Chương 156: The Massacre at Myr. 293 AC
Uncharacteristically for the summer in southern Essos, the air was dry. The wind had come in overnight, sharp and cool off of the Dothraki sea, and the fires of the camps burned easier in the crisp air. The sea breeze muted by the greater weather pattern, which carried with it a clear sky divorced from the normally cloudy weather of the Three Sisters.
One could see the stars on nights like this one, he mused to himself, standing there atop one of the great spires of the city, twenty stories tall. Oxen trained for the role spun great mechanisms to lower and lift men through the levels of the palaces of the Magisters, though this one was distinct from the rest, the tallest building in the city and the home of its most important institution.
That said, while the tower of the Magistrate still stood a proud monument to Myr's wealth and power, it's occupants had been feeling rather squeezed as of late. Even they had the good sense to tighten their belts when under siege, lest their own people kill them given how high the Tyroshi were pricing what grain imports they managed.
The cities stockpiles were found lacking over the two months of blockaded land routes, and Pentos was already stretched thin fielding it's own defenses to the north against Dothraki raiders hired on by the Volantenes. At last word, their only aid by land might come from the Westerosi, but they had only begun marching in this direction some two weeks back, and they were weary from their victory on the Rhoyne and slow in coming.
Sea was another matter, Tyroshi had lost its fleet for the most part, but kept sending supplies, and the Braavosi and Westerosi were busy arguing in Lys over how best to be tyrants. He doubted either of them gave a shite over whether Myr fell or not. Neither were great allies of the three daughters.
They had bolstered their defenses with hired pirates at least, men fleeing the vengeful new prince of the Stepstones. Another development that had both the remaining daughters worried. Some had suggested even defecting to the Volantenes as Qohor had done, but the burning corpses of Myrish citizens from the outer city somewhat precluded that idea.
So instead they were stuck, their merry little council, in the large chamber below him. Stuck there debating the fate of their city, and how best to throw his men's lives away.
'Eagir, Ser Hensen, Po'ka, Ser Jon, Graphgar, Kemethus.' He sighed as he listed the already lost officers in his head, with no doubt more to come as the siege continued. 'And Areen has a broken leg.' All told nearly half his company's officers, and nearly a third of its men.
At this point it was obvious they were being targeted, systematically eliminated by the R'hlorrites and their black demon of an Azor-Ahai. The survivors of encounters spoke of the fellow as a ten-foot-tall monster with a flaming sword.
He doubted the height aspect, but he had seen such flaming swords before even here in Myr, the priests of the now-abandoned temple of R'hllor used to use them for street performance.
Either way, monster or not, he regretted his luck.
A knight he might be, but ser Harry Strickland was not a fighter. He had always considered himself more of an accountant really, not that he couldn't fight mind, only that it wasn't really his job too.
And he certainly wasn't the sort to go knock a black-brute down a peg, no, that ought to be left for greater men.
Indeed, in his hand he clutched a letter, written to just such a man, though it was not a call to arms so much as an apology, he would hardly be able to rise at his King's call after all were they to die here, and he knew in his gut already that he would.
That was if he stayed at least.
A slap on the back and the messenger owl was away, flying north towards Braavosi where the Griff made his lair.
He sighed, falling back into the steps, grimacing as he heard the Magisters arguing over their escape plans, of taking their fleet and running away while his men were left to die.
Made him want to up and leave, but then a contract was a contract.
He glanced up at the red light of the dawn sun, just now starting to creep over the horizon.
Harry let out a long sigh.
'I better go get the men ready to leave.'
_________________________________________________________
Baelor, Triarch of Volantis, the first of his name, stared down at the wretched schemer who he had been forced, nearly at knifepoint, to accept as the second in command of his army.
Oh, the man hid it excellently, but the political maneuvering, the power plays, they were all quite obvious to the trained eye, almost ridiculous in how blatant many of them were. And now that old Maegor had kicked the bucket he wouldn't be surprised if the damnable cultists would try to put up one of their own as a Triarch.
Thankfully, it would not be the man with the burning sword. He was not a citizen, no matter how popular he was. Still, he couldn't deny that the man was useful, a veritable scythe through chaffe on the walls as he had heard and if what he claimed he could do on this day was true?
Well, perhaps he could put up with dealing with the man when he returned to his triumph in Volantis.
"You are entirely sure this strategy of yours will work?" He asked, already knowing the answer, but wanting to ask it again in front of an ample number of witnesses. The man's plan was maddening in its simplicity, but then, few sieges since the fall of Valyria had used magic in such a manner.
