Chapter 51 - First Blood

28 AC

First Moon

Elaegelle Targaryen

As the Royal armies assembled for an invasion of the Disputed Lands - or what the Essosi called the Verdant Heel - the Royal fleets under command of House Velaryon were the first to strike against the newly formed Triarchy of Myr, Lys and Tyrosh in response to what they called 'unwarranted barbaric aggression'.

Elaegelle resisted the urge to snort; as if those fat magisters had the right to criticise Westeros when they fought wars for more years than the Essosi dared to count.

"You look rather deep in thought, Milady. Copper for your thoughts?"

Elaegelle turned to address Ser Jaehaerys, "Just thinking about the Triarchy, that's all."

"Ah, those magisters," Ser Jaehaerys's gaze turned distant, "I recall fighting in several wars there to earn my spurs, all part of honing my martial talent to do my house proud."

Jaehaerys scoffed, an alien gesture compared to his polite mannerisms.

"Fat pigs who style themselves kings, what a bloody irony," He trailed off.

"At least we get to humble them now," Elaegelle shrugged, "Last they were invaded by Argilac, he was outnumbered and lacked dragons and a stable food supply. Now, they're facing the full might of Westeros backed by my family. Naturally, we'll win."

"I couldn't agree more," Jaehaerys smiled.

IIOII

"Incoming!"

A Tyroshi admiral felt the ship give way from the harsh impact to its stern, and he held onto the railing for dear life as he lost his balance.

"Have the damaged ships pull back and ready our ballistae! We have to bring them down!"

"We're loading as fast as we-agh!"

The admiral winced as he saw the poor sailor be brushed off the deck by a ballistae bolt with two others.

"Damn it, they're monsters, all of them!" He cursed under his breath, "What sort of kingdom gives birth to such monsters!?"

The Paletillian fleets under House Velaryon smashed apart much of the initial resistance by the Triarchy at sea, and with more of the Iron Throne's fleets to come, the Triarchy would be in for a hard fight.

He then saw three more ships be taken down by ramming and well-placed ballistae shots, and he shouted, "Signal the other fleets to tighten their formation! We cannot allow them to ram anymore of us!"

"But sir, we've lost too many ships already! We can't hold the seas for much longer!" A sailor protested.

"The other fleets are already engaged!" Shouted the admiral, "We have to hold here, and hope the other fleets can as well, so grow a pair!"

"Y-Yes, Sir!" Said the sailor.

We have to hold, we have to; we have to buy enough time for the rest of the fleets to arrive.

Grimacing became all he was capable of as he saw more and more ships being gradually picked off one by one, and the tyroshi admiral realised even if the fleet could hold, he would not survive - not when he was being surrounded.

"Admiral, incoming!"

He saw a galley approach his ship at high-speed, the strong headwind billowing its sails and granting it faster momentum than his own galleys, and the armoured prow shone menacingly in the sunlight.

It crashed hard, and he felt himself being thrown off the ship, falling into the cold embrace of the deep seas.

Looking around as he flailed his arms and legs towards the surface, he saw countless sailors and mariners trying hard and failing to swim to safety. Some were crushed by falling debris, some managed to swim to the surface, only to float lifelessly in a pool of crimson as enemy archers finished off the survivors. Some were consumed by sharks lurking beneath the seas, feasting on their next snack.

And soon he felt the shark's jaws clamp down on his abdomen. Fatigued and badly wounded, he knew he faced his fate.

May the Gods have mercy on the Triarchy…

IIOII

Third Moon

Disputed Lands

With the initial naval battles handled, the rest of the Triarchy fleets were mustered and fought fierce battles against the Westerosi fleets; the Triarchy fleets had much to lose in this war besides their pride, and the magisters pooled their massive vaults to hire all the privateer fleets they could scrounge together.

Yet it was to no avail; the Triarchy privateers were mercenaries hired by coin and only loosely united against Westerosi aggression. The Westerosi fleets, on the other hand, had battle-hardened admirals with years of experience and loyalty as a cohesive, united fighting force.

Not long after the initial skirmishes, the Dornian Ducal Navy joined the fray with Lord High Admiral Elanzo Aresaryn at the helm, demonstrating its might and skill at sinking a few dozen ships with minimal losses.

