A thick fog still hung over Teloxi, the outermost lighthouse of the port. Portmaster Glisson, fresh from his night shift, yawned, rubbing his eyes.
Damn it, he thought, I can't keep my eyes open after so many nights of watch.
He took a jug and drank; the spirit burned slightly, but it finally roused him.
"How much longer for the guard shift?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"In fifteen minutes, my lord."
Glisson nodded and turned to descend the spiral stairs.
Then a strange sound echoed above—a muffled thunder, a heavy breathing, like something alive pressing down on the world.
He glanced to the side, and suddenly his body froze. The jug slipped from his hands, clattering to the floor.
"What the—!"
Shaken, Glisson barked at his men, "Pull the alarm!"
Some of his crew were still in shock; he shoved them hard to get a reaction. But when the bell rang, it already felt too late.
Above the fog, three massive black shapes cut through the mist. As the dragons spread their wings, the morning light was swallowed.
Daemon Targaryen sat astride Korakhu, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Dracarys."
The blood-red dragon descended, and dark fire poured into the three-deck galley like molten oil spilling over the edge.
"Ah!"
Screams erupted across the ship, sharp and frantic. As the hull tilted, Glisson watched from the lighthouse: the rowers' seats were empty, their bodies reduced to charred husks.
"Demonic dragon!" shouted someone. "The demonic dragon is coming!"
Alarm bells clanged, but the port had already descended into chaos.
The second flagship tried to move—Syracuse—but a golden dragon, Reignira, flew over the water, dragonfire slicing into the hull. Wood splintered under the heat, water hissed back from the sides.
"Fire the ballista! Fire the ballista!" the captain shouted, leaping onto the deck.
Melias's wings stretched wide—not fire, but wind. The air currents from her eighty-foot wings lifted men and equipment from the deck. Ballista shots flew off the side, smashing into the pier fifty feet below.
"How do we fight this?" The boatswain stood frozen, staring.
Korakhu dodged several bolts with a graceful roll; Syraks climbed high out of reach. But Melias—the Red Queen—used her speed to dive toward the arrow towers. Not to hit, but to scorch. A final roar, a blast of fire, then she ascended again.
On the battlements, defenders screamed as they were incinerated. Trebuchets hurled flaming pots, but Melias's roar shook eardrums, and molten asphalt rained down, setting the city walls ablaze. Soldiers burned, fell from the walls, but the mafia kept climbing.
A young Telosian soldier reached the ramparts. Glisson saw his freckled face, his excitement, the axe in his hands—but Rossso struck, and blood spattered the walls. Three more climbed. The walls became a slaughterhouse, blades and shields clashing, flesh scorched, screams echoing.
Then the dragons returned. Reignira and Syraks unleashed fire across the eastern wall. Fifty defenders were instantly engulfed, turned into torches of living flesh.
"Captain! The eastern wall is about to fall!" shouted the soldiers.
From the heart of Telosi, Lord Adrian trembled in the fortress. Three thousand pounds of fat man in ill-fitting armor, his face pale as a corpse.
"Five thousand! Five thousand gold dragons for a mercenary group! Keep them ready until the day after tomorrow!"
The mercenary leaders exchanged silent glances.
Adrian's panic grew. "Do not spend a coin until then! Reinforcements from Riz and Mir are coming!"
A thunderous crash shook the hall; the crystal chandelier swayed. Adrian drew the key ring from his belt, throwing keys to his trusted men.
"Take the gold, and hold the wall! Every last mercenary!"
Commanders opened the heavy cash chest, coins gleaming freshly minted, and ordered their men to take positions.