Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen
Chapter 171: Dragon Shooting Crossbow

Chapter 171: Dragon Shooting Crossbow

Although it wasn’t intended to be used in this battle, Sunspear had come fully prepared, including bringing their prized dragon-shooting crossbow—a massive weapon that had once felled Meraxes. This 300-pound behemoth was mounted on the deck of their warships, and to draw its powerful bowstring, a winch the size of a bathtub was employed.

With a range of nearly 400 meters, this crossbow allowed the Sunspear forces to exert significant pressure on the defenders even before landing.

"Wind it up! Wind it up!"

A burly man with a pink bald patch on his head stood atop the crossbow, shouting commands to the attendants. His name was Archibald, but he was better known by his nickname, "Greenguts." Bald since his youth due to an illness, Greenguts’s thick neck and bald head made him look far older than his early twenties.

The attendants strained as they wound the winch, slowly drawing back the bowstring. The thick crossbow bolt, nearly the size of a short spear, retreated into position, its cold, sharp tip gleaming in the moonlight.

With his eye pressed to the sight, Greenguts took aim at the helmsman of an enemy ship. The Tyrosh helmsman’s silver hair made him an easy target in the dark.

The dragon crossbow released with a muffled thud, and the helmsman barely had time to react. He heard a sinister whistle, but it was too late—the bolt pierced his shoulder and pinned him to the mast behind him. The sailors around him cried out in shock, momentarily too frightened to expose themselves. It wasn’t until the captain barked orders that they regained their composure.

Satisfied with his shot, Greenguts immediately called for another bolt to be loaded. While Sunspear’s forces were applying pressure, the same couldn’t be said for Myr and Pentos.

Illyrio had spent a considerable sum to make Connington captain of a warship, but despite Connington’s extensive experience in commanding troops, the soldiers under him were less than enthusiastic.

When Connington urged them to press the attack, the sailors hesitated.

“Captain, there’s no reward for winning this battle,” one sailor with a shiny red nose remarked. “We’ve heard that you’re only fighting because you owe debts. If we risk our lives too much, we’ll lose both our debts and our lives. What’s the point?”

Connington was left speechless.

“But you still have families, don’t you? If you pay off your debts early, you could give them a better life,” he tried to reason.

But the soldiers only laughed.

"My lord, our families have already legally transferred all their debts to us. They’ll only be relieved if we don’t make it back.”

Connington felt a wave of helplessness. He had come to Tyrosh in pursuit of Aegon, but after spending so long in the Golden Company, he hadn’t grasped the depth of the situation in Tyrosh. With such poor quality troops, he couldn’t use his full abilities and found himself sinking into an army that was like a giant with feet of clay.

...

In the Archon’s Palace, high in the bell tower, the tension was palpable.

“Archon, General Toland has asked where you wish to send troops to suppress the rebellion,” an attendant asked.

Kambron stood coldly before a map of Tyrosh on the wall. Less than an hour ago, he had received dire news: the Sunspear fleet had launched an attack from the west. Almost simultaneously, the combined fleet of Myr and Pentos had attacked from the north.

And now, to make matters worse, word had come that the slaves in the copper mines had revolted. The most alarming part? The revolt was heading directly towards his palace.

Kambron’s mind raced. With bad news coming in waves, he had to decide quickly where to send his forces, but the constant flow of setbacks left him seething with irritation.

"Where is Toland?!" Kambron barked, his frustration boiling over. "He only comes to me when there's a problem! Shouldn't he be commanding the front line?"

The messenger winced under the scolding, but Kambron knew that after venting his anger, he still needed to figure out where to draw reinforcements.

"Hmph! The Myr-Pentos Alliance!" Kambron sneered, dismissing Pentos with disdain. To him, Pentos was a city-state that had lost four out of five battles with Braavos, and even in its lone victory, it was forced to bow to Braavos, abandoning the "glorious tradition of Valyrian" slavery in the Free Cities. This reputation as the weakest of the nine Free Cities, with fewer than twenty warships and just over ten thousand troops, made Pentos laughable in Kambron's eyes.

He turned to the messenger with a decision. "Send troops from the north to suppress them!"

"Yes, my lord!" the messenger replied, hurrying off.

Kambron studied the map, calculating the time it would take for reinforcements to arrive—at least an hour, and with the time needed to assemble, an hour and a half. He still had a thousand Unsullied guards in his palace, so he believed he could hold out.