"Indeed." The self-proclaimed king of Westeros and Azor-Ahai nodded, drawing forth his blazing sword. "I shall sunder their gates to open a path for your advance, then proceed to cut off their escape."
Baelor nodded, it was indeed quite simple, presuming he could do as he said.
"Then go." Baelor nodded, "smite the enemies of Volantis and cast them to the ground, I will follow and seize the city."
The fact that he would avoid using the Red Cult's forces to do so was left unsaid. He had no desire to find an arrow in his back.
The Targaryen nodded, raising his sword ahead of his retinue and spurring his horse forward. The cavalry of the Red-Cult followed behind him and raised their own weapons in a cheer, moving in a blood-colored spearhead towards the walls.
He half hoped that the archers would take them all to the hells, and spare him the trouble of their rebelliousness.
___________________________________________________________
The air was cool and dry, the sun was hot above, and the footsteps of the advancing soldiers and the clatter hooves beat a furious drumbeat into the ground around the city of Myr.
The anticipation of the glory to come send goosebumps up and down Mellisandre's spine.
The army of the Red cult moved slowly, she noted, though that wasn't a surprise, they had no need to rush the walls today, no need to die in the paltry arrow fire of the defenders.
The clay road ahead of them, going forth to fulfill his purpose, to demonstrate the power of R'hllor to the world.
With bated-breath, she waited as he approached the walls, his black armored shape visible amongst his retinue, the arrows of the defenders clattering uselessly against his armor, and that of his companions.
"Azor-Ahai" they cried as he drew forth his blazing sword, leaving even his guards behind as he rode forth to the great gate of Myr, it's towering battlements spewing forth all manner of missiles against him as he went. Stones were hurled from the machicolations. Arrows fired from a hundred ports. Boiling water steamed from the ground fogging the area around him, but even as the defenders did all that they could that burning red sword, that symbol of R'hllor's power was still visible.
Even she could hardly stop herself from getting caught up in the ecstasy of faith, shared by the crowd, her pity for Daenerys, her bitterness towards the old woman, even her disdain for the clay that road out before her now all seemed to fade back before the glorious song of the faithful around her.
What words Viserys spoke were drowned out by the hiss of steam and the cacophony of praises, but she knew them nonetheless.
After all, the spell was fresh on her lips as it was on the Dragon's as he plunged that blazing sword into the Cold-Iron of the gate.
In that moment, all seemed to fade away save for that holy blade, driving into the metal of the gate as if it was mud, flaring slightly with the power within it.
Then the fire began to spread through the wood and metal from within, liquid buckling and melting along its surface, cracks erupting with fire that seemed to eat the gate from within, huge sections of metal heating up, bulging out like bubbles in a rapid and then popping into dribbling masses of molten iron that fell down to the ground even as the wood behind them was turned to cinders.
The joyful shouts of adulation only grew louder as the fire spread beyond the gate itself, jets shooting into the stone of the gatehouse, and the walls beyond, the defender's screams as they were drowned in the fire, and the thick black smoke that came after it, pouring from every orifice in the great structure, spreading along its length like a flood, punctuated only by the glow of light within and the choking screams of the unbelievers.
For perhaps a minute it continued, fire and death on a scale not seen since the olden days when magic had flowed more freely through the world, and men had not so worshipped iron and stone.
Then the wall gave out a mighty groan, it's supports burned away, the fire inside devouring the very base of the structure and consuming even stone.
A four-hundred-foot section of the great walls of Myr, that mighty bastion that had stood since the reign of Valyria collapsed, rubble and debris and smoke mingling in the air, the gatehouse falling upon the clay, yet somehow avoiding him, as if it knew that at this moment his touch was death.
When he road out atop that rubble, his sword raised into the air, Mellisandre could almost believe he was the true Azor-Ahai.
Almost.
___________________________________________________________
Baelor grimaced as he saw the walls crumble in what must be a magical conflagration, a true show of force by the R'hllorites.
'That is not a power for mortal men to wield.'
Still, he was nothing if not an opportunistic, raising his own sword to rally his understandably gobsmacked men. Indeed, even the unsullied were not unaffected by the display.
He waved his blade above his head, it's Pisces length flashing in the light. "Come on you spineless dogs, the enemy lacks walls, do you want to let this chance go to waste?"
Unfortunately, this failed to get the army's attention, their eyes still locked to the unholy conflagration before them.
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead, he took to snatching the horn from his signaller, blowing it's call himself to signal the attack.
The sound seemed to pent rate even the stunted minds of his underlings, and after a moment of staggering silence, they turned towards him, seemingly unsure if they should advance or not.