Though the Triarchy fleets had wisened to their disadvantageous position and focused on dispersed hit-and-run attacks, enough of their ships sunk to clear the way for the invasion force, and soon the first boots and hooves hit the ground.

Orys Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Hand of the King, stared impassively at the Essosi mercenary companies engaging his troops in a bloody melee as crossbows from both sides fired arrows in mutual exchange.

"I'll have to admit, these mercenaries are formidable fighters who don't break easily."

Amid the cacophony of bloody screams, ringing steel and roars of bloodlust, Lord Brandyll Tarly of Horn Hill watched silently from the centre of their formation, the hardened veteran of two wars bearing grey strands of hair and slight wrinkles.

"Not everyday I see you give compliments like that, Brandyll," Orys remarked.

"True," Brandyll shrugged, "But like the Unsullied and most other mercenary companies, they fight with outdated tactics."

True to form, the new pike square formations held brilliantly against the shieldwalls due to the longer reach, and as a result the mercenaries had a difficult trial trying to close the distance. Smarter ones would duck their heads down and let their shields deflect pikes, but then they had to deal with a constant hail of close-range crossbow bolts. One could say the formation was drawing them in and then whittling them down with a routine tirelessness.

And the mercs, so focused on the frontal assault, soon faced cavalry charges that smashed into their flanks and slaughtered scores in seconds, crushing them contemptuously and sending limbs and bodies flying.

"That being said, they do have heavy cavalry of their own," Orys pointed out, seeing mercenary outriders and lancers ride down their fair share of levymen and unlucky or impatient knights, "And quite a number of our own knights are being slaughtered."

"Indeed, the fools," Brandyll frowned slightly, "I recall several of our own knights being at the mercy of Dornian tactics."

Orys grimly nodded and then asked, "Princess Elaegelle's faring quite well in battle, all things considered."

Elaegelle Targaryen fired shots from her own bow made of dragonbone, felling a handful of enemies whilst her pike square maintained their composure in the face of overwhelming greed and desire.

"She looks like a beauty!"

"Hah, maybe she'll make a good bedslave once we capture her!"

Elaegelle was contemptuous and composed, meticulously aiming her shots at her enemies' necks and skulls.

"Hold the formation! Not a single one gets through!" She ordered, the adrenaline keeping her focused.

"Aye, Ma'am!"

The men of Dornia were hardened from months of gruesome training, designed to thoroughly break them down and then remake them as soldiers and instil discipline and professionalism to turn men into a well-oiled fighting machine.

For paid mercenaries, their true battlefield was not the battlefield itself but in back rooms where deals were made and mind games were played to inflate their egos and pride. Battles between them were highly theatrical and showy and lasted until some nebulous concept of victory was achieved and the losing leader threw in the towel.

Westerosi armies, on the other hand, often fought for victory or death; showing off and minimal casualties was not in their strategy when they had everything to lose.

As such, the greedy mercenaries, once they saw they would not break down the pike square so easily, turned to disengage and find easier targets to pick.

"We ain't making a dent! Run!"

Only for them to be filled with arrows as Bhreynar horse archers utilised their unerring accuracy to deadly effect, before cataphracts crushed them for good.

From his horse, Orys gave a grudging grunt of approval.

"I have to say, Arin did good in allowing these 'Bhreynar' to settle down in his kingdom," He said, more to himself, "Never thought I would be happy to see Dothraki on our side."

"Dothraki will always be Dothraki, no matter how civilised they are," Brandyll waved off, "Though loathe as I am to admit it, their horsemanship is second to only the best of our knights."

As they spoke, Dornian chariots mowed down any Essosi unfortunate enough to be caught in their warpath, and the spiked cylinders they dragged along finished off those who survived the first pass. Brandyll grimaced upon seeing them, unpleasant memories coming to the fore.

"It seems Arin Rada always finds new ways to surprise us," Brandyll remarked, his grimacing turning grimmer, "Though I hear it was his daughter Azella's idea to bring them to Dornia, after failing to secure sanctuary for the refugees at Daeria (Volantis)."

"It is clear she does not truly share her father's ruthlessness," Orys nodded, "In a way, it does somehow reassure me."

