The firelight of Lannisport burned increasingly fiercely in the twilight. Thick smoke coiled in the Westerlands sky like a giant black snake. Daemon pulled on The Cannibal's reins. The black dragon's breath spewed scorching white steam. Dust clinging to black scales was swept away by the wind, revealing cold gleam like asphalt underneath.
"Jarmen, Harlan!" Daemon's voice pierced the chaotic wind. One-eyed Jarmen Waters and longbowman Harlan Hunter rode forward immediately. "Take Larys, Beren, Mysaria, and Alys Rivers to Casterly Rock. Tell Ser Rollam Ironborn broke the port; deploy garrison reinforcements immediately! Delay, and Lannisport will be only ash!"
Jarmen's single eye swept the distant firelight, fingers unconsciously tightening on the bowstring. "Prince rest assured, within half an hour to Casterly Rock." He dismounted, helping Mysaria onto a saddle, then patted Larys's grey donkey—covered in mud yet head held high, just like its owner's awkward nature.
Larys leaned on his cane, black robe sweeping gravel. "Prince take care; I'll 'urge' Casterly Rock reinforcements tightly." He glanced at Beren, hugging his notebook and clutching a pen nervously, adding, "Little Beren will record military intelligence along the way; convenient for your later review."
Alys Rivers held the carriage door frame, green dress clinging to her body in the wind. She looked at Daemon's right shoulder, gaze seemingly penetrating clothes to see the black three-headed dragon brand, whispering: "Giant dragons need to save strength; don't overstrain." Mysaria nodded, platinum-blonde curls stained with sparks, yet stuffing the handkerchief embroidered with blue grass into Gael's hand: "Princess, wipe sweat."
Gael took the handkerchief, stuffing it into her bosom, mounting Dreamfyre again. "Go! Little Daemon, we must stabilize the defense line first!"
Daemon was already ready on The Cannibal's back. The pitch-black dragon's wing membranes gleamed like obsidian. Daemon turned the dragon's head, violet eyes full of determination: "Follow close, Gael; don't let Ironborn burn to the Inner Harbor!"
Two giant dragons soared simultaneously. The Cannibal's black fire cut through the night sky first like black lightning, pouncing straight at Ironborn longships in the outer sea;
Dreamfyre followed close. Pale blue flames danced like spirits, landing on near-shore shipwrecks, burning small boats trying to dock into charcoal.
Lannisport below was in chaos. Red-armored guards supposed to defend the pier either dropped spears running inland, huddled behind warehouses shaking, or tried organizing resistance only to be cut down by Ironborn axes. Blood flowed along flagstones into the sea, dyeing near-shore water red.
Ironborn longships crowded the port densely. Golden kraken sigils on sails were exceptionally glaring in firelight. Pirates howled charging ashore, hooks dragging snatched silk and gold from warehouse planks.
"Use the method from Seagard!" Daemon's roar mixed with dragon roar. The Cannibal dived abruptly. Black fire spewed from dragon breath, sweeping the outermost row of longships. Pine hulls ignited instantly; wood chips and sparks flew. Ironborn screams were swallowed by flames. Pirates trying to jump into the sea screamed scalded by boiling water, soon silenced.
Gael understood immediately. Dreamfyre's pale blue fire turned to near-shore: "Clear ships near the pier! Don't let them land!" The second such battle made the girl and her magnificent dragon familiar. She directed Dreamfyre to fly low; flames landed precisely on masts of every longship trying to dock. Canvas burned to ash instantly. Ships lost balance, crashing crookedly together, blocking the near-shore channel.
This was the tactic they used with Daemon Targaryen at Seagard—The Cannibal built a fire wall in the outer sea to stop Ironborn reinforcements or escape; Dreamfyre cleared landing ships near-shore to buy time for ground troops.
Though lacking Daemon Targaryen and Caraxes's crimson fire, The Cannibal's black fire was fiercer, coordination with Dreamfyre more precise. Two dragons, one outer one inner, actually had more tacit understanding than last time with Daemon Targaryen.
Ironborn chaos began to spread. Originally arrogant pirates looked up to see black and blue dragon shadows. Some dropped weapons to hide in cabins; some tried turning ships to flee but were caught by The Cannibal's dragonfire, burning into fireballs along with ships.
Burning shipwrecks floated on the sea. Thick smoke rolled; even sea breeze carried burnt smell. Ironborn kraken flags fell into the sea of fire one by one like melting gold.
