Within Bone-Gnawing Channel, the scene was pure hell.
The gorge walls rose like towers, built of slick, black volcanic rock coated in slimy moss, pressing in menacingly on the narrow waterway.
Jagged reefs jutted up like the fangs of some monstrous beast, tearing the already limited passage into a maze of splintered channels.
Sunlight broke into scattered shards against the cliffs, falling down sparingly. Mixed with the cold, ever-present mist, it shrouded the gorge in a suffocating gloom, heavy with unseen danger.
The current crashed against the reefs, echoing with a wail like the cries of countless lost souls trapped in the abyss.
Salladhor's vessel had surged ahead from the center of the fleet to take the vanguard.
From the high sterncastle, Salladhor peered through an expensive Myrish lens, straining to pierce the gray haze ahead.
Through the mist, he glimpsed several vessels darting into a narrow channel—enemy patrol ships, the same kind sighted earlier.
"After them! Don't let them get away!"
Excitement roughened Salladhor's growl, his voice booming in dull echoes along the constricted waterway.
At that moment, a light rowboat fought its way out of the fleet's rear ranks.
A sailor scrambled aboard the Valyrian, half-collapsing as he gasped for air. "Lord! Captain Khorane reports urgent news—enemy ships at the strait mouth. Twenty-five merchantmen, all fitted with rams, sailing straight into the channel!"
Salladhor froze, then absurdity twisted into a mocking grin.
He slammed the lens down and burst into a roaring laugh. "Ha! Merchantman? With rams? Has that Easterner gone mad from hunger—or has my fleet driven him insane? To pit salted-fish haulers against Salladhor Saan? It's an insult!"
Veritis shrieked in eager agreement beside him, his sycophantic laughter as shrill as a night bird's cry.
A cruel gleam lit Salladhor's eyes, predator-sharp like a shark scenting blood. "Just what I needed to limber up. Order thirty warships from the rear to turn and surround those witless merchantmen. Crush them, and let their wooden coffins feed the fish!"
He could already see it: clumsy merchant hulks splintering and sinking under the charge of his warships.
The order spread quickly.
At the fleet's rear, more than thirty pirate ships of varying sizes—crewed mostly by vassals—grumbled, but the sight of those slow, lumbering merchantmen, little more than floating targets, stoked their greed. Tempted by easy prey, they began to turn.
Under their captains' curses, the oarsmen strained, driving their prows through the murky water toward the twenty-five merchant vessels.
Cruel, contemptuous grins spread across pirate faces as though the spoils were already theirs.
But just as they drew close enough to glimpse figures moving on the merchants' decks, the unexpected struck.
On each of the twenty-five merchant ships, the sailors from Jawbreak Island exchanged brief glances. Without hesitation, they hurled their burning torches into the holds and leapt into the sea.
Below decks, piles of dry timber, rags and nets soaked in tung oil, and barrels of cheap grease erupted in flames.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
It was as though twenty-five sleeping volcanoes had erupted at once inside the narrow gorge.
Flames roared skyward with destructive fury.
Orange-red tongues of fire licked greedily at masts, rigging, and hulls. Pillars of black, choking smoke twisted upward, staining the narrow sky crimson, painting the whole channel in blood-red light.
Burning scraps of sail, like giant firebirds, shrieked as they scattered on the updraft.
The flames cast wild, leaping shadows across the black cliffs and reefs.
The pirate ships—grinning, ready to board—were struck as if by an invisible hammer. In an instant, every smile froze.
"Fire... fire ships!!"
"Gods damn it! Turn! Turn, you fools, run!!"
"They're coming right at us!!"
Screams tore through the gorge, shrill and broken, shattering the rhythm of oars and water.
Terror spread like plague across the thirty pirate ships.
Orders, loyalty to Salladhor, the promise of plunder—all of it was burned away in the face of the firestorm, leaving only the raw instinct to survive.
