Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 433: Steel, Gunpowder, and Spellcasters

After three or four centuries of controlled population growth, the total number of inhabitants in Tyria has remarkably remained steady at approximately 150,000 to 160,000.

The vast underground complex, referred to as the "dungeon," has six primary exits to the surface. Five of these are located on the outskirts of what were once the Free Cities of Tyria, while the largest and most significant is positioned directly beneath the temple. Armed with intelligence supplied by Boryas, Viserys's 50,000-strong army swiftly seized control of the four smaller entrances.

The expedition's most formidable asset was its arsenal of 500 cannons. The overwhelming superiority these weapons offered swiftly subdued any Volantis nobles entertaining thoughts of defection. Realizing the Targaryens’ newfound strength, even without dragons, many began reconsidering their allegiances. Those who had sought to ingratiate themselves with Valsha paid a steep price—several were executed, leaving others to focus on understanding the cannons’ deadly potential.

These cannons, regarded as Viserys's ultimate trump card, were under the strict joint supervision of Conwyra and Rhaegar Connington, also known as Young Connington. At present, Young Connington was coordinating the artillery's deployment into the dungeon to mount an assault on the final temple fortress of Tyria.

He and Conwyra stood in a dimly lit room, discussing their strategy. Overhead, a single glass candle emitted a soft, white glow, its light barely sufficient to illuminate the fifty-to-sixty square meter chamber.

“Using cannons in the dungeon is incredibly risky. Perhaps incendiary bombs would be a safer option?” Conwyra suggested.

“Every day we delay outside increases the strain on our supplies. We need to act quickly and accept some level of risk,” Young Connington replied, his tone measured but firm. After a brief pause, he added, “We’ll use the cannons selectively in critical areas. Later, I’ll negotiate directly with their king.”

“Understood. I’ll inspect the troops,” Conwyra agreed before leaving the room.

The Tyrians had been driven into a corner within just three days of the attack’s commencement, largely due to the artillery. The cannons had proved decisive, and their impact on warfare was destined to be transformative. Strict secrecy surrounding these weapons was paramount.

Moments after Conwyra departed, a lithe figure darted out of the shadows and launched itself at Young Connington, wrapping slender arms around his neck.

“Arya, don’t!” Young Connington exclaimed, though there was no alarm in his voice—he recognized her instantly.

He stood unperturbed as Arya clung to him like a sloth. The two had first met three years earlier at the first birthday celebration of Viserys’s eldest son, Willem. Their relationship had blossomed, culminating in their marriage a year ago.

Arya had grown into a strikingly beautiful young woman, her earlier “horse-faced” appearance a distant memory. According to the original accounts, Arya’s time in Braavos had revealed her potential to be a Courtesan—a testament to her inherited good looks and presence. She had now matured fully, and there was no doubt of her attractiveness.

Despite this, the couple had mutually decided to delay having children, spending their days honing their skills in swordsmanship and horsemanship. Arya’s spirits had recently been dampened by witnessing the destructive power of the artillery, leaving her disheartened about the relevance of her martial prowess. This despair had deepened following Robb’s death in battle, which left her struggling to find purpose.

To lift her spirits, Young Connington had indulged her by allowing her to guest-star as an artillery officer, a gesture that instantly brightened her mood.

“I’ll fire the first shot!” Arya whispered mischievously into his ear.

Young Connington, though exasperated, couldn’t help but smile. Arya had trained relentlessly in the Water Dance for years, often ambushing him in playful surprise attacks.

“This is war, my Arya,” he said gently. “When it’s over, I’ll request Your Grace’s permission for you to fight wherever and however you wish.”

“Don’t you dare back out now!” she teased, pounding his chest in mock protest.

Relenting, Young Connington agreed—but only on the condition that he could supervise her efforts closely. Arya, delighted, playfully struck his chest again in celebration.

