered Prince fell silent. He had never thought that taking a simple city defense job would lead to his death.
The Archon pressed on. "If you use the ballistae to kill the dragon, your mercenary company will become the most famous across both Essos and Westeros. Even if you die, your name will be recorded in history!"
The Tattered Prince hesitated for a moment. "The dragon isn't being controlled by a rider right now. It's just circling. I can give it a try."
Before long, the ballista crews atop the inner city's towers received the order. They waited for the dragon to turn its back to them, then fired their heavy bolts in unison.
But Tyrosh had not experienced war for too long, and the ballistae had not been well-maintained. Many bolts fell short due to insufficient range, and some ballistae even snapped their strings upon firing.
The few bolts that did reach the dragon bounced harmlessly off its scales, lacking the force to penetrate.
Ballistae were among the few weapons that could truly threaten dragons. Othawiyn felt something poking at its belly, looked down, and saw a cluster of heavy bolts beneath it. Furious, the dragon turned toward the inner city and unleashed torrents of dragonfire upon the towers and streets.
---
Meanwhile, Renly and his men were also receiving a "warm" welcome from the mercenaries.
Expecting arrows, Renly activated his magical shield to block them—only to find himself covered in filth instead.
And it wasn't just him. Robert and the Kingsguard nearby also suffered the same fate. Thinking they were under a rain of arrows, Robert had held his shield tightly in front of himself, but the disgusting sludge seeped through every gap, trickling down his armor.
Startled chickens flapped wildly, scattering feathers everywhere. The entire group was left in a ridiculous state.
Robert was furious. The king being subjected to such an insult was unacceptable. Enraged, he ordered his men to fight their way through.
"Watch out for the ballistae!"
"Protect the king!"
The heavy ballista bolts, originally meant for the dragon, now rained down across the city. Shields couldn't block them—one soldier was impaled through the chest and pinned to the ground.
The Kingsguard barely managed to drag Robert into a nearby building for cover.
"The bastards are trying to kill the king!"
The nobles behind Robert were seething with rage. A warrior could be killed but not humiliated. First, they had insulted the king with filth—an insult to the king was an insult to them all. Then, they had tried to kill him with ballistae. This was beyond forgiveness.
They began indiscriminately slaughtering the Tyrosh civilians.
---
The inner city's towers and streets were engulfed in dragonfire, a vision of pure hell.
One after another, reports of defeat reached the Archon's castle.
The Archon stood abruptly, his fury boiling over. "Wright Baratheon has used his dragon to break our walls, destroy everything in Tyrosh, and now he's massacring the civilians!"
The Tattered Prince watched the Archon rage even as doom loomed over them. He said nothing and simply walked out of the hall. He was already considering how to surrender. They were mercenaries—so long as they didn't further provoke their enemies, survival was still possible. After that, it was just a matter of buying their way out.
The Archon shouted, "Guards! Servants! Everyone, come here!"
Nobles, bureaucrats, soldiers, and attendants rushed into the hall. They were all in the same sinking ship—once the city fell, death awaited them.
But before the surrender faction could even reach the gates, the walls were already gone. The dragon had destroyed any path to surrender.
"Release every single raven! Send them to Essos and Westeros! Every last one!"
"Wright Baratheon is slaughtering the city! He refuses to accept our surrender! He's going to kill every last soul in Tyrosh!"
---
Jaime stared at Wright, outwardly calm but deeply unsettled.
Joffrey had grown up, changed his name, and was now serving as Jaime's squire. With Wright's intelligence, he would surely recognize him—or worse, Joffrey might accidentally reveal himself. If it came to that, Jaime had already decided: he would die to ensure his son's escape.
But Joffrey had no magic, and amidst the chaos of war and looting, he was just another boy caught in the mayhem. Wright paid him no attention.
His focus was on the sky—on Odahviing.
The ballistae in the inner city had begun firing at the circling dragon, and Odahviing was now diving toward them.
"We're finished!"
Wright muttered to himself, then rushed toward the inner city, leaving Jaime behind.
A group of enemy soldiers blocked his way. Wright gripped his massive sword with both hands and swung in a wide arc. A crescent-shaped wave of blood-red energy surged forward, cutting through shields, armor, and men alike. It tore through five or six soldiers before dissipating, leaving a trail of severed torsos and spilled entrails.
"Hmm. Armor provides decent resistance to sword energy."
But he had no time for prolonged combat. Extending his Magic Hand, he grabbed the edge of a nearby roof and vaulted onto the rooftops, sprinting toward the inner city.
Odahviing was already unleashing dragonfire.
"Od~~Da~~Viing~!"
The Thu'um rang through the battlefield, laced with magic. The dragon, in the middle of exhaling fire, abruptly stopped and turned its head toward Wright—then continued incinerating the city.
The shout had no magical effect beyond catching the dragon's attention. It was simply a call to pick him up.
After circling and spewing more dragonfire, Odahviing finally flew toward Wright.
Standing on the rooftop, Wright reached out with Magic Hand and grabbed hold as the dragon passed low, climbing swiftly onto its back.
From the Tyrosh castle, a flock of ravens took flight, but as soon as they were airborne, the sight of the dragon sent them scattering in terror. Some fled high into the sky, others darted toward the sea, their panicked cries filling the air as they dispersed in all directions.
Wright had trained Odahviing well. The dragon knew that when under ballista fire, the priority was to evade, then destroy the siege weapons as quickly as possible. And now, it was following that lesson to the letter.
"Odahviing! Use frost breath now!"
"Frost doesn't work well on stone buildings!"
BOOM!
Another burst of dragonfire erupted, engulfing an entire street as houses ignited in roaring flames.
Ballistae from the towers below continued firing at Odahviing. The dragon tilted slightly, letting the bolts graze its scales before they lost momentum and fell away. The tower's reward was a massive inferno.
Wright shouted, "Stop breathing fire! I'll get you meat!"
Odahviing responded, "Dovahkiin, you taught me how to fight, and once I accepted it, it became our pact! If they fire upon me, I cannot let it stand!"
Wherever the inner-city towers had the most soldiers, Odahviing directed its fire, burning entire streets to cinders. The inner city was now a sea of flames, and Wright felt as if his heart was bleeding.
He had come to conquer Tyrosh, not destroy it. He had an agreement with Robert—they could pillage, but they couldn't burn the city.
Every structure that collapsed in flames now would cost a fortune to rebuild later. The more Odahviing enjoyed its fire, the more painful Wright's future expenses would be.
A fresh volley of ballista bolts shot from the tallest castle tower in Tyrosh. Odahviing executed a cobra roll midair, twisting its massive form with unexpected agility to evade the projectiles. Then, as instructed, it retaliated with relentless dragonfire.
The Archon's castle—the seat of Tyrosh's rulers, a fortress that had stood for centuries, home to generations of nobles—was consumed in an inferno.
Wright clutched his head and wailed, "My Tyrosh!"