Every vessel, large or small, whether willing or not, spun in panic like a startled school of fish. Oarsmen roared with desperate effort, driving their oars with a frenzy born of terror, fighting to escape the inferno that had consumed the channel.
Worse still, the twenty-five burning hulks now rode the downwind.
The high cliffs funneled the gale into a screaming wind that shoved the flaming ships forward like an unseen giant's hand.
Even as their sails crumbled to ash, momentum and wind together hurled the blazing hulks faster than any oared ship could flee—straight into the middle ranks of Salladhor's fleet.
Trailing black plumes of smoke, they charged like burning harbingers of doom.
The rear squadrons of Salladhor's fleet, slowed by the narrowing channel ahead, had no chance to escape.
When the towering flames lit the entire gorge and the screams from behind reached their ears, panic tore through every ship like a tidal wave.
"Aft! The stern's on fire!"
"The fire ship's ramming us! Run!"
"Clear the way up front! Move, damn it!"
"Seven hells! We can't move, the channel's too narrow!"
The ships ahead, still unaware of what was happening, froze in terror as their own allies came barreling down on them in blind panic.
In an instant, the narrow channel became a death trap.
No escape.
Crash! Crack!
The stern of a medium warship was torn open by the prow of a friendly vessel fleeing in terror. Splinters flew, and seawater poured in like a flood.
"Damn you! Are you blind?!" the sailors on the stricken ship howled in shock and fury.
But their cries were drowned by another oared ship, maddened by the sight of the fire ships. It swung sideways in desperation, its hull grinding hard against the reefs. A sickening crack echoed as its keel snapped clean through.
Boom!
One of the burning hulks finally caught the last small pirate vessel.
The impact sent both ships shuddering violently as flames surged across their timbers like ravenous demons.
Pirates screamed, hurling themselves into the freezing black water, splashing down like dumplings into a pot.
The chain reaction of death spread uncontrollably through the channel.
Panic drove the ships in the rear to force their way forward, desperate to escape the firestorm behind.
But the lead ships could not advance—the channel was too tight, the flagship had given no order to accelerate, and some had even slowed to avoid hidden reefs.
The channel roared with chaos: the thunder of hulls colliding, the shrieks of splintering timbers, curses and screams of men thrown overboard. The gorge became a vast echo chamber amplifying their terror.
The frenzy swept forward like a tidal wave, faster than any order could ever travel.
On the Valyria, Salladhor's arrogance had already drained away.
The massive flagship heaved beneath his feet, not from the sea, but from panicked allied ships smashing into her stern again and again.
"What in the seven hells is happening?!" Salladhor bellowed, clutching the stern rail to keep his footing, his voice cracking with shock and rage.
"Lord! The ships behind us have gone mad—they're ramming straight into us!" an officer cried, his face ashen.
"Bastards! Stop them! Who dares strike the flagship?!" Salladhor roared, veins bulging across his forehead.
But before the words were gone, another colossal impact slammed into the stern.
Boom!
The Valyria lurched forward as though the Kraken itself had bitten deep into her hull.
Men sprawled across the deck, rolling helplessly with the jolt.
Salladhor staggered, nearly pitching overboard, until Veritis seized him in a crushing grip.
"Lord! Gods, look ahead!" a lookout shrieked in despair.
Salladhor's head snapped up. Through the smoke, before it smothered his sight entirely, his heart froze.
Less than half a mile away, the channel's narrow throat—barely wide enough for a few ships abreast—was sealed tight.
A rough count showed no fewer than forty vessels.
Most were solid oared warships, their raised rams gleaming with a cold light in the swirling haze.
Their masts loomed like a forest, their silhouettes like a wall of stone, barring every path forward.
On their decks, shadowed figures stood shoulder to shoulder, armed with bows, crossbows, axes, and swords, their murderous intent radiating across the water.
An icy despair seized Salladhor, rooting him where he stood.