Chapter 22: A Feast - 110 AC

The year was still young, and the tranquil seas near Tyrosh reflected a serene ambiance. A fleet of twenty ships gracefully sailed away from the bustling city, their course set towards the Stepstones. Standing at the helm, the admiral of this fleet, Racallio Ryndoon, couldn't help but feel a deep sense of despair. Before him, on the horizon, another fleet emerged, their numbers exceeding fifty formidable ships. These vessels proudly displayed the banners of House Velaryon and House Celtigar, their purpose evident as they aggressively surged through the sea, seemingly intent on engaging the Tyroshi fleet in a violent clash.

For Racallio, this turn of events came as an unforeseen shock. The carefully orchestrated plan of invasion had been betrayed, leaving him to confront the impending threat alone. The larger fleet from Myr and Lys, which was meant to rendezvous with them at this very location, was still en route, rendering Racallio isolated and vulnerable. It was never meant to unfold in this manner. The Dornish forces were supposed to strike first, creating chaos among Prince Daemon's men, allowing the fleet to deliver a devastating blow at their moment of weakness. But now, all seemed lost.

"Bloody Dornish!" Racallio bemoaned, cursing himself vehemently as he cast his Myrish eye towards the ground, shattering it into countless shards. He berated his own folly in trusting them, but now, it was a futile regret.

As he shifted his gaze towards the approaching fleet, the resonating war drums reverberated through the air, taunting and insulting in their rhythm. Yet, Racallio noticed something peculiar. The absence of dragons amidst the enemy ranks ignited a glimmer of hope within him. After all, his seasoned corsairs possessed far greater expertise than these men, or so he believed.

"Ready yourselves for the impending clash!" he bellowed with fervor, his voice resounding through the air and reaching the ears of all those within his proximity. In an instant, the war horn blared forth, its piercing notes carrying across the vast expanse, penetrating the open sea and alerting the surrounding vessels to brace for the forthcoming strife.

The galleys under his command reacted with an unrestrained fury, as the oars were forcefully maneuvered, causing turbulent waves in their wake. The sailors, driven by an intoxicating blend of excitement and urgency, vociferously urged one another onward. The deck became a symphony of activity, now teeming with skilled archers poised for action, while the scorpions positioned on the deck awaited their opportunity to unleash their deadly projectiles. Below, the infantrymen restlessly awaited their chance to join the fray.

As the rhythmic beat of the rowers' oars resounded, their synchronized strokes reverberating through the hulls, the pulsating cadence of their drums merged seamlessly, amplifying the relentless tempo. The proud banner of the city of Tyrosh, adorned with the image of a regal purple snail against a backdrop of pristine white, billowed with unruly abandon, mirroring the escalating velocity of the swiftly advancing fleet.

As the fleet of ships drew closer, an unmistakable tension permeated the air, gradually thickening with each passing moment. Their beloved city stood behind them, a retreat option should they be pushed back, but the mere thought of hidden dragons lurking amidst the clouds above filled them with dread and terror.

"BRACE YOURSELVES!" bellowed the man perched atop the mast, diligently serving as the lookout. With seasoned expertise, the sailors instinctively sought shelter, seeking refuge from the impending storm of arrows. Relentlessly, the hail of projectiles rained down upon them, propelled by longbows with a reach far surpassing their own. The gap between the fleets now spanned approximately five hundred feet, rendering their own shortbows ineffective, while the enemy's longbows remained devastatingly potent. Oh, how they yearned for the might of Myrish Crossbows, which would not have subjected them to this helpless predicament.

Yet, the seasoned sailors wasted no time in action. Dodging and weaving amidst the archer's volley, they swiftly made their way towards the scorpions stationed on the deck, carefully taking aim from a distance. With remarkable accuracy, their arrows found their mark, puncturing the hulls of the opposing vessels, causing some to slowly descend into the depths. Alas, their efforts proved insufficient, for the enemy fleet drew nearer, heralding the imminent commencement of the treacherous boarding phase for the majority of the ships.

