Chapter 17: The Ash and the Ecstasy
The dawn following the initial shattering of the Grand Alliance broke upon a scene of carnage and terrified disarray. The Tyroshi-Volantene fleet, or what remained of it, was a collection of smoldering hulks, crippled vessels, and flotsam spread across miles of Myr's bay and the adjoining coastline. On land, tens of thousands of leaderless, demoralized soldiers – a chaotic mix of proud Volantene legionaries, flamboyant Tyroshi sellswords, and levies from a dozen lesser towns sworn to the two great cities – were scattered across the plains before Myr, their encampments burning, their commanders dead or vanished. They were trapped, with the implacable walls of Myr to their west, the dragon-haunted sea to their east, and Vaelyx Targaryen's victorious armies moving to encircle them.
Vaelyx had tasted their fear, and now he intended to drown them in it. There would be no quarter, no negotiated surrender for the masses. Essos needed to understand that defiance of the Dragon Lord meant not just defeat, but utter, soul-crushing annihilation.
"Let the skies rain fire, and the land drink their blood," Vaelyx commanded his lieutenants, his voice devoid of emotion, as he surveyed the broken enemy from Myr's highest tower. "Leave none who might rally. Let the carrion birds feast for a month. The story of Myr will be written in their bones."
The second day of the battle was not a contest, but a hunt, a symphony of methodical destruction orchestrated by Vaelyx and performed by his seven terrifying dragons and his blood-hungry horde.
Vorlag and Ignis were the incandescent heart of the slaughter. They swept across the plains in coordinated waves, their black-red and scarlet flames reducing entire enemy cohorts to screaming pyres. Pockets of desperate resistance, sellswords forming shield walls or Volantene legionaries attempting a disciplined fighting retreat, were simply consumed, their armor melting, their cries silenced by the roar of dragonfire. They targeted enemy supply dumps, turning caches of food and weaponry into blazing infernos, ensuring that even those who escaped the initial carnage would starve.
Tempest and Argentus became the scourges of the coast. Tempest, his stormy blue scales almost black against the smoke-filled sky, conjured localized whirlpools and waterspouts, dragging down overloaded rafts and makeshift boats as terrified soldiers attempted to flee by sea. Any larger vessels that had survived the previous day's naval battle and tried to rally or escape were met by Argentus, whose crackling blue-white lightning shattered their masts and boiled the water around them, electrocuting any who abandoned ship. He seemed to revel in his power, his metallic shrieks echoing Tempest's deeper roars.
Aurumel, the cream-and-gold dragon, played a more insidious role. She flew above the Dothraki and Myrish Legionary pursuit columns, her golden luminescence not only shielding them from any desperate, last-ditch missile fire but also weaving subtle illusions amongst the fleeing enemy. Patches of solid ground would appear as treacherous marshland, driving them into ambushes. Familiar landmarks would shift and distort, leading them in circles or into the waiting jaws of Boros's outriders. She turned their panicked flight into a maddening, hopeless ordeal.
Astra, the snow-white queen, was Vaelyx's instrument of precise judgment. She did not engage in widespread slaughter, but when Lyra's scouts or Veridian identified any surviving enemy officers attempting to rally their men or organize a defense, Astra would descend like a silent, avenging angel. A single, focused blast of her colorless energy, and the threat would be vaporized, leaving behind only a smoking crater and renewed terror amongst the witnesses. Her terrifying efficiency in eliminating leadership ensured that no coherent resistance could form.
And Veridian, the jade hunter, was everywhere and nowhere. He moved like a silent green phantom through the chaos, his empathic senses guiding him to hidden pockets of survivors, his movements almost impossible to track. He herded terrified enemy soldiers towards Dothraki kill zones, his eerie green fire – which seemed to burn cold yet consume flesh with terrifying speed – cutting off escape routes. Through Veridian's eyes, Vaelyx had a near-omniscient overview of the battlefield, ensuring no significant group escaped the tightening noose.
On the ground, Boros, at the head of the Dothraki Horde, was in his element. The screamers, their blood up, their fear of the dragons now channeled into a fanatical worship of their Dragon Khal, rode down the fleeing remnants of the Grand Alliance with savage joy. They took heads, their arakhs flashing, their victory cries echoing across the blood-soaked plains. Vaelyx allowed them their grim harvest; it was the Dothraki way, and their ferocity was a potent tool of terror.
Kaelen, leading the disciplined Myrish Legions and his Serpent's Scale veterans, conducted a more methodical sweep. They cleared out pockets of resistance, secured any strategic locations, and, under Vaelyx's specific orders, began to round up certain categories of prisoners. While the common soldiery of Tyrosh and Volantis was largely put to the sword, Vaelyx had instructed Kaelen to capture any high-ranking nobles, wealthy merchants, skilled engineers, or sellsword captains of particular note. These would be more valuable alive, for ransom, forced service, or as examples.
