The long wait had finally come to an end.
When the thunder of 130,000 marching feet and hooves finally ceased outside the walls of Volantis, even the fiercest Dothraki warriors wore exhaustion upon their faces. The endless journey had drained man and beast alike.
Ma Zhuo dismounted his black stallion, the soles of his boots pressing into the familiar earth of Volantis. The solid ground beneath his feet brought a strange sense of relief after weeks of ceaseless movement.
He turned back.
Behind him stretched a living sea of steel — soldiers, horses, and banners forming a vast, silent forest that extended to the horizon. The air shimmered with heat rising from armor and flesh.
Warhorses snorted heavily, white mist puffing from their nostrils like smoke from forges. Their bodies glistened with sweat; their riders slumped wearily in their saddles, eyes dulled but burning with the instinct of battle-hardened men. They had crossed mountains and plains. Now, at last, they had arrived.
The gates of Volantis swung open.
From within, the ancient city—reborn under Damian Thorne's new order—welcomed its returning allies. The banners of the New Empire fluttered proudly from every tower, catching the morning sun like tongues of fire.
Meanwhile, at the port, another kind of army was on the move.
A vast fleet was slowly departing from Volantis's docks, the hulls of its ships black as night, their sails emblazoned with the sigil of the Dragon King. The warships formed a steel tide, each vessel moving in perfect formation. Together, they cut through the sea like a dagger seeking its mark.
Their destination—Lys.
Both on land and at sea, the noose around the Kingdom of the Three Daughters tightened with silent inevitability.
---
The Stone Steps Islands
Far to the east, a bitter wind swept across the Stone Steps Islands—barren outcrops of black rock that jutted from the turbulent sea. Salt spray lashed the cliffs, carrying the sharp scent of iron and decay.
Upon one of these desolate ridges stood Daemon Targaryen, his silver hair whipped by the wind. Arms crossed, his crimson cloak snapping behind him, he watched in silence as dozens of Braavosi craftsmen strained against a massive capstan.
Before him stood a monstrous weapon.
It was not merely a crossbow—it was a siege engine in miniature, carved from the hardest fishweir wood, its dark surface gleaming with a strange, oily sheen. The bow-arms stretched nearly thirty feet when fully drawn. At its center rested an arrow so large it could have skewered an ox from head to tail.
A short, rotund Braavosi emissary stood beside Daemon, his plump face glowing with pride.
"Your Highness," he said, bowing with theatrical flourish, "behold—the masterpiece of the Iron Bank's finest engineers!"
At his command, several muscular workers heaved the massive bolt into the groove. The capstan turned with a grinding groan, pulling the thick string back until it resembled a taut silver crescent beneath the sun.
"Loose!"
The sound that followed was not a twang but a boom, deep and violent, like thunder compressed into a single heartbeat.
The black bolt became a streak of death, vanishing into the distance faster than sight could follow.
A heartbeat later—
BOOM.
The target ship anchored offshore—a retired warship, repurposed for this demonstration—exploded into a spray of splintered timber and seawater. Massive planks were hurled skyward before the wreckage slowly began to sink beneath the waves.
Even the ever-composed Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, drew in a sharp breath. His eyes glimmered with awe and something darker—covetous desire.
That thing could pierce the hull of my Sea Serpent, he thought.
Daemon, however, only raised an eyebrow.
"It's powerful," he admitted coolly. "But if you think this can kill a dragon… you'll need a far better shot. Through the eye, maybe the throat. The Braavosi have gold and pride, but they still don't understand what they're up against."
The disdain in his voice was subtle but sharp.
The emissary's smile did not falter. In fact, it deepened, his eyes glinting with something unreadable.
"Your Highness," he said smoothly, "this is only one of them."
He gestured toward the sea.
At first, there was only the sound of waves and the distant cry of gulls. The horizon shimmered empty and still.
Then—dots began to appear where the blue sky met the water. Small at first, then rapidly multiplying, spreading, and merging until they formed a solid streak of color.
A ripple of unease passed through the men on the cliffs.
That "color" was purple.
