49 Battle of Dragonstone

Snapping the reins, Tyene urged her mount faster. Puffs of snow and clods of dirt and brown grass underneath the white blanket were kicked up by the hooves of the horse. Jinking and weaving between the small hills and brush that made up the plains of the western Crownlands was taking a toll on the poor animal, but Tyene did not have time to waste. Evading Lannister patrols led her far west of the God's Eye, Riverrun directly to the north. 'I have to reach the Queen,' she thought as the cold air slammed into her face. 'I must!'

Masked by the snowfall like a concealed punji stick, the gopher hole represented a nightmare for any expert rider. Tyene didn't know what had hit her. One moment the wind was whipping through her as she kept her eyes trained on the horizon, and the next she was flying through the air, horse letting out a primal scream of pain. Hands moving to block her face, in an act of divine providence she landed in a snowbank - aside from an aching jolt, she was unharmed.

"Fucking… shit," she spat, shaking the snow out of her hair. Rolling onto her back, Tyene pulled off her scarf as she stared at the clear blue sky. "Mother of fuck, mother of fuck…" The pained baying of her crippled horse filled the air… until they ceased abruptly. 'Why would… oh fuck…'

Before she could scramble to her feet, Tyene felt herself dragged into the air. A bearded face popped into view, shouting at several figures running up on foot or horseback. Dothraki - Tyene should have known the Horde waited in this part of the Crownlands to catch any relief force for Casterly Rock. A force that would never come. This was a good development - or a disaster, for she spoke none of the language.

Yanked about, laughter among the riders filling her ears, Tyene fought the urge to unsheath her daggers. The Dothraki were nominally allies of Free Dorne, and attempting to fight them would only get her ripped apart. "I am Tyene Martell! Rightful lady of Dorne."

A well-built man with swirling tattoos dotting his chest stepped forward - his braid was long, indicating a warrior undefeated. He raised his arkh to Tyene's neck with a snarl within his thick beard. "Dorne… enemy," he spat in broken Common Tongue, pointing south. "Dorne with… Lannister." He tossed her to the ground.

Dread filled Tyene. "That is Trystane Martell. I am Tyene, sworn to your Khaleesi." More laughs rang out, followed by guttural banter that did not sound at all welcoming in the foreign Dothraki dialect. A rider dismounted his horse and made a gesture of frantic fornication. Tyene's blood simmered. 'They will not take me alive.' A hand drifted to where her dagger waited, concealed.

"Lady Tyene?" Eyes going wide at the familiar voice, Tyene saw the lady Missandei stepping off her horse at the edge of the ragged circle of warriors. Barking angry commands in Dothraki, the riders backed away, faces neutral. Missandei, Lord Yohn Royce close behind her, knelt beside Tyene. "Forgive me, Lady Martell. The khalasar is very protective of their Khaleesi - a bit overprotective sometimes."

Lord Royce reaching out his hand to help her up, Tyene nodded gratefully for the assistance. "If it had been one of my cousin's stooges, I wouldn't begrudge them if they killed the cunt." She swatted the powdery snow from her cloak. "But no time for that, I must speak with Empress Daenerys!"

"She is in Dragonstone," the translator replied. "She left weeks ago."

"Seven hells," Tyene muttered. "You must then take me to Robb Stark, or Harrenhal."

Missandei blinked while Lord Royce bristled. "Whatever for?" he asked, voice haughty with nobility.

"Because I think Tywin Lannister is about to catch him in a trap." Missandei waited but a split second before summoning a horse.

"You, girl! Fetch me that wine."

"At once, ser," stated Arya from underneath her 'face.' Resisting the urge to run the man through with Needle for daring to address the sister of the Emperor in that manner - it wasn't hard, for she was used to it from her travels - she complied with her submissive alter ego and scurried towards the men.

One of the men laughed. "'Ser,' as if you could ever be a knight, you fucking cunt."

"Hey, I could so too be a knight. I's got chivalry," the first man replied, grinning a set of half the total number of teeth as he snatched the wine cup from Arya. The others guffawed and began punching him in the arm.

