"Hiss—"
Davos, holding up a spyglass, suddenly felt a dull ache in his left hand.
Just over a month ago, Stannis had chopped off the four fingers of his left hand—leaving only the thumb—as punishment for his past smuggling.
Yet it was also in recognition of his vital delivery of supplies during the siege of Storm's End.
A man born in the Flea Bottom of King's Landing, Davos had earned himself a piece of land—a noble title of his own.
Compared to that, he considered Stannis's punishment to be a mere trifle.
He had made up his mind to devote his life to serving this just lord. Still, what puzzled him was how his severed fingers often ached as if they were still there.
Sometimes, he would even pull off his glove to check whether his lost fingers had somehow grown back.
He was about to do so again when his eldest son beside him suddenly cried out.
"Father! Look! It's the Targaryen fleet!"
Davos quickly raised his spyglass and spotted a fleet bearing black sails speeding toward them. Truthfully, the arrival of the Dragonstone fleet didn't surprise him.
What surprised him was how quickly they'd shown up. Word from Dragonstone should have been sealed off by now.
They had assumed the enemy wouldn't detect them until they were close enough to see Dragonstone with their own eyes.
So how had they found them so soon?
*BOOM!*
Before Davos could make sense of it, a white plume of water exploded nearby.
Though cannons didn't exist in this era, trebuchets did. Soon, more and more splashes erupted around them—closer each time.
The Redwyne fleet contained many merchant ships, while the Dragonstone fleet was the royal navy, built purely for war at sea.
Every warship in their fleet was well-equipped.
The Redwynes quickly responded in kind, unleashing their own counterattack. From above, it looked like black and blue waves clashing, with bursts of white flowers blooming in between.
Viserys stood high on the flagship's island deck, overseeing much of the battlefield below.
The two fleets were matched in numbers, but in quality, the Dragonstone fleet held the clear advantage.
Especially since Viserys had promised the captains noble titles for battlefield merit—and offered his soldiers bounties for each enemy head they took.
The men were eager to leap onto the enemy ships and begin close combat.
After a few volleys of trebuchet fire, the ships had closed to within a hundred meters. Now it was time for the archers to show their skill.
Arrows flew thick as locusts between the ships.
Soldiers stood on deck, exchanging volleys. At first, the distance and sea winds made casualties low.
But as the ships drew closer, the leading soldiers could make out each other's faces, and sharpshooters began racking up kills.
Viserys's flagship was positioned slightly to the rear, or else he would've liked to kill a few enemies himself. He remembered that after he killed Varys, he had absorbed all of the man's essence—one hundred percent.
Gerold noticed Viserys's itching desire to fight and quickly reminded him, "Your Grace, remember what we agreed."
"Relax. I won't leave the flagship," Viserys replied, gripping the deck railing tighter.
He and Gerold had agreed beforehand that while Viserys could come to the battlefield, he was not allowed to fight—and had to stay within arm's reach of Gerold.
Seeing that he hadn't forgotten the agreement, Gerold nodded, "We're about to board. Stay safe, Your Grace."
"Understood," Viserys replied, tightening his grip on the deck.
Now came the fiercest stage of any naval battle in the age of blades—boarding combat.
Or more precisely—ship-to-ship assault.
The first stage of that was ramming—each fleet charging the other with reinforced prows. Naturally, the larger and sturdier ships had the advantage.
At the vanguard was Ock's warship.
Right now, his mind was filled with a single word—lordship. Ock's eyes burned as he looked at the enemy ship surging toward him.
"Captain, orders from the flagship—"
"Accelerate! Ram them to pieces!"
He didn't need to hear the full order. At this moment, there could only be one command—charge!
The dragon-head ram on the prow opened its iron jaws and lunged for the nearest enemy vessel. For a moment, it seemed alive—sinking its steel teeth into the hull of its target.
"Hard to port! Hard to port!" Ock roared.
The prow turned, and the dragon-head pulled back from the hull it had pierced.
"Hard to starboard! Again! Ram them again!"
Ock waved his gleaming longsword like a man possessed, as if the enemy crew had murdered his own father.
And captains like him were all across the Dragonstone fleet.
The Redwyne fleet had never faced such enemies before. They had never seen foes so ferocious, so utterly mad.
They even saw one Targaryen soldier leap from ship to ship while still several meters apart—falling into the sea, but immediately followed by more soldiers swarming aboard.
On the Redwyne flagship, the Earl himself felt his scalp go numb.
As the fleet commander, he had never faced anything like this. Weren't the most loyal Targaryen soldiers all supposed to have died at the Trident?
Where were these lunatics coming from?
His first instinct was to flee.
But then he remembered the men Robert had posted on the left flank, and decided to hold out a bit longer.
What happened next changed everything.
A runner dashed to him, gasping for breath.
"My lord! Bad news! Another Targaryen fleet has appeared on our left flank! Leading them is… it's the Sword of the Morning!"
"What?! Who did you say?" the Earl asked, stunned.
"The Sword of the Morning! It's the Kingsguard—Sword of the Morning!"
That shattered what little will the Earl had left to fight. No wonder the Targaryen soldiers fought like devils—the Sword of the Morning was with them.
If he was here, then was the White Bull, Ser Gerold, here too?
Of Aerys's Kingsguard, one had surrendered, one had defected, and two had died. That meant three remained.
So now he was supposed to fight off three Kingsguard knights?
"Retreat! Fall back!"
The Earl had no more thoughts of holding the line.
The left flank was Robert's anyway. Let it fall. Even if he lost, no one could say he hadn't tried—who could expect him to win against three of the Kingsguard?
On the left flank, Davos was already panicking. All he wanted now was to escape.
That was the Sword of the Morning!
But it was already too late.
Arthur's flagship was at the front, swift and sharp. After a violent jolt, the dragon-head ram punched into Davos's ship.
"Long live King Viserys!"
Arthur's white cloak billowed behind him as he led his soldiers onto Davos's warship.