Chapter 139 Volantis Fleet

The head coach of Highgarden, Fertimo Crane, strode briskly through the flower-lined paths of the seaside manor.The salty breeze tousled his cloak and tugged at his sleeves, but it did nothing to slow his determined pace.

The golden sun spilled across beds of vibrant blossoms, casting shifting patterns of light and color along the cobbled path. Laughter drifted through the air like birdsong—from the nearby pavilion where Margaery Tyrell sat surrounded by her handmaidens, her voice as bright as a silver bell.

Fertimo stepped forward and bowed respectfully.

"Lady Margaery, I have news. Gavin Bellerys has successfully taken Linlith. For reasons yet unclear, he's now at war with both Tyrosh and Myr. Judging from the volume of loot being unloaded at the ports... the campaign is going well."

The mirth vanished from Margaery's face. Her eyes widened in disbelief.

"He took Lys? Already?"

The question escaped her lips in a near whisper. She had never imagined Gavin would act so swiftly—nor with such devastating success. His strength was growing rapidly. If he crushed Essos's resistance completely, the Tyrell family's chances of holding leverage in the coming negotiations would dwindle to nothing.

Originally, House Tyrell had planned to summon Gavin to Highgarden under her name, placing him across the table from the cunning Lady Olenna. But Gavin had declined, citing the war. Now, with her grandmother absent, the burden of diplomacy had fallen to her.

Margaery's thoughts sharpened like a blade. She stood.

"Prepare to depart. We leave for Lys tomorrow."

Fertimo's expression stiffened.

"My lady, I must strongly advise against that. The region is still at war. The Stepstone raiders are wild and brutal. It's too dangerous to travel now. At the very least, we should request several Redwyne warships for escort."

Margaery shook her head.

"By the time that message reaches Highgarden, the war might already be over. I need to speak with Gavin—before he wins."

Her tone was calm, but final.

"The merchant ships are still operating safely. We'll sail to Lys first, assess the situation, and act from there."

Fertimo hesitated, but he knew better than to argue further. Margaery's mind was made up. To press the matter now would only make him seem fearful.

With a sigh, he bowed his head.

"As you wish, Lady Margaery. May the gods grant us safe passage."

Meanwhile, in a dim inn on Bloodstone Island, Quentyn Martell received word of Gavin's campaign.He turned to his guards without hesitation.

"Secure us a ship bound for Lys. Immediately. We sail as soon as possible."

One guard furrowed his brow.

"My lord, the fighting hasn't ended. Shouldn't we wait for Prince Doran's approval?"

Quentyn paused—but only briefly. His amber eyes sharpened with resolve.

"Send a raven to Sunspear. Inform my father of the situation. Then speak with Governor Boris. Lys is stable for now, and if Daenerys is truly there, I must meet her."

The guard nodded and left at once.

Across the sea, sails filled the horizon—A vast fleet of one hundred and thirty warships surged toward Lys. Oars chopped through the waves with military precision, casting up white foam as drums beat a steady rhythm.

High atop the flagship's mast, the orange banner of Volantis, marked with a snarling black tiger, snapped in the wind.

On the prow stood Nerik Visama, brow furrowed, shoulders tense. He held a crumpled letter from a raven and let it slip from his fingers into the wind.

"Another message from Consul Madaccio?" the deputy asked dryly.

Nerik exhaled with frustration.

"He sends ten a day, hoping to rebuild the reputation he's already lost. But no amount of parchment can make this fleet move faster."

The deputy leaned closer, his voice lowered.

"Do you think the campaign in the Disputed Lands is going poorly? Is that why he's so desperate?"

Nerik didn't reply. His eyes remained fixed on the vast, open sea.

He was the eldest son of Nesisor Visama, a powerful consul of the Elephant Party. From the beginning, Nerik had opposed war with a Valyrian Dragonlord. If territory in the Disputed Lands was the goal, then alliance—not hostility—was the wiser path. But somehow, Malachor had convinced both his father and other party leaders to sail into fire.

And now... the sails were raised. The fleet was committed. There was no turning back.

Once, Aegon the Conqueror had razed Volantis with dragonfire. It had taken decades for the city to recover. Another failure like that could plunge the ancient city into ruin once more.

Just then, the deputy nudged him sharply.

"Commander… look."

Nerik followed his gaze—and his blood ran cold.

Dozens... no, hundreds of black sails dotted the horizon. A second fleet, vast and battle-ready, was bearing down upon them.

The wind seemed to vanish. Nerik's heart pounded. Sweat trickled down his neck. His hand instinctively closed around the hilt of his sword.

He could see it now—the enemy's banners, the glint of sun off their hulls, the unmistakable scale of the Dragon King's forces.

It was worse than anything Malachor had described.

The opposing fleet was larger than expected—perhaps even larger than Volantis's own. And many of their warships bore reinforced hulls and massive sails. They surged forward like beasts unchained.

Nerik's face darkened, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles twitched beneath the skin. Lines of worry carved deep into his brow.

He took a slow breath, grounding himself in the moment. Then turned to his deputy.

"Blow the horns. Signal the fleet—prepare for battle."