ASOIAF: Alyxander the Great III

Corlys looked at the map of the Stepstones spread before him, the worn edges curling slightly from overuse. In the year since Alyxander’s coronation, the situation had only worsened. The Triarchy, bolstered by their growing wealth, had expanded its fleet, creating a formidable naval blockade across the Stepstones. They taxed every ship passing through their waters, creating a stranglehold on trade that affected the Seven Kingdoms to a breaking point.

The tariffs were crippling. Trade routes vital to the Arbor, Driftmark, and the Reach suffered the most. Prices of goods—grain, spices, and silks—had skyrocketed. Even the Crownlands felt the pinch. Corlys had seen the letters from merchants, their signatures blotched with ink as they pleaded with the king for action. And action, Corlys knew, would come.

His eyes drifted back to the map, his calloused finger tracing a line across the narrow waters, over the stretch of sea lanes that passed Tyrosh and the cluster of islands at the heart of the blockade.

“Here,” he muttered to himself, almost absently, his finger lingering on the stretch. This was what he called the line of control, where the Triarchy enforced their will most harshly. Ships that refused to pay their exorbitant tariffs were attacked by privateers who operated with brutal efficiency.

His gaze moved upward, pausing over the Free City of Myr. Peace, Corlys thought bitterly, had been their boon. Since the formation of the Triarchy, Myr had focused on finding ancient Valyrian designs, rediscovering weapons of old. Reports whispered of ships equipped with weapons that spewed fire—alchemy and war machines not seen for centuries—now unleashed on the seas.

Corlys’s finger shifted to Lys, the wealthiest of the three cities. Lys used its vast riches from trade and its mastery of diplomacy to fund new ships, hiring skilled commanders and Essosi sellsail captains who knew these waters better than any Westerosi admiral.

Finally, Corlys traced his finger to Tyrosh. “The foundry of their strength,” he muttered under his breath. Tyrosh supplied the fleets with advanced weaponry and war materials, including improved ballistae—weapons specifically designed to counter dragons. These were made using the ancient Valyrian designs Myr had uncovered from their archives. 

“This will be a bloody war,” Corlys thought grimly, his jaw set.

“Tell me more about these ballistae.”

The deep voice broke Corlys from his thoughts. He looked up to see Alyxander, his king, seated across the table. Alyxander’s presence always seemed larger than life. He wore his new crown, crafted to resemble dancing flames, with rubies glittering like burning embers. It was a stark contrast to Jaehaerys’s simple crown of peace. Alyxander’s crown was one of war.

Corlys straightened slightly and answered. “The ballistae, my king, are based on old Rhoynish designs.”

Alyxander’s brow furrowed. “The same ones we faced in Dorne?”

Corlys nodded. “Aye, but my spies tell me they’ve been improved. Their engineers have been testing them openly along the Tyroshi coast.”

“Testing?” Alyxander’s lips curled into a faint, dangerous smile. “A warning, then.”

Corlys inclined his head. “That would be my guess. They want us to know they’re prepared.”

The room fell silent for a moment, save for the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. The Triarchy had thrown down a gauntlet, and Westeros would have to pick it up.

Alyxander rose. He stared down at the map, his gaze lingering on the Stepstones. “What of the fleet? Is it prepared?” he asked.

“Yes, my king. Both the royal fleet and mine are ready for battle.” Corlys’s hand traced along the southwestern waters of the map. “The Redwynes will need a month to assemble their ships, and the Manderlys are asking for the same.”

Alyxander’s gaze lifted from the map. “And the Ironborn?”

Corlys let out a low chuckle. “Eager for battle, as always. Lord Greyjoy has been ruling with a steady hand, trying to turn them from the old ways, but…” He shrugged. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Alyxander smirked faintly, a flicker of amusement in his otherwise serious expression. “Good. We will need those Malakés. Blood and salt are their currency, after all.”

He turned his attention back to the map, his fingers trailing slowly over a cluster of islands. “The expansion of the Silver Shields will be complete in three months.”

Corlys’s brow furrowed slightly. “Should we wait that long?”

Alyxander looked up, his gaze sharp. “The Silver Shields are vital to my plans. Increasing their number to five thousand is not optional, Corlys. They will be the hammer that breaks the Triarchy’s hold.”