Meanwhile, the archer ships veered away from the range of ramming, methodically continuing their relentless barrage of arrows from a safe distance. In stark contrast, the ramming vessels propelled themselves forward with heightened intensity, their oarsmen shouting with fervor akin to madness. Drums of war resonated like thunder, amplifying the cries of men rallying themselves for the imminent battlefield, a theater set upon the expansive expanse of water.

In a heart-pounding spectacle, the ships clashed violently, their hulls colliding with a resounding crash. Splintered fragments of wood scattered through the air like a lethal rainfall, while men were mercilessly thrown overboard from both vessels. A mighty Celtigar warship, despite its smaller stature, surged forward with relentless determination toward a larger enemy vessel, locked in a boarding struggle. Like a cunning predator stalking its prey, it swiftly rammed its formidable prow deep into the enemy ship's hull, piercing it with unyielding force. In the ensuing chaos, iron hooks were hurled, enabling audacious men to scale the sides of the beleaguered vessel. Corsairs, their bloodlust unquenched, brandished their spears, ready to fend off the Celtigar raiders. Yet, the marauders, wielding their lethal axes, skillfully severed the spears with calculated blows. A relentless barrage of smaller axes rained down upon the men above, their purpose to dispatch the spear-wielding assailants with deadly accuracy.

Undeterred by the imminent danger, these marauders ascended the deck with madness, their eyes ablaze with unbridled rage. Their axes proved to be instruments of death, each swing executing its gruesome purpose. Circular shields adorned their arms, offering a shield against enemy attacks, while heads were mercilessly cleaved in half, causing brain matter to splatter upon the wooden planks. The wails of agony reverberated throughout the battlefield, carried by the wind as a haunting symphony of pain.

Soon, Racallio, burdened with a dawning realization, understood the futility of his endeavors. His fleet found itself surrounded by an armada of bloodthirsty marauders and battle-hardened soldiers, all driven by a singular purpose: to claim his head as a trophy. The intention was clear, and a bountiful reward awaited those who succeeded in ending his life.

Frustration gripped Racallio like a furious tempest, driving him to summon a blast from his horn, commanding the ships to retreat hastily toward the safety of the city. However, deep down, he harbored doubts, questioning the survival prospects of many amidst the chaos and peril that lay ahead.

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On the opposite side of the Stepstones, stretching across the vast expanse of open seas, the fleet hailing from Lys emerged into view. A sight to behold, they numbered approximately sixty ships, their sails billowing in the gentle breeze. The tranquil waters, devoid of tumultuous waves, promised a favorable journey for the armada. Comparable to their Tyroshi counterparts, the Lysene Fleet was exclusively composed of battle-hardened sellswords, seasoned corsairs of the trade. Yet, amidst the serenity, an unfamiliar sound reverberated through the air—a peculiar roar, akin to the shrill squeal of a swine, but infused with an aura of intimidation that caused even the sturdiest of men to tremble.

With astute Myrish eyes, one of the captains discerned the approaching fleet, distinguished by the prominent Velaryon banners adorning their vessels. Engaging in a rapid tally, the captain calculated their formidable force to consist of no less than one hundred imposing ships—a daunting prospect for any adversary.

"Enemy ships!" finally proclaimed one of the captains, ushering a wave of perplexity among their ranks. The unfolding circumstances deviated starkly from their anticipated course. As the opposing fleet drew nearer, the captain found himself confronted with a formidable dilemma: should they retreat in haste or boldly confront their impending adversaries head-on? The city lay distantly behind them, heightening the weight of their decision. Yet, facing off against a hundred ships presented a far-from-ideal scenario.

However, before they could fully deliberate their options, a crimson beast descended from the sky, exhaling its scorching breath upon the vast armada. As the flames made contact, the wooden vessels succumbed to fiery annihilation, reducing them to ashen remnants. Billows of steam rose from the sea's surface, a testament to the intense fusion of heat and water.

At day's end, they were nothing more than sellswords, mercenaries driven solely by their pursuit of wealth and the slim chance of preserving their fragile existence amidst the chaos of war. However, when confronted by the presence of dragons, their realization of the impending doom became inescapable. Filled with panic, the oarsmen frantically attempted to maneuver the ships, desperately yearning for a glimpse of salvation amid the looming catastrophe, which ultimately led to pandemonium and disorder spreading throughout their ranks.