His nostrils flared, and he kicked the back of his elephant's head.
At least the great beast could understand an order to charge even if his men could not, and at the sign of its advance, his shellshocked army began to follow suit, clattering shields, and raising banners as it began to sluggishly advance behind him.
He had to demonstrate himself, to capture the magisters, to sack the city.
Even that wouldn't fully save his clout from the R'hllorites show of force, but it would at least preserve his good name.
He was surprised as the crazed red cultists let him pass, seemingly too caught up in celebration and praising the feats of their god.
As he entered the city proper, he even passed the Targaryen himself, the witch-prince who had done all this, atop his horse on the pile of rubble which had once been the gatehouse.
For a moment, a fear took him, the blazing eyes within that black helmet meeting his own.
And then the prince was off, trotting down the hill towards the red cultists and their cavalry, and he was left with only a chill on his spine as his mount cleared the rubble, his army following behind like a great river of men and beasts, intent on plunder and victory.
As his Elephant crashed through a barricade sending men and splinters flying, Baelor nodded grimly.
He might not be able to overshadow the damnable dragon in glory, but he certainly wouldn't have himself known as a slouch who let crazed cultists win his battles for him.
___________________________________________________________
"Report"
"The forces in the Avenue of Loraen have collapsed and are fleeing towards the port, sir. The enemy will be here in minutes."
"Mhm." Harry nodded, standing to his feet. We will be leaving then, have the magisters made their escape?"
"Some have sir, but most were caught off guard by the walls collapse."
"Well, I don't have time to wait for the fat fucks. I'll deal with them when we get to Braavos."
"Yes sir, should I send the order?"
"Yes."
He watched the man go, all golden panoply and apparent strength. The same as everyone else in the company, a company which had never betrayed a contract.
Not until today at least.
It meant jack shit realistically, the Golden-Company was half-crippled, many of his best men were at that shattered gate, and now he was breaking a contract, most likely followed by his own obligatory suicide if he had to be perfectly honest with himself.
The moment the wall fell they had already lost. The Volantenes had gone on a tear straight towards the tower of the magistrate, and there had been nothing to stop them. What's worse the Rhllorite cavalry and that damnable wizard Targaryen had raced for the port, trying to cut them off and encircle the city. Only the caltrops he had ordered placed last night had even given them this much of a chance to escape.
It was a gruesome thing, this sack he thought, the army of Volantis seemed to have lost all the civility their navy had practiced in Lys. Red cultists and slaves from the daughters both seemed to be fully intent on seeing the streets flow with blood.
He was just glad he had moved their assets to the boats, foresight at least that would now pay off.
All he could do at this point was to keep his word to the spider and hope that he was remembered well in death.
Ever so carefully he reached for the knife at his side, a golden pretty thing, a black dragon spun around its hilt with ruby eyes that seemed to peer straight into his soul.
He had always been a coward, and to end it all? To take his life to make up for dishonor?
Could he do it now?
Would it save his memory?
He shut his eyes, running the razor edge of the blade along his finger, grimacing at the pain.
"Captain, you need to see this!"
He jumped from his chair, dropping the knife at the call, an excuse, anything to avoid that pain a moment longer.
As it clattered to the ground he made his way to the front of his cabin, pushing the door open as the flickering light filtered into his eyes.
"By the gods…"
By the time he reached the deck, all of Myr was alight, an unnatural towering, blazing, swirling inferno that seemed to reach up towards the heavens, a pillar of smoke darkening the sky and dwarfing the clouds. The tower of the Magisters, so tall and mighty was cast a silhouette by the hideous pillars of flame that rose behind it, dancing too and fro across the blackened sky.
And through it all, above the soot-choked blazing streets, above the blood-soaked alleys and the overturned market-stalls, above the rape and the slaughter, he could barely make out a black armored figure atop the highest tower, and the cruel laughter of an old woman. Some ghostly figure like a shadowy titan standing behind the man at its peak like a cruel puppet master.
He staggered back at the vision, terrified, as if beset, falling back to the floor of his cabin, and to the sharp pain in his back.
"Gagh ha-ah." He choked, his eyes turning to his side, the dropped dagger now lodged within him as surely as if it had been his intent. He grabbed for it, fear and shock overcoming logic.
Harry Strickland felt the blood rush out, felt the bejeweled handle of the knife that had pierced his side, but his cries for help went unanswered by his men. Their eyes were all glued to that blackened monster at its peak, and their ears could not hear his screams for the crackling of that hideous fire.
And thus, in that gross conflagration, Myr fell.
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