"The fact she is not the second Black Fox? Yes, I get that feeling," Brandyll put forth, "I also hear that integrating the Bhreynar into Dornian society and infrastructural projects are her primary concern, and not warcraft."

"So a fellow steward, like her father," Orys nodded, "It somehow seems fitting for House Rada."

"That does not mean Dornia does not remain a threat, however," Brandyll quickly asserted, "They have the Bhreynar's horsemanship, the most modern fighting force in the entire known world, state-of-the-art technology and bureaucracy and the logistics to support a growing war machine. His Lordship Edmund is a good king and shaping up to be a great warrior, but he will need more than heart and loyalty of his vassals to prosecute a war against Dornia."

"You do not think Dornia would actually start a war, do you?"

"I don't, Lord Baratheon," Brandyll replied, "But it is always good to have additional thorns to prick back with."

Orys nodded in silent agreement.

Azella Rada, together with her husband Temujin, led their cavalry in lightning-fast flanking assaults and head-on collisions, directing the armies with shrill horn calls. Dornian troops cheered loudly everywhere they went, their mere presence bolstering their high morale and drawing other mercenaries to attempt claiming their heads.

Before long, the battle was over, and the men of Westeros stood triumphant as the mercenaries fled the field.

"Victory! We have victory!" Azella cheered, raising her sword up high.

IIOII

Azella Rada

As the men went about scavenging arms and armour and sorting the dead, Azella Rada met with the other commanders of the Royal armies for their next move.

"We ought to strike at Tyrosh and seize it to expand our control of the Narrow Sea," She suggested.

"Of course you wish to seize Tyrosh; it is claimed under your dominion of Idosaea, isn't it?" Remarked Brandyll.

"It is," Azella stated matter-of-factly, "And since Tyrosh is one of the Triarchy member-states, is it not most desirable?"

"Their land possessions will also serve as a suitable base of operations to control the Disputed Lands, and they have a large pool of resources we can seize for ourselves," Said Temujin, and most of the Westerosi disapproved of his presence.

"And how do you propose we conquer Tyrosh, Khal Rada?" Questioned a Valeman commander, "Surely you do not wish to rely on the royal house for this matter?"

"Is that not the plan?" Asked Temujin, "Or do you fancy yourself willing to countermand royal orders?"

"Enough bickering," Orys thumped his fist on the table, "We are here to pursue war with the Triarchy as a united force, so act like one."

"Of course, my apologies, Lord Baratheon," Temujin bowed slightly.

"In any case, now that we've managed to land troops and blockade the Free Cities of Tyrosh and Lys, we need only seize their lands and any independent villages we encounter along the way," Orys explained, "Then once we seize the magisters themselves, we force them to sign a treaty ending this farce, and that's that."

"It is almost disappointing, seeing how easily we defeated these mercenaries," Brandyll remarked, "Granted, several companies fought harder than most I've encountered, but they lack the loyalty of our armies."

"And with too many of their number dead, I suspect they will either disband or be absorbed into bigger companies," Azella added, "Perhaps we need the dragons only to scorch their high, mighty walls."

Brandyll scoffed with a snort of approval, "Yes, I suppose that's the case. What of the villages, however?"

"Unless they give any reason for us to treat them as enemies, neither the people nor their property are to be touched," Orys firmly stated, "Of course, if there are those who try to harm us, or should the village elders attempt any form of dishonesty that harms the momentum of our campaign, you have royal permission to deal with them as you see fit. Otherwise, if any of you raze or plunder without due cause, you will be hanged, drawn and quartered under martial law. Understood?"

"Aye, Milord!" The commanders chorused.

"That is all for now, dismissed!" Orys said.

Azella and Temujin quickly made their way towards their encampment where the troops quickly welcomed them with food and drink at the ready.

"Hail our khaleesi, our strong and proud commander who bent not in the face of mercenary scum!" Shouted a Bhreynar officer.

"And who kills slavers but good!" A soldier joined in.

"Huzzah!"

Azella smiled as she held up a tankard of water and addressed the troops, "All of you did good today, fighting hard and showing the Essosi our military prestige. After all, mercenaries are incapable of blue-sky thinking about how real soldiering is done."

Many troops gave light-hearted chuckles.

