The morning had begun over Lannisport like any other, with dozens of merchant ships crowding the docks and unloading all manner of goods, from spices to exotic animals. The entire harbor was a hive of activity, merchants and buyers talking and haggling without pause, and the sun rose high and bright, promising another pleasant day in the western lands.
Until it wasn't.
The sky, which until moments before had been clear, began to fill with thick, gray clouds, as if a great storm were bearing down on the docks, though there was no lightning or wind, only a dense fog creeping in from the open sea, moving slowly and covering, little by little, every inch of the city.
At first, no one seemed to find anything strange. After all, a storm was no problem as long as one remained in port. But as the fog closed in over the watchtowers and the gulls fell silent, people began to feel an unease that was hard to explain, because everything was happening too quickly, in a way that felt far too unnatural.
The lookouts and soldiers were not immune to that feeling, and aside from staying alert there was little they could do, because one cannot fight fog, as they would discover hours later.
Whether by intuition or simple attentiveness, a lookout posted high above thought he could make out something within the mist, beyond the moored merchant ships: a faint light rising in the distance like a far-off torch, barely visible, followed by another, and then another, until it became clear that the entire horizon was filling with glowing points.
Before he could raise the alarm, an apparently endless volley of flaming arrows rained down upon the harbor, unleashing panic among civilians and soldiers alike. Many of the guards stationed on the high walls died without ever knowing how, as confusion slowly turned into hysteria, crowds running in all directions, trying to flee from an enemy they still could not see.
Meanwhile, the entire Black Fleet, led by Vlad's flagship, drew their bows once more for a second volley.
The fog, of course, was not natural. Vlad had created it, for among his many powers was control over the weather, the ability to summon storms and darken the skies at will, and this time he used it to conceal the advance of his fleet, allowing his ships to drop anchor barely ten meters from the port without anyone realizing until it was far too late.
His flagship carried his deadliest progeny, Cole's crew, composed entirely of vampires, wielding longbows and firing with a superhuman speed no mortal archer could hope to match.
The rest of the fleet was organized with military precision, specially trained units forming shields and spear walls and preparing to take the narrow streets of the harbor, each section carefully coordinated so that the capture of Lannisport would be swift and exact.
After all, it was the first time Vlad set foot in Westeros, and it had to be significant.
So too would the fact that he himself would fight, because beyond the simmering rage left over from his encounter with the Three-Eyed Raven, he believed the time had come for his name to stop circulating as a distant story and become a certainty.
And for his progeny it would be a night of release, for Vlad had always taught them the value of control and discretion, but in war, blood would flow like wine.
—Shields!— Vlad roared from the prow, his voice so powerful it seemed to make the masts tremble.
At once, the front lines of his fleet raised black shields of dark steel, emblazoned with the sigil of House Drakul, and the arrows flying from the port struck them. Some soldiers of the west, faster than the rest, had managed to organize an improvised counterattack from the inner walls or among the warehouse barrels, but it was too little and too late.
—Oars!—Vlad ordered, raising his arm high.
The galleys surged forward, the sound of drums marking a firm, steady rhythm, as the vampires at the helm did not hesitate for an instant and the vessels hurled themselves against the docks with the force of a beast, ramming and splitting in two the merchant ships that still blocked the way, wood creaking and exploding before sinking into the foam.
Vlad was the first to leap, launching himself with a single step from the aftcastle and cutting through the air like a spear before landing among a group of soldiers trying to raise an improvised barricade. With a swift turn, his sword, Scarlet Witch, cut down three lives in a single motion, making the rest recoil at the sight of him, though it was already too late.
From the sky, his progeny descended like shadows, floating through the mist and wrapped in dark cloaks.
—Drink your fill, gentlemen— Vlad said in a deep voice, never taking his eyes off the enemy.
The vampires inclined their heads in reverence, all more than grateful to finally be given free rein, and then the true slaughter began.
Elsewhere in the harbor, the elite units disembarked one by one, with the Unsullied, led by officers in black helms, forming compact shield lines with spears extended, advancing through the alleys like a moving wall that drove the soldiers of the west into corners, trapping them one by one, and every attempt to break the formation was met with spearpoints.
