[Author's Note: I am currently in my final year of university and am very busy as of late. Thus, to prevent from dropping the novel entirely and to stop the plot from completely degrading in quality, I will have to reduce updates to twice a week. Monday Friday.]
***
The heavy flapping of wings beat the air into submission as Baelon cut across the sky above the Gulf of Grief, seated firmly upon his trusted arsonist of a bond.
Beside them, hovered the figure of Silverwing who flew nearby with a languid grace.
Despite this, Baelon's thoughts were far from clear.
That dream lingered, even now. It clung to his mind like so chronic poison.
The Dragonpit. The screaming crowds. The silver-grey dragon is collapsing beneath a tide of madn.
Baelon had never confined his dragons, and he never would.
The knowledge he had gathered in Sallosh had taught him enough. It taught him what chains did to dragons.
And yet, he was not blind to history.
The Dragonpit was one of House Targaryen's great pillars, perhaps second only to the dragons themselves and Dragonstone.
A symbol of his house's dominion.
For smallfolk to storm it, to butcher dragonkeepers and bring down an adult dragon like Seasmoke…
That was not simply murder.
No!
It was sacrilege. It was the tearing out of bricks laid by the hands of his forebearers, stones ant to uphold a dynasty for centuries to co.
leys had already fallen in his dreams.
If Seasmoke followed, that made two.
And that was assuming, charitably, that Seasmoke had been the only dragon in the pit.
Baelon's jaw tightened.
If others had been chained there...
Grounded.
Weakened.
He did not believe any of them would have survived. Not in the slightest. Not against a tide of desperation and fanaticism.
Not against n who no longer feared fire and blood.
"I have to end this war as swiftly as I can…" Baelon murmured, his gaze fixed on the vast blue expanse glimring beneath him.
He needed to end this war, bring stability to his realm and make sure tragedies like those he had seen in his dreams would never happen to him.
Below, his fleet cut through the Gulf.
Dozens upon dozens of ships sailed in formation, their hulls dark against the water. Broad-bellied grain cogs sailed alongside sleek war galleys, their rams reinforced and decks crowded with n-at-arms.
Converted rchant vessels flew beside trires, banners snapping sharply in the wind.
Every mast bore the sa sigil.
The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, picked out in pale white against black fields, visible for leagues ahead.
Baelon counted without thinking.
Between the contributions of Dragon's Bay, the tribute fleets of Tolos and Elyria, and ships seized or purchased during the past year, his navy numbered close to eighty vessels.
Not nearly enough to rival the great fleets of House Velaryon, Volantis or The Triarchy.
But it was more than sufficient for a regional power. Enough to show force. Enough to intimidate.
Enough to win, if wielded correctly.
Whilst he could have dispatched almost double the number of ships if needed, especially thanks to what he had seized in Astapor, there was no need.
He did not have the n to even entertain the notion of manning the vessels.
Still, as long as this war ended quickly, Dragon's Bay could be consolidated into sothing else. Sothing different.
Sothing that even if Westeros tore itself apart in dragonfire and betrayal, no Free City would dare provoke him while he stood astride Essos' throat.
Especially not after what he planned next.
Baelon leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning the horizon ahead. Smoke? No.
Just haze and distance.
'Have the Iron Legions arrived yet…?' He wondered.
His plan was simple. Crush the New Ghis fleet before it could threaten Dragon's Bay, before it could raid supply lines or spread panic. Break their confidence at sea, and the war would already be half-won.
As if summoned by his thoughts, faint shapes began to erge along the horizon, dark slivers rising from the sea, resolving slowly into ordered lines.
Ships.
Many ships.
Baelon's eyes narrowed with anticipation.
The Iron Legion.
Their ships advanced in tight formation, like a pack of hounds drawn to blood.
Their hulls were darker than his own, reinforced with iron-banded bows, shields mounted along their rails in the old Ghiscari style.
Even at this distance, there was a sense of weight to them, a promise of relentless advance.
Baelon exhaled slowly.
Good.
The war would not drag on.
And gods willing, no more dragons would have to die screaming in chains within the confines of his dreams.
***
Rhevos lowered the Myrish lens, the polished glass still warm from his grip, and exhaled slowly.
What had once been faint shadows on the skin of the sea had now hardened.
A league out.
No more than that now.
Even without the lens, he could count them. Almost seventy ships in all. A third of them were true war galleys, vast and slab-sided, their prows painted in the harsh reds and blacks of Old Ghis.
Bronze-rimd shields hung along their flanks like scales, and between them jutted the cruel silhouettes of scorpions, their arms already cranked back, glinting hungrily beneath the sun.