Corlys nodded, though there was a hint of unease in his eyes. Alyxander’s fingers paused over the islands again, this time tapping one particular grouping.

“Here.” His tone was decisive. “We will take them first.”

Corlys leaned closer, peering at the map. “Yes. They are the least fortified of the islands. A swift assault will give us a foothold.”

Alyxander nodded. “From there, we begin. The dragons will ensure our victory.”

Corlys’s expression darkened slightly. “And what of the ballistae?”

Alyxander’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “We will use the same tactics we employed in Dorne. Coordinated strikes from the dragons. We will burn their positions to ash. But we must be careful. We will need spies to sabotage their defenses ahead of us.”

Corlys nodded again. Alyxander’s mind was ever sharp, always three moves ahead.

“We can weaken the Triarchy further,” Alyxander continued, his voice measured, “by diplomatic means. Mercenaries can be bought, and politicians bribed. Gold can break as many alliances as swords.”

Alyxander’s gaze turned to Corlys. “Tell me, then. Who among their ranks should we watch? Whose removal would tip the scales in our favor?”

Corlys exhaled deeply, crossing his arms as he considered. “There are a few names, my king.” He pointed at Myr on the map. “First, Dario Othoros. A flamboyant and reckless pirate leader hired by Lys. He’s made a name for himself with daring raids and boasts that he’s never lost a ship in battle. Othoros commands the bulk of lys’s navy, and he knows these waters as well as I do. His absence would cripple their naval discipline.”

Alyxander nodded, filing the name away.

“Then there’s Commander Lysander Morovo of Myr,” Corlys continued, his voice tinged with personal irritation. “A former pirate with a reputation for ruthless efficiency. Morovo has a vendetta against me for sinking one of his ships years ago.”

Alyxander’s lips quirked upward. “Good. Grudges make men reckless. We can use that.”

Corlys’s expression grew more somber. “The most dangerous, however, is the Alchemist Saelena Morra. She works for Tyrosh, remaking old Valyrian weapons. Rumors say her creations are unnatural—ships equipped with flame-spewing weapons. If those reports are true, she could turn the tide of battle.”

Alyxander’s eyes narrowed slightly. “She will be dealt with. I will speak to the Master of Whispers.”

Before Corlys could reply, the doors to the chamber burst open. One of the Kingsguard stepped inside, his white cloak billowing behind him. His face was pale, his expression urgent.

“My king, the queen is in labor.”

Alyxander froze for the briefest of moments, his sharp exterior cracking ever so slightly. Without a word, he turned on his heel and strode swiftly toward the door.

Corlys followed immediately, his mind momentarily abandoning thoughts of war as they hurried through the stone halls of the Red Keep.

Arriving at the chambers Alyxander quickly entered and Corlys waited outside where courtiers had already begun to gather, whispering among themselves. Over time, the space filled with more nobles and attendants. The tension in the air was thick, but it was abruptly shattered when his wife arrived with their daughter in tow.

“Leave. Only the royal family is allowed here,” Saera declared, her voice sharp as a blade.

The courtiers hesitated only briefly before bowing and quickly retreating, leaving the hallway empty save for Corlys, Saera, and their daughter. Corlys glanced at his wife, then turned his attention back to the heavy door where muffled sounds could be heard—a mix of cries and hurried voices.

Not long after, the sound of footsteps announced the arrival of more family. Rhaenys and Viserys appeared, their daughter, Rhaenyra, walking quietly between them, her wide violet eyes curious as she clung to her father’s hand. Behind them came Daemon, striding with his usual confidence, and Prince Baelon, the Hand of the King, carrying the King’s firstborn, Olympia, in his arms. Olympia looked excited at the prospect of a younger sibling.

Rhaenys’s gaze immediately fell on Corlys. “Is Alyx…?” she asked softly.

Corlys inclined his head. “I came with him. He is inside.”

Rhaenys gave a small nod of relief and moved toward the chamber, but before she could step through the door, it swung open.

Alyxander emerged, a crying infant wrapped tightly in swaddling cloth in his arms. His face, so often sharp with focus and command, was now softened by pure joy. A rare smile played across his lips as he looked at the gathered family.

“Behold,” Alyxander proclaimed, his voice steady and triumphant, “my heir—Alyxander the Second.”

There was a brief silence, broken by Daemon, who let out a bark of laughter, unashamed and amused.

