Chapter 444: The Undead

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The relentless thunder of cannons echoed across Blackwater Bay, saturating the air with the acrid scent of gunpowder carried by the sea breeze.

The deafening roars of over three hundred cannons from the Stormland fleet were like a deadly symphony. Each explosion blossomed into vivid fireballs, as if gates to hell were opening, greedily devouring the souls of the fallen.

The sea, drenched in the blood of countless warriors, now glistened a dark crimson under the fading sunlight.

"My lord, the Braavosi fleet is attempting to retreat," a lieutenant reported.

"They won't escape," declared Lord Lucas Dayne calmly. "Send orders to the Courage, Swordfish, Seaflower, and Guardian's Glory. Pursue the Braavosi. The remaining ships will clean up the battlefield and prepare to land on Driftmark."

"Yes, my lord!"

Having issued his commands, Lucas turned his gaze back to the battle-scarred waters before him.

Countless wrecked ships, lifeless bodies, and the shredded banners of the Ironborn and Braavosi fleets drifted across the waves.

Under the relentless bombardment of the Stormland fleet, both the ferocious Ironborn and the arrogant Braavosi fleets had suffered devastating losses, nearly annihilated.

Of course, the Stormland fleet itself had not emerged unscathed.

The Griffin and Rose had both sunk during the battle, and most other ships bore scars of the engagement. The final toll of casualties remained unclear, but it was unlikely to be small.

Yet these losses paled in comparison to the resounding victory they had achieved.

The Iron Fleet was obliterated, and the Braavosi fleet crippled. The seas surrounding Westeros now belonged solely to the Stormland fleet.

With their dominance, any lord in Westeros or Free Cities across the Narrow Sea daring to challenge Caesar must now reckon with the threat of having their maritime routes severed—a dire prospect for trade-dependent coastal cities.

Lucas Dayne began to sense the far-reaching significance of this naval battle at Driftmark Isle, a hint of pride swelling in his chest.

"My lord, look over there!" a vice-captain's urgent voice pulled Lucas from his thoughts.

Following the man's pointing finger, Lucas saw a peculiar, thick, blood-red mist rising from the center of Driftmark. It billowed unnaturally, forming long, continuous tendrils.

"Probably just smoke from something burning," Lucas remarked dismissively. "Send word to the fleet. Prepare to land."

"Yes, my lord!"

The Stormland fleet slowly adjusted course, heading for Tumbleton Isle.

Suddenly, the sea grew restless. The waves surged unpredictably, sending tall sprays of saltwater crashing over the decks. The wind shifted abruptly, howling with a newfound ferocity that made the sails snap taut.

"A storm is coming," the vice-captain observed, glancing up at the darkening sky.

"Lower the sails and continue forward," Lucas instructed calmly.

A little storm was hardly cause for concern.

But it didn't take long for Lucas to realize this was no ordinary storm.

Within moments, the sea seemed to boil. Wave after wave pounded the bows of the ships, accompanied by a deep, guttural roar, as though the ocean itself had become enraged.

The wind screamed, carrying with it a nauseating stench of blood and decay so overpowering that even seasoned sailors began retching uncontrollably.

The once-bright sky darkened at an unnatural speed, plunging the bay into an eerie twilight.

Boom!

A deafening crack of thunder shattered the sky, and a torrential downpour began.

Violent gusts of wind swept across the decks, effortlessly tossing loose cargo into the sea. Even with the sails lowered, the massive warships of the fleet were thrown about like children's toys.

Lucas gripped the railing tightly, struggling to maintain his footing on the violently rocking deck.

He now knew something was deeply wrong with this storm.

Could it be the wrath of the Storm God?

The roaring winds raised monstrous waves that sent the once-mighty warships teetering precariously. At the crest of each wave, the hulls nearly left the water entirely, only to come crashing down, submerging the decks beneath the churning sea.

The cannons, once bolted securely to the decks, were now torn loose by the constant battering. Some plunged into the sea, while others smashed through the decks into the holds below.

"My lord! The Fearless! Look at The Fearless!" the vice-captain shouted.

Wiping the seawater from his face, Lucas followed the man's gaze toward the rear of the fleet.

There, the massive thousand-ton warship, already battered from the earlier battle, succumbed to the storm's fury.

Under the relentless pounding of the waves, The Fearless broke in half. The bow and stern reared skyward like two colossal sea beasts before slowly sinking beneath the waves.

The tall masts came crashing down, sending up tremendous plumes of water as the ship disappeared beneath the surface.

Hundreds of sailors were thrown into the sea, their desperate cries for help rising above the storm's din.

"Rescue them!" Lucas roared.

Nearby ships rushed to their aid, throwing ropes into the water for the survivors to grab.

Boom!

Thunder roared, lightning split the sky, and the bay seethed like a cauldron on the boil.

Lucas personally joined the rescue efforts, hauling ropes from the deck.

As one man reached the deck's edge, clutching a rope, Lucas leaned in to help. But as the man drew closer, Lucas noticed something off.

"You're not one of ours!" Lucas snapped, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword. "You're Ironborn!"

The man clambered aboard, but Lucas's blade was faster.

Slash!

The sword cleaved into the Ironborn's face, nearly splitting his skull.

By all logic, the grievous wound should have killed the man instantly.

But what happened next defied comprehension.

The Ironborn soldier, despite his shattered face and exposed brain, lunged at Lucas with terrifying speed.

Caught off guard, Lucas was tackled to the deck.

At such close range, Lucas could clearly see the grotesque state of the man's face. Half was a gory mess of blood and flesh, while the other half was bloated and pallid, as though waterlogged.

In his one remaining eye burned an unnatural red light, more beast than human.

Hiss! The Ironborn hissed like a feral creature, snapping his jaws toward Lucas's throat.

Before the creature could bite, a retainer arrived just in time, decapitating it with a single swing.

"My lord, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Lucas muttered, trying to catch his breath. But as he attempted to rise, he froze in horror.

The headless body of the Ironborn continued to grapple him, its hands tightening around his neck.

Slash! Slash! Slash!

It took multiple sword strikes to hack the creature into pieces before it finally stopped moving.

"What in the seven hells was that?" Lucas gasped, his chest heaving.

The retainer's face turned pale as he whispered, "The dead… they don't die?"

"Rubbish! If we can kill them once, we'll kill them again!" Lucas snapped. "Alert everyone! Not everything in the water is a friend."

"Yes, my lord!"

Lucas's defiant words echoed confidently, but deep down, unease churned within him.

He returned to the railing and stared out into the bay.

There, amidst the blackened waves, countless blood-red eyes glowed like cursed stars, encircling the fleet.

The storm raged on. The air reeked of blood and rot.

Blackwater Bay had become a portal to hell itself.

(End of Chapter)