The rest of the fleet was a mongrel thing, requisitioned rchant cogs, smaller escorts, supply vessels hastily ard. They were still dangerous. Still nurous. Still more than enough to drown any unprepared foe.
Rhevos felt a familiar weight settle in his chest. Ambition. Fervour. All of it was churning within him/
Only two thousand Unsullied had sailed with them. The rest remained behind in Dragon's Bay, keeping order in Tolos and Elyria, guarding a fragile peace bought with fire and blood.
Here, aboard these decks, the bulk of their strength lay with nearly fifteen thousand free citizens, n who had once known chains and now carried spear and shield in service of the dragonlords who had broken them.
They were brave. Fiercely so.
But bravery was not experience nor was it skill.
Most had never fought a true naval engagent. Many had never seen a war galley up close before.
Even Rhevos himself could not claim true experience. His past victories, prior to slavery, had been against pirates, disorderly packs that scattered once pressed hard enough.
This was different.
Yet as his gaze lifted, his eyes found a small, silver shape wheeling high above the fleet, striking against the blue.
Then another joined it, broader, bulkier, catching the sun along bronze-tinted wings.
And just like that, much of his fear loosened its grip.
"Prepare to engage!" Rhevos barked his orders. "War galleys forward, maintain spacing. Light ships, fall back behind the centre. No one breaks formation without my word."
Oars were soon churning in perfect harmony, whipping the water hard enough that it turned from a steady blue into a white froth.
n ran. Ropes were hauled taut. Scorpions were angled and tested, their crews checking winches and bolts with trembling hands.
Shields were raised along rails. The air was filled with the slls of sweat and anxiety.
Minutes stretched into an eternity.
The Ghiscari fleet crept closer, bit by bit, their war galleys spreading just enough to deny an easy inferno, their prows stubbornly pointed forward.
Rhevos swallowed, his throat dry as sand. He glanced toward the hundred Unsullied stationed aboard his flagship, all silent, all still, their bronze helms steady.
Then he saw it.
The scorpions on the enemy's lead ships tilted upward.
They were in range.
Sweat trickled down Rhevos' temple. His fingers curled against the railing until his knuckles paled.
'Now,' he cried in his thoughts. 'Now, Your Highness.'
And then—
The roar ca.
A sound that was not heard so much as felt, rolling through bone and blood alike.
Still, for Rhevos, this was the music of the Gods. Of victory.
He snapped his head skyward as the air itself seed to tear open as two vast beasts plunged from the heavens.
Before the Ghiscari captains could even cry warning, fire fell from the sky.
A war galley vanished beneath a tide of fla. Its shields blackened, curled, and peeled away as if made of wax.
n scread, so burned where they stood, others hurled themselves into the sea, only to surface afla, thrashing as the fire clung to them.
Another blast struck the next galley in line. Its mast snapped, sails igniting in an instant, the deck erupting into chaos as scorpion crews were reduced to silhouettes and ash.
Then another. And another.
Dragonfla raked the formation, precise and rciless. Hulls split. Oars shattered. The sea boiled as burning pitch, and bodies struck the water together.
The Iron Legions shattered like glass. Discipline and n alike.
Rhevos let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding.
"Advance," he said quietly.
And the fleet surged forward, toward a burning sea and a war already decided.
Seeing this, Rhevos knew his ti had co.
Rhevos did not shout.
For he had no need to.
He rely lifted his arm once, and the hornmaster beside him understood at once.
Three short bursts.
Then, across the waters of the Gulf of Grief, horns answered in kind.
Soon, the Dragon's Bay fleet moved.
Ships advanced in tight knots three, four, sotis five vessels moving together, oars biting the water.
To an untrained eye, it looked chaotic.
To Rhevos, it was beautiful.
Alas, New Ghis were in no place to admire his fleet's solemn beauty. Though Rhevos was surprised to find them still trying to put up a fight.
He watched as lone scorpion crews fought through smoke and falling embers, hauling fresh bolts into place, cranking winches with blistered hands.
Next, bolts scread skyward.
One after another.
Unfortunately for them, and fortunately for him, the dragons ruled the air.
Silver and bronze shapes wheeled and dove, their wings beating away smoke as dragonfla poured downward in blistering torrents.
Whilst the silver silhouette kept her distance, her bronze companion showed little regard for the oncoming assault.
Most bolts were swallowed by a swarm of petulant flas turn them into slag almost imdiately.
Those few bolts that survived the heat found only empty sky, their target long gone.
Soon, a Ghiscari war galley tried to turn away, seemingly their flagship as it eclipsed its neighbours in both grandeur and size.
Alas, dragonfire swept across its stern, igniting pitch and sail alike. Much to Rhevos' dismay, the beautiful vessel and all on it were turned to ash.