“You named him after yourself?” Rhaenys asked.

Alyxander paused, his brows lifting slightly as if the question were unexpected. He glanced at the infant in his arms and then shrugged, his smile unfaltering.

“Why not?” he replied simply.

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Excerpt from The Twilight of the Triarchy by Lorgar Vellos

The year 105 AC marked the beginning of the end for the Triarchy, when King Alyxander Targaryen, newly crowned, declared war on the alliance of Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh. The conflict, which began as a carefully orchestrated invasion of the Stepstones, would soon spiral into a war that reshaped the balance of power in both Westeros and Essos.

The war commenced with a lightning assault on the Stepstones. The initial victories came swiftly, as the combined fleets of the Royal Navy and Houses Velaryon, Manderly, and Redwyne overwhelmed the Triarchy’s defenses. Their dominance of the sea lanes ensured that the invading forces landed unchallenged on the smaller, poorly fortified islands.

It was here that the dragons played their most devastating role. King Alyxander led the assault astride Balerion the Black Dread, while Prince Daemon Targaryen rode Caraxes, and Princess Rhaenys wielded the might of Meleys, the Red Queen. Silverwing, ridden by Prince Viserys, completed the quartet of dragons. Their fire turned the island strongholds to ash, breaking the resolve of the local defenders and sending sellsword companies fleeing into the sea. These first battles were easy victories for the Seven Kingdoms—bloodless compared to what was to come.

However, as the Westerosi forces pressed deeper into the islands, the Triarchy revealed their ace in the hole. The Myrish engineers, guided by Saelena Morra’s alchemic expertise, unveiled a new generation of ballistae known as “Dragonslayers.” These weapons were far superior, featuring reinforced arms, faster reloading mechanisms, and bolts reportedly tipped with Valyrian steel. They were designed specifically to counter the Targaryens’ dragons.

The dragons remained dominant, but there were close calls. On more than one occasion, bolts narrowly missed their targets, the deadly accuracy serving as a warning to the Targaryens. Increasing danger forced Alyxander and his commanders to slow their advance, adopting more cautious tactics and focusing on coordinated strikes to avoid exposing the dragons to unnecessary risk.

Soon, reinforcements arrived in the form of the Ironborn, led by Lord Dagon Greyjoy, who saw the Stepstones as a new field for plunder and glory. Their longships, combined with the disciplined Westerosi fleets, pushed the Triarchy’s defenses to the breaking point. In a final push, the Westerosi armies, supported by dragonfire and naval bombardment, swept through the remaining islands.

The fleets met for a final time in the waters surrounding Bloodstone, the largest and most fortified island in the Stepstones. The events that transpired there would alter the course of history. The campaign, originally intended as a swift and decisive conquest of the Stepstones, became the prelude to a far grander and bloodier conflict.

Doom was upon the Triarchy, and soon the sun would set on them, giving rise to something new.

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The sea churned beneath the iron-gray sky, its surface breaking into whitecaps under the mounting winds. Corlys Velaryon stood on the deck of his flagship, the Sea Snake, his gloved hands resting on the ship’s wooden railing. The smell of salt and tar hung heavy in the air. Ahead of him stretched the Triarchy’s fleet—a vast armada of warships from Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh, their sails a sea of color: crimson, teal, and gold.

Corlys squinted against the sharp sea breeze, his keen eyes calculating. The enemy’s numbers were daunting—hundreds of ships with sleek hulls, heavily armed and bristling with their new ballistae, the dreaded Dragonslayers. These siege weapons were monstrous, but each required an entire ship to mount them, making them cumbersome and slow to maneuver. Still, their threat could not be ignored, for a single lucky bolt could bring down a dragon.

At the head of the Triarchy’s formation was Lysander Morovo, who had arranged his fleet in a wide crescent, daring the combined forces of the Royal Fleet, the Velaryons, the Redwynes, the Manderlys and the Ironborn to advance into their deadly range.

Corlys thought grimly of what it had taken to get here. The king himself had to intervene directly to convince Lord Greyjoy of the Ironborn to follow Corlys’s command as the supreme naval leader in this battle. Greyjoy had resisted, of course, but Alyxander had a way of bending men to his will. Corlys had no intention of letting that trust go to waste. 

He had to win. He would win.

They had dragons, after all.