Sailcloth dyed in the deep violet hue of Braavos—thousands upon thousands of sails.
A breathtaking sight unfolded before their eyes: a fleet so immense that it seemed to blot out the sea itself.
The ships—sleek, black-hulled war galleys with shimmering purple sails—advanced in perfect unison. Sunlight glinted off their armor-plated sides, turning the ocean into a mirror of steel and fire.
There were hundreds—no, thousands.
An entire navy, stretching as far as the eye could see.
And upon the deck of every single ship sat one of those monstrous dragon-slaying crossbows.
Even Daemon's habitual arrogance faltered.
For the first time in years, he felt something close to awe.
Corlys Velaryon's expression twisted from admiration into wild exhilaration. His hands clenched the rock ledge before him, knuckles white, veins standing out on his arms.
This—this was the power he had dreamed of all his life. The ultimate naval force. A fleet that could challenge gods themselves.
Daemon, in contrast, went still. The smirk vanished from his lips, replaced by a cold, calculating tension. His hand unconsciously drifted to the hilt of Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel blade at his waist.
What stood before them was not a fleet. It was an executioner's scaffold made of steel and gold.
"This sky will soon be filled with giant crossbows," the Braavosi emissary declared proudly. "If that black dragon from the east dares to fly over the sea, it will be torn from the sky by our hail of iron."
His tone was smug, even mocking.
Daemon forced his expression into a mask of composure. A faint, sharp smile tugged at his lips—a smile that did not reach his eyes.
The shock within him faded, replaced by something colder and far more dangerous.
"Foolish," he murmured. "But they make up for it in numbers."
His gaze hardened. "They might wound Melyas, the Uncrowned Queen, or even Koraxus if fortune favors them. But that black monster—the one who devoured all of Volantis? You'll need more than gold and arrogance to kill him."
His eyes flicked toward Corlys, whose excitement bordered on madness, then back to the gloating Braavosi.
In his mind, a thought began to take shape—a spark of strategy born from vengeance and self-preservation alike.
"How," he whispered, "can I make this so-called invincible fleet clash with Damian Thorne's dragon until both are bleeding?"
The fire of revenge burned within him, but it was sheathed beneath layers of icy control.
---
The Hidden Priestesses
Neither Daemon nor Corlys noticed what lay beneath the glittering surface of that enormous fleet.
For every dozen main warships, there sailed a plain, unassuming vessel—supply ships, at least by appearance.
But within their wooden hulls were no barrels of grain or stores of weapons.
Instead, the holds had been transformed into sanctuaries.
The interiors were dimly lit, the walls draped in white cloth embroidered with silver crescents. The air shimmered faintly, heavy with incense and song.
There, rows of women in simple gray robes sat cross-legged in perfect stillness. Their faces bore the delicate features of the Jogos Nhai, their skin pale, their hair bound in silver cords. Their eyes were closed, yet their presence filled the space like a quiet storm.
The air around them wavered—distorted, charged with a power that ordinary mortals could neither see nor comprehend.
They were the Moonsingers of Braavos.
Their lineage traced back to an age of pain and rebellion. Their ancestors had once led thousands of slaves in a desperate escape from the tyranny of the Valyrian Dragonlords. Guided by song and moonlight, they fled across the sea until they found refuge in the fog-shrouded lagoon that became Braavos.
Freedom, they believed, was sacred.
That memory—of chains broken and dragons fled—was etched into their blood.
But now, centuries later, the Moonsingers had been summoned again. This time not as liberators… but as weapons.
The Sealord of Braavos had given them his blessing. The Iron Bank, its coffers deep as the ocean, had funded their cause.
Their chants, once meant to protect the weak, now fueled a far darker purpose.
No longer fugitives. No longer prey.
Now—they would become the hunters.
Their mission was simple and absolute:
To aid this colossal fleet in slaying the Dragon King Damian Thorne.
To extinguish the rebirth of Valyria before it could spread its wings across the world once more.
And as the purple sails of Braavos filled the horizon, their ghostly hymns rose above the waves—songs that once promised freedom, now twisted into weapons of vengeance.
The sea itself seemed to shudder in reply.
---