The sea was black as ink in the hour before dawn.
Two days past, the green ultimatum had been delivered to Driftmark. Now, under cover of darkness, they fled.
He was part of the rearguard fleet. By Lord Corlys's command, he carried the wealth the Velaryons had amassed at High Tide across a century of trade—to Pentos.
So they ran.
They meant to reach Dragonstone, or Pentos itself, before the green host could catch them.
«The wind is with us.»
Aboard the silver-hulled brig Silver Gull, her captain looked up at her swelling sails and smiled.
«At this speed, we shall make Dragonstone soon enough. Then turn for Pentos…»
«We will bring Lord Corlys his gold.»
«When he returns with the fleet, we shall have our chance to reclaim our homes.»
The captain gazed into the darkness. More than thirty Velaryon warships sailed with him. Ser Kaerion Velaryon, left behind to hold Driftmark, had given this order: the great ships would evacuate the wealth of House Velaryon first.
Every vessel carried Velaryon men. Velaryon masters. Velaryon coin.
The Silver Gull bore her share.
On her deck stood more than thirty men—highborn and low—and every one of them had begun to breathe easier.
«The Seven bless us,» an aging merchant murmured.
His prayer went unanswered.
«Port side! Ships to port! Many ships!»
The lookout's cry cut through the night like a blade.
Men rushed to the port rail.
The sea mist parted. From the northwest, a forest of masts pressed toward them—not one ship, nor two, nor a handful, but a fleet. Thirty sail at least, fanned out in a crescent, closing the trap.
The banners at their mastheads grew clear in the grey dawn light.
Black field. Golden three-headed dragon.
The greens.
«How—» The captain's face had gone white. «They should be attacking the harbor! How did they get here—»
He did not know the thoroughness of Aemond's commands. Days ago, when Driftmark received the ultimatum and the blacks began preparing to flee, the spies Aemond had seeded upon the island watched every move.
Before dawn, when the Silver Gull and her consorts slipped their moorings, they were already marked.
Ser Erwin Redwyne's main fleet had lain in wait along this very course. Waiting for the prey to sail into the snare.
«Turn about! Back to harbor!» the captain roared.
Sailors hauled at the wheel. Tore at the sheets.
Too late.
From the clouds came a roar that shook the sea itself.
Men clapped hands to their ears and looked up—in terror, in disbelief—as a vast grey shape fell from the heavens.
Vhagar.
«NO!»
«Vhagar is here?!»
The old dragon's fire took two warships full in the hull.
Orange and red, the sea of flame engulfed oak and ash. Timbers exploded. Rigging burned. Screams were swallowed by the roar of the inferno.
Men threw themselves into the freezing water. Struggled. Sank.
The royal fleet closed in like wolves scenting blood.
«Onagers!» Ser Rosso Brun, the admiral, swept his hand forward.
Stones and jars of burning pitch arced across the sky. A fleeing Velaryon galley was struck. Flames caught her sails—linen turned to cinder in a heartbeat. Fire spread to mast and spar. Within moments, she was a torch upon the waves.
Her crew leaped into the sea.
In this black water, far from any shore, it was a death sentence.
The Silver Gull fared better. Most of the missiles fell wide. But a stray arrow took the captain through the shoulder. He fell, screaming.
«Strike the sails! Heave to!» The first mate looked at the royal warships drawing closer, then at Vhagar wheeling above.
«We yield! Yield!»
A white flag rose.
The royal fleet did not stop.
Ser Rosso remembered Aemond's words at the war council: «Those great ships carry a century of Velaryon wealth. Take them. Kill those who resist. Spare those who kneel.»
He had his orders.
A few warships still fled. Vhagar caught them. Fire bloomed again and again, orange flowers opening upon the grey sea. Hulls shattered. Men burned.
The fleet's scorpions and longbows were nothing to the she-dragon. The beat of her four-hundred-foot wings sent their shafts spinning away like straws. The shafts that struck her scales simply… fell.
She did not even feel them.
Velaryon sailors thrashed in the water. Royal marines pulled alongside in longboats and finished them with spears and arrows. Blood stained the sea red, then pink, then nothing at all.
None of the fleeing rearguard escaped.
Against Vhagar, Sunfyre, and Dreamfyre in the air—against the royal fleet upon the water—they had no hope. One by one, they slowed. Struck their colors. Surrendered.
All save four. Those four burned.
The royal fleet showed no mercy to ships that refused to yield. Dragonfire tore them apart. Those who jumped were shot or left to drown. More than four hundred men went to the bottom. Among them, the finest sailors Driftmark had bred.
Ser Erwin Redwyne stood at the prow of his flagship, gazing at the quiet sea and the captured fleet.
This wealth, he thought. All the coin the Sea Snake amassed in a lifetime of voyaging. Gone from Velaryon hands in a single morning.
If Corlys Velaryon could see this, he would vomit blood.
He tallied the battle in his head: six enemy ships sunk. Twenty-nine taken. Four hundred of the enemy slain. His own losses: near nothing.
A perfect victory.
He looked up. Vhagar and Sunfyre were already flying for Driftmark.
There is no fleet left to oppose us. Not in this sea.
«Dispatch ten warships,» he ordered. «Support His Highness's assault.»
The rest would gather the prisoners and inventory the holds.
A fortune. A king's ransom.
When Vhagar's vast shadow fell upon the harbor of Spicetown, order shattered.
«Cast off! Cast off!» A Pentoshi merchant captain waved his cutlass, driving back the civilians who swarmed his gangplank. «This ship is Pentoshi! Away with you!»
«Captain—the Velaryon fleet is destroyed!» A sailor pointed at the smoke rising from beyond the harbor mouth. «Where would we even flee?»
«Back to the east! This is Westerosi butchery—we want no part of it!»
Across the wharves, two dozen merchantmen raised anchor in frantic haste. Sailors cut mooring lines. Shoved back the crowds at their gangplanks. Cut down those who tried to force their way aboard.
«Let me on! I'll pay double!»
«My child—my children are still ashore!»
«Stop pushing—the boat will capsize!»
Crying. Cursing. The clash of steel.
Then—another roar, from the harbor mouth itself.
All turned.
A merchantman, fleeing full sail, met Vhagar's fire. She became a fireball, blazing against the grey dawn.
Silence fell upon the harbor.
The eastern merchants were not fools. They understood: no one leaves today.
A dozen warships swept into the harbor. At their head, three three-decked galleys, their prows sheathed in iron, their flanks lined with oarports. Golden dragons flew from their mastheads. Royal marines—black armor, bows drawn—lined the rails.
«The dragons are coming!»
«It's the greens!»
«The royal fleet is here!»
«RUN!»