“Signal the ships, lads! Advance on my mark!” Corlys shouted over the din of creaking ropes and snapping sails. His voice carried across the deck, steady and commanding, cutting through the tension like a blade. Around him, Velaryon sailors moved with practiced efficiency, their faces grim, their hands swift as they prepared for what would be the largest naval engagement in a generation.

The grand fleet of the Seven Kingdoms surged forward as the sea erupted in chaos. War horns blared, drums pounded a furious rhythm, and Westerosi ships closed the distance under a hailstorm of arrows, flaming pitch, and shrieking bolts. The Dragonslayers loomed in the distance, their massive arms being cranked into place, ready to hurl death into the sky. The enemy’s ingenuity was apparent: smaller ballistae, loaded with explosive fire—an invention of the dangerous Alchemist Saelena Morra—rained destruction onto Westerosi ships. She had proven a cunning adversary, one Corlys bitterly regretted failing to assassinate before the battle.

“Keep the line! Hold!” Corlys bellowed, his voice rising above the clamor of combat. Splinters rained across the deck as enemy bolts crashed into nearby ships, the cries of dying men swallowed by the roar of battle.

Then, to starboard, Corlys caught sight of the dragons.

First came Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, Daemon’s crimson beast. Its serpentine body coiled and twisted in the air as it dove toward the Triarchy’s fleet. Caraxes unleashed a torrent of fire, flames cascading over a Lysene war galley. The ship ignited instantly, its crew leaping overboard as the inferno spread.

Then came the Black Dread. The King, astride the monstrous beast, descended with terrifying majesty. The wind whipped at Balerion’s massive wings as he hovered over the enemy’s center line. With a low, guttural rumble, Balerion released a column of fire hotter than the sun itself. The flames engulfed ships in an instant, their masts crumbling to ash. The Triarchy’s crescent formation faltered, ships breaking apart in terror and confusion.

Rhaenys, astride Meleys, and Viserys on Silverwing soon followed, their dragons swooping low, fire raining down upon the enemy.

“By the gods…” one of Corlys’s men whispered, eyes wide as they watched the destruction.

Corlys felt no awe, only grim satisfaction. “This is where we press them. Sound the horns! Advance!”

The fleet surged forward, battering through the enemy’s chaos-stricken lines. The Sea Snake plowed straight into a Tyroshi ship, splintering wood and filling the air with the screams of men as his crew boarded the vessel.

Corlys’s eyes were fixed on his goal: Lysander Morovo’s flagship, a massive Myrish galley at the center of the enemy formation, its sails black and red. Corlys pointed his sword toward it. “For Driftmark! Ram them!”

The Sea Snake collided with the Myrish flagship, a thunderous crack reverberating across the waves as Corlys and his men surged onto the shattered deck.

“Lysander! Show yourself!” Corlys roared, cutting down a Triarchy sailor who stood in his way. The call echoed through the chaos, and soon enough, Lysander Morovo emerged from the shadows of the upper deck.

Lysander was a grizzled figure, broad-shouldered and clad in sea-worn armor, his face twisted with rage. He brandished a curved sword, already stained from earlier skirmishes.

“Velaryon!” Lysander bellowed. “I will have vengeance for my son!”

Corlys squared his stance. “Your son’s blood is on your hands, Lysander.”

Lysander’s face darkened with fury. “You will pay for your arrogance. The dragons will die today, Velaryon! Your king has already been betrayed from within!”

Corlys froze, the words striking him like a blow. Betrayed? It was only a moment’s hesitation, but it was enough.

With a roar, Lysander lunged, his sword slashing toward Corlys. The Sea Snake parried, but Lysander’s strength and fury were overwhelming. Their blades clashed again and again until Corlys stumbled, slipping on the blood-slicked deck. With a grunt, he fell hard, his sword skittering away.

Lysander stood over him, chest heaving, curved blade hovering mere inches from Corlys’s throat. “Look to the skies, Velaryon,” Lysander sneered.

From where he lay, Corlys’s eyes widened as he saw it: Silverwing, Prince Viserys’s mount, struck by a Dragonslayer bolt. The dragon screamed, its wing trailing blood as it struggled to remain aloft, veering toward Bloodstone with Viserys clinging desperately to its back.

