The icy sea in the faint light of dawn was a heavy lead-gray, the surface veiled by a low mist like a ghostly shroud, blurring the line between sea and sky.
Through that dim, hazy backdrop, a vast fleet surged forward, nearly a hundred oared warships of varying size advancing in formation, like ancient sea beasts crawling across the waters.
The steady rise and fall of oars struck the waves with a dull, rhythmic splash, tearing apart the ocean's slumbering calm.
At the front cut the Valyria, undisputed flagship of the fleet. Its towering prow, like the fang of a great beast, split fog and waves alike.
On the bow, Salladhor Saan stood tall.
He wore a fine velvet coat of deep burgundy, with high boots bleached bright and dazzling. Silver thread embroidered twisting vines along the edges of the leather.
The sea breeze ruffled his carefully groomed beard and carried faint echoes of commands shouted by sailors farther off.
At his side, a pale and gaunt young man stood with a slight stoop, his face stretched into an obsequious grin. His high, sharp voice piped up:
"Honored Lord, that arrogant Eastern sorcerer will surely soil himself the instant he lays eyes on our fleet blotting out the very sky. A hundred warships! Who in the Narrow Sea could possibly rival your might?"
This was Veritis, a eunuch adviser favored by Salladhor.
A self-satisfied smile tugged at Salladhor's lips.
He tilted his head, casting Veritis a sidelong glance. His confidence radiated like a palpable force.
"Flee? Even if he sprouted wings and flew back to his Essosi nest, I'd drag him back, chain him to the reefs of Bloodstone, and let seabirds peck out his eyes. By the gods above, they will witness my resolve. This trickster from the East is doomed."
A little behind him stood another of his eunuch advisers, a plump-faced middle-aged man whose expression was shadowed by unease.
This was Meizo Mahr.
He rubbed his hands together before speaking carefully.
"Lord, forgive me for speaking out of turn, but the reports say this Eastern man does have some uncanny means. Venturing so deep… should we not take greater caution? The Bone-Gnawing Channel is narrow and winding, filled with hidden reefs. If…"
"Sorcerers?"
Veritis's shrill voice cut through Meizo's words like an awl. He gave a derisive snort, his contempt undisguised.
"Meizo, don't tell me you've been frightened by old wives' tales. However wicked the sorcerer, a knife across the throat sends him to meet his false gods. Tricks and shadows, nothing more—charlatans fooling the simple. Before Lord Salladhor's fleet, they're less than nothing."
Salladhor let out a booming laugh, rich with superiority.
He swept his arm wide as though he could already see victory banners flying above Jawbreak Island.
"Veritis is right. These so-called sorcerers are nothing but—"
"Lord!"
A sharp cry cut him short.
The three turned to see a small rowboat slicing through the waves, racing toward the Valyria.
At its bow stood Khorane Sathmantes, captain of the Shayala's Dance.
His weathered face was carved deep by wind and salt, his sunken eyes usually keen, now filled with urgency.
He scrambled nimbly up onto the flagship, not wasting a heartbeat on courtesies, and blurted out between breaths:
"Lord! A scout ship reports enemy sighting near the entrance to the Bone-Gnawing Channel. Four, maybe five ships—patrol craft under that Easterner's command."
A sharp light gleamed in Salladhor's eyes. Far from alarm, his face lit with the thrill of the hunt.
"Good! After them! Those must be his pickets at the gorge mouth. His fleet is small—sink one, and he is weaker for it. Signal the order: full speed, pursue!"
But Khorane's brow was slick with sweat.
"Lord, we must not rush in! Ahead lies the Bone-Gnawing Channel. It's so narrow only two or three ships can pass abreast. The seabed is jagged with volcanic reefs, sharp as knives, with swift, treacherous currents. Worse, it twists and winds like a maze. I fear the Easterner is laying a trap, drawing us in on purpose."
Veritis hissed like a cat with its tail stepped on.
"Khorane! A few rickety ships and already our 'brave' captain quails? A trap? With what? That Easterner commands barely a few dozen tubs. You shame yourself with such fear."
The smile drained from Salladhor's face, replaced by a dark scowl at his authority questioned.
His gaze bored into Khorane, then shifted to the mist-wreathed entrance ahead, where jagged reefs loomed in and out of sight.
His tone was cutting, absolute.
"Pursue. That Easterner's fleet isn't even half the size of ours. He has neither the means nor the courage to ambush us in the Bone-Gnawing Channel. Signal the fleet—change formation, close on them."
He was certain that sheer numbers alone could crush any trickery.
Khorane saw the stubborn certainty on Salladhor's face and felt his heart sink. A cold despair seized him.
He cast a venomous glare at the smug Veritis behind Salladhor, cursing him inwardly.
Meizo Mahr, who had kept silent until now, finally stepped forward, his voice edged with pleading.
"Lord, Captain Khorane's concerns are not without reason. Even if we pursue, we should at least leave ships to guard the strait. If that Easterner proves cunning and sends vessels around to cut off our retreat, we'll be trapped in a true deathtrap. Blocked ahead and pursued from behind, the fleet won't be able to maneuver in such narrow waters. The consequences would be disastrous."
Veritis answered with a sharp, scornful laugh, his tone dripping with mockery.
"Meizo, it seems you left your courage back on Bloodstone. An Eastern sorcerer, living off tricks and shadows, worthy of Lord Salladhor's fear? Ridiculous. A joke."
Salladhor's expression grew as dark as the sea before a storm.
His cold gaze swept over Meizo's round, tense face, past Khorane's anxious eyes, and finally settled on Veritis's fawning, certain smile.
