"The storm is coming!" Gendry fixed his gaze on Tyrosh.
The sea around the island roared with the din of horns, shouts, battle cries, pounding drums, and the shrill tremor of pipes, all mingling with the steady slap of thousands of oars striking the water. Some warships were fitted with iron rams and catapults, their added weight slowing them as they advanced.
Tyrosh rose from its island stronghold, far larger than Sunspear. At the mouth of its harbor stood the Bleeding Tower, and within the city lay the Fountain of the Drunken God. Along the streets and riverbanks, temples and shrines to a host of different gods stood shoulder to shoulder.
"The outer city of Tyrosh won't be hard to take. The real problem is the inner stronghold built of black Dragonstone." The city loomed ever larger before Gendry's eyes. The fleet had to seize the harbor first, then begin the assault. Even if they could not breach the inner city, the outer city must fall.
On the waters near Tyrosh, the two fleets crashed into one another. Tyrosh's grand fleet numbered more than two hundred and twenty ships, reinforced by twenty exiled Myr warships. They had committed everything.
"Our fleet has the advantage in numbers. And this time, I've chosen my most capable captains. We'll take Tyrosh," Gendry thought.
The Narrow Sea Fleet and the Wolf Pack Fleet closed in, encircling the Tyrosh warships.
The battlefield dissolved into chaos. Gendry saw the Myr's Light pull in its oars just before impact, but the left oars of the Fire Herb were snapped like matchsticks when a Tyrosh warship scraped past.
"Loose!" Morosh commanded. His crossbowmen answered with a deadly storm of bolts. A purple-haired Tyrosh captain toppled to the deck, his name lost to the sea.
Grappling hooks flew. Iron rams smashed into wooden hulls. Through drifting smoke, arrows fell like rain, cutting men down where they stood.
"Forward!" Morosh ordered.
The Wolf Pack's Warhammer slammed into a massive Tyrosh warship almost at the same moment, crushing it from bow to stern. The impact was so violent that men aboard another Tyrosh vessel several ships away were thrown straight into the water.
"Back!" Morosh shouted, and the oars churned in reverse. Seawater rushed through the gaping breach. Before Gendry's eyes, the Tyrosh ship split apart, men spilling into the sea in droves. The living thrashed in panic; the dead drifted in silence. Sailors with brightly dyed hair screamed as they were dragged beneath the waves.
The battle grew increasingly chaotic. The first line broke apart, each ship fighting on its own. The Wolf Pack and two escort ships plunged into the melee. As the Wolf Pack Fleet tangled with the enemy, the warships turned slowly against one another, decks running slick with blood.
"Die!" The Tyrosh accent rang harsh and loud as Gendry faced the warrior before him. The man wore leather armor, likely a Tyrosh naval officer. He swung his longsword and charged.
"Die!" Gendry secured his helmet. His Valyrian steel curved sword cut through anything in its path. It carried death's greeting as he cleaved the blue-haired officer clean in half at the waist. Entrails spilled across the deck, turning the planks treacherously slick. He had to mind his footing.
An Arakh was best used in a wild charge from horseback, but there was no room for that here.
Davos drew his weapon as well, striking with cold precision. He had come as an envoy, not to throw his life away. War showed no mercy, and the fighting did not relent until the enemy vessel before them was broken.
"Captain, is it time for our next move?" Gendry asked Morosh. Naval warfare was unlike anything he had known; it was an entirely new discipline. When it came to experience and seamanship, he had to trust Hallis and Morosh. It was a shame he could not win over Ser Davos. He had a deep respect for men of such skill.
"It's time, Lord Commander," Morosh replied.
The horns sounded again. The Wolf Pack Fleet and the Narrow Sea Fleet pressed their assault together, quickening the pace of battle. The Tyrosh warships struggled to endure, already at a disadvantage in numbers. The swift, agile galleys circled like sharks, striking wherever they saw weakness.
"I'd like to see how long Tyrosh can hold out," Gendry muttered, watching their fleet.
Warships collided, iron rams crashing into hulls before men closed for brutal hand-to-hand combat. A vessel too slow to maneuver was doomed to be rammed and sunk. Tides and currents had to be judged carefully. Fortunately, Morosh, seasoned as any pirate, understood the sea better than most.
"My old friend! Seems you haven't forgotten your old skills," Ser Davos praised.
"Of course not. Have you forgotten the days we scraped by together at sea? Slow down for even a moment, get caught, and it was your head on a block," Morosh said with pride.
The blaze of war spread across the water. This was a fight to the death. The slave masters and Magisters of Tyrosh had emptied their coffers to ensure the fleet was firmly in the hands of free Tyroshi and wandering Sellswords, keeping the slave oarsmen under tight control. They feared betrayal within their own ranks, so they made the discipline ruthless.
What they had forgotten was this: by sending their Sellswords, free sailors, and citizens to sea, they had left Tyrosh itself exposed.
"Kill!"
"Kill the slave masters!"
A sudden roar erupted from within the city. Flames leapt into the sky, smoke billowing upward. To counter the Wolf Pack's landing, the Tyrosh had set up catapults along the shore. But the slaves rose in open revolt. Several of the engines were smashed and set ablaze.
"It's done," Gendry let out a breath.
Before launching the assault, the Free Company had secretly smuggled leaflets, messages, and weapons into Tyrosh. The Magisters had relied on their superior numbers of Sellswords to suppress unrest for a time, but as the fighting intensified, the city's instability could no longer be contained.
Mutiny broke out on some of the Tyrosh ships as well. Enraged slave sailors turned on Tyroshi and free sailors alike. The situation spiraled out of control.
"Kill! Kill the slave masters!"
"Kill them! Kill these Tyroshi slave masters!"
With chaos erupting behind them and the city itself falling into turmoil, the once-proud Tyrosh fleet, so lavishly funded and armed for this counterattack, began to disintegrate. Some ships turned back toward Tyrosh. Others tried desperately to avoid the renewed assault.
"Surrender!"
"Surrender!"
A few helpless Tyroshi vessels raised white flags.
Gendry stared ahead at Tyrosh. This was the moment.
Through the thick black smoke, he saw small sailboats, merchant ships, and the shattered remains of Tyrosh warships drifting in the water.
The fastest galleys shot forward like swordfish. These sleek vessels had once been black ships used by pirates to raid and plunder the Stepstones. Now they carried sailors and soldiers of the Narrow Sea Fleet and the Wolf Pack Fleet, who surged toward the shore.
In some places, charred masts and sunken ships clogged the approaches to the stone docks, deliberately scuttled to block landings. But Morosh was a smuggler. He knew Tyrosh's shores as well as any man alive.
"Charge!"
Sailors, archers, and infantry poured onto the beaches. Some of the outer city gates had already been thrown open amid the uprising of freed slaves. All that remained was to choose their landing points carefully and plant the Wolf Pack banner on Tyrosh's soil.
Tyrosh's Sellswords and garrison troops rushed out to meet them, but compared to Westeros, their knights were few.
Steel met steel. Blood answered blood. Rebel slaves, Free Company soldiers, and Wolf Pack warriors charged with wild cries. The Tyrosh were easy to spot by their brightly dyed hair. Flesh and blood flew as spears thrust and battle-axes rose and fell.
"It seems the Warrior has heard your prayers," Ser Davos said quietly to Gendry. "You are about to win."
Yet Davos felt no comfort. With the fleet across the Narrow Sea now in Gendry's hands, the task entrusted to him by Great Lord Stannis had, in truth, already failed.
A storm rose upon the sea.
But this storm came from another stag.