A.C 219
The waves were pink; they weren't supposed to be pink, Haegon thought as he leaned unsteadily on the railing of the Hungry Wolf. The flagship of the Northern fleet and an actual sailing ship like the ones in the summer isles! She was the largest of what had become known as the Sea Dragon fleet, a great three-decked, triple-masted monstrosity. She was a testament to the low opportunistic cunning of the First Men and the Valyrians who had colonized the Western coast of the North. Lord Aenar Aetheryon, the Master of Ships for King Aerys, commanded, and like his grace and uncle Brynden, Aenar had a reputation for blood magic and sorcery. Haegon of House Blackfyre wondered if this slaughter resulted from Northern sorcery or merely cleverness. Caught between the Narrow Sea and royal navies on one side and the Northern fleet on the other, the alliance between the old triarchy and House Greyjoy ended in slaughter upon the waves, slaughter, and wildfire.
Haegon suppressed a shudder; how his brother Aenys managed to get that vile substance across the sea without it spilling over and decimating his fleet or how they managed to douse scorpion bolts in it without also killing this entire fleet The Gods alone knew. But he would blame that on sorcery, as ignorant as that might make him. I'll blame aunt Shiera and uncle Brynden for that, his grace as well. Would history remember Aerys for continuing his father's great works with roads and the "civil services" offices, or would he be remembered as an eccentric sorcerer? King Aerys, the fire mage? Or Aerys, the builder and Census taker? I would prefer to do the tedious deeds the realm long needed to be done yet be remembered as a howling mad sorcerer-king instead. It would be funny. For Haegon's part, he would be remembered as the fourth-born son of Daemon Blackfyre.
The Greatest of the unworthy's great bastards, "The one who bore the sword," and "The King that could have been." There were a hundred other monikers his father earned over the years of his life; the most important to Haegon and his brothers was father. Mostly, people called him "Daemon the true," and it was said that the perception of bastardry had begun to change the realm over on account of his father. Uncle Aegor wanted to crown him King on account of Daeron's appeasement of Dorne father might have been King, or we might be miserable exiles now. Either way, he claims the Gods told him to stay true, so he did. Daeron had granted him Dragonstone and created a new Paramountcy and, as with the Dornish and recognition of their ties to the Throne (and perhaps to spite those who accused him of appeasement.) The heirs and head of House Blackfyre were granted the title of prince.
"It's only fitting, they burned the Redwyne fleet at the Arbor, and Dagon Greyjoy burned the Tully fleet at Harrentown. And then his son and Admiral Trysanis sent the Redwyne fleet to their heathen God at the Arbor." Rickon Stark responded with a shrug. A Stark of House Stark of the Barrowlands, the one-eyed sellsword, and adventurer had become his constant companion during the war of the three whores.
And after today, the last war they'd ever fight.
"Aeron Greyjoy surrendered to Prince Aenys Blackfyre. He took half his fleet and turned his cloak against his father; what is dead may never die but smells like bacon when cooked at sea," Rickard remarked with a morbid smile, causing Haegon to laugh despite himself; he felt a hand around his shoulder and turned to see lord Aenar, with the silver white hair and turquoise eyes synonymous with the house of Aetheryon of Sea Dragon Point. The Lord Admiral, master of ships and boyhood friend who was lost at sea in the distant west for four years and came back with a hardy breed of fat fowls and bittercane. The "sorcerer" who was responsible for this massacre smiled somberly. "Your father would be proud," he said with a voice oddly hoarse for someone only eight and twenty.
This war might make them the wealthiest domain in the Seven Kingdoms if it went well, but it came at such a terrible cost. Father and Aegon were dead, Daemon the True fell in battle against a Rogare sellsail, and Aegon fighting the ironborn; no one had seen Aemon. Maybe he'd be proud of me or ask me why I took so long to crush the enemy. Haegon thought as he sheathed Truth. The blade had killed his father, the Valyrian steel longsword of house Rogare. And when Haegon crushed the Rogare sellsail with a Morningstar, he made sure to cut the curs head off with his sword.
"Why are the waves pink?"
"Thirty thousand sell swords," Aenar answered calmly.
Good Gods, ambushing a fleet carrying troops at sea ought to be some form of crime.
The green fires burned on the horizon, they made approaching Tyrosh from the East impossible, but they had also trapped half the island in a curtain of flame. A war that had begun because the free cities feared a new Paramountcy in the narrow sea might create a haven for escaped slaves. They might have been right to fear that Prince Daemon was no friend to slavery, even if he was married to the daughter of the Archon. The former Archon, I hear the slaves tore him limb from limb and fed him to a captive lizard lion. Although if Haegon had to put a cause to it, it was the response of Uncle Brynden to the three daughters garrisoning the stepstones and attacking Westerosi trade. He turned father loose, and Daemon Blackfyre and Laenor Velaryon smashed the pirate fleets and conquered the Stepstones in the name of King Aerys, the first of his name.
In reward for his leal service, the family was given the Stepstones, except for Tyrosh.
And that would soon have the banner of the black dragon flying over it. Assuming there was anything left of the city. When his Princely father was killed, there was a rainbow over the Archon's manse; some crazed palace eunuch took that as a sign and split the skull of the nearest unsullied. From there, the fires of rebellion spread across Tyrosh and its tributary towns and mainland provinces.
"By your smith's hairy balls." Rickard spat. "All those third and fourth sons will end up lords of masterly houses on the mainland."
"Don't look at it as an opportunity. They'll be militarized for decades, ever watchful of a border that by its very nature is intolerable." Aenar said, producing a drako. The name given to the dried and rolled Fyreleaf grown in the Reach was a source of wealth nearly as great as Aenar's bittercane. Haegon declined politely and passed the handed him to Rickard, who accepted greedily and walked to a lantern for a light. As did several of his brothers, his father partook of them greedily, but breathing in burning vegetation can't be salubrious even for a dragon. "Make no mistake, our children's children will pay the butcher's bill for this."
"So, we should have allowed Tyrosh to harry our shipping lanes? Beggar our realm? We should have permitted the three whores to forge their old alliance anew?" Haegon asked, heat in his blood, causing Lord Aenar to bow his head and raise a hand in supplication. "My friend, I was merely explaining a consequence, not condemning the King and your Princely father's war."
"You reason like a merchant at times, my friend."
Rickon laughed, throwing his arms around both; the impertinent adventurer flashed a macabre grin. "Aye, he does, and that's why we're awash in blood and stinking of cooked squid! Because Reavers think in terms of glory and blood, and this miserly bastard thinks in terms of sums, figures, and efficiency! As does the King!"
Chastened, Haegon drew Truth and pointed towards one of the only ports that weren't presently on fire. "Then let us collect the rest of our dubance!"
The fleets of the realm disgorged twenty thousand men. Twenty thousand men descended upon a slaver city in the grips of a rebellion. The Gods alone only knew the extent of the carnage, death, and theft that would occur as the streets of Tyrosh became rivers of blood.