At this moment, the harbor's only exit had already been sealed.
More than a dozen royal warships surged in through the entrance. Behind them followed a large number of merchant ships requisitioned in King's Landing, along with transport vessels hastily refitted, carrying more than several thousand soldiers of the royal army.
"All ships halt immediately!"
"All personnel disembark at once!"
"Lay down your weapons! Surrender and you will not be killed!"
From the flagship of the royal fleet, the signal officer shouted through a brass megaphone.
His answer was a crossbow bolt fired from one of Driftmark's warships.
Whoosh!
The bolt skimmed past the signal officer's helmet and struck the mast.
"Stubborn fools."
On the command platform of the flagship, Ser Elwyn Redwyne said coldly.
"Signal it. Free fire."
"Target the ship that fired first."
The order was issued.
The ballistae aboard the royal warships opened fire.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Heavy iron-tipped bolts tore through the air. Their targets were not men, but ships.
The first bolt struck the side of a Driftmark warship that was in the midst of turning. The bowl-thick shaft pierced through the oak planking, leaving a hideous hole. Seawater poured in, and the vessel began to list.
The second bolt shattered the stern rudder of another ship. The vessel immediately lost control, spinning within the harbor and smashing into two small fishing boats.
The third bolt struck the mainmast. The thirty-foot fir mast snapped and collapsed, dragging down the rigging and the lookout platform as it crashed onto the deck. The sailors below were either dead or wounded.
But this was only the beginning.
The royal warships drew closer. Dense rows of bows extended from the firing ports along their hulls. A rain of arrows covered the docks and the resisting ships.
"Shields up! Shields up!" officers on the harbor of Driftmark roared.
But in such haste, where would they find enough shields?
Arrows fell like rain. The crowd on the docks collapsed in swathes.
Some were struck by arrows and screamed as they fell into the sea. Some were trampled. Some curled up behind cargo crates, trembling.
The most miserable were the civilians crowded on the gangplanks trying to board ships. With nowhere to hide, they became living targets in the chaos of battle between both sides.
Blood stained the wooden planks of the docks red, gathering into thin streams that flowed into the seawater.
"Surrender! We surrender!"
At last, some ships raised white flags.
"Prepare the ram," an officer ordered. "Ram and sink those still flying the Velaryon banner."
The flagship adjusted its course. The bronze ram at the prow aligned with a bireme—one of the main warships of Driftmark's fleet.
Acceleration.
Impact.
BOOM!!!
The thunderous crash of splintering wood was deafening. The flagship's ram wedged into the enemy ship's belly, and seawater flooded in wildly.
The Driftmark warship quickly tilted. The sailors on deck fell into the sea.
"Abandon ship! Abandon ship!"
"I can't swim!"
"Help me!"
But no one came to help.
The soldiers aboard the royal warships looked coldly at the people struggling in the water. Some raised their bows and shot those attempting to swim toward the shore. The sea turned red.
Within half an hour, the resistance in the harbor ended.
Only the remaining three Velaryon warships continued to resist.
The merchant ships from the eastern continent had long since fallen silent and remained docked peacefully. All of their crews gathered on deck and laid down their weapons.
This was the kingdom's civil war.
It had nothing to do with them.
Some civilian corpses lay on the docks, caught in the fighting.
The survivors knelt in pools of blood, hands clasped over their heads, awaiting their fate.
Ser Elwyn stepped onto the dock, his boots treading on wooden planks slick with blood and seawater.
"Count the spoils," he said to his adjutant. "Repair every ship that can be repaired. Those that cannot be repaired—dismantle them on the spot."
"Bind the prisoners and wait for the prince's judgment."
"And those civilians?" The adjutant pointed to the civilians trembling in a corner of the dock.
"Let them all go home for now and await judgment," Elwyn said at last.
Large numbers of royal troops began to land.
Royal cavalry took the lead, riding through the streets of Spice Harbor. Within the port, all civilians had shut their doors tightly, peering out through narrow cracks.
Messenger riders galloped through the streets and alleys with dozens of horsemen, their voices spreading through the deathly silence:
"By command of His Grace Viserys I, and of Her Grace Alicent Hightower, Queen Regent, and the Small Council!"
"A proclamation to all soldiers and civilians of Driftmark!"
"Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey, heirs of House Velaryon, have committed the grave crime of treason and have been executed!"
"Driftmark should by right suffer collective punishment! Yet the Iron Throne shows mercy and grants clemency!"
"By order: all soldiers of Driftmark who remain in hiding are to lay down their arms at once! Civilians are to come out and welcome the royal army!"
"Those who lay down their weapons, regardless of rank, shall be spared their lives!"
"The deadline: today, before sunset!"
"If you fail to comply after the deadline," the rider's voice suddenly turned harsh, "you and your entire family will share the punishment and be judged as traitors!"
Then all the riders took out their horns and sounded them three times.
The harbor fell silent.
People looked at one another. Hope lit the eyes of some, while others turned pale as ash.
Unconditional surrender.
Come out and welcome the royal army…
...
Above the cliffs, atop the Eagle-Eye Tower of High Tide.
Cregan Velaryon watched everything, his heart twisting like a knife in his chest.
Against the dragons of House Targaryen—such unreasonable weapons of war—they had no means of resistance.
Especially when he saw the Velaryon fleet that had attempted to flee completely wiped out, the pain in his heart was unbearable. That fleet was the accumulation of Driftmark over several hundred years.
