Bloodstone Isle, Prince's Harbor.
The vanguard fleet, spurred on by their frenzied race, landed one after another along the shores of Bloodstone.
The Iron Fleet arrived first.
The longship Iron Victory slammed into the harbor pier with reckless force.
"Hahaha! None can match the speed of the ironborn!"
Victarion Greyjoy stood tall like a bull rearing up, swinging his battleaxe and bellowing with laughter in the storm. Rain streamed down his hair and across the knots of his muscles.
"Brothers! Slaughter every bastard on this island! Search every warehouse, turn over every stone! Not a scrap of Valyrian steel for the cowards behind us!"
Back on Pyke, Balon had made it clear—this expedition was one part duty, nine parts plunder.
The moment Victarion learned Bloodstone was defended by only five hundred men yet rumored to hold Valyrian steel, he resolved to seize the shore first.
Howling like a black tide, the ironborn leapt from their longships and surged into the empty, deathly silent harbor.
"Lord, the harbor is empty!"
An ironborn captain reported quickly, unease in his voice.
Victarion's grin froze as the cold rain ran down his face.
Empty?
A chill shot up his spine.
A trap?!
Before he could order a watch, the Westerlands fleet charged into the harbor.
Ser Kevan Lannister, clad in gold and crimson plate, strode onto the pier surrounded by his guards. His cold gaze swept across Victarion and the silent harbor with open contempt.
He had not forgotten the charge Tywin had given him when leaving Casterly Rock: seize any Valyrian weapons that might exist for the family.
So he had defied Paxter's command and pressed the landing.
Lannister soldiers snapped into formation, their red-and-gold armor glaring even through the downpour, standing in stark opposition to the ironborn. The tension in the air was sharp enough to cut.
Moments later, Dornishmen and men of the Reach came ashore...
The narrow beachhead descended into chaos as the factions crowded together.
Prince Oberyn Martell watched the brink of a clash between Kevan and Victarion with amused interest, a sly smile curving his lips.
"You bastard-bred fools!!!"
At last, Lord Paxter Redwyne's flagship docked. He nearly leapt ashore, his furious roar clear even through the storm.
"Disobeying orders! Acting on your own! Do you know what this means?!!"
But his fury was like a stone cast into the sea—ignored.
The Westerlands, the ironborn, even the Dornish all pressed their men inland, eyes fixed greedily on the fortress.
"Lord! The sky—look at the sky!!!"
A soldier of the Reach cried out, his voice warped by terror as he pointed toward the storm-wracked heavens.
Crack—!!!
Another white bolt tore the sky apart.
Eyes went wide.
A colossal shadow wheeled above them, close enough for its form to be seen.
A dragon?!
Time stopped.
Every movement, every quarrel, every greedy thought in the harbor froze in that instant.
Victarion's mouth hung open, his axe stilled mid-swing.
Kevan's hand locked on his sword hilt, pupils blown wide.
Paxter's rage froze on his face, replaced by raw horror.
The smile slipped from Oberyn's lips, his expression hardening with gravity.
A dragon.
ROAR——————!!!!
Before they could react, a thunderous roar split the skies. The beast burst from the clouds, its immense golden form revealed above the sea.
A dragon!
From harbor to ships, all saw it with blinding clarity.
Its massive body stretched across the heavens like a wall of steel, golden scales blazing even against the storm-darkened sky.
Under their stricken gaze, the golden terror dove from the roiling clouds.
Its radiant scales shone with divine brilliance, its massive form tearing through the rain, carrying with it the promise of fire and death as it hurtled toward the fleet.
The golden dragon Lo Quen unleashed his fury. A torrent of Dragonfire poured from his jaws, vaster and hotter than ever before, burning with dazzling gold more solid and bright than lightning itself.
The air warped in its heat. Its light outshone the storm.
In an instant, the flames engulfed several warships closest to the harbor, packed with soldiers and oarsmen.
"Run—!!!"
Shrieks tore from the shore, but the warning came too late for those at sea.
Wood splintered under the blast, hulls bursting apart, masts collapsing in the firestorm.
A piercing scream, too shrill to be human, was swallowed at once by the roar of fire and the splintering crash of wood.
Countless figures writhed in the golden inferno before collapsing into charred husks.
On the surrounding ships, soldiers and sailors watched the nightmare unfold, their faces frozen in raw terror, as if hell itself had broken open before their eyes.
But their despair had only just begun.
The golden dragon swept across the sky in a graceful, deadly arc, turning toward the warships still thrashing on the sea.
Lo Quen loosed a triumphant roar. Rowed warships might be swift on the water—yet to him, a dragon, they were no more than stationary targets, lined up neatly to await his Dragonfire.
It was exactly as he had planned.
From the moment he encountered Jorah, he had guessed the man would reach out to Varys—just as in the original tale, where he had served as an informant beside the Targaryen siblings. Lo Quen had used Jorah as his conduit, feeding him information that magnified his own threat, forcing the Seven Kingdoms to muster an invasion fleet. Then, through Jorah's hand, he planted false intelligence to lure that fleet into one place, where he could annihilate them all in the shortest time, with the least expenditure of magic.
The storm-dark sky was his perfect cloak. The Seven Kingdoms' ships saw only fleeting flashes of his shadow when lightning struck—immediately followed by torrents of golden Dragonfire.
Lo Quen circled overhead, unleashing flames. His magic ebbed with every breath, but the cost was worth it.
Each blast of fire erased a warship from existence.
Oarsmen shrieked as they hurled themselves into the freezing, storm-tossed sea. Armored soldiers followed, forced to leap for survival, their heavy plate dragging them under like stones. They clawed at drifting wreckage, struggling to stay afloat, their faces twisted in despair as they watched the Dragonfire engulf their ships, reducing them to blazing pyres.
The weight of their armor made movement impossible. They floated helplessly, exposed on the surface, despair etched on every face.
The fleet unraveled with terrifying speed.
The sea had become a boiling furnace, a graveyard of despair.
...
Just as the survivors ashore stood transfixed by this vision of the world's end, the low, reinforced gates of Bloodstone Fortress swung open silently in the storm.
No shouts. No fanfare.
An army poured forth.
Clad in heavy armor, swords in hand, they marched in flawless step, silent as statues, the only sound the grinding scrape of metal against metal.
In that instant, the Seven Kingdoms' men realized Jorah had not lied. The army of the dead was real.
Victarion and Kevan stared in shock, recognizing at once the gleam of the weapons clutched in the Dragon Soul Guards' hands.
Valyrian steel. Real beyond doubt. But to claim it, they would pay in blood.
At the front strode Jaelena, her deep violet eyes burning like stars through the storm.
Chai Yiq stood beside her, sword raised.
Without a word, Jaelena swept her Valyrian steel blade forward, its edge flashing cold in the rain.
"Kill them!!!"
Her clear, piercing cry cut through the storm like a trumpet.
The silent host surged forward as one, a copper-red tide of death. With killing intent sharp enough to freeze the soul, they charged the beach—where soldiers of the Seven Kingdoms, still reeling from the dragon's wrath, now faced a new horror rushing down upon them.
...
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