Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 434: Steel, Gunpowder, and Spellcasters II

The great fortress of Tyria had only one viable entry point, and despite the formidable display of artillery, Young Connington knew the limits of his resources. When the first cannonball failed to breach the iron gate, he refrained from using excessive gunpowder. The cannons and their ammunition were too valuable to squander.

In this era, indiscriminate bombardment was not a luxury anyone could afford. Even Viserys, with his ambitions, had reserved artillery for decisive battles, such as the anticipated confrontation with the Night King. The cannons were meant to deal a devastating blow, not to be overused against lesser threats, lest the enemy adapt to their tactics.

Young Connington faced unique challenges here in the dungeon. Although his ammunition reserves were sufficient, the confined underground environment imposed restrictions on how the cannons could be used effectively. Precision blasting was not within Viserys’s expertise, nor did Young Connington have the luxury of indulging in trial and error.

As he pondered his options, a woman in a warlock’s cloak approached. It was Malora, leading a group of warlocks to offer their assistance.

“Linking spell? Are you sure this will work?” Young Connington asked, his skepticism clear. While he possessed some magical knowledge, he was aware that Malora’s methods belonged to a different school entirely.

Malora’s group proposed a plan to use magic alongside the artillery to breach the gate. Yet, there was a risk: the dungeon was crucial as a forward base for the eventual assault on the Doom Ruins. Blasting the tunnel could trap the remaining Tyrians, but it could also leave his forces vulnerable to counterattacks from hidden forces within.

“This is what His Grace wishes,” Malora assured him. “We’ve rehearsed it thoroughly, and the odds of success are high.”

Since it bore Viserys’s approval, Young Connington decided to proceed. He ordered the artillery to prepare for another volley while assigning a squad of warriors to guard the warlocks.

The warlocks each carried what appeared to be simple wands, prompting mixed reactions from the soldiers. Eddard Umber, son of Jon Umber, stood among them. Fourteen years old but already possessing a towering physique, Eddard exuded an imposing presence. Known for his strength and blunt manner, he regarded the warlocks and their wands with disdain.

To Eddard, the wands resembled nothing more than twigs. He felt confident that if he could close the distance, he could dispatch the warlocks effortlessly with his greatsword. He touched the massive blade strapped to his back, a family heirloom he had inherited after Greatjon’s death in battle. That sword had slain a two-headed man, and Eddard saw no reason to believe these fragile-looking wands could compare.

As he watched the warlocks work, Eddard’s attention drifted to the artillery. His eyes gleamed with admiration for the powerful cannons. Their imposing forms reminded him of something primal, a connection he couldn’t quite put into words.

“Calibrate it!” Young Connington barked, pulling everyone back to focus.

Arya, who had been eager earlier, now wisely stayed back. She realized the situation was far more serious than before and didn’t want to interfere. Instead, she silently prayed for the gate’s destruction so she could join the fray alongside Young Connington.

A deafening series of explosions followed as all twelve cannons fired in unison. The roar echoed through the dungeon, reverberating like a relentless drumbeat. The sound was so overwhelming that, even with ears covered, everyone felt the vibrations coursing through their bodies.

As the sulphurous smoke cleared, the damage became visible. The once-pristine steel gate now bore the scars of war—deep pits and jagged craters covered its surface, resembling a tattered piece of linen.

Young Connington glanced at Arya, noticing her pale face. Moments later, she turned aside and vomited.

He understood all too well. The sheer force of the explosions and the sound waves could unsettle even the most hardened soldiers. During his training, he had experienced similar nausea, and it was no surprise Arya felt the same.

The bombardment had made progress, but the gate still stood. Young Connington knew they had weakened it significantly.

“Second round of bombardment, prepare!”

Young Connington's command rang out sharply, and the artillery teams sprang into action. They cleared the lingering ash from the barrels, loaded fresh gunpowder, and carefully inserted the projectiles.

As the preparations continued, Young Connington's gaze shifted to the massive stone pillars flanking the steel gate. Deep cracks marred their surfaces, and one cannonball had already narrowly missed, grazing a pillar and almost causing further damage.

Finally, the Unsullied-led artillery stood ready for the second volley. With a steady voice, Young Connington gave the order, lifting Arya directly into his arms as the cannons fired again.

The deafening barrage shattered the steel gate completely, and the stone pillars trembled violently, barely standing amidst spreading cracks.

Crack.

The fractures deepened, and the pillars seemed moments away from collapse.

“Prepare the binding spell!” Malora shouted suddenly.

A brilliant white light emanated from the warlocks’ wands. The shimmering magic enveloped the damaged pillars, stabilizing them temporarily as the tunnel walls ceased their collapse.

Eddard stared in silent astonishment at the surreal display. He couldn’t match the devastating power of those massive cannons, but now even these slender wands seemed far beyond his grasp.

The uneasy reprieve was short-lived. The shifting weight of the damaged structure soon caused the tunnel to destabilize again. Stone and debris began to crumble as the warlocks poured more energy into their spells, maintaining a fragile equilibrium.

A warlock rushed over to Young Connington and spoke urgently. “My lord, we can hold the spell for about half an hour. Lord Malora asked me to tell you that if you plan to attack, you must act quickly and pass through the tunnel. If not, we’ll have to end the spell.”

Young Connington faced a difficult choice.

Attacking meant risking everything without knowing the enemy's strength, and half an hour might not be enough to get a thousand soldiers through safely. Even if they succeeded in entering, retreat would be a perilous endeavor.

But retreating now would forfeit their only chance.

Arya’s gray eyes met his, calm yet resolute, silently conveying that she would follow whatever path he chose. Her unwavering determination steeled his resolve.

With a nod to Conwyra, Young Connington issued his order: “Attack!”

Under Eddard Umber’s command, the three battalions began moving single file into the unstable tunnel. The stone groaned ominously, dust falling in torrents as cracks widened.

Young Connington brought up the rear, Arya close behind him.

“Arya, look behind you!”

“What?” she asked, turning instinctively.

Seizing the moment, Young Connington struck, knocking her unconscious. He swiftly handed her limp form to Conwyra, locking eyes with the soldier for a brief moment before charging into the tunnel himself.

As soon as Young Connington entered, the warlocks’ strength faltered. The spell failed, and the tunnel collapsed in a thunderous roar behind him.

Tyria Dungeon, Main Castle:

“What! They’re inside? How many?”

The three-headed On paced in panic, his voices overlapping in alarm.

A two-headed man replied grimly, “About a thousand, give or take.”

A thousand. Not many, but enough to pose a dire threat.

On’s fortress still housed 4,000 defenders, yet the invaders’ weapons were unnervingly destructive. The cannons alone had breached their defenses, and their incendiary bottles turned into raging infernos upon impact.

Despite their numerical advantage, On felt cornered.

Escape seemed the only viable option. He could flee and seek help from the figure in the Doom Ruins. But even the thought of that entity sent a shiver of dread through him, and all five faces on his three heads twisted in anguish.

“My lord, let me hold them off for you!” Boryas interjected, his remaining head speaking with solemn conviction. “I failed to kill Viserys before, but if they come for you, they’ll have to step over my corpse!”

Boryas, now harboring the soul of a thousand-year-old monster, exuded an air of sincerity. His tone, expression, and gestures were flawless.

On hesitated but finally made up his mind.

“Fine. I’ll take only... 2,500 men with me. The rest are yours!”

Even in retreat, taking the majority of the garrison felt excessive.

Boryas bowed deeply. “Do not worry, my lord. Allow me to bid you farewell on your final journey!”