The sea trembled with restless energy, waves crashing and surging as though stirred by unseen giants. The sun hung high overhead, blazing down upon the vast waters, where the golden sails of the Fury swelled with the southern wind. Upon them shone the crowned stag of House Baratheon, proud and defiant.
Years earlier, during Robert's Rebellion, Stannis Baratheon had commanded this same flagship to take Dragonstone. Now, however, he remained on land to oversee his armies, wary of a sudden strike from King's Landing against the Stormlands. Command of the Fury and the royal fleet was given instead to a man of humbler birth, one who had proven his worth time and again: Ser Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight.
This choice had stirred resentment. Ser Imry Florent, brother-in-law to Stannis, had pressed for the command, certain that a smuggler was unworthy of leading a king's fleet. The proud lord of Brightwater Keep made his displeasure plain, but Stannis overruled them all. This was not a war of land and castles—it was a battle upon the shifting, treacherous sea. And no man in Stannis's service knew the sea better than Davos.
Standing at the Fury's prow, Davos felt the weight of that trust like iron upon his shoulders. Though raised to knighthood and nobility, he still thought of himself as Davos of Flea Bottom. Now he commanded not just one ship, but the fleet of the Narrow Sea. Even the young lord of Tidewood Island awaited his orders. The contrast between what he had been and what he was now left him uneasy, more fearful than any clash of blades had ever done.
Yet victory here would bring reward beyond measure. Should the fleet prevail, Stannis had promised him Rainwood and the permanent title of commander. Davos's maimed fingers, reminders of his smuggler's past, seemed almost to tingle with anticipation.
The Black Betha kept close to the Fury's flank, Davos's son Matthos overseeing her crew with precision. To starboard, the Sea Spirit and the Lady Mariah sailed in close formation, oars rising and falling in practiced unison. Davos watched with pride—his sons had learned well the discipline of command.
Further out gleamed the Pride of Tidewood Island, its silver hull catching the sunlight. Around it gathered the Laughing Lion, the Old Lady, and the Seahorse. The young earl of Tidewood Island stood as Davos's second; should the flagship fall, he would take command. Behind them lurked the Swordfish, largest of the fleet, boasting two hundred oars and a ram built to splinter ships apart. Yet her captain, the corpulent youth Lord Durran Bar Emmon, was but fourteen years old. Concerned, Davos had placed his son Maester Seaworth at his side to guide him in the heat of battle.
On the horizon, black specks emerged against the glare of sea and sky. War galleys, cogs, carracks, and armed merchantmen—hundreds of sails stretching to the edge of sight, arranged in careful formation. From each mast flew a banner: the red crab of Celtigar, the sun-and-moon of Tarth, the sea turtle of Estermont, the onion of Seaworth, and the flaming heart of Stannis himself. Among them, the gaudy vessels of the Lyseni pirate Salladhor Saan stood out, their hulls painted in wild colors. His flagship, the Valyrian, sailed southward, commanding fifty ships of his own.
The Fury herself was no stranger to Davos. With three hundred oars and the agility of a hunting hound, she was the pride of Dragonstone's fleet. Trebuchets braced her bow and stern, capable of hurling casks of burning pitch that could set sailcloth aflame and send men screaming into the sea.
A sudden horn blast cut through the wind. From the north of Crab Island, a swift single-masted scout ship approached, sounding its warning. The enemy had been sighted.
Davos's instincts stirred. He knew the coastline better than any Redwyne lord who lingered in the Reach. To sail north, the enemy must pass the straits near Crab Island—it was the surest and quickest path toward Gulltown, and resupply would be easiest along loyal towns. Thus had Davos chosen to wait here in ambush, the fleet hidden east of Crab Island, near the Narrow Sea.
"Sound the horns," Davos commanded. "Signal the advance!"