One such group was a significant contingent of the Golden Company, who had formed the core of the Tyroshi sellsword forces. Finding themselves surrounded, their Tyroshi employers dead or scattered, their commander, Ser Damon Sand, a grizzled veteran known as the "Pale Griffin," attempted a desperate parley. He offered the surrender of his remaining two thousand men, their lives in exchange for service to the Dragon Lord.
Vaelyx, observing from afar with Veridian, considered this. The Golden Company had a long and storied history, famously founded by Aegor Rivers, a Targaryen bastard. They were renowned for their discipline and never breaking a contract – until now, as their contract was with dead men. Irony, Vaelyx thought. He decided to grant them an audience.
Ser Damon Sand, a hard-bitten man with weary eyes, knelt before Vaelyx, who received him flanked by Kaelen and Boros, with Vorlag and Ignis providing a backdrop of smoldering menace.
"Dragon Lord," Ser Damon said, his voice rough. "The Golden Company is broken by your might. We ask for terms. We are men without a master. We would serve you."
Vaelyx's pale eyes studied him. "You fought against a Targaryen, Ser. Why should I trust swords that were aimed at my dominion?"
"We fought for gold, as sellswords do, Lord. Our contract was with Tyrosh. Tyrosh is… no more, it seems, in this fight. Our loyalty is to the gold, and to the commander who can lead us to victory. You have shown you are such a commander."
Vaelyx's lips curled. "You will swear blood oaths to me, Ser Damon. Your lives, your swords, your company, are mine. Break that oath, and my dragons will teach you the meaning of regret." He would integrate them, but they would be watched. Their skills were too valuable to waste, and their Targaryen connection, however bastardized, amused him. Ser Damon, seeing no alternative to annihilation, swore the oaths, his men following suit with grim relief.
The annihilation lasted for two more days. The plains around Myr became a vast charnel house. The sky was dark with smoke and carrion birds. The River Myria ran red. Finally, Vaelyx called a halt to the slaughter. The message had been sent.
The spoils were immense. Malakai's scribes worked day and night cataloging the captured weapons, armor, siege engines, horses, supplies, and the personal treasuries of defeated commanders. The remaining ships of the enemy fleet, those disabled but not sunk, were salvaged and added to Vaelyx's growing armada.
High-profile prisoners, including the flamboyant Tyroshi Archon Malerion (dragged from a wine cellar by Lyra's men) and several Volantene noble officers, were paraded through Myr in chains, a grim spectacle for the populace. Vaelyx had Malerion publicly fed to Ignis, a fiery and unambiguous statement to Tyrosh. The Volantene nobles were held for ransom or potential use in future political machinations against the Old Blood.
Vaelyx then allowed a few hundred utterly broken and terrified survivors – mostly low-ranking levies and ship crew, carefully chosen for their ability to carry a coherent tale of horror – to be given leaky boats and pointed towards Tyrosh and Volantis. They would be his heralds, spreading the news of the Grand Alliance's obliteration and the Dragon Lord's terrible wrath.
He issued a proclamation, carried by swift ships to all the Free Cities: "I am Vaelyx of House Targaryen, Lord of the Seven Flames, Khal of Khals, and Master of Myr and Lys. The powers that dared defy me are scattered ashes. Those cities that wish to avoid their fate will send tribute and emissaries to swear fealty. Those that resist will share their pyre. The Dragon has returned to Essos. A new Empire of Valyria rises. Choose your allegiance wisely."
The response from the rest of Essos was a wave of profound shock and terror. Qarth sent a delegation laden with an unprecedented tribute of gold, spices, and elephants, begging for mercy. The Slaver Cities fell silent, their trade disrupted, their own slave populations growing restless at the news of a power that could humble the mighty. Pentos, under a now utterly terrified Illyrio Mopatis, quadrupled its "voluntary contributions" to Vaelyx's war chest. Even distant Braavos, secure behind its lagoon and its Titan, took notice, its Sealord reportedly spending long hours in council with the Keyholders.
Vaelyx stood upon the bloodied battlements of Myr, the taste of ash and victory in his mouth. His seven dragons, feasting on the remains of the enemy army in the plains below, were silhouetted against a sky still hazed with smoke. His dominion was no longer a fledgling enterprise; it was an empire forged in the crucible of total war, cemented in blood and fear. Tyrosh and Volantis, though their capitals remained inviolate for now, were crippled, their armies shattered, their will to fight broken.
His gaze swept east, then south. The Disputed Lands, Qohor, Norvos, the Slaver's Bay… all lay ripe for the taking. Essos was his to reshape. And then, only then, would he turn his eyes to the land of his birth, to the Iron Throne that awaited its true master. The Dragon Scourge of Essos was just beginning his reign.