Beyond them, the vampires slipped through alleys and across rooftops, bursting into the houses where guards hid and cutting their throats before they could call for help. Some, when surrounded, tried to surrender, but the progeny bent over them, drank from their throats, and let them fall without ceremony.
Cole, the former Ironborn who had joined Vlad in his pursuit of vengeance, moved through the Gold Cloaks like smoke, laughing out loud as his sharpened claws tore through armor as if it were paper, and after slaughtering every last one of his men, he seized a commander by the throat, leaning close and whispering in his ear with a predatory smile:
—I used to think there were too many of you… —he said, with a trace of sadistic amusement— Now you're not enough.
Then he sank his fangs into the man's throat, drinking until nothing remained but a lifeless body, completely drained.
Vlad, meanwhile, advanced alone.
A group of soldiers, perhaps thirty of them, had formed a barricade in front of one of the port mansions that served as a local command center. They were trembling, but they did not flee, instead digging in with spears and shields, breathing hard as distant screams echoed through the streets.
Vlad paused for a moment before charging. He closed his eyes and let the noise of the harbor blur and fade, when he opened them again, the whites had turned black, and the world lost its color, transforming into a succession of pale shapes and deep shadows.
Walls ceased to be barriers. Through wood and stone he could make out human silhouettes, pale outlines moving clumsily, bodies packed tight behind barricades. He saw the web of veins beneath the skin, the uneven pulse of blood racing through arms and necks, each heartbeat ringing with perfect clarity, but above all, the scent.
The scent of fear.
Vlad looked at them and, without a word, began walking toward them at an unhurried pace. One trembling soldier gave the order to fire, and the last three archers loosed their strings. Vlad deflected the arrows with a simple motion of his sword, never breaking stride.
Then he began to quicken his pace, slow at first, then faster and faster, savoring every second.
The distance between him and the enemy line closed in moments. Vlad crashed into them with monstrous force, hurling the first two men through the air and smashing straight through the solid wooden door protecting the mansion, which exploded into splinters as if struck by a colossal battering ram, while the rest struggled to hold their ground against an impact no human could withstand.
Sword in hand, Vlad spun, cut, and impaled. An arm flew free, then, with a turn, a head, then a torso split open from shoulder to hip in a single stroke, and the ground turned red as stones grew slick beneath shattered bodies.
When it was over, no one remained. Only an unrecognizable mass of flesh spread out before the doorway.
Vlad lifted his head, blood-soaked up to his neck, breathing fast, not from exhaustion but from the euphoria of blood. He considered himself a civilized man and avoided killing when he could, but as a vampire, there was no sensation quite like bathing in the blood of his enemies.
He drew a deep breath, calming the rush, then extended his senses across the entire harbor. In less than two hours, his forces had secured Lannisport.
The day was his.
----
Good afternoon, everyone! New chapter of the week. Vlad finally arrives in Westeros, and I'm sure his arrival will inspire both songs and fear.
As for the story itself, I'm a bit behind on the Patreon chapters due to a mild case of writer's block. Nothing serious, I know exactly what's going to happen, but I'm struggling to structure it properly without it turning into a simple info dump. I want the scenes to flow naturally, and that's where the delay is coming from.
By the way, this is probably the point in the plot where canon goes straight to hell, which should be good news for everyone who hated the series finale.
I wish I could say the same about the book endings, but that damn R.R still hasn't finished them yet. How I hate you, adorable old bearded man.
Finally, this is both a request and a complaint: if you notice too much AI influence in the chapters, please let me know. I don't use it for writing, but I did notice that when I asked it to translate an excerpt into English, it took some liberties. So far it doesn't seem too noticeable, but it's something I want to keep a close eye on.
Especially because lately, every story on this site I try to read is packed with AI. Seriously, if I read one more grandiose description of the simplest action, another completely empty dialogue, or another paragraph where every sentence is chopped up with periods, I'm going to have a psychotic break.