This degradation was not something she enjoyed, but it was for the greater good. Her trace on the Waif had ended close to here on the mainland, but when hearing that Dany had journeyed unexpectedly to Dragonstone Arya knew she had to be here. She couldn't let Jon's beloved be harmed, for if the Waif got wind of it, she'd be on a fast boat for here in no time flat.

Suddenly Arya heard a cacophony of bells, rings echoing through the narrow halls. "Ships spotted on the horizon. Not ours!" someone shouted around the corner.

"Get to the docks your lazy cunts!" another yelled. A cloaked figure was shoved towards the end of the hall. "Go!"

"I'm going!" he hollered back. Arya froze, face going pale underneath her 'face.' That voice… she would remember it till the day she died. Ducking into a dark alcove, blending into the shadows, she quietly watched him. As he slowly moved to grab a crate while the others raced out, Arya caught a glimpse of his face.

"Meryn Trant," she whispered, words audible only to her. Arya's heart hitched - another name to be stricken off her list.

For now though, she watched him. Once alone, he made his way towards the doorway in which she hid. Without making a sound, she hatched a plan.

Shutting the door behind him, Meryn Trant pulled back his hood. "Fucking Dragon Bitch," he muttered, moving to a loose stone in the wall - mortar chipped away to nearly nothing. "Soon you will be fucked, and maybe I'll have a turn with you." He chuckled to himself. She was too old for his tastes, but the novelty of taking a Targaryen royal was too good to pass up. Smiling, he pulled out the stone and withdrew the knife stashed within.

A sharp jolt of pain stabbed through him as a sword ran through his gut. Howling, Trant's knees buckled as he fell to the ground. Darting to grab the knife, Arya jabbed it into his eyes in quick succession. Howls filling the room, she stuffed his cloak into his mouth, stifling him.

Pained whimpers audible despite the gag, Arya circled around the kneeling Trant like a wolf would its prey. "You're on my list, you know. For killing Syrio Forel… for abusing my sister." Aside from Joffrey and Walder Frey, the Wild Wolf's satisfaction would be the highest with this scalp. Stabbing him once more in the back - avoiding the vital organs - she reveled in his anguish. "You deserve to burn… slowly," Arya whispered in his ear, voice that of a demon. "But I shall give you a mercy you don't deserve."

Nothing but a strangled moan left his blocked mouth as Trant nodded vigorously. His gouged eyes were unseeing, so he couldn't tell if she accepted it.

Suddenly he felt his gag withdrawn. "Why are you here?!" she hissed. Arya kicked him in the chest. "Answer me, coward!"

Trant coughed up blood, hacking the crimson spray all over the stone floor tread by Aegon the Conqueror centuries before. "The, the… Sovereignguard," he babbled like a child between bouts of gurgling on his blood. "They are here… for the Dragon Queen."

Another plunge of the knife into abused flesh. "How do they hope to get past the guards?!" Dany had swarms of ironborn and Ser Jorah with her.

"There's… a snake in the grass," Trant choked out before Needle sliced through his neck. Arya watched him fall limply through the floor, twitching and gasping with asphyxia. She had to get to Dany.

Looking up at where the starry blackness of night used to be, Yara Greyjoy slammed her fists against the railing of her flagship. "Damn, fucking fog!" She ran her hand down her face in exasperation. "Can't see a cock in front of my damn face!" Not that she'd want to.

"Calm down," stated her captain. "If any damn Lannister ships approach, the pickets will fire off a warning broadside." Only half of their vessels had been upgraded with the new weapons by the Meereen and Dragonstone smiths, and with it a completely revitalized naval doctrine had to be implemented. To say the various Ironborn captains were like kids in the sweatmeat jar was the understatement of the month.

For Yara however, it had just been another headache on top of greater, more pressing headaches. "It's not them I worry about. We can sail circles around those cunts." She splayed her arms out on the railing, looking down at the black waters below. "No, I'm worried about my uncle. Where the fuck is he and his massive fleet?"

The Captain crossed his arms. "Last we've heard was that he's probably somewhere off the coast of Pentos, hunting trade cogs from Meereen. Probably shifted north to protect the homeland from our army at Casterly Rock. Fucking ground pounders get all the fucking fun. Our cannon would blast those hulks out of the water, and they got nothing but slow as shit catapults."