"Prince! We are here!" Rupert Crabb's roar came from below. Leading Rayford, Corlin, Mycah, and other followers, he charged sword-in-hand at landing Ironborn.
Rupert's white armor was bloodstained but still brave; longsword cut down a hook-wielding pirate;
Rayford directed others to form a shield wall, blocking Ironborn counterattacks;
Corlin's spear pierced a pirate's throat precisely; Mycah's battle axe split another pirate's head in two.
In stark contrast were the belated Westerlands reinforcements.
Hundreds of silver-armored Lannister soldiers arrived, holding spears crookedly, some even helmetless. Seeing the sea of fire and giant dragons in the sky, they froze on the spot, unsure whether to advance or retreat.
A knight tried to command, but no one listened. Soldiers either stared blankly at burning warehouses or shrank inland, like headless flies.
"Let them clear remnants in the Inner Harbor!" Daemon shouted down. The Cannibal spewed black fire again, burning a longship trying to break the fire wall in half.
The crisp sound of hull breaking echoed in the night sky. Seawater rushed into cabins. Burning wood chips floated on the sea like burning duckweed.
The battle lasted from dusk until dawn light appeared.
When the first ray of sunlight pierced thick smoke, shining on Lannisport, nine out of ten Ironborn longships on the sea were gone. The remaining few took advantage of dawn mist, hugging the coastline to flee toward Ironman's Bay—The Cannibal wanted to chase but wings drooped weakly from spewing fire all night, only letting out angry low roars;
Dreamfyre had no strength left either. Pale blue dragonfire was weak as candlelight. Gael gripped the saddle tightly, face pale as paper.
"Don't chase." Daemon's voice was hoarse. He patted The Cannibal's neck. The black dragon flicked his tail unwillingly. "We—and people in the port, can't hold on anymore."
Lannisport below was a mess. Pier warehouses burned to charcoal. Shipwrecks piled on the sea, some still smoking;
Weapons and corpses scattered on streets. Blood mixed with seawater coagulated into dark red scabs on flagstones;
Surviving civilians squatted behind broken walls, some crying for kin, some picking up scattered grain, eyes full of despair.
Daemon's followers leaned against walls, all wounded. Rupert's armor had a big tear; Rayford's arm scratched; Mycah's axe edge rolled. No one complained, just panting silently.
Gael landed Dreamfyre beside Daemon. Silver hair stained with soot, pale violet eyes full of fatigue: "Inside the port—still many alive; need Casterly Rock people to save."
Daemon nodded, about to speak, when hooves sounded from afar. Everyone looked to see a team in ornate formal wear galloping over—led by Ser Rollam Lannister. Wearing a deep red formal coat embroidered with gold thread, lion brooch at collar, hair combed meticulously, yet unable to hide panic in eyes;
Two squires each held a boy of eight or nine. Boys wore matching white silk coats with mini lion crests, rubbing sleepy eyes, clearly woken from bed.
"Prince Daemon! Princess Gael!" Rollam dismounted, coat hem sweeping scorched earth. Seeing the devastation, his face turned pale instantly. "This—how could this—"
"This is your Westerlands 'foolproof'." Daemon's voice was cold as dawn seawater. He pointed to fleeing Ironborn ship shadows, then at the ruins in the port. "Three threats made you relax vigilance. Garrison slack, reinforcements clueless. Now—Lannisport became this."
Two twin boys were put down by squires. Tyland rubbed eyes, whispering to Jason: "Brother, here—why does it smell so bad?" Jason frowned too, staring at bloodstains on the ground, shaking his head ignorantly.
Their white coats contrasted glaringly with surrounding char and blood, like two cotton flowers that shouldn't appear on a battlefield.
Rollam's face flushed red. Opening mouth to defend but speechless seeing the tragedy—he originally brought twins changed into formal wear to welcome "touring True Dragons" at the port, completely disregarding Ironborn barbarians' threats, thinking it was small trouble like previous times. Unexpectedly greeted by a war burning till dawn, and a devastated homeland.
Morning light rose gradually, shining on tired figures of The Cannibal and Dreamfyre, on wounded faces of Daemon's followers, and on Rollam's ornate but untimely formal wear.
Lannisport wind still blew, carrying burnt and bloody smells, silently accusing this disaster caused by slackness, also foreshadowing Westerlands peace burned away by Ironborn fire.
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