The Narrow Sea, Near Driftmark.
In the early hours before dawn, the sea was as black as ink.
Two days ago, the Green ultimatum had reached Driftmark. Now, taking advantage of the cover of night, a fleet attempted a desperate escape.
This was the Velaryon home guard. Following orders, they were attempting to transport the vast wealth of House Velaryon to Tyrosh.
They fled, hoping to reach Dragonstone or the Free Cities before the Greens arrived.
"The wind is in our favor," the captain of the Silver Gull, a two-masted galley, said with a relieved smile.
"At this rate, we'll reach Dragonstone soon, then pivot to Tyrosh. We'll take the gold there. Once Lord Corlys returns with his host, we'll have the means to rise again."
Nearby, thirty Velaryon warships sailed in formation.
This was the retreat route arranged by Ser Cleon Velaryon.
Knowing Driftmark could not hold, the old commander had ordered these ships to evacuate the core assets, kinsmen, and master craftsmen of the House. Every ship was heavy with the legacy of a hundred years of trade.
Aboard the Silver Gull, thirty high-born refugees sighed in relief.
"Seven save us..." a middle-aged noble murmured.
The words had barely left his lips.
"PORT SIDE! SHIPS! MANY SHIPS!" the lookout shrieked.
The morning mist was lifting. On the horizon, a wall of black sails pressed in from the northwest. It wasn't just a few ships; it was an entire fleet.
They were fanned out in a crescent, closing in a perfect pincer movement.
As the light hit the banners, the sigil became clear: a golden three-headed dragon on a black field.
The Greens.
"How...?" The captain turned pale.
"Shouldn't they be attacking the harbor first? Why are they here?"
He didn't know that Aemond's orders were absolute. Days ago, when the first signs of retreat were detected by spies on the island, the route had been marked.
Ser Erwin Redwyne's main fleet had been lying in wait along this exact corridor.
"Turn back! Return to port!" the captain roared.
But it was too late. From the clouds came a roar that shook the very timber of the ships.
A colossal grey shadow tore through the sky, diving with the weight of a mountain.
Vhagar.
Two warships were engulfed instantly. The old dragon's fire was a sea of orange-red that vaporized wood and linen.
Screams were swallowed by the roar of explosions as the vessels disintegrated. Survivors leaped into the freezing water, struggling in vain.
The Royal Navy's fast galleys closed the distance like sharks sensing blood.
"Catapults!" ordered Ser Rosso Brune from his deck.
Jars of fire-oil smashed against sails, turning the fleeing fleet into a row of floating torches.
The Silver Gull fared slightly better, taking only a volley of arrows. But a stray shaft pierced the captain's shoulder, sending him collapsing to the deck.
"Lower the sails! Stop the ship!" the first mate cried, looking at the approaching warships and the ancient beast ravaging the sky.
"We surrender! Surrender!"
White flags rose across the line.
But the Royal Navy did not stop. Ser Rosso remembered Aemond's briefing:
"Those ships carry the Velaryon legacy. Capture them if possible. Kill any who resist."
Warships that still tried to run were hunted down by Vhagar.
The fleet's scorpions were useless against her; her four-hundred-foot wingspan created gales that deflected bolts, and even those that struck her scales failed to leave a mark.
The sea turned red. Royal soldiers in small boats rowed among the wreckage, using spears and bows to "finish" the swimming Velaryon sailors.
Statistically, the victory was absolute: six ships sunk, twenty-nine captured, and over four hundred elite sailors and kinsmen killed.
The Green side suffered near-zero casualties.
As Vhagar, Sunfyre, and Morghul flew toward the island of Driftmark, Erwin Redwyne watched the surrender from his prow with a sense of triumph.
If the "Sea Snake" knew his life's work was being hauled back to King's Landing as plunder, he would surely cough blood.
Hull, Driftmark.
When Vhagar's massive shadow finally appeared over the harbor of Hull, the last remnants of order collapsed.
"Launch! Get the ship out now!" the captain of a Pentoshi merchant vessel shouted, swinging a scimitar to drive back fleeing civilians.
"This ship belongs to Pentos! Get back!"
"Captain, the Velaryon fleet is gone!" a sailor pointed to the black smoke on the horizon.
"Where do we go?"
"Back to the East! This is a Westerosi war! It's nothing to do with us!"
On the docks, twenty merchant vessels were in a frantic scramble to weigh anchor.
Sailors from the Free Cities hacked through mooring ropes and shoved crowds off gangplanks, even striking those who tried to force their way aboard.
"Let me on! I'll pay double!"
"My child! My child is still on the quay!"
"Stop pushing! The boat is tipping!"
A draconic roar silenced the cacophony of crying and cursing. Every head turned.
A merchant ship attempting to bolt from the harbor mouth was instantly vaporized by a stream of dragonfire.
Silence fell over the port. The merchants of the East were no fools; they understood.
Today, no one was leaving.
Ten Royal warships filed into the harbor, led by three massive triple-decked dromonds.
Their masts flew the golden dragon of the Greens, and their decks were packed with black-armored soldiers, bows drawn.
"The dragons are here!"
"The Greens!"
"The Royal Navy is here!"
"Run!"
-----
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