Smoke and salt filled the air. The battle raged into the twilight. Paxter's blade was slick with blood, his left arm sliced open. He ducked another swing, drove his dagger into an Ironborn's gut, then turned to see Martell fall to one knee.
"Back to the mast!" Paxter shouted. "Protect the prince!"
Dozens heeded the call. The deck of the Scorpion's Glory turned into a tempest of steel and flame. Fires spread across torn sails. Ballista bolts fired from remnants of the Dornish ships raked across the enemy flank.
Atop the shattered helm of the Silence, Euron and Victarion dueled like shadows locked in fury. One axe shattered a railing; another sliced through a lantern, spilling fire into the sea. The water hissed as it was consumed by oil and blaze.
Euron's face was painted with blood and madness. "You'll never wear the salt throne!"
Victarion growled, bleeding from his temple. "It belongs to the me now!"
Steel met steel.
Below them, another explosion rocked the deck. Paxter stumbled and caught himself as a mast cracked in half and fell across the stern.
He looked out at the carnage. Ships burned like pyres on the open sea, their sails crumbling in flame. Bodies floated amidst shattered timbers. The water churned not only with current, but with fire, steel, and death.
Then the roar came.
Above, a shape descended—wings stretched across the sky, a storm made flesh.
Drogon.
Daenerys rode low and fast, her braid whipping like a banner behind her. Flames burst from the beast's maw, engulfing two enemy warships. Men leapt into the sea, their screams silenced by boiling water. Drogon swooped, turned, and unleashed another torrent of fire across the eastern flank of the Iron Fleet.
The balance tipped.
From the high mast of the Gilded Vine, Paxter caught a clear glimpse of the enemy formation breaking. Ironborn commanders yelled to regroup, but Drogon's flames carved them apart.
Paxter saw Euron falter as flames licked the edge of his vessel. Victarion surged forward and knocked him backward with a brutal shoulder charge. The two tumbled out of sight.
The deck beneath Paxter trembled as a fireball erupted from a nearby powder hold. Smoke obscured everything, turning dusk to black.
Martell stood again, covered in soot, and raised his sword high. "To the Queen!" he roared.
All across the bay, the cry echoed.
"To the Queen!"
The Ironborn shattered. Some ships fled in panic, colliding with allies in their haste. Others fought to the bitter end, clinging to the hulls as flames devoured them. Paxter leapt across to the Gilded Vine, rallied his remaining sailors, and ordered chain anchors to block retreating ships.
The final phase of the battle was not fought with tactics but with fury. Sails ripped free. Masts fell like tree trunks. Fire danced across the water as if the sea itself had turned against the Ironborn.
By dusk, the bay glowed red—no longer with the colors of war, but with the blood of victory.
Daenerys circled once more, Drogon shrieking triumph across the waves. The sound echoed like thunder.
Euron's ship, its hull gutted by flame, finally cracked and sank beneath the tide, leaving behind only burning debris.
Paxter stood on the scorched deck, sword lowered, chest heaving. His armor was dented, his face smeared with soot, his heart hammering.
Above him, the clouds broke open to reveal the first stars.
The sky blazed with the last light of day.
The battle was won.
As Paxter looked to the darkening horizon, he felt the sway of the sea beneath him change. It wasn't just a shift in tide—it was something else, something final. The silence that followed was not peaceful but profound, filled with the echoes of those who had fallen in flame and fury. Embers drifted in the wind, glowing coals dancing over the splintered decks.
Below, sailors stumbled across the ruins of their own ships, searching for survivors, pulling comrades from beneath burned-out beams. Martell's men lit signal fires, and horns blew faintly across the water. Paxter limped to the quarterdeck where wounded officers had begun to regroup. His steward handed him a flask. He drank deeply.
"Casualty reports?" Paxter asked, voice rough.
"Severe, my lord," the steward answered. "At least a third of the fleet is lost or crippled. But the Ironborn are routed."
Paxter nodded grimly, surveying the ruin of what had been a proud armada. The victory was real—but it had teeth.
He turned to look back at Drogon, now perched atop a charred mast, Daenerys dismounting with purpose. Her silhouette, backlit by burning wreckage, looked every inch a queen of fire.
She approached Paxter, soot streaked across her cheek. Neither spoke at first. Then Daenerys placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Leave your captains here. Inform Prince Martell and Victarion to follow you ashore. Your attendance is required in my small council," she said.
"As you request, Your Grace," Paxter replied with a tired smile.
They stood together for a long moment in the ruin of war—sea and sky still burning—and knew they had just changed the fate of Westeros.