'No!' Rhevos tightened his fists. 'We must put an end to this imdiately, only then can we…borrow so of these Ghiscari ships.'
He squinted as he thought about how his fleet would swell in size after this battle, but he quickly focused on the situation ahead as his ship struck its first foe.
The impact thundered through the hull as his ship smashed into the flank of a Ghiscari war galley.
n were thrown from their feet as both galleys scread in protest.
"Board them!" Rhevos bellowed.
Planks crashed down in response to his shout, and the Unsullied advanced as one.
Bronze helms dipped. Shields locked. Spears rose and fell in a rhythm that cut through panic like a blade through cloth.
Ghiscari sailors died before they could scream, throats opened, ribs pierced, bodies collapsing in twitching heaps.
Then the Iron Legion t them.
They surged up from below decks, shields raised, blades drawn. Their formation was imperfect.
Far too many bodies to organise themselves, far too much smoke to see one another, but discipline still clung to them like muscle mory.
Steel rang as shields slamd together, spearheads skidding across iron rims.
A legionary caught an Unsullied's spear on his shield and drove forward, blade plunging into a bronze gorget.
Despite this, the legionary was soon pierced by another Unsullied's spear.
Elsewhere, the Free Citizens of Dragon's Bay pushed forward.
Were they scared? Yes.
Were they unaccustod? Yes.
Did it stop them? No.
Not a single one of them wished to return to the ti before they had been conquered by their Highnesses.
Nor did they wish to simply succumb to Ghiscari influence and beco puppets, their blood and wealth drained out of them without rcy.
For a heartbeat, the fight hung in the balance. Unsullied against Iron Legion. Discipline against number.
Rhevos cut through a fleeing sailor with a speed that belied his age, blood splattering across his face.
By this point, he was already panting, his aged fra showing its weakness.
Thankfully, his foes were soon unable to keep their calm as panic clawed its way into the battle.
A scream rose from the stern as dragonfire washed over a neighbouring ship. n turned instinctively, eyes wide, watching comrades burn alive, armour glowing red, skin sloughing from bone.
So dropped their weapons and ran. Others froze, shields trembling in their hands.
"Hold! Kill these Valyrian remnants for ! For those that wish to flee…" A sturdy Ghiscari officer roared, striking a fleeing legionary with the flat of his blade. "May the Gods favour you in death!"
Still, his words were too late.
Far too late.
Dragon's Bay soldiers poured aboard from the flanks as another ship clashed with the Ghsicari galley, just as the formation intended.
This was never a fair battle, and Rhevos would be foolish not to gang up on his foe with superior numbers.
Soon, another boarding plank slamd down. Then another.
By the ti anyone ca to, the deck beca a killing ground, bodies trampled underfoot as blades hacked and stabbed in close, ugly arcs.
Steel clashed constantly now.
Swords scraped shields, sparks leaping with every blow. A free citizen from Tolos scread as a Ghiscari axe split his shoulder, only for an Unsullied spear to punch through the legionary's throat in reply.
n slipped in blood and fell, only to be hacked apart before they could rise.
Overhead, scorpion bolts scread past, so embedding uselessly in masts, others swallowed mid-flight by sudden bursts of dragonfla. Shadows passed over the deck as wings beat above, heat washing down like a furnace blast.
A rchant cog tried to flee.
Yet another burst of fla descended upon it, igniting sail and deck in an instant. n leapt into the sea, their screams cut short as fire skimd the water's surface. Panic spread faster than fla.
"Break their lines!" Rhevos shouted.
And, so they did.
Ghiscari resistance collapsed. A shield wall faltered. A captain fell. A gangway snapped under the weight of fleeing n.
Soon their fad discipline unravelled into desperate bouts for survival. Each man for themselves.
Iron Legionaries fought to the last where they stood, back to the mast, blades dulled with blood, but they were outnumbered. Cruelly so.
When one Dragon's Bay soldier fell, two more surged over him. They were as relentless as hounds drawn to blood.
Ship after ship was taken.
So struck their colours in cowardice, weapons cast aside with shaking hands. Others burned until only blackened hulls remained, drifting and empty.
The sea churned with debris, broken oars, floating shields, and corpses bobbing amid the wreckage.
By the ti the dragons hauled away, smoke trailing from their wings, the battle was already decided.
The clash of steel faded.
Screams dwindled to sobs and whimpers.
Rhevos stood amid the carnage, chest heaving, sword dripping red into the scuppers as the Gulf of Grief fell silent once more.
The Iron Legions had fought valiantly.
But valour ant little against fire, numbers, and fear.
And the sea now belonged to Dragon's Bay.
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