133Chapter: The Fall of Estermont
The Narrow Sea, Stormlands, Estermont
"Hiss…"
"Help…!"
"Don't eat me…!"
"Crunch…!"
…Amidst the heart-wrenching screams, the soldiers of the Stormlands were plunged into a horrifying massacre. Countless Aquatic Dragons, like a pack of hunting wolves, turned these Stormlands soldiers into helpless prey.
The attack came far too suddenly. The Stormlanders had no time to react. By the time they realized what was happening, all they saw were massive jaws tearing into flesh.
Each Aquatic Dragon was as large as two bulls. While they could not compare to true Valyrian Dragons, their ferocity and raw killing power were on par with the Long-Winged Dragons of Sothoryos.
Blood Magic truly proved its worth—especially under the guidance of Jeyne Arryn, a true Valyrian Dragonlord. Thanks to her, many dragon-breeding experiments had made rapid breakthroughs.
Meanwhile, Cedric Storm, positioned at the center of the Stormlands fleet, finally noticed the chaos erupting to the south.
The Stormlands fleet had been advancing in a standard three-line formation, leaving buffer space between ships.
But now, the southern line—originally meant to form a pincer—had completely collapsed. Ships were scattering in panic, fleeing toward the center line as if they had encountered something utterly terrifying.
"What are those fools doing?! Sound the horn! Tell Ser Hughes—"
"Ser Cedric! Let me go take a look! I'll report back immediately!"
Just as Cedric Storm was about to issue orders, Erren Estermont stepped forward eagerly. Filled with youthful ambition, he cared little for danger—only for glory.
"…Very well. Ser Erren, be cautious. If anything seems wrong, retreat immediately!"
Cedric Storm felt his scalp tingle with unease. He couldn't understand how a stable formation had disintegrated so quickly. If he could, he would drag those captains here and punish them himself.
But he couldn't leave his post.
The flagship was the command center—the nervous system of the fleet. Without him, the remaining formation would collapse entirely.
"Woo—!"
Just as Erren prepared to board a small boat, a series of horn blasts echoed from the northern perimeter.
The patrol ships there froze in shock.
When the lookouts climbed the masts, what they saw made their blood run cold—
A fleet, riding the wind, was charging straight toward them.
"Enemy attack—!!!"
The scream shattered all remaining composure.
The northern flank fell into chaos instantly. They were completely exposed.
Because the battle had already begun, these patrol ships had relaxed their vigilance. Some had even joined the main fight prematurely.
"What's happening?!"
Cedric Storm reacted instantly. That horn signal—wasn't theirs.
He had been outplayed.
"Ser Cedric! What's going on?!"
Erren rushed back, alarmed.
"The enemy has arrived… You were right—we underestimated them."
Through his Myrish lens, Cedric Storm could now clearly see the approaching fleet. Ships bearing the Dragonwolf banner advanced like a charging army.
"They think we'll surrender—but we will not! We are Stormlanders! Even thunder and tempest cannot break us! Shall we fear Tyroshi slaves?!"
His voice rang across the deck of the Wind Horse, igniting the fighting spirit of every soldier present.
Blood boiled.
Knights gripped their weapons, ready to fight to the last breath.
Erren Estermont, in particular, was burning with excitement.
He had grown up listening to tales of his house's glory. Though House Estermont was a cadet branch of House Baratheon, he dreamed of becoming a hero like Robert Baratheon.
To him, this battle was his moment—his proving ground.
"My brothers! We are Stormlanders! We fear neither wind nor rain! Though the enemy is strong, they do not know who they face! Fight—for the Stormlands!"
"For the Stormlands!!!"
The roar of voices surged like a tidal wave.
"Forward! We—thud—ugh…!"
Before Erren could finish his command, Cedric Storm—his face pale—struck him hard at the neck.
Erren collapsed instantly.
Silence.
The soldiers froze, stunned.
They stared at Cedric Storm, unable to comprehend what they had just witnessed.
"There are dragons to the south… and an enemy fleet to the north. We have no chance. Surrender."
His voice was heavy, filled with unwilling resignation.
Against overwhelming power, courage meant nothing.
Moreover, their enemy served Aegon Targaryen.
Surrendering to a Targaryen wasn't treason—it was returning to legitimacy.
Their current king, Renly Baratheon, was himself a rebel.
In this chaos, it was wiser to follow the side that truly possessed dragons.
Meanwhile, aboard the flagship Sea Fox, Jon handed his Myrish lens to an elderly man beside him.
"President Malta, what do you think of my Aquatic Dragons?"
The man, around sixty years old, wore a simple dark robe. His long beard was neatly groomed, and he carried himself with quiet authority—like a scholar or archmage.
"Remarkable… You are a true Dragonlord. One who can guide the birth of dragons themselves."
He lowered the lens slowly.
"I believe the Alchemists' Guild should join the Chainbreakers. Only someone like you—someone who understands the truth—can lead us forward."
Malta was the President of the Alchemists' Guild of Lys, sent as an observer.
Alchemists and maesters existed across both Westeros and Essos, though their influence was weaker in Essos.
The Lysene Alchemists descended from the Blood Mages of Valyria. Their knowledge was fragmented—some specialized in wildfire, others in poison.
Unlike their Westerosi counterparts, they had always been treated as tools rather than respected scholars.
But the Chainbreakers were different.
Jon's "Recruitment Order" had elevated countless talented individuals from the lower classes. For many, it represented hope.
"Hahaha… I trust you won't disappoint me, President Malta. I look forward to your decision."
As they spoke, the battle was already ending.
The Stormlands fleet, battered from all sides, had lost all will to fight.
Ships drifted. Flags lowered.
Silence replaced chaos.
On Greenstone, Ser Lomas Estermont watched in despair.
With the fleet destroyed and the castle already burning under catapult bombardment, resistance was meaningless.
He chose surrender.
After completing the formalities, Jon secured his first foothold in Westeros—
Estermont had fallen.
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