The defense line on the Myr border had been reduced to a horrific slaughterhouse.
The earth itself seemed scorched by the fires of war. Tattered banners lay in pools of blood, and corpses of the Tyroshi and Myr coalition forces were stacked like grotesque monuments. The Tiger Cloaks of Volantis trampled over the remains of the fallen soldiers, scimitars flashing in brutal arcs, cutting down anyone still clinging to life.
The survivors were stripped of their armor and bound into long chains with rough, unforgiving ropes. Their cries of despair echoed across the battlefield, mingling with the thundering hooves of approaching Dothraki cavalry—a sound like the drums of death itself.
At the forefront rode Dhaka, perched high upon his majestic warhorse. His copper-brown skin glimmered in the crimson sunset, reflecting the carnage around him. His troops, a pack of bloodthirsty wolves in human form, bypassed the central battlefield with terrifying speed, slicing through villages, outposts, and supply lines, leaving only ash and ruin in their wake.
By the time the terrified deserters reached the main city with news of the Mill front's collapse, Dhaka's vanguard was already at the gates. The entirety of Myr lay exposed, surrounded, and doomed.
Following close behind, Ma Zhuo led the main imperial army of 130,000 soldiers. Their heavy boots shook the earth with each step. Slaves struggled to haul newly constructed Huihui cannons up the hills, their massive muzzles aimed mercilessly at the supposedly impregnable city.
A portion of the coalition forces was left to guard the prisoners, while the rest, accompanied by master craftsmen, finalized preparations for the general offensive. The machinery of war was grinding into motion, its wheels set to crush everything in its path.
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Meanwhile, off the coast of Rees, the sea had turned a deep, unnatural red. Wreckage from the shattered Tyroshi fleet floated like grim tombstones on the waves.
An old blind man stood atop the deck of a captured enemy vessel, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His eyes—clouded by age, yet gleaming with malice—surveyed the carnage below.
Ni Luo's fleet moved like a swarm of sharks, dragging drowned enemies from the water onto their vessels and slitting throats with terrifying efficiency. Not far away, the Volantis coalition fleet had decisively defeated the Lys fleet.
Bambaro, governor of Rees, was now tied to the mainmast like a lifeless animal, his face streaked with blood and fear.
On the flagship of the combined fleet, Commander Harris broke out in a cold sweat. The Volantenes had just finished torturing Bambaro when a chilling message arrived—one that sent a shiver down his spine. The Braavos fleet was en route to Lys.
Relief momentarily softened his panic. "Fortunately… we weren't ambushed earlier," he thought. But that relief was fleeting.
A sudden, sharp sound of breaking water cut through his thoughts. A black speedboat approached, gliding across the waves as though invisible. On its deck stood a figure so pale and still, it seemed like a corpse brought to life.
"My lord, the Braavos fleet is approaching," the messenger said in a flat, chilling tone. "The High Gothos fleet will cover your evacuation."
Harris's face hardened into a forced mask of composure. "Doesn't matter," he said, though his voice betrayed a tremor. "Even if the Braavosi arrive, our combined fleet is large enough to give them a challenge." He hoped his words would convey courage, but inwardly, doubt gnawed at him.
The living dead messenger's hollow eyes regarded him silently, like one staring down a naïve child.
"Sir," the messenger continued, "by our rough estimate, their fleet numbers over a thousand warships."
Harris's pupils constricted. The weight of that revelation struck him like a hammer.
The messenger pressed on, each word more terrifying than the last.
"Additionally, every ship is equipped with heavy, powerful crossbows."
From the crow's nest, the lookouts of the Gothos Navy were the first to spot the approaching fleet. Dozens of purple sails glinted in the dim light, moving like a dense, dark cloud across the sea. The alarm bells of every vessel rang immediately, their sound shrill and panicked.
A messenger boat tore away from the fleet, rowing desperately to deliver the fatal news to the rear command.
The old blind man stood at the bow of the flagship Styx, his face darkened with grim resolve. He had seen it: a fleet not of mere ships, but a moving forest of death.
"Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh!"
The shrill sound of enormous crossbow bolts cutting through the air tore across the ocean. These projectiles, larger than siege crossbows, carved long arcs toward their target. The Styx's sturdy hull, once deemed unassailable, trembled under their threat.
"Boom!!"
A thunderous explosion ripped through the flagship as multiple massive bolts embedded themselves into the deck. Wood splintered, sailors were thrown into the air, and chaos erupted instantly.
"Shit!" the old blind man roared, grabbing a grappling hook and swinging onto a nearby warship. As he landed, another salvo rained down—a veritable storm of steel and death.
Ni Luo's fleet attempted to charge, hoping to board and engage the enemy with their undead army. But each attempt ended in failure. Ships were pierced as if they were mere wooden husks, hulls disintegrating under the tremendous force of Braavos' attack. Each vessel exploded or sank into the sea, engulfed in flames and fragments.
"At least we delayed them!" the old man shouted over the roar of destruction.
"Boys! Abandon ship!" he bellowed. "Grab something heavy! His Majesty the Emperor is protecting us!"
Here, the bizarre advantage of their undead forms became clear: they could not drown. The zombie soldiers obeyed without hesitation, clinging to heavy debris and plunging into the freezing ocean. Their bodies sank, eyes open, waiting for rescue amidst the darkness below.
After just two volleys, the sea had become a graveyard. Floating wreckage, burning driftwood, and the shattered remnants of Ni Luo's forces were all that remained. Even the captured Tyroshi, along with the Gothos sailors who had tried to protect them, were wiped out, leaving no trace.
The Braavos commander, perched atop the towering bridge of his flagship, surveyed the carnage with cold indifference.
"Speed up," he ordered. "Find Volantis' main fleet."
The purple sails billowed once more, and the massive armada surged forward like an ancient, awakened beast.
At the rear, Corlys Velaryon's ship, the Sea Serpent, sailed close behind. Standing at the bow, his long silver hair whipping in the sea breeze, he took in the devastation. His heart raced with excitement.
So powerful.
This was true power, the kind that could reshape the world.
He glimpsed the future through the chaos—how the Velaryon family would ascend to unparalleled prestige and reap immeasurable rewards once the war was won.
The cowardly king on the Iron Throne? A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Corlys's lips.
'Who'll need his approval when this war is over?' he thought, eyes glinting with cold certainty.
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