Lysander laughed cruelly, his voice rising above the din of battle. “See? The dragons will die! Even the Black Dread!”

The distraction was all Corlys needed. With a burst of strength, he lunged forward, grabbing Lysander’s leg and yanking him off balance. Lysander fell backward with a curse, and Corlys scrambled atop him, drawing a dagger from his belt.

“No, Lysander. Today, you die.”

Before Lysander could react, Corlys plunged the dagger into his face, the blade sinking deep. Lysander let out a choked gasp, his body convulsing before falling still.

Corlys rose, panting heavily, blood splattered across his armor. “Back to the Sea Snake!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos.

He looked to the skies again. Silverwing still flew, though wounded, with Viserys guiding the dragon toward Bloodstone’s safety. And there, dominating the horizon, was Balerion. The Black Dread tore through the Triarchy’s defenses, fire obliterating the Dragonslayer ballistae. One bolt struck Balerion’s side, but it glanced off the massive beast’s scales, leaving no visible mark. The sight alone sent shockwaves of terror through the Triarchy fleet.

The enemy line was collapsing. Ships burned, their crews abandoning them in desperation.

“They’re breaking! Chase them down!” Corlys ordered, pointing toward the remnants of the fleeing fleet.

The Triarchy had lost.

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The assault on Bloodstone was swift, and the island fell with little resistance. Prince Viserys had softened the defenses after landing with the injured Silverwing. The prince and his mount had gone on a rampage, leaving nothing but scorched ruins and smoldering corpses in their wake. By the time Corlys and the main forces arrived, there was nothing left to fight—only the task of securing the island.

Corlys strode through the ruined fortress toward the war council King Alyxander had called, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His dream of conquering the Stepstones had finally been realized. Yet as his gaze drifted to where Silverwing lay, wounded and resting, a shadow passed over his thoughts. That dragon had once belonged to Queen Alysanne, Alyxander’s beloved grandmother, and the way Alyxander had looked at the injured beast told Corlys all he needed to know: the king was far from finished.

The chamber where the council had gathered was one of the few intact rooms in the ruined fort of Bloodstone. Its stone walls were cracked but still standing, lit by sputtering torches that cast wild shadows across the room. The scent of fire and blood lingered in the air, with torn banners and abandoned weapons scattered about.

Inside, King Alyxander stood tall as he surveyed the map of the Stepstones spread across a long table. Around him were Rhaenys, Daemon, and Viserys—his arm bound tightly in a sling.

To one side stood Lord Greyjoy, flanked by his ironborn commanders. Beside them were Lord Redwyne and other Westerosi lords who had played their parts in the battle. They muttered among themselves until the king’s voice rose, steady and commanding.

“Corlys,” Alyxander called out as he entered, his tone both sharp and welcoming. “Good. You are here.”

Corlys inclined his head, stepping forward. “The island is secure, Your Grace.”

Daemon’s voice sliced through the air like a blade, pride dripping from every word. “It has been secure since my dear brother finally awakened the dragon in him.” He grinned.

Viserys shot Daemon a glare, clearly unimpressed. “I did what was necessary,” he muttered.

Alyxander said nothing at first, his fingers tracing the edges of the map before him. Finally, he spoke. “We have taken the Stepstones, but the Triarchy”—his tone sharpened—“had the gall to hurt one of our dragons.”

The room fell silent. Alyxander looked up, his gaze sweeping over the gathered lords. “Silverwing lies injured and will need time to recover,” he added, his fury unmistakable.

It was Lord Greyjoy who spoke first, his deep voice booming across the chamber. “We should take it all, my king. The entire Triarchy—Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. Crush them. Burn them. Make the Narrow Sea ours!”

A murmur of agreement rose from some of the ironborn, but Lord Manderly stepped forward, cautious. “That is too much, my king. We cannot hold cities like Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. Conquer them? Yes. But occupy them? That is another battle entirely.”

Daemon scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “We need only conquer and loot, fill our coffers. The Free Cities will cower for a generation.”

Alyxander’s eyes narrowed. “No, Daemon. We will conquer… and we will stay. Lys, Myr, and the lands they control will be ours. It’s time we added more kingdoms and more swords to the Iron Throne.”

Corlys’s brow furrowed as he studied the map. “You did not mention Tyrosh, Your Grace.”

