"The storm is coming," Gendry said, looking at Tyrossi.
The seas surrounding the island roared with chaos — horns blared, men shouted, drums thundered, flutes trembled, and thousands of oars struck the water in rhythm. Warships armed with rams and catapults struggled against the waves, their heavy equipment slowing them down.
From the prow of his ship, Gendry saw Tyrossi rising before him — a city larger than Sunspear, perched on its island like a crown upon the sea. In its harbor stood the Tower of Blood, and within the city lay the Fountain of Dionysus. The riverbanks and streets glittered with countless temples and shrines dedicated to every god imaginable.
"The outer city won't be too hard to take," Gendry muttered. "But that fortress of black dragonstone in the inner city… that's another matter."
The fleet sailed closer. Ideally, they would seize the harbor first, then assault the city itself. Even if they couldn't breach the fortress, they had to claim the outer city.
Soon, the sea before Tyrossi erupted into battle. Over two hundred and twenty Tyrossi warships, reinforced by twenty exiled ships from Myr, sailed out to meet them in full force.
"Our numbers are greater," Gendry said to himself. "And I've chosen my best captains for this. Today, we'll take Tyrossi."
The combined fleets — the Narrow Sea Fleet and the Wolfpack Fleet — fanned out, surrounding the Tyrossi ships. The battlefield became a whirling storm of splintered wood and flashing steel.
The Light of Myr narrowly escaped a ramming strike by retracting its oars in time, but the Gunpowder Grass lost its left bank of oars, snapped like matchsticks by a charging Tyrossi galley.
"Loose the arrows!" Moroshu roared.
A deadly volley darkened the sky. Arrows rained down, felling sailors and captains alike. A purple-haired Tyrossi captain crumpled on his deck, his name lost to history.
Hooks clashed, iron hammers smashed through hulls, and smoke thickened as the decks ran red.
"Forward!" Moroshu bellowed again.
The Wolfpack and Warhammer rammed a massive Tyrossi warship almost simultaneously, splintering it from bow to stern. The impact was so violent that even sailors on nearby ships were thrown into the sea.
"Back oars!" Moroshu commanded. The oarsmen reversed stroke, pulling the Wolfpack away as seawater gushed into the shattered enemy vessel. The Tyrossi ship broke apart before Gendry's eyes, its crew flung screaming into the waves. Survivors thrashed desperately in the crimson water; the dead floated silently as the cries of the wounded filled the air.
The sea had become a maelstrom of broken ships and blood. The battle lines scattered; each ship now fought on its own. Gendry's Wolfpack, flanked by two smaller escorts, plunged deeper into the melee.
"Die!" a Tyrossian warrior shouted, his accent thick and rolling.
He wore leather armor, marked with the sigil of a Tyrossian naval officer — likely a vice admiral. With a bellow, he charged at Gendry, blade flashing.
Gendry raised his Valyrian steel scimitar. "Die!" he echoed.
The black blade swept in a silver arc, cleaving the man cleanly in two at the waist. Blood and entrails splattered across the slick deck, turning every step treacherous. The Yarak scimitar was forged for slashing from horseback — but in Gendry's hand, even on a pitching deck, it was death incarnate.
Beside him, Ser Davos seized a fallen sword. He had come as an envoy, not a warrior, but on this day he fought coldly, grimly — determined not to die in vain.
For hours the battle raged. Ships burned and sank; the sea itself seemed to scream.
"Captain, are we ready for the next phase?" Gendry called to Moroshu. Naval warfare was still new to him — a brutal art he'd come to respect. Experience and instinct ruled here, and he trusted Moroshu and Harris more than his own judgment.
"It's time, Commander," Moroshu replied, raising a horn.
The long, deep note sounded again. The Narrow Sea Fleet and the Wolfpack Fleet regrouped, striking together. Their speed and numbers overwhelmed the Tyrossi line. The swiftest ships — sleek and deadly as sharks — darted through the gaps, ramming and boarding with savage precision.
"Let's see how long the Tyrossi can hold," Gendry muttered, eyes narrowing.
Warships collided in brutal succession. When rams struck, boarding parties followed instantly. The slow were doomed to sink; only the quick survived. The tide itself became an ally or an enemy depending on one's nerve and timing — and Moroshu, once a pirate, had mastered both.
"My old friend," Davos called out, a grim smile crossing his face. "Seems you haven't forgotten your tricks."
"Ha! You forget the days we scraped a living at sea," Moroshu laughed over the roar. "Back then, if you were slow, you lost your head!"
The battle raged on, a storm of iron and fire. The Tyrossi governors and slave masters had spent vast sums to build this fleet — manned by free citizens and mercenaries — and to keep enslaved sailors in check, fearing betrayal. The result was a merciless fight: the enslaved rowing under the whip while free men fought above them.
But they had made one fatal mistake. By sending their best free sailors and mercenaries to sea, they had left Tyrossi itself nearly defenseless.
Suddenly, a deafening roar rose from the city behind them.
"Kill! Kill the slave owners!"
Flames and smoke rose over Tyrossi's towers. Catapults that had been prepared to repel the Wolfpack's landing were now aflame — destroyed by rebelling slaves.
"It's happening," Gendry breathed. Relief flickered in his eyes.
Before the invasion, his Free Army had smuggled leaflets, messages, and weapons into Tyrossi. The governors had suppressed dissent for a time, relying on their mercenaries' numbers — but now, as the battle intensified, the city itself was breaking apart.
Mutinies spread among the Tyrossi ships. Enslaved rowers turned on their masters; mercenaries hesitated or fled. The fleet began to unravel.
"Kill the slave owners!" voices howled across the decks.
Smoke and fire swallowed the horizon. The once-proud Tyrossi fleet — the pride of the Narrow Sea — began to collapse from within. Some captains turned their ships toward the city, desperate to defend their homes. Others fled outright.
"Surrender!" voices shouted. "Surrender!"
White flags rose on the masts of a dozen Tyrossi ships.
Gendry watched silently as the enemy broke. Beyond the burning harbor, the city of Tyrossi smoldered — its fate sealed.
Amidst drifting wreckage, small black-sailed ships — fast as swordfish — sliced through the waves. Once used by pirates for raiding, they now carried Gendry's soldiers ashore: men of the Narrow Sea Fleet and the Wolfpack, leaping from their boats and charging toward the city walls.
The outer harbor was blocked by scorched masts and half-sunken ships meant to bar entry, but Moroshu, ever the smuggler, knew every hidden passage and shallow reef around Tyrossi.
"Forward! Land and raise the banner!" he ordered.
Archers, marines, and infantry stormed the beaches, following the path opened by the revolting slaves. Some outer gates were already ajar. Gendry's men surged through, planting the banner of the Wolfpack on Tyrossi's soil.
From within the burning streets came the clang of steel and the screams of dying men. The city guard and mercenaries of Tyrossi fought back, but they lacked knights and heavy cavalry — and they were vastly outnumbered.
Blood soaked the stones. Spears flashed, axes whirled, and the cries of battle rose to the heavens.
"It seems the gods have heard your prayers," Davos said to Gendry amid the chaos. "Victory is yours."
Gendry gave a grim nod, though Davos's heart was heavy. With Gendry commanding the fleet across the Narrow Sea, the mission Duke Stannis had given him was already lost.
As the storm clouds gathered overhead and thunder rolled across the sea, Davos looked once more toward the burning city.
A storm had come — but not from the sky.
It came from another stag.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)