Shortly thereafter, the main force, led by Young Connington and the artillery unit, advanced to the entrance of Tyria’s underground fortress. Despite being called a fortress, it was more akin to a heavily fortified pass. The steel gates were shut tight, blending seamlessly into the surrounding stone walls. They resembled a pair of massive black teeth, their imposing appearance reinforced by thick stone pillars on either side.

Conwyra carefully considered the situation, aiming to minimize artillery bombardment if possible. Meanwhile, Young Connington approached the massive steel gate and instructed a subordinate to use a "megaphone" to deliver their ultimatum.

“Listen, Tyrians inside! Lay down your arms and surrender unconditionally. The merciful King Viserys is willing to forgive your sins!”

From behind the gate, a defiant voice responded:

“You're the invaders, not us! Why should we surrender? Aren't your cannons powerful? Go ahead and fire!”

The voice was peculiar—a strange blend of a deep, resonant male tone and a high-pitched, shrill feminine quality. Young Connington wasn’t surprised. During recent battles, he had already encountered and captured a two-headed man, so the strange voice didn’t faze him.

Irritated by the response, he shouted back, “You ambushed and tried to kill our emperor, and now His Grace is still willing to show you mercy. Instead of surrendering, you dare to bargain? I'll give you 15 minutes to surrender. If you don’t, I’ll start firing!”

Despite his threat, the answer from behind the gate remained resolute. Frustrated, Young Connington decided not to wait the full 15 minutes and returned to the artillery position.

The artillery unit was limited to just 12 cannons at this location. Deciding to test the steel gate’s resilience, he ordered a single shot. As he approached the cannons, he noticed Arya standing nervously, her hand trembling slightly as she gripped a lighter.

This particular lighter was a recent innovation—not technologically advanced, but functional. Based on an idea from Viserys and crafted by a Myrish artisan, the device had become a popular commodity among the old smokers of Westeros and the Free Cities.

Young Connington moved to Arya’s side, patiently guiding her through the cannon’s operation.
“Pay close attention. The key to firing a cannon is adjusting the angle and calculating,” he explained.

“Calculating?” Arya repeated, her face clouded with worry. “Do I have to learn math to fire cannons?”

Math had always been Arya’s weakness. At the Royal College, subjects like geometry and equations made her head spin. Seeing her apprehension, Young Connington felt a glimmer of relief. Cannons were inherently dangerous—previous tests had resulted in frequent explosions. If her fear of math deterred her from pursuing this, he would consider it a small victory.

“Yes,” he replied, his lips curling into a teasing smile. “Before I became proficient, I solved dozens of practice problems. You’ve seen all the scrap paper in my room, haven’t you? Still want to learn how to fire a cannon?”

Arya hesitated for a moment, then gritted her teeth and declared, “I’ll learn!”

Young Connington adjusted the cannon’s angle while Arya eagerly stepped forward, her excitement palpable. She struck the lighter several times, her hands trembling slightly, until finally, a thumb-sized yellow flame ignited. She brought it to the cannon’s fuse, which began to sizzle and burn.

Both Arya and Young Connington quickly covered their ears as the cannon roared to life. The dragon-carved barrel erupted in fire, and a steel projectile shot forward like a hammer. The projectile slammed into the steel gate with an ear-splitting clang, and the sound echoed throughout the dungeon.

When the sulphurous smoke cleared, the result was visible—a dent the size of a basin marred the gate, but it had not been pierced. Breaching it would require significantly more gunpowder and repeated bombardments, which risked damaging the supporting stone pillars on either side.

Behind the steel gate, three two-headed men stood alongside a few hundred soldiers. Tension filled the air as they assessed the situation.

“As long as the stone pillars remain standing, the road will stay blocked. They won’t get in,” said the woman’s head on one of the two-headed men.

“But we won’t be able to destroy the stone pillars quickly enough,” replied the man’s head on another.

“If the steel gate collapses, it’ll affect the stone pillars. When they break the gate, the pillars will likely give way and block the entire tunnel,” the first two-headed man added.

After a moment of deliberation, one of them concluded, “Leave some men here to hold them off. The rest of us will retreat for now!”