Chapter 375: Encounter
The Narrow Sea, lying between Westeros and Essos, was notorious for its turbulent waves.
Unpredictable weather patterns made it a breeding ground for sudden monsoons, with storms arriving without the slightest warning.
A fleet of 42 warships and 10 transport ships was sailing through the blackened waters, braving the battering winds and torrential rain that lashed against the decks, sending sprays of seawater into the air.
For the thousand-ton warships and large transport vessels, the storm posed little threat, but the smaller 600-ton warships were less fortunate. They tossed and pitched violently, their bows often swallowed by towering waves, with seawater constantly streaming across their decks.
A massive wave slammed against one of the ships, nearly knocking a few sailors off balance. Yet, Ser Lucas Dayne, though soaked from head to toe, stood firm as if his feet were nailed to the deck.
Outwardly calm, Lucas was anything but. This was his first time commanding a naval fleet, and for days he had been plagued with anxiety, barely managing any sleep.
He was acutely aware that the newly-designed warships, conceptualized by Caesar and Maester Qyburn, were far from perfect. Combined with the Stormlands' lack of experienced sailors, the fleet had faced numerous issues during the three-day tempest. One smaller warship had even struck a hidden reef due to poor maneuvering, damaging its paddle wheel on the port side and forcing it to retreat back to port.
By the flash of lightning, Lucas turned to glance at the ships trailing behind, paying particular attention to the transport vessels.
Though this mission was designed as a trap for the Arbor fleet, the cargo they carried was entirely genuine.
The House Yronwood, needing real aid, could not survive the coming winter without these precious supplies. Every grain of wheat on those ships was worth its weight in gold.
"How long until we clear the Stepstones?" Lucas shouted, his voice barely rising above the roar of the storm.
"By tomorrow, Ser! We should reach calmer waters in the Dornish Sea!" the ship captain responded.
Lucas sighed in relief. Once the fleet entered the Dornish Sea, the waters would be much calmer, sparing him the constant worry.
As for encountering the Arbor fleet? He was far less concerned about that.
Though their opponents were a renowned naval power and one of the oldest sea forces in Westeros, Lucas had unwavering faith in the capabilities of his new warships.
He believed the Stormlands fleet was about to deliver a shocking lesson to its enemies.
---
By midnight, the storm began to subside.
A crescent moon peeked through the dispersing clouds, its pale light casting a silvery glow on the vast expanse of water below.
With dawn came clear skies, the golden sun painting the horizon in hues of blue and gold. The Stormlands fleet finally entered the Dornish Sea.
Feeling relieved, Lucas took a brief rest, waking in the afternoon. After a simple meal of oatmeal and lemon, he returned to the deck.
Seagulls soared across the tranquil waters, the ships cutting cleanly through the waves, sending white spray into the air. The sea reflected the heavens like a shimmering mirror, dotted with puffy white clouds and the blazing sun above.
Lucas barely had time to appreciate the scenery before a sharp whistle pierced the air.
His head snapped up toward the main mast, where a lookout was leaning out, furiously signaling with a red flag.
Lucas read the flag's message, his face darkening at once: A large fleet spotted ahead.
"Signal officer!" Lucas bellowed.
A sailor hurried over, nearly stumbling in his haste. "Ser! Your orders?"
"Send word to all ships: prepare for battle!"
The order spread swiftly. Though the crew moved with urgency, there was an undercurrent of nervousness. This was their first true naval engagement, and tension hung thick in the air.
Despite this, the sailors methodically prepared for combat, clearing unnecessary items from the decks and hauling ammunition from the holds.
The transport ships separated from the main formation, lowering their sails and falling back behind the warships. Meanwhile, the 42 warships began forming a battle line, aligning their broadsides to face the direction of the approaching fleet.
Minutes later, Lucas peered through a spyglass and spotted white sails appearing one after another on the southeastern horizon. The enemy vessels seemed endless, filling his entire field of view.
His heart sank further when he saw the purple grape cluster banners flying atop the enemy masts.
The Arbor fleet.
Their numbers were double his own.
---
On the enemy flagship Purple Grapes, Ser Horas Redwyne stood at the prow, a smug smile on his face as he gazed at the Stormlands fleet.
"Signal them to lower their sails, drop anchor, and prepare for inspection by the Arbor fleet," Horas ordered haughtily.
"Yes, Ser," his signal officer replied, raising the appropriate flags. Shortly after, the officer turned back with a hesitant expression.
"What's the reply?" Horas asked.
"They said...'Go to hell.'"
Horas barked a laugh, not offended in the slightest.
"Fools," he sneered. "If they're too arrogant to surrender, then we'll teach them a lesson they won't forget. Prepare for battle!"
The command rippled through the Arbor fleet. Drums beat, sails adjusted, and oars slid into the water in perfect synchronization.
Horas's flagship, Purple Grapes, was the largest warship in Westeros, powered by 300 oars.
"Rowers, to your stations!" the command rang out. Drummers set a steady rhythm, and the oars dipped into the water as one, driving the ship forward with a surge of power.
As the fleet advanced, the cacophony of war drums, shouted orders, and splashing oars created a feverish symphony.
Horas stood tall at the prow, his hand resting on his sword.
"Impressive that the Stormlands managed to build a fleet of this size," his first mate remarked.
"But fleets aren't just about ships," Horas replied smugly. "Let's remind Caesar of that fact."
He glanced toward the enemy fleet, noting their odd formation: a semi-circular arc, with all ships presenting their broadsides.
"What are they doing?" Horas laughed. "Sitting there waiting to be rammed?"
The first mate smirked. "They might as well have raised white flags."
"I don't care if they surrender. I'm sinking every last one of them!" Horas growled, his expression darkening with hatred at the thought of Caesar and the Stormlands' rebellion.
"Full speed ahead!" he roared, drawing his sword.
The drumbeat quickened, and the oarsmen matched its pace. The Arbor fleet surged forward, their sharp rams aimed directly at the Stormlands' warships.
---
But as the Arbor fleet closed in, something unexpected happened.
On each Stormlands warship, muzzle flashes erupted along their broadsides, followed by a deafening series of explosions.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
The air was filled with the shriek of cannonballs tearing through the sky.
Horas froze, watching in disbelief as the first volley crashed down.
The sea ahead erupted in massive sprays of water as cannonballs struck the waves, sending tremors through the Arbor fleet.
Seconds later, iron cannonballs smashed into the Arbor ships.
One sailor was obliterated on impact, his twisted body falling lifelessly to the deck. Other ships were left riddled with gaping holes, their decks splintering into chaos.
Horas's smirk disappeared, replaced by a look of sheer terror.
This was no ordinary fleet.
(End of Chapter)