"Don't wish for something you'd regret later," she muttered.

As if preordained by the drowned God, her comment was followed by the distant boom of cannon. "The picket ship," breathed the Captain, frozen.

Yara's reflexes were quick. "Sound the alert! Full battle stations, now!" A sailor rang the warning bell, its shrill clang waking up the previously sleepy ship. "Full sail!"

"Full sail, aye!" The ship shuddered as she picked up the winds, lurching her forward. All around the moored fleet came the boom of cannon… followed by yellow-orange streaks of light that cut through the fog.

Eyes transfixed, Yara watched as they streaked ever skywards before peaking and arcing back down to… "GET DOWN!" Her scream tore through the air just as the projectiles slammed into the deck of the fourth rate. Detonating, fire and shards of hot metal flew all over the place, setting people and wood alight with flame.

"My Lady!" Spotting the sails torn a bit but luckily not consumed in the inferno threatening to take hold on deck, Yara followed the pointed finger of the Captain to the open stretch of sea. There barrelled the shape - the prow of a mighty battleship. Such a decorated prow only meant one thing… the enemy flagship. "Hard a starboard!" she commanded. "We need to turn around him!"

Sails aloft, the helmsman pulled at the tiller - but it was too late. The prow slammed into the hull of the fourth rate, a maze of grappling hooks and corvus gangplanks slamming onto the deck. A wave of Ironborn Marines, swords and axes at the ready, charged forth to engage with their Imperial brethren. Nothing more she could do now, Yara leapt down onto the deck and rammed the blade of her knife into an unsuspecting marine. As another raised an ax to charge at her, she felled him with a blade between the eyes.

Leaping onto the deck of the ship, a towering figure with a wide, toothy grin drew his sword. His gaze settled on the Ironborn leader. "Yara!" Euron shouted, almost a snarl. "Come give your uncle a kiss!"

Sword of her own out, Yara screamed a battle cry and charged.

"Jorah, what is going on?"

"Please, Khaleesi. You must not dither," replied the Lord Commander of the Imperial Guard.

It had been a quiet evening in her chambers, Daenerys writing a dispatch to Jon under the low candlelight. She had been quite happy to inform her beloved that a massive shipment of dragonglass was already on its way to White Harbor, enough to equip twenty thousand men with weaponry. Suddenly Jorah had burst in with Daario and half a dozen other guards surrounding the corridor. With only a muffled apology he had hauled her up, literally frog-marching her down the corridor towards her solar. Through the thick walls she heard explosions begin to shake the brick and stone around her.

Guard throwing open the door, Jorah dragged her inside her solar, others filling in. "Khaleesi, stay away from the windows. The Ironborn fleet have engaged our fleet."

Dany's blood went cold. "Euron Greyjoy." She spat out the person's name, still remembering how he had nearly taken her children… taken her upon the cold floors of this castle. "I need to mount Balerion, rain dragonfire from above." A massive blast resonated, punctuating her sentence.

"I can't let you go, Khaleesi." Jorah stared her down, not breaking in the face of her regal glare. "The enemy… has a new weapon. Something we haven't foreseen."

Blinking, Dany resisted the urge to look out the window - best to stay safe from enemy archers. "What kind of weapon?"

"A rocket," Daario replied, peeking through a crack in the door. "They use gunpowder, like General Caryn's cannon, but enough to power a projectile. I've seen the Yi Ti use them, but I've heard alchemists in Qarth were trying to weaponize it."

"The masters must have passed it on to Euron and the Lannisters." Daenerys rolled her eyes. "Of course this had to happen." First the scorpions hurt Balerion, and now this. 'You didn't expect Tywin to roll over on his belly for you?' she thought sarcastically.

Catching silent forms begin to bunch up through the crack in the doorway, Daario exhaled softly. It was time. Quietly, while no one was looking - the guards milling about while Daenerys stared into the cracking fire - he pulled a small container from inside his shirt. Whipped up by a discreet alchemist back in Meereen, the sellsword quickly lit a wick of rope with a wall mounted candle. Tossing it on the floor, he ducked out through the door before anyone noticed. Before the flame reached the gunpowder nestled within.

