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The waves surged and foamed as a massive warship, its billowing sails emblazoned with the flag of the naked goddess of lust, sliced through the waters west of Lanark Island.
Trailing closely behind were numerous other warships, each bearing distinct banners. Though they varied in size and design, their sheer numbers stretched across the horizon, nearly swallowing the entire seascape in their presence.
THUD, THUD, THUD!
On the deck of the leading flagship, hurried footsteps rang out. A Lysene soldier, clad in gleaming armor, strode swiftly toward Magister Aloma, who lounged lazily with a goblet of rich red wine in hand. Stopping before him, the soldier bowed deeply and delivered his urgent report.
"Magister, the reconnaissance ship has just sent word. Magister Bartos' Myrish fleet is under attack... by a dragon!"
The moment Aloma heard this, his eyes gleamed with excitement. He sat up straight, setting his goblet aside, and wasted no time inquiring further.
"They've finally taken the bait! Besides the dragon, how many ships does the enemy have?"
The soldier responded without hesitation.
"Three large warships, five medium-sized ones, and ten smaller vessels."
Aloma took a moment to process the numbers, his fingers tapping idly against the armrest of his chair. Then, with a confident nod, he declared,
"By standard calculations, that amounts to no more than fifteen hundred men at most. As long as we eliminate the dragon, they pose no real threat!"
His words were full of certainty. Apart from a small contingent of slave soldiers left behind to defend Bandy Island under Archon Pachek, a full third of the combined fleet of the Kingdom of the Three Daughters was gathered here.
Twenty-six large warships. Fifty-eight medium and small vessels. A total force of nearly eleven thousand men.
In the Kingdom of the Three Daughters, naval power was measured by the number of large warships a fleet possessed, just as nations in Jacaerys' previous life had gauged military strength by the number of aircraft carrier battle groups they commanded.
At a staggering ratio of twenty-six to three, their numerical superiority was overwhelming. The enemy was hopelessly outmatched.
As for the dragon…
Aloma would never have set this bait if he lacked a means to deal with it.
After all, the history of Lys recorded that their ancestors had once slain a dragon that had survived the Doom of Valyria, along with its rider, a dragonlord of old.
Lys knew dragons. They had studied them, documented their weaknesses, and prepared for this very moment.
"Pass the order. Adjust our formation and prepare for battle!"
At Aloma's command, the flagship's speed immediately slowed.
He had no intention of leading the charge against the dragon himself. His role was to remain at the forefront, receiving real-time reports from the reconnaissance ships, not to risk his life against the monstrous beast.
TAP, TAP, TAP…
Footsteps sounded again from the deck behind him. Turning his head, Aloma saw a group of slave soldiers rushing toward the ship's massive ballistae, each cradling a sealed ceramic jar in their arms.
Upon reaching their destination, they pried open the lids, revealing rows of specially crafted bolts.
These were no ordinary projectiles. Unlike standard thick-shafted bolts with barbed, triangular heads designed for sheer destruction, these were long and slender, their tips sharply tapered into needle-like points.
A glance was enough to see that these bolts were designed not for raw destruction but for speed and penetration.
Drip! Drip!
The soldiers carefully submerged the bolt tips into the liquid inside the jars, letting them soak for several minutes.
When they lifted them out, droplets of glistening blue liquid trickled down the smooth, conical arrowheads, forming tiny rivulets before falling to the deck.
Lys was famous for three things: its pleasure slaves, its poisons, and its banks.
Of these, two poisons were particularly infamous—Tears of Lys and The Strangler.
Tears of Lys had silently murdered Jon Arryn, Hand of King of Robert Baratheon, setting off the chain of events that ignited the War of the Five Kings.
The Strangler, on the other hand, had ended the life of the so-called King on the Iron Throne, Joffrey Baratheon, a death met with silent cheers across the realm.
But the poison coating these bolts was neither of those legendary toxins designed to kill men.
No.
This deep blue venom had been crafted for one purpose alone—to bring down great beasts. The moment it entered the bloodstream, it would take effect instantly.
After the failure of his carefully laid plans on Bandy Island, Magister Aloma had abandoned all hope of capturing the dragon alive. Now, his only objective was to slay the beast.
As the fleet sailed swiftly through the waves, its warships executed a precise maneuver, adjusting their formation with the skill and discipline of seasoned sailors.
Had one observed from above, they would have seen the vast armada arranging itself into five parallel formations, each taking the shape of a great 'V.'
This was the Multi-Layered Wild Goose Formation.