After "the Sea Snake" Corlys seized naval supremacy over the Narrow Sea, he had turned Driftmark into a trade hub between the eastern continent and Westeros.
Over the years, the Velaryons had amassed more than four million gold dragons through this advantage.
Not long ago, when Corlys marched to war, he had taken more than two million with him.
But the remaining wealth—today, all of it was plundered by the Greens.
That was not even the key point.
The key point was that Driftmark still possessed a large number of shipwrights, carpenters, blacksmiths, and experienced sailors… and now all of them would fall into the hands of the Greens.
This distant Velaryon kinsman and commander left behind to guard Driftmark was already fifty-three years old. His hair was gray threaded with silver, yet his back remained perfectly straight.
He looked at the letter urging surrender that had just been delivered.
"Unconditional…"
His adjutant stood behind him, the young man's face drawn tight. "My lord, the harbor has already surrendered."
"There are already at least several thousand royal soldiers landing on the docks, and their numbers are still increasing."
Cregan turned and glanced at the adjutant.
"As a seahorse, I will not surrender like this without conditions."
"But… do we truly refuse to surrender?" the adjutant said in a lowered voice.
"My lord, Vhagar… if that dragon breathes fire, we…"
"We cannot hold," Cregan admitted frankly. "A wall ten feet thick is no different from paper in front of Vhagar's dragonfire."
"The garrison inside the city has a little over a thousand men left. The harbor was lost in an instant, morale is low, and the grain will last only half a month."
He turned around, his gray eyes fixed on the adjutant.
"But surrender is not done like this."
"Unconditional? Hand over everything? What difference is that from stretching out our necks for the blade?"
"We must prove our value."
The adjutant fell silent.
"Go prepare the white flags," Kryon said. "But not for surrender."
"Then it is…?"
"Negotiation."
Cregan walked to the edge of the tower, looking down at the white castle below and the harbor in the distance.
"Aemond Targaryen gave us half a day not because he is merciful, but because he does not wish to burn Driftmark into a white wasteland."
"The Velaryon family's accumulation over hundreds of years—the harbor, the shipyards, the warehouses, the craftsmen—those are what he truly wants."
"If all of it burns, what will he use to build the Green navy?"
He paused.
"So he must negotiate. And we will make use of that."
...
At noon, seven white flags were raised over High Tide.
On the walls, the garrison still stood guard with weapons in hand, but all the ballistae and catapults were covered with cloth.
The main gate slowly opened a narrow gap. A delegation of twelve walked out—entirely civil officials and maesters, not a single warrior among them.
At their head was the steward of Driftmark, the old Maester Mathos.
They walked to an open ground a mile outside the city, where a white tent had already been erected.
Outside the tent stood twenty members of the personal guard, clad in black robes and silver armor bearing dragon sigils, swords at their waists glinting in the sunlight.
Inside the tent, Aemond and Aegon sat on folding chairs.
Their dragons rested not far away.
Aemond wore no armor, only a simple set of black fitted clothes.
The greatsword Blackfyre was held behind him by a guardsman with both hands.
Maester Mathos entered the tent and bowed deeply.
"Honored Prince Aemond, I bring greetings on behalf of Lord Cregan Velaryon and the garrison of Driftmark."
Aemond did not tell him to rise, nor did he grant him a seat.
Resting his chin on one hand, his violet eyes studied the old man.
"Unconditional surrender before sunset," Aemond said coldly.
"That is the command of the Iron Throne."
"You have come out now—does that mean you have decided to obey?"
Sweat beaded on Mathos's forehead.
"Your Highness… Driftmark is willing to surrender to the Iron Throne, but there are some details we hope to discuss with Your Highness…"
"Details?" Aemond raised an eyebrow.
"Y-yes." Mathos hurriedly continued. "Lord Cregan proposes three requests. First, after the surrender, the officers and soldiers of the garrison should be allowed to retain their personal belongings and be permitted to leave Driftmark safely."
"Second, the city should not be looted or destroyed."
"Third, the Velaryon family's property on Driftmark should be partially preserved and allowed to be taken away."
His words stopped abruptly.
Because Aemond laughed.
"Requests?" Aemond repeated softly. "Have you misunderstood something?"
He stood up and took Blackfyre, the blade giving a faint rasp as it moved.
He walked to stand before Mathos, looking down at the trembling old man.
"The Iron Throne is not requesting that you surrender."
"The Iron Throne is ordering you to surrender."
"It is an order. Do you understand?"
"Whether the Velaryon family may keep Driftmark is not something you can decide. The one who decides…"
He paused slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"…is me."
Beside him, Aegon, who was drinking, interjected, "And me. You do not get to decide."
Aemond smiled at Aegon before turning back to Mathos.
"Just as when a master orders a dog to lie down—are you incapable of understanding human speech?"
Mathos's face turned pale.
"Go back and tell Cregan Velaryon," Aemond said, turning back to his seat.
"I will give him one last chance: now, immediately, open all the city gates. The garrison is to remove their armor, leave the city, and kneel along both sides of the road outside the gates."
"I will send troops into the city to take control."
"As long as there is no resistance, I guarantee that not a single person will be killed."
"But if, at sunset, the gates are still closed and even one man still stands upon the walls…"
"Then I will assume that Driftmark has chosen war."
"And in war," Aemond sat down again, his fingers lightly tapping the hilt of Blackfyre, "there are no requests—only victory and defeat."
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