The force of the blast tossed Dany into the air, slamming her against the wall with a thud. Ears ringing, she crumpled to the stone floor, blinking and disoriented. Numbness covered her like a cold blanket, seemingly faint shouts and cries still powerful enough to pierce through the invisible wall of white noise registering to her. A dull ache began to emanate from the back of her head and deep within her torso. Reaching up to touch her scalp, blood dripped from pockmarked cuts and gashes in her right hand. Eyes fluttering, Dany felt coherence begin to return as her vision cleared, hearing improved, and the pain begin to explode as the shock dissipated.

Shakily climbing back to her feet, Dany surveilled the room. Of her guards, many were strewn about with screams and moans of pain - some frighteningly still as the life had left their broken bodies. Blood and bits of charred debris were everywhere. Dany caught sight of a hand, ragged flesh and protruding bone where the wrist should have been. Feeling the blood drain from her face, she felt a bruised Jorah pull her behind him as armed men burst through the door. They quickly finished off the wounded guards, one slamming his blade between one's ribs. The guard's eyes went wide as the metal tore through his heart. Muffled grunts ended, slumping dead on the stone.

"Kingsguards, Khaleesi," Jorah whispered to her. Dany drew Saracen from its scabbard - Joffrey had somehow infiltrated the island, but who had set off the explosion?

Her question was answered quite clearly as the last figure stepped through the doorway. "My Queen," Daario said, small smile on his face as he bowed. "I am at your service."

It was Jorah who answered first. "You fucking traitor."

He drew his arkh and pointed it at the northern knight. "Now now, Jorah. Do not speak of things you do not know the answers to." Daario shifted his gaze back at Dany, who shuddered in disgust at his look. "Do not believe all appearances, my Queen."

"Oh, appearances are fairly clear in this instance." Her glare was pure ice, channelling her northern husband. "Did you plan to betray me all along?"

"You, never. I only fight against those whom I have not sworn to serve - and who harm my Queen."

"And yet you choose Joffrey over my own husband."

He scoffed. "A bastard who pollutes your illustrious heritage."

Her eyes narrowed. "As if you are any better."

"You have a secure kingdom in Essos, and whereas I would help you rule said kingdom, the bastard would mire you in a war you cannot win. The Lannisters have secured safe passage for you to Essos with me upon the conclusion of this war."

"Amd you believed them?" Daenerys chuckled without mirth. "And I previously thought you had sense, or has madness taken over you… In any case, I shall not allow you to touch me." She raised Saracen, killing any further discussion.

As the kingsguards readied their swords, Jorah raised his as well. "Boros. Preston. Where is Trant?"

Boros Blount shrugged. "Could be dead for all I know. Honestly I give fuck all."

"Agreed, he was a cunt." Grim chuckles left the old knights, comrades from the first Greyjoy Rebellion. "Would you really strike me down? For Joffrey?" He knew them, felt them to be honorable men.

Another shrug, this one from Arys Oakheart. "It's a living. Better than have our families slaughtered." He looked at his old friend. "Surrender Jorah. We'll send you back to Essos like the Queen."

"Can't break my oath, Arys," Jorah said simply, lunging forth. Oakheart barely had time to react and only just blocked Jorah's blow.

As her Lord Commander fended off three of the enemy, Dany saw one advance on her - he hefted a club in hand, blade still in its scabbard. "Come 'ere Dragon Bitch. Nos need to get 'urt." Dany replied by slashing with Saracen, the man snarling as Saracen cut into his arm. He lunged forward for her head with the butt of his club. Acting on pure instinct, Dany pitched onto her back. Club missed connecting with her forehead by the width of a thumb. Hitting the stone hard, she blocked out the pain and thrust upward, sharpened Valyrian steel slicing easily through unprotected flesh. Blood began to spew from the man's lips, pupils widening as he collapsed in a heap to the side.