Annoyance and anger, stoked by repeated objections, hardened in his eyes.
He slashed his hand through the air, his voice as sharp as ice breaking.
"Enough! Since you insist so much, Meizo Mahr, so be it."
Meizo's heart clenched, his face draining of color.
"You will remain with Khorane's Shayala's Dance, holding position at the mouth of the channel."
Salladhor's tone was iron. "I will lead the main fleet into the Bone-Gnawing Channel myself and crush those reckless Easterners. Let's see what tricks they can manage."
A chill rushed through Meizo, as though an icy hand had clamped around his heart. The contempt and mistrust in Salladhor's voice struck like a lash.
He opened his mouth to try once more, but Khorane shot him a look—so tangled and heavy that the words caught in his throat.
In the end, everything he might have said was swallowed in a single heavy sigh. The matter was decided; there would be no turning it back.
Khorane and Meizo returned to their boat in silence, rowing toward the Shayera's Dance, moored alone at the edge of the immense fleet.
The three-banked warship, built for speed, looked small and helpless beside nearly a hundred heavy warships.
As Meizo stepped onto her deck, he turned and looked at the great shape of the Valyria, Salladhor's flagship, slowly vanishing into the fog-choked channel. His heart clenched like it was caught in a frozen fist.
"Khorane," he said bleakly, "Lord Salladhor won't hear a word of warning now. It's all that fool Veritis! If—if we really are trapped inside the strait, what good will our little force be?"
Khorane gripped the cold railing, his knuckles bone white.
He stared at the maw of the Bone-Gnawing Channel, its jagged black reefs jutting like teeth, thick mist curling between them, the crashing currents groaning against the stone.
His bitter sigh rasped in his throat. "Meizo, you know what Lord Salladhor is. He's always seen the Stepstones as already his—confidence bordering on arrogance.
"To deal with this Easterner, he's poured in his whole fortune, borrowed soldiers from Lys, and strong-armed the other Stepstones factions into joining him. He needs a great, crushing victory to cement his authority, to prove his strength to every ally. Do you really think he'd listen to us now?"
Meizo watched the massive fleet slide forward like a bloated serpent, inching into the narrow, treacherous throat of the channel. A heavy foreboding weighed down his chest.
"Then all we can do," he said hoarsely, "is pray. Pray that Easterner is only bluffing. Pray there's no ambush waiting in that cursed Bone-Gnawing Channel."
"Pray?" Khorane gave a crooked smile uglier than a grimace. His eyes swept the misty sea with a sharp glint. "The gods… I fear they've already closed their eyes."
As the two spoke in low, uneasy tones, a lookout suddenly let out a scream, his voice cracked with terror.
"Gods! Is that… a Kraken?"
Khorane and Meizo lurched toward the rail.
They followed the lookout's pointing arm.
In the fog beyond the channel's mouth, a vast, shadowy shape was slowly rising.
Its outline twisted and wavered with the drifting mist, forming and breaking apart, like some colossal Kraken stirring from the deep.
Khorane's seasoned eyes narrowed, his pupils contracting to pinpoints. A rush of icy dread froze his blood.
He almost roared the words. "Damn it, we're under attack!"
He spun around and bellowed at the messenger. "Quick! Send the fastest skiff into the strait! Tell Lord Salladhor that enemy ships are blocking the entrance. Their numbers..."
His eyes locked again on the dark shapes looming ever larger, his voice rasping like sand on stone. "Ten... twenty... no, twenty-five of them!"
Meizo saw it too. A fleet was indeed bearing down on the strait, driven by a faint but favorable morning wind.
But as the last shreds of mist peeled away and the ships came fully into view, confusion spread across Meizo's face. "Khorane, no... look again. Those are merchantmen. Broad-bottomed, square-rigged cargo ships! Has that Easterner lost his mind? Dragging merchant ships into battle? Sure, the wind's with them, but they're clumsy and without oars. Once they enter Bone-Gnawing Channel, with its reefs and whirlpools, they won't even be able to maneuver. How could they possibly match our oared warships?"
Khorane narrowed his eyes, his gaze hawk-sharp as it swept the oncoming vessels.
When his eyes caught the bows of the leading ships, his heart dropped and his face darkened further. "No, Meizo. Look at their prows. They've mounted rams."
He drew in a sharp breath, his voice edged with disbelief. "Is he trying to imitate 'Shipbreaker' Caggo? Ship against ship? But Caggo used nimble, solid oared warships. These merchant hulls are soft pine. At most they'll smash a hole in our planking before shattering themselves. They'd never touch our keel. What in the Seven Hells is he playing at?"
Meizo stared at the twenty-five merchantmen advancing like a wall of timber, his bewilderment outweighing his fear. "Then... do we intercept? They may outnumber us, but they're still lumbering cargo ships. Our Shayala's Dance is faster, and with the strait to our advantage..."
Khorane's brows knit tight, his gaze flicking between the ungainly merchant ships and his lone warship.
He closed his eyes in torment, then opened them, his voice heavy with resignation and anger. "Intercept? With what? We've only one ship. Charging them is suicide. Let them through. I want to see what these floating coffins can do against Lord Salladhor's fleet."
And so, under the troubled, baffled eyes of Khorane and Meizo, the twenty-five merchant ships with cruel rams affixed to their bows drifted past Shayala's Dance. One after another, like mute, lumbering beasts, they slipped unhindered into the Bone-Gnawing Channel, its entrance dark and narrow as a giant's throat.
The fog soon swallowed their hulking forms, leaving behind only the heavy flap of canvas in the wind and the mournful crash of waves against stone.
...
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