The spacing between the ships was deliberate, ensuring that if the dragon attacked from above, its fiery breath would not easily spread across multiple vessels. At the same time, the formation maximized their numerical advantage, allowing them to encircle enemy ships from all sides and unleash simultaneous assaults from the front, rear, and flanks.
At the heart of this intricate battle formation, nestled in the most secure position, was Magister Aloma's flagship. It occupied the very center of the third line of the 'V' formation.
From this heavily guarded vantage point, Aloma could issue commands with confidence, directing the battle without exposing himself to unnecessary risk. And if the tide of war turned against them, he had a clear path to retreat.
With the wind at their backs and the tide in their favor, the combined fleet closed in on the battlefield.
As they neared, the reconnaissance ship at the vanguard swiftly relayed the latest developments.
The Bloodstone Fleet, their enemy, was still in the midst of pursuing and slaughtering the scattered remnants of the retreating Myrish fleet. Meanwhile, the colossal emerald dragon was mercilessly dismantling the flagship of Magister Bartos.
From the reports alone, it was evident that this was the perfect moment to strike.
Yet, despite the golden opportunity, Magister Aloma remained cautious. His sharp gaze swept across the horizon, scanning the endless expanse of sea for any lurking threats.
Only after confirming that there were no hidden enemy ships lurking beyond sight did he finally issue the command for a full-scale assault.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The thunderous pounding of war drums resounded across the entire fleet, their rhythmic beats surging like the heartbeat of war, stirring the blood of every sailor and soldier aboard.
Hearing the ominous drums and spotting the approaching armada, the Bloodstone Fleet abandoned their pursuit of the shattered Myrish vessels. Panic set in as they desperately attempted to turn their ships around and flee.
However, even the finest wooden warships, ancient and well-crafted as they were, could not execute a swift retreat upon the rolling waves.
Even in modern times, steam-powered vessels would struggle to maneuver so quickly in turbulent waters.
Seizing the moment, the remnants of the Myrish fleet wasted no time. Their battered ships, though barely holding together, navigated toward the united fleet, seeking refuge among their new allies.
When word reached the flagship, Magister Aloma took only a moment to consider before making his decision:
Ignore them.
Had this been any other battle, he would have forced the fleeing Myrish ships to charge ahead as cannon fodder, using them as disposable shields.
But this was different. He had already used the Myrish fleet as bait to lure the enemy into this confrontation. Even if the greedy Magister Bartos had already perished at the claws of the dragon, the other magisters of Myr would not forget this treachery once the battle concluded.
Tyrosh had already begun showing signs of disloyalty.
If Lys did not strengthen its alliance with Myr now, the Kingdom of the Three Daughters—those once-glorious Free Cities—might very well fracture and collapse entirely.
Within the Multi-Layered Wild Goose Formation, each individual 'V' was composed of five large warships, flanked by eleven to twelve medium and smaller vessels.
The fleet was meticulously arranged, with carefully measured gaps between the ships, wide enough to allow passage yet tight enough to maintain structural integrity.
The battered Myrish fleet, composed mostly of smaller vessels, some barely more than skiffs and rowboats, navigated with ease through the formation's open channels, slipping between defensive layers like schools of darting fish.
WHOOSH! WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
From the decks of the united fleet, a storm of arrows erupted.
The sky darkened as countless projectiles arced high above, their trajectories flawless. Then, with a chilling hiss, they plummeted like a deathly rainstorm upon the exposed flanks of the Bloodstone Fleet, which had only just begun its desperate turn.
Then—THUD! THUD!
Screams rang out as the lethal barrag struck true.
Some of the unfortunate Bloodstone warriors, too slow to seek cover, were instantly riddled with arrows, collapsing onto the decks as lifeless husks.
Most of the arrows, however, embedded themselves into the hulls and planks of the enemy vessels.
Soon, the sides of the warships were bristling with arrows, bearing an eerie resemblance to the legendary stratagem of 'Borrowing Arrows with Straw Boats.'
*ROOOAR!!!*
The sound was deep and resonant, echoing across the waters.
FLAP! FLAP!
Overhead, the air churned violently.
Sensing that its allies were under attack, the emerald dragon, which had been fixated on dismantling the Myrish flagship, suddenly let out a resounding cry.
With a mighty beat of its wings, it soared upward, vanishing into the swirling clouds above.
Gulp.
It was coming.
Magister Aloma's breath caught in his throat as he watched the monstrous creature vanish into the swirling clouds above. Nervously, he swallowed, his hands clenching the railing of the flagship.
On the decks of twenty-six massive warships, the crews of the great ballistae hurriedly adjusted their siege weapons.
All bolts were aimed toward the sky.
And so, the battle to bring down the winged beast began.
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[Chapter End's]
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