"There are more battles to fight, more glory to seize and more slavers to kill," Temujin added, "And I know that by the winged feet of our steeds and the lightning steel of our blades, our army shall prove victorious, just as it proved victorious over the savage Dothraki and the slaving scum of Volantis!"

"Hear, hear!" The troops chanted.

"Eat and rest well for tonight, tomorrow will be a long day," Azella smiled.

For tonight, it was a night of celebration and anticipation of a quick and humiliating war for the Essosi, a repeat of the Volantis Campaign.

As they say, ignorance is bliss.

IIOII

Braavos

The Council Chamber of Braavos was in a frenzied state of arguing and bickering between politicians, shouts and jabs reaching a fever pitch as neither side could agree on a common solution regarding a common threat: The invasion of the Disputed Lands.

"We must declare for war on the side of the Iron Throne! This is the only chance we have to permanently eliminate slavery in the Disputed Lands!"

"I say aye! Our ships are top-of-the-line and our navy unmatched on the seas!"

"You damned fool! The Dornians have the most advanced ships! Our models are outdated by comparison!"

"Are you saying we are inferior to the Westerosi!?"

"They have dragons and the Dornian navy! Better to fight with them than against them!"

"Enough!"

The loud, crisp voice of Tycho Jokune, the new Sealord of Braavos, rang out like a gong in the chamber's confines, silencing all fruitless bickering.

"We are at the crossroads of an important point in our nation's history, one that will see us survive or be torched to ashes, and all we are capable of is shouting matches? Is this the Council of Braavos, or a filthy pigsty?" He bellowed with angry eyes, his nostrils flaring and his neck's veins tensing.

Suitably chastised by Tycho's reprimand, the councillors were silent.

"Now, it is clear we cannot afford to ignore the Iron Throne's actions any longer, and as some of you said, there is no better time than to deal a blow to the slave trade of Essos. Furthermore, should we join the Iron Throne in their crusade against slavery, not only will we improve their opinions of us, we may even be able to negotiate for favourable concessions in our alliance," Tycho stated to the approval of the more hawkish councillors, "And to those who wish to opt for neutrality, that is unadvidable; not only will the other City-States frown upon our inaction, some may even use this as an excuse to declare war against us, and the Iron Throne will be given reason to break our alliance, perhaps even treat us as an enemy."

"But Sealord, what if we participate and still fail to obtain some measure of compensation?" Asked a councillor.

"Failure to obtain reward is one thing, but shaping perceptions of Braavos is another," Tycho pointed out, "If everyone comes to believe that the greatest naval power - a Free City that champions anti-slavery - shies away from conflict, they will come to treat us as a laughingstock and snub us in future diplomatic dealings. If we choose the path of war, ally and enemy alike will know we stood by our ideas and our cause, and they will treat us with greater respect."

For the Councilors, there was no need for further debate and argument.

Just then, one of the guards approached the Sealord and bowed, saying, "Beg your pardon, Sealord, but Magister Vogar Brenaar from Myr seeks audience with you."

"Magister Brenaar? Why is he here?" Tycho half-demanded.

"He says he is here on behalf of the Council of Myr regarding the ongoing war with the Iron Throne, that he wishes to entreat with the Free City of Braavos to sue for peace," The guard reported, "Not much else, Sealord."

I suppose it's natural they'd want to sue for peace at this point, but that man hardly qualifies as a diplomat; he's a stubborn mule at best and a rotten pig at worst.

"Send him in," Tycho ordered.

Best talk with him directly and see what he wants.

Vogar Brenaar was vastly changed the last time Tycho saw him; gone was the corpulent pig with an overly round face and eyes so narrow one could barely see the whites within, and a rotund figure that regularly threatened to tear his clothes apart. His body was thin and skinny, his black pupils clear to see and filled with an unnatural cunning, and he carried himself with a dignified yet casual gait.

"Good afternoon, Sealord Jokune," Vogar greeted with a gentle smile, "I am Magister Vogar Brenaar, and I am here on behalf of the Council of Myr to negotiate terms for peace."

His words were like sickeningly sweet honey, and all who listened were soon put under a spell they could not escape from - a spell that enthralled them without their knowledge.

"Go on…" Tycho beckoned.

And as they listened, the seeds of their downfall were sown.