The bloody sea battle exploded in the Tyrosh Strait at the tail end of 292 AC.
Tyrosh's proud grand fleet charged in like an angry bull—only to choke on the bitter wine of defeat.
The fighting raged from dawn through late morning and straight into noon.
Tyroshi nobles lined the black walls, staring out in frantic silence. Merchant ships from every corner of the world—Pentoshi fat-bellied cogs, Westerosi roundships, Summer Isles swan ships, Braavosi purple galleys, even vessels from lands no one could name—dropped anchor just far enough to watch. Sailors climbed the rigging and crowded the crow's nests, eyes wide with savage excitement.
"Dragon!"
"It's a real fucking dragon."
They'd seen nothing like it since the Battle of the Gullet, when five dragons turned the sea into a furnace. This slaughter wasn't quite that bad, but it was close enough.
"Shoot the dragonrider!"
"Aim for the bastard's belly!"
Tyroshi sailors screamed the old battle cries, praying they could repeat the miracle that had once brought down two Targaryen dragons. It didn't work.
"Dragonfire!"
Viserys's voice cut through the wind like a blade. Sunblaze's golden neck bent like a war bow. Golden-red flame erupted in a roaring torrent.
The dragon dove. Fire danced across decks.
"I am the Lord of Fire," Viserys said coldly, and the killing began.
Flames swept over armored men and crossbow crews, filling the air with the stink of sulfur and charred meat. Scorpions and catapults caught fire and burned like torches.
On the flagship Old Gods, warriors and crossbowmen shrieked as the fire took them. Even the Tyroshi admiral and his second-in-command were roasted where they stood.
The Tyroshi fleet tried to break and run, but there was nowhere to go. Viserys sealed the rear of the strait with dragonfire. The narrow waters became a death trap no sailor could escape.
Viserys watched the proud Tyroshi navy collapse. These same ships had fought at the Gullet. They knew what dragonfire could do—yet they had still come.
"For King Viserys!"
"For the King! For Andalos!"
Morosh himself beat the war drums until his hands bled. Freed slaves and escaped sailors fought like men possessed, hungry for one final victory.
The Andal fleet drove in hard, ships weaving and ramming, hooking grapples flying like iron rain. Hulls ground together. Boarding planks slammed down. Steel rang and men screamed as the real butchery began.
The Tyroshi were elite—guardians of the Stepstones, veterans of a hundred sea fights against Lys, Myr, and every pirate who dared the Narrow Sea. They knew boarding combat inside and out.
But Viserys had given Morosh his best men: hardened Andal knights in plate, agile freed slaves who fought like cornered wolves, and the dragon circling overhead like death itself.
"Kill!"
"Kill them all!"
Garin and Jalaka roared as they swung their axes. Rhoynar javelin throwers hurled steel with lethal precision. Garin's axe spun and took a Tyroshi sailor from shoulder to hip in one wet stroke.
With the dragon's help, the Andal sailors steadied, then surged forward.
"Three-Headed God, why have you abandoned us?"
Tyroshi sailors wailed as their confidence shattered. They were fast, skilled, deadly in close quarters—but none of that mattered against a living dragon that could melt men where they stood.
"Monster! Viserys is a fucking demon!"
They watched Sunblaze wheel and dive, golden-red fire swallowing the bravest fighters. Men turned into screaming torches, clothes and flesh burning together. Some jumped into the sea to escape—only to burn anyway when the flames followed them into the water.
Black smoke pillars climbed into the sky. The Tyroshi fleet was finished.
From the admiral down, captains, nobles, and officers died by the hundreds. Those who still lived hurled themselves overboard, clinging to wreckage—only to be turned into pincushions by triple-shot Myr crossbows. Arrows punched through bodies and necks. Bright blood spread across the waves.
"Surrender and live!"
"Surrender and live!"
The proud Tyroshi navy broke completely. More and more men threw down their weapons and begged for mercy.
"Long live King Viserys!"
"Long live King Viserys!"
Even the toughest fleet in the Narrow Sea had fallen.
"Jaecerys. Vermax. Stormcloud. I avenged you."
"Andalos and every slave they murdered—I avenged you too."
Viserys landed on the flagship amid the cheering soldiers, black-and-red cloak snapping in the wind.
"It's over. All of it's fucking over."
The Tyroshi nobles on the walls felt the world tilt. They couldn't see through the smoke, but the Andal cheers told them everything they needed to know.
"Dragon… it's really a dragon. And those banners—black and red, the Targaryen sigil…"
A Westerosi captain from Oldtown shouted in raw excitement. He had seen the dance of dragons and the three-headed red dragon flying high.
The dragonrider had won. Tyrosh now faced ruin.
"Release the ravens! Send word to Oldtown—tell Lord Mace!"
"No—better yet, I'll go myself. This news is worth a fortune."
Ravens took flight, wings beating toward the far side of the Narrow Sea. Not one. Dozens. Messages flew to Oldtown, the Riverlands, even the Westerlands.
The news that arrived was enough to shake every great house in the Seven Kingdoms.
From the east came fire and dragons. Blood and fire were about to burn in the west as well.
Deep night. The Oldtown garrison command post blazed with light.
"Brother, the dragon reports are real. Every merchant ship out of the Stepstones saw it. The Dragon King's beast burned the entire Tyroshi fleet to the waterline."
Ser Morren Tyrell spoke to his brother, Maester Gormon Tyrell. Morren commanded the Oldtown garrison. Gormon wore the chain but never forgot he was a Tyrell.
"Ten years," Gormon muttered. "Less than ten years and the Targaryens are back. I thought this Viserys was just a boy."
The fall of the old dynasty still felt fresh. A generation hadn't even had time to grow up.
If Robert had been given twenty or thirty quiet years, his line might have taken root. Now time had run out for everyone.
"There's going to be blood," Morren said. "This boy is about to do something cruel. His fleet is coming. That dragon can land on Tyrosh—or anywhere in Westeros."
"Send the news to Highgarden," Gormon said. "But not to our nephew Mace. Send it to his mother."
"Done."
"Can we keep this quiet?"
Gormon shook his head. "Too many eyes on the Stepstones this time. Last battle in Andalos stayed secret. This one? Half the Narrow Sea watched."
"Let the realm burn, then. Chaos is coming."
"What about the Citadel?"
"The maesters are keeping their mouths shut. I'm not high enough to sit in the real meetings, but I know they've locked away a cartload of old books on the occult—probably full of dragon lore they never wanted anyone to read."
Gormon's voice carried quiet disgust. "They still pretend the supernatural doesn't exist. Study it and they call you a fool."
"Those pompous old bastards," Morren growled. "No wonder my son says they're worthless. Hightower's lapdogs, every last one."
Far across the Narrow Sea, Viserys stood on the deck of his flagship, golden dragon circling overhead, black-and-red banners snapping in the wind.
The Seven Kingdoms had just learned the truth.
The Dragon King was coming.