The Broken Bastion
Twenty-Seventh Day of the Second Month 293 AC
The eight-sided profile of the Bleeding Tower was carried upon coins of Tyroshi gold from Yi Ti to Lannisport, but most of the men unfortunate enough to man its ramparts that night had to make due with coppers, when they were lucky enough to get them. Little wonder then that even their commander barely glanced out to sea as he warmed his hands against a brazier. True, the one he was using was emblazoned with coiling dragons set with eyes of jade, a gift from a merchant captain who did not wish to be bothered with an over-long customs inspection, but he hated the posting no less than any of the men under his command.
Trynaeus Gula was a man given to simple pleasures and far less martially inclined than his resplendent purple-fringed cloak might show. He had been banished to this post after causing one too many minor and not so many minor scandals, the last of which involved almost wedding a slave, much to his elder bother's horror. The girl had been put to death, the wheel he suspected though he never had the courage to ask, while he had been quietly exiled to this blood-stained rock at the edge of the city.
Slowly the man lifted the fifth wine cup of the night and drank deep from it, the dismal scene of his exile vanishing behind it even as memories faded and blurred from the brandy within. As he set down his cup, however, he saw or thought he did a young woman who seemed painfully familiar to his eye.
"Ane..." The more he looked the less she seemed like his lost lover. Her flesh pale as moonlight, hair black as ebony and eyes... he fell endlessly into a sea of darkness from which he could not escape, nor did he wish to for it promised forgetfulness deeper by far then drink could give.
***
"Why are we carrying people in bottles again?" Wyla asked sweetly as she looked over her new thrall. "I can just make the ones already here loyal onto death if need be."
"Because the tales of having enthralled everyone within would reflect poorly upon us," Garin Drekelis found himself answering quickly before the crow-headed archon could answer more sharply. "One man's testimony is easily brushed aside, but not that of more than a hundred watchmen."
"Especially a sot," Maelor notes, kicking the cup into the wall with a look of what seemed to Garin to be almost personal dislike. "Let's get this mummery over with..."
The taking of the tower, bastion of Tyroshi power since its raising during the Century of Blood was a swift and frightful thing. To the beleaguered defenders it must have seemed as though the shadows themselves had come alive to harry them as bolts rained down from the dark heavens upon any foolish enough to make for the causeway linking the city itself.
Garin took no pleasure in hounding them, for they did naught but their duty, however wicked their masters. Still, the blood of a man bold or foolish enough to run for the signal fire stained the Braavosi's blades, offering one final sacrifice to the ancient stones perhaps. As the men struggled in vain against foes they could not even hope to touch, a commanding voice, familiar to all, rang out from the upper ramparts: "Lay down your arms! For the love of the gods we surrender, lower your arms!"
Even as the clang of steel on stone heralded victory, Garin could not help but wonder if it would cost one life more in the person of the hapless commander.
OOC: Wyla was not exaggerating here. She could well have taken this place on her own.