But just then, another disheveled messenger burst into his study, his appearance alone a harbinger of bad news.

"Speak!" Kambron demanded.

"Archon, the Dragon's Flame Fortress has fallen, and the Windblown have seized control of our eastern port!"

"The Windblown? What about the Wolf Pack? What are they doing?"

"I don't know, Archon! We were in the middle of training when suddenly a green cloud of smoke appeared, and then the Windblown attacked out of nowhere..."

"Green smoke?" Kambron repeated, a chill running down his spine as he recalled hearing tales of something similar from pirates. In the past year, there had been one name that struck fear into the hearts of those pirates: Viserys Targaryen.

"Windblown, you son of a bitch!" Kambron cursed, realizing he had been ensnared in a massive conspiracy, though he couldn’t pinpoint when or how the web had been spun. He also couldn’t fathom why Pentos and the Windblown were both involved in this so-called "coalition." He knew of the connection between the leader of the Windblown and Pentos, but this alliance made no sense to him.

He took a few deep gulps of ice water from the jug beside him, trying to calm himself and focus on the immediate crisis.

The walls of Tyrosh were high, and the fleet outside couldn’t breach them for the time being. The most pressing issue now was quelling the slave uprising. As a noble of the Free Cities, Kambron understood all too well that since the fall of Volantis, the Free Cities had lost the power to conquer each other. Although the sudden coalition of four powers seemed threatening, he was confident that if he could hold the city, they would eventually retreat.

Meanwhile, through the eyes of his Golden Eagle, Viserys observed an army approaching the palace. They would arrive in less than an hour. This meant that within that hour, he and his forces had to breach the palace and capture Kambron alive if they were to win.

Looking around, Viserys counted fewer than 10,000 rebel miners by his side. But if they could just open the palace gate, half the battle would be won.

Viserys turned to the slaves behind him, his voice sharp and commanding.

“Hurry! Break into the palace! Kill the Archon! You will never be slaves again!”

“Kill the Archon! No more slaves!”

“Kill the Archon! No more slaves!”

Viserys’s rallying cry echoed through the crowd, condensing into a powerful, unified slogan. Within a quarter of an hour, more than 10,000 determined rebels had reached the gates of the palace.

On the palace walls, archers peeked out from their cover, raining arrows down upon the crowd. In mere moments, hundreds of slaves fell under the deadly volley. The darkness of the night provided little cover, and death claimed its victims swiftly.

Suddenly, a shout came from behind. “Out of the way!” Several riders appeared, hauling a minecart loaded with heavy ore that Viserys had prepared in advance. Jorah directed some of the rebels to pull the cart by its side while others pushed from behind.

“Move quickly! Reinforce the gate!” a guard on the city wall shouted, realizing what was about to happen. But it was too late.

As the cart neared the gate, the ropes securing it were cut, and the four- or five-ton load barreled forward with unstoppable force. The guards and miners alike watched in tense anticipation as the massive cart slammed into the gate like a battering ram.

“Charge!” Viserys commanded.

Like a dam breaking, more than 10,000 miners surged through the shattered gate, pouring into the palace grounds like a relentless gray flood. The sheer press of bodies forced their way inside, overwhelming any resistance. In the chaos, the weaker among them were trampled underfoot, their deaths unnoticed in the frenzy of the assault.

From his vantage point on the bell tower, Kambron felt a chill run down his spine. Even without military experience, he knew the fate that awaited him if he fell into the hands of the enraged slaves.

“Quick! Quick! Get the Unsullied to stop them!” Kambron shouted desperately.

But the Unsullied needed no orders; they were already moving into formation. As the rebel miners stormed into the palace, a thousand Unsullied soldiers formed ten tightly-knit squares, a formidable wall of flesh and steel.

Even the most uneducated slaves knew of the Unsullied’s fearsome reputation. It was said that under the walls of Qohor, 3,000 Unsullied had held back tens of thousands of Dothraki warriors. Although only 600 had survived, they had forced the Dothraki to lower their heads in defeat, cutting their hair in a gesture of submission.

As the Unsullied prepared to launch their counterattack, Conwyra stepped forward, shield in hand, placing himself between his former companions and the rebel ranks. He knew the words of surrender that Viserys had instructed him to say would likely fall on deaf ears among the Unsullied, but he had chosen to carry out his orders regardless.