Unyielding in its approach, the fleet commanded by Corlys Velaryon continued its relentless advance, while Daemon's mighty Caraxes incinerated one ship after another, perpetuating the rising steam from the sea's surface. Men, gripped by an overwhelming sense of desperation, hurled themselves from the burning vessels, their faces etched with terror and some even succumbing to the depths of their fear, choosing self-inflicted demise by slitting their own throats rather than enduring the merciless torment of a dragon's fiery breath.

Yet, even amidst this chaos, a glimmer of courage persisted within some. A small band of valiant corsairs, driven by a profound determination and facing the harrowing prospect of being engulfed in flames or sinking into the abyss, valiantly rushed toward the scorpions, their hearts racing. Braving the imminent threat of incineration, they valiantly aimed to unleash their ammunition upon the menacing dragon. However, their fragile hope was fleetingly granted respite as the dragon abruptly departed, vanishing from the battlefield. Yet, this newfound optimism was short-lived, for the enemy fleet now loomed ominously, poised to seize and plunder the remaining ships that valiantly clung to their precarious position atop the undulating sea.

Atop the helm of his vessel, the stalwart Corlys exhaled a sigh suffused with a profound sense of contentment. With his axe, poised and at the ready, he lowered it in a deliberate motion, observing with discerning eyes the scattered remnants of the defeated fleet before him. Their feeble attempts to regroup and prepare for the impending catastrophe evoked both sympathy and a somber acknowledgment of the doom that lay ahead for them.

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Upon the vast expanse of the Sea of Myrth, a formidable fleet embarks on a perilous voyage toward the distant lands of the Stepstones. This armada, comprising eighty majestic vessels, stands as the mightiest force within the Triarchy, owing to its vast wealth accumulated through prosperous trade and exquisite craftsmanship. Distinguished by their prodigious reserves of gold, these seafarers have assembled a formidable array of missile infantry, primarily consisting of expert crossbowmen capable of expertly piercing through even the sturdiest armor. Moreover, each ship is equipped with scorpions positioned strategically, for they harbor a profound awareness of the imminent encounter with dragons. Having traversed the vast expanse of the sea, far removed from the comforts of their home city, they now draw near to the shores of Tyrosh. Concern weighs upon their leaders, for their attempts to dispatch missives to their sister fleet have been met with a haunting silence, fueling apprehension that their correspondence may have been waylaid by an unruly tempest.

However, their trepidation pales in comparison to the harrowing sight that abruptly befalls them—a sight that strikes fear deep within their hearts. Emanating from the distance, the colossal figure of Vhagar emerges, a breathtaking spectacle that leads one captain to mistake the dragon for a mythical leviathan taking flight through the sky. Yet, the captain's folly is soon laid bare, for beneath Vhagar's majestic wingspan lies another fleet, commanded by the audacious Clement, who stands resolutely at the helm of his armada. Comprising approximately thirty vessels, a lesser number than the other two fleets, Clement's forces find solace in the protective embrace of Vhagar, the formidable dragon that has chosen to accompany their voyage. This decision sparks fierce controversy, as many deem Clement's audacity to be a foolhardy gamble that may ultimately cost him his life, engendering an excessive level of confidence that borders on recklessness.

High above, atop the commanding deck of his capital ship, the Iron Claw, Clement stood poised, horn in hand, anticipating the moment when its resounding blast would pierce the air. His gaze was fixed upon the approaching fleet, steadily drawing nearer with each passing moment. Leading the charge, Vhagar, with her colossal form, instilled fear into the hearts of the enemy ranks. Meanwhile, as the ships closed the distance, Clement strode purposefully towards the ship's prow, clutching the horn tightly.

Vhagar swooped down upon the flanks of the Myrish fleet, her thunderous roar shaking not only the seas but the very foundations of courage. Her fiery breath, tinged with a greenish-blue hue, engulfed entire ships, reducing all that lay within to smoldering ash. Men's anguished cries, accompanied by the unmistakable stench of terror, resounded throughout the vast expanse. Crossbow bolts were unleashed, but they proved futile against the dragon's impenetrable scales, helplessly ricocheting off the ancient beast's thick hide.