Her relief turned to horror as she watched Daario plunge his arkh into Jorah's shoulder, kicking him in his gut. Jorah, blood seeping into his shirt, fell beside Daenerys, groaning. 'My child, come.' In the distance she heard a loud roar as Balerion flew towards the open window of the solar. She scrambled up, blade ready to parry any assault. "Please, my Queen. Don't make this harder than it has to be." Daenerys only glared, fire burning in her eyes.

Suddenly with a flash, Daario was sprawled on the ground, arkh knocked out of his hand. The dark blurr materialized out of nowhere, Daenerys now recognizing the servant girl's clothes - but with a face she eminently recognized. Her eyes widened. "Arya?!" When did she get here?... or had she always been there?

Knife flying from her hand, Arya watched as Preston Greenfield fell, blade buried to the hilt in his shoulder. "Go!" she yelled at Dany, unsheathing Needle just as Arys Oakheart charged into the fray. "Now!"

Urging Jorah out of the window to Balerion's back - the wounded Lord Commander of her Imperial Guard moaning from the intense pain - Dany hesitated. She reached out for Arya. "I'm not leaving you!"

Ducking under a wide swing from the Sovereignguard's broadsword, Arya kicked the legs out from Boros Blount before he could flank her and get Dany. She looked back at her sister for a split second, eyes blazing with an icy rage. "I SAID GO!" Such was followed by a pained grunt as Daario slammed his foot into her stomach. Now it was Arya that crumpled on the floor.

Eyes locked with Daario's, Daenerys knew there was no way to save Arya. Calculations ran through her mind in little more than an instant. She could survive a blast of Balerion's dragonfire, but Arya couldn't. With the Emperor halfway across the world, the realm could not lose their Empress. And so the decision was made - just as Daario lunged for her, Dany pitched herself back through the window. Her hair billowed as she fell, eyes closed. 'Sōvēs.' With a jolt, she landed on Balerion's back, the massive black dragon whisking her away as the boom of Daario's rage resonated over the sounds of battle.

Coughing, wind knocked out of her, Arya heard above her gasping breath the enraged cry leaving the sellsword's mouth. Weakly, she smiled. 'Fly home, good sister. Don't let them get you.'

Feeling a dark shadow enveloping her, a tight hand closed in around her throat and hauled her into the air. "You little cunt." Dario's face was contorted in rage.

Arya spat onto his face, only for her aching lungs and tight throat to spell another bout of coughing. "You'll never... get her," she choked out, voice high and breaking.

Fingers tightening around her throat, Daario was about to snap her neck with his bare hand before something brushed against his shoulder. He turned with murder in his eye to find Arys Oakheart. "Captain, do you know who this girl is?"

"She's about to be a corpse," he hissed, vision tinted blood red.

"She's the Stark bastard's younger sister."

Red tinge leaving his vision, Daario loosened his grip. Dropping her to the floor - black bruises marring her neck - he looked her over with new eyes. "Looks like I'll have something to present to the King."

A dark dread filled Arya. Of all the trials and tribulations of her young life, this would be the greatest test of fortitude that could be imagined.

"FIRE!" Shout bellowing over the din, the new fifth-rate frigate Sea Bitch shuddered as each of the twenty cannon mounted on the starboard side unloaded a fusillade of shot at the enemy carrack. Tongues of yellow-orange flame seemed to blanket the hull, Theon grabbing the rail as the ship rocked violently to port. "Hard a starboard!"

Tiller pushed as far to the left as it would go, the frigate arced in the opposite direction past the hulk of the carrack just blasted to each of the seven hells. Deck awash with flame, rockets detonating, Theon could see Ironborn sailors leaping into the ocean - trading certain death aboard for likely death in the water. Some were already alight with flames as they took the plunge.

All around them, the normally placid seas around Dragonstone - only the occasional storm marring the tranquil island backwater - the wrath of the drowned god had descended upon them. Booms of Imperial cannon dwarfed all other sounds as broadside after broadside slammed into enemy ships, while rockets lanced out from the vessels of the Royal Ironborn Fleet in a malevolent journey of death and mutilation. Flames licked on nearly every ship, many locked together by grappling hook and corvus. Marines charged in the dance as old as civilization to add a prize to their fleet. Flame-awash hulks and burning wreckage served as the only mausoleum the crews of the ships that succumbed to the dazzling firepower that technological advancement brought.