The southern wind tore at his green cloak as the Fury's sails filled, driving her forward like an arrow loosed from the bow. Horn calls echoed across the sea, answered in turn as a hundred and fifty ships surged after the flagship, their oars churning white foam. Salladhor Saan's pirates, meanwhile, turned south with fifty ships, ready to strike from the other side of the straits.
Davos was no lordling bound by pride. He knew well the worth of Saan, greedy though he was. Few in the realm matched the Lyseni's cunning in naval war. Better to trust his skill than to spurn it.
The fleet moved in ordered precision. Archers unwrapped bows from oiled leather, strung them with practiced hands, and laid out arrows. Sailors scurried to secure lines and shift cargo. Drumbeats rolled from the lower decks, setting the rhythm for the oars.
Davos donned his open-faced helm, refusing a visor that would hinder his sight. He wore only light leather beneath his cloak, for he had ordered all captains to forgo heavy mail; better drowned than dragged under by iron. Many lords ignored the order, gleaming in steel upon their decks, but Davos had no wish to quarrel with them now.
Crab Island loomed to the south, its rugged cliffs stark against the horizon. Beyond stretched the green line of the Crab Claw Peninsula. And there, moving steadily northward, was the Redwyne fleet. At least two hundred warships at a glance, their sails marked with purple clusters of grapes. Behind them followed slower merchantmen—carracks and cogs heavy with cargo.
"Order the attack!" Davos roared above the wind.
The Redwyne ships were many, but most were light galleys meant for chasing pirates and guarding merchant convoys. They had numbers, but not strength. Against the heavy warships of Dragonstone, built for siege and conquest, they would find themselves outmatched.
From the cliffs of Crab Island, the Dragonstone fleet burst forth like wolves upon a startled herd. Trebuchets loosed their first volley: firepots trailing orange sparks, arcing high through the sky. Many fell hissing into the sea, but seven or eight struck true, splashing the Redwyne galleys with burning pitch. Sails caught flame, sailors shrieked, and chaos spread.
The Fury surged ahead. Davos lowered his spyglass and spotted familiar sails—the King's Landing, the Wildwind, the Longspear—all warships he had once fled from as a smuggler. Now he bore down upon them as master of the fleet.
Another volley of firepots fell, one striking the King's Landing square upon her deck. Flames erupted, sailors panicked, and the galley lost her bearings, spinning helplessly.
"Ramming speed!" Davos shouted.
The oarsmen strained at the drums' command, and the Fury leapt forward. Spray lashed the deck as the ship's ram struck with bone-crushing force. Timber cracked like thunder; the King's Landing split apart, her crew flung screaming into the sea. For a heartbeat Davos clung to the railing, nearly thrown himself. When the wreckage settled, the once-proud galley was gone, swallowed by waves.
"Loose arrows!"
Even as the debris drifted past, Davos pressed the attack. Archers loosed volleys at the Wildwind and Longspear. Ballistas spat fire-tipped bolts that set sails ablaze. The Swordfish thundered past, her great ram slamming into the Wildwind, flipping her in a maelstrom of foam. At the same moment, the Sea Spirit and Lady Mariah crashed together into the Longspear's flank, splintering her hull as seawater rushed in.
All across the battle line, the fleets closed. The Pride of Tidewood Island grappled a Redwyne galley already burning, while the young earl led his men in a boarding action against the White Hart. Steel clashed as men fought desperately on blood-slick decks.
Southward, fire bloomed in the strait—Salladhor Saan's work, no doubt, his merchant galleys raining pitch and flame upon the enemy. In the gathering dusk, the sea shone with scattered stars of fire.
Then Davos's gaze caught a shape more formidable than the rest: a massive three-masted galley, her sails a deep burgundy, her oars flashing gold and white in the firelight.
The Queen Arbor.
At once Davos knew her, flagship of House Redwyne. His pulse quickened, his heart hammering in his chest.
"Hard to starboard!" he roared. "Pursue the banner of Arbor!"
And the Fury leapt ahead, arrowing toward her foe..
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