Alyxander turned his gaze to Corlys, and for the briefest moment, his expression darkened. “Tyrosh,” he said, voice carrying a dangerous edge, “is where the forges are. It is where they built the Dragonslayers. And it is where they craft their new weapons.” He paused, his tone growing colder. “I will make an example of Tyrosh. I will remind the so-called Free Cities of the power of Old Valyria.”

Corlys’s curiosity sharpened into wariness. “How, Your Grace?”

Alyxander did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned his head to Daemon.

The smirk on Daemon’s face widened into a full smile, a smile that sent an uneasy chill down Corlys’s spine. There was something unsettling in it—something cruel.

In that moment, Corlys Velaryon knew that whatever Alyxander and Daemon had planned, it would not be forgotten by the world for generations to come.

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Excerpt from The Fall of the Free Cities
Chapter: The Burning of Tyrosh

The Burning of Tyrosh is remembered not as a triumph, but as a tragic reminder of the unchecked ambition and brutal methods of House Targaryen, particularly under the rule of Basileus Alyxander, then King Alyxander of the Seven Kingdoms. The city of Tyrosh, famed for its vibrant trade, masterful dyes, and gilded spires, was reduced to smoldering ruin in a matter of days.

The Targaryen conquest of the Stepstones had not been enough; they demanded total submission from the Triarchy, and Tyrosh was chosen to serve as an example to all who dared defy the ambitions of the dragons.

The burning was orchestrated by King Alyxander Targaryen and his cousin, the dreaded Daemon Targaryen, who brought dragonfire to a city unprepared for the scale of destruction unleashed upon it.

Daemon, atop Caraxes, led the initial assault. As the Blood Wyrm descended from the sky, the people of Tyrosh could do nothing but look up in horror. The red-scaled beast exhaled fire upon the city’s famed walls—once adorned with bright mosaics and murals—reducing them to molten stone within moments.

The defenders of Tyrosh attempted to resist, but what chance did they have against a dragon? Soldiers were incinerated where they stood, their screams swallowed by the roaring inferno.

Daemon is said to have reveled in the chaos, sweeping down over the harbor where the famed Tyroshi fleet was anchored. The ships—painted in brilliant hues of blue and green, their sails proud symbols of the city’s wealth—were set ablaze one by one. The water itself seemed to burn as the ships became funeral pyres, and those who leapt into the sea found only scalding waves to greet them.

Then came Alyxander, riding upon Balerion the Black Dread. It had been decades since Balerion had unleashed his fury on such a scale. The Black Dread’s shadow darkened the entire city as he passed overhead, his wings blotting out the sun. Entire districts of Tyrosh—merchant quarters to noble estates—were reduced to ash and bone in mere moments. Streets once alive with color and noise were left as nothing more than smoldering paths of ruin.

The famed Dye-Makers’ Quarter—Tyrosh’s pride, where the vivid, expensive dyes that clothed kings and queens were crafted—was among the last to fall. The vats of dye boiled and burst under Balerion’s fire, sending waves of molten red, purple, and gold cascading through the streets. It is said the smoke rising from this inferno turned strange hues, shimmering with the very dyes that had once made Tyrosh prosperous.

The labyrinthine streets, once a symbol of Tyroshi artistry and architectural skill, became deadly traps for the thousands trying to flee. Many perished in the crush of the panicked crowds, their final moments consumed by fire and terror.

The Dread Prince’s cruelty was not sated by fire alone. Caraxes hunted those who tried to escape, sweeping low and setting entire columns of men, women, and children ablaze. Daemon’s men followed, looting and slaughtering with impunity.

Alyxander, it is said, stood silently as the flames consumed the city. His only orders were that the destruction should not cease until Tyrosh was nothing but ash.

For House Targaryen, it was a victory—a warning to the Free Cities that defiance would be met with dragonfire. But for the rest of the world, it was a crime of such scale that it seemed unimaginable. The loss of Tyrosh was not just the destruction of a city, but the erasure of history, art, and human ingenuity.

Alyxander Targaryen had proven his dominance, but at what cost?

The Burning of Tyrosh remains a dark chapter in the history of the Targaryen dynasty—a chilling reminder of what happens when ambition is untempered by mercy, and when power is wielded as a weapon to destroy rather than to create.

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The Burning of Tyrosh was inspired by Alexander’s siege of Tyre.