Although the attacks did not inflict any significant harm, the dragon seethed with wrath. Targaryen dragons were bred for war, and war they shall bring. Vhagar's scorching flames caused the sea itself to boil, transforming those unfortunate enough to find themselves leaping into the saltwater into grotesque, internally-cooked morsels, their blistered skin a testament to their agonizing demise.

Finally, Clement's fleet arrived at the scene. Blood stained the waters surrounding the ships, and anguished wails lingered amidst the shattered remnants of sunken vessels. As the distance closed to a mere two thousand feet, Clement commanded his men to halt, deviating from their initial course of advancement. Though confusion swept through their ranks, they dutifully adhered to his orders. Sails were furled, oars ceased their rhythmic strokes, and the ships bobbed aimlessly upon the undulating waves.

Reacting to the same signal, Vhagar veered away from further immolating the vessels. Though a handful of fifty ships remained, a bleak sight compared to the once-mighty fleet, the rest had succumbed to the unforgiving depths below, swallowed by the abyss.

Clement, standing resolute at the forefront of his ship, wrestled with doubt that gnawed at his core. His gaze shifted to the mysterious horn, adorned with intricate runes that eluded his comprehension. Drawing a deep breath, he gingerly raised the horn to his lips, and at long last, released a resounding, clarion call that pierced the tension-laden air.

The sound that echoed through the air was far from ordinary; rather, it resembled a piercing whistle that penetrated the very depths of the listeners' ears. Clement found it extremely difficult to wield the instrument, as it caused his head to spin rapidly, his hands trembling uncontrollably. He hastily ceased blowing the horn and staggered back from his previous position, succumbing to violent bouts of vomiting on the floor, where blood mingled with the wretched contents. Though men attempted to aid him, he promptly dismissed their assistance, opting instead to use the railing for support as he tried to rise.

Before him, an eerie stillness shrouded the sea, contrasting sharply with the weeping men aboard the Myrish fleet. However, Clement soon sensed his vessels quivering as an abrupt tremor reverberated through them. Suddenly, colossal, ebony tentacles emerged, stretching out a considerable distance from his fleet. It dawned upon him that these menacing appendages were well within striking range of his own ships.

"In reverse!" Clement exclaimed frantically, his panic permeating the air. "Reverse!"

As their leader's alarm coursed through their veins, the men swiftly grasped the gravity of the situation and echoed his command throughout the fleet. Alas, their efforts proved futile, as a tentacle crashed into one of the ships, sinking it in an instant. With urgency, the men attempted to reverse the oars, desperately striving to distance themselves from the colossal monster that dwarfed even Vhagar, rampaging amidst the Myrish fleet. They fought desperately to escape, yet several ships met their demise, colliding with the sinister tentacles.

Gradually, they sensed that they had eluded the monster's grasp, yet they continued rowing vigorously, consumed by fear from the harrowing spectacle they had just witnessed. Clement lay sprawled on the deck of his ship, his back pressed against the railing, his hand still clutching the horn, his visage drained of color due to the profound exhaustion brought on by its use. His gaze shifted to the receding monster in the distance, slowly descending once more, as if the Myrish fleet had vanished into thin air. Even as the creature sank, its tentacles continued to scour the surface, seeking remnants of ships and men.

Finally, Clement turned his attention to his second-in-command, Ser Phineas, whose countenance mirrored the ashen hue of his lord's face.

"Instruct the men to keep this quiet," Clement implored, his voice weary. "Anyone caught spreading the news shall be severely whipped. Today, Vhagar reduced the ships to ashes. Nothing more."

"But, my lord, this... this cannot be real, men will talk, hundreds of witnesses—" Ser Phineas stammered, his disbelief evident.

"I am aware. I understand, Ser Phineas," Clement reiterated. "Just do as I command."

Ser Phineas swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly parched. "I... as you wish, my lord."

At long last, the fleet departed the vicinity, accompanied by Vhagar and Laena, both of whom had borne witness to the monstrous entity that lurked beneath the surface as well. They left the sunken armada behind, a macabre feast for the ravenous krakens that dwelled in the depths.