"The great Kraken feeds tonight," Theon heard a sailor mutter. He scanned the men he now commanded. No cheers, no chants of glory - not even the profane barbs of the crew of his first ship that bore the name of his flagship. Only a dark futility and stubborn determination to survive. 'This war shall destroy the Ironborn.'

"What is dead may never die," he murmured, watching yet another ship succumb to a furious broadside.

"Admiral!" Theon turned to see the ship's captain, stony-faced. He had never respected Theon, but after being in the thick of the fight, such sentiments had evaporated. "The Pyke's Glory struck its colors!" Theon paled, the significance sinking in to him.

"Euron boarded it," he finished, resignation and acceptance in his tone. A cloud of indecision threatening to take ahold of him, he shook it off. He wasn't Reek, the beaten curr only useful as Ramsay Bolton's whipping boy. He was an admiral in the Imperial fleet. "I know Yara, and she'd want us to save ourselves rather than die as crab chow." He looked to the southeast, at the dark shapes of Euron's picket keeping them surrounded. "Every surviving ship…"

The light glow from the fires and rockets, punctuated by low booms from the few shipborne cannon, erupted into an orange-red light. The gout of flame raced to one of Euron's ships as it moved to grapple with one of theirs. Theon covered his eyes as the rockets onboard detonated, the vast explosion bathing brightness over the entire stretch of sea around the island. "Fuck me," breathed the ship captain.

A booming roar resonated through the air, louder than the cacophony of battle. Theon looked up as the black form of Balerion dove for another enemy ship. He quickly deduced the pattern. "Listen up! The Empress is clearing our way to the sea! Get all others to line up in formation for a breakout, and then scatter!" Saving their vessels were a priority, even if fleet cohesion would be broken for the foreseeable future. "We'll meet up in White Harbor eventually! Move!"

In the light of the sun, each ship used flags to signal to and coordinate with the others, but under the milky darkness of the night sky it had to change. As the Captain barked orders to the crew - open ocean sails rapidly guided into place for the final dash - signallers lit fires on the forecastle and poop deck. Placed in a specific position, every surviving ship knew their orders in a short amount of time.

"Ready the cannon!" Theon shouted as the Sea Bitch took the vanguard at the head of the ragged column of ships - a motley assortment of frigates, carracks, caravals, and sloops that had survived the fight against the massive ships of the line Euron had brought in. Already, two of those were racing from opposite sides to cut off his frigate's escape route. "When we run alongside, blast them with everything you got!" 'If we run alongside.' It they succeeded in blocking them, despite the several burning hulks left in Balerion's wake, the cork would be in and they'd be surrounded.

Bow slicing through the dark water, white sea spray sprinkled into Theon's face as he raced to the bow - the Captain had the tiller well manned, and he needed to be with the forward guns. Sails billowed as a gust of icy wind gusted from the north, as if the hand of the Old Gods rescuing them. Their smaller, faster ships had the advantage over the plodding battleships, larger sails but far more tonnage for the winds to haul.

Closer and closer. Theon felt time slow, every second stretching out minutes as he awaited the coming storm.

Then, it came. One after the other each cannon sounded off in quick succession, both atop and below they fired, sending their deadly shot streaking towards the thin wood of the enemy's bow. A roar joined them, Balerion's jets of fire filling the darkness with light as the Sea Bitch cleared the line of fire, ships behind him picking up the slack.

After the die was cast, the battle joined, time sped past. Soon, it was all over but the gentle rocking of the open ocean.

Stress unwinding - at least for the moment - Theon collapsed onto the deck as the fatigue hit him. It took all of his energy to drag himself to the railing, propping his torso up. He gazed up at the stars, sounds of battle growing fainter as full sails drew them farther and farther away. Stars winked out of existence above with the dark form of the Empress' dragon pointed ominously to the mainland.

Theon chuckled, devoid of mirth. Most of their fleet was destroyed and Euron now controlled Dragonstone, but they were alive. Just.