[Author's Note: I am currently in my final year of university and am very busy as of late. Thus, to prevent me 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 some chronic poison.
The Dragonpit. The screaming crowds. The silver-grey dragon is collapsing beneath a tide of madmen.
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 meant to uphold a dynasty for centuries to come.
Meleys 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 men 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 glimmering 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 men-at-arms.
Converted merchant vessels flew beside triremes, banners snapping sharply in the wind.
Every mast bore the same 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 men to even entertain the notion of manning the vessels.
Still, as long as this war ended quickly, Dragon's Bay could be consolidated into something else. Something different.
Something 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 emerge 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-rimmed 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 merchant cogs, smaller escorts, supply vessels hastily armed. They were still dangerous. Still numerous. 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, men 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 engagement. 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.
Men 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 smells 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 came.
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 seemed 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 flame. Its shields blackened, curled, and peeled away as if made of wax.
Men screamed, some burned where they stood, others hurled themselves into the sea, only to surface aflame, 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.
Dragonflame raked the formation, precise and merciless. Hulls split. Oars shattered. The sea boiled as burning pitch, and bodies struck the water together.
The Iron Legions shattered like glass. Discipline and men 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 time had come.
Rhevos did not shout.
For he had no need to.
He merely 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, sometimes 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 screamed 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 dragonflame 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 flames turn them into slag almost immediately.
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 immediately, only then can we…borrow some 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.
Men were thrown from their feet as both galleys screamed 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 met 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 memory.
Steel rang as shields slammed 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 unaccustomed? Yes.
Did it stop them? No.
Not a single one of them wished to return to the time before they had been conquered by their Highnesses.
Nor did they wish to simply succumb to Ghiscari influence and become puppets, their blood and wealth drained out of them without mercy.
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 frame 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. Men turned instinctively, eyes wide, watching comrades burn alive, armour glowing red, skin sloughing from bone.
Some dropped their weapons and ran. Others froze, shields trembling in their hands.
"Hold! Kill these Valyrian remnants for me! 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 slammed down. Then another.
By the time anyone came to, the deck became 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 screamed as a Ghiscari axe split his shoulder, only for an Unsullied spear to punch through the legionary's throat in reply.
Men slipped in blood and fell, only to be hacked apart before they could rise.
Overhead, scorpion bolts screamed past, some embedding uselessly in masts, others swallowed mid-flight by sudden bursts of dragonflame. Shadows passed over the deck as wings beat above, heat washing down like a furnace blast.
A merchant cog tried to flee.
Yet another burst of flame descended upon it, igniting sail and deck in an instant. Men leapt into the sea, their screams cut short as fire skimmed the water's surface. Panic spread faster than flame.
"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 men.
Soon their famed 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.
Some 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 time 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 meant little against fire, numbers, and fear.
And the sea now belonged to Dragon's Bay.