Chapter 47: Glorious Victory
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SPLASH, SPLASH!
On a small skiff tossed by the waves, Magister Aloma, still trembling from the ordeal, frantically urged his personal guards to row faster.
His eyes kept darting back toward the flagship behind them, which was steadily collapsing amidst a sea of black-grey flames.
Only after confirming that the terrifying fire was not spreading in their direction did he allow himself a small breath of relief.
Moments earlier, when he witnessed the emerald-green dragon charge recklessly into their formation despite taking arrows, every alarm in Aloma's mind had gone off.
The moment he saw the ominous slick of wildfire igniting across the sea, he made a swift decision. Without a second thought, he abandoned the grand flagship and fled with only a handful of his most trusted guards.
That flagship, a massive warship over a hundred meters in length, long stood as a symbol of his power and invincibility.
But now, amidst the chaos of battle, it had become a perilous burden. In stark contrast, the small and nimble skiff offered his only real chance at survival.
By sheer fortune, his flagship had been stationed just on the edge of the wildfire's range. Had it been any closer, even the swiftest skiff would never have outrun the inferno's merciless advance.
WHOOSH, WHOOSH!
The sound of wings slicing through the air overhead made Magister Aloma shudder uncontrollably. He instinctively braced for death.
But the emerald-green dragon had no interest in him—it had already found its next target. The rear rows of the united fleet, panicked by the sea of flame, were now in full retreat, and they had drawn the dragon's attention.
Was that demon aiming to seize the large warships rather than destroy them?
A flicker of hope sparked within Aloma. He watched as the emerald-green dragon wheeled overhead, setting a massive warship's sails ablaze with its fire.
If the beast had intended to annihilate every vessel without distinction, raining down the black-grey flame once more, then even their escape would be meaningless.
His skiff lacked the supplies to reach another island. But now, with the enemy seemingly focused on the larger ships and sparing the smaller ones, Aloma sensed an opportunity. If he could reach one of the nearby mid-sized warships, there was still a chance for a proper escape.
Jacaerys, meanwhile, had indeed failed to notice the fleeing Aloma in his tiny boat.
He had been momentarily stunned by the explosive reaction between dragonfire and the wildfire oil, a deadly alchemy of destruction that exceeded even his expectations.
By the time he gathered his thoughts and searched for the flagship, it had already vanished into the swirling grey inferno, along with the third line of enemy ships, their hulls now nothing more than fuel for his dragon's fury.
He did, however, notice the smaller boats scattering across the sea below. But Jacaerys had never seen Magister Aloma in person and lacked the supernatural sight needed to identify individuals from the skies.
Instead, he turned his focus to the success of his ambush. The plan had unfolded even more perfectly than he had imagined.
The burning wrecks of six or seven mid-sized ships now formed an impassable barrier. The remaining two rows of medium and small vessels had no choice but to veer far to either side in a desperate attempt to escape
As for the ten massive warships attempting to flee, they were utterly trapped. Surrounded by their own immobilized allies, their slow turning speed had become a death sentence.
Ahead, the Bloodstone Fleet had already regrouped and was swiftly maneuvering around the burning waters to cut off any path of retreat.
If Jacaerys had commanded more ships and men, he might have captured the entire enemy force—ten great warships and eighteen smaller vessels—in a single, sweeping assault.
But war is not built on possibilities alone. In reality, his resources were limited. So he focused on what mattered most: the large warships. Their value far exceeded that of the smaller craft.
Jacaerys was now a crowned king. The Narrow Sea, nestled between two continents, had become his domain. To rule it, he needed ships and soldiers. Large warships were essential to that ambition.
Even if they served no purpose in battle, they could still fetch a high price in Astapor, traded for Unsullied. Better to capture them than reduce them to ash.
The remaining warships had lost the will to fight. One by one, they attempted to flee in desperation.
A single volley of poisoned arrows from the fleet posed no real threat to Vermax, the emerald-green dragon. So Jacaerys turned his focus to isolating and dismantling the enemy.
In the end, he succeeded in capturing nine of the ten large warships nearly intact.
Why not all ten?
Because just as the sixth vessel was being set ablaze, the Bloodstone Fleet arrived. Three massive ships flew the black banner of the three-headed dragon, each accompanied by two smaller escorts.
Together, they intercepted one of the remaining enemy vessels. The last, however, broke free from the encirclement with unexpected aggression. Perhaps its captain still clung to hope, hoping to break through the blockade.
In a final, desperate charge, the ship rammed forward at full speed, smashing and sinking one of the smaller escorts in its path.
Watching from the skies, Jacaerys immediately sensed the enemy's unyielding will to resist. There was no room for negotiation.
Without hesitation, he abandoned the enemy ship he had been attacking and turned Vermax toward the greater threat.
The dragon's fiery breath surged forth once more. The inferno that followed crushed the last vestiges of defiance aboard the enemy vessel.
Though the sailors waved white flags in frantic surrender, Jacaerys paid them no heed. He showed no mercy.
Searing flames devoured the vessel, and within moments, two to three hundred crewmen were reduced to ash and charcoal.
His ruthless assault shattered the last remnants of resistance among the remaining enemy ships. One after another, they dropped anchor and raised their white flags high, surrendering without further resistance.
When the smoke cleared, the final toll of the battle was staggering. Out of an allied fleet of nearly 11,000 sailors and soldiers, some 7,300 had perished or gone missing at sea.
Approximately 2,200 were taken prisoner, while roughly 1,500 managed to escape.
The enemy's naval force had originally consisted of twenty-six large warships and fifty-eight medium to small-sized vessels.
Of these, nine large warships were captured, and eighteen smaller vessels managed to flee. The remaining seventeen large warships and forty smaller ones were utterly annihilated, reduced to driftwood and scorched wreckage.
By contrast, the Bloodstone Island fleet suffered only minimal losses. Eighty-three men fell in battle, and a single small warship was lost.
For such a small price, they had secured a magnificent victory in the ambush at the waters surrounding Lanark Island.
…
Half a day after the battle's conclusion, on a desolate, uninhabited islet near Lanark, a grim spectacle unfolded.
Fifty prisoners from the allied fleet, stripped to their undergarments and shivering in despair, knelt on the scorched black sand of the beach. Their bodies trembled. Their eyes were hollow with dread.
"Dracarys."
The command, cold and resolute, echoed in the High Valyrian tongue. In the next instant, a torrent of orange-red dragonfire engulfed the captives, mercifully—or cruelly—liberating them from their fear and hopelessness.
Standing off to the side with his head bowed low was Coleman. Though he never lifted his gaze, his peripheral vision caught a glimpse of his king's face.
Jacaerys wore a thunderous expression. His brow was furrowed. His features were shadowed with a stormy gloom.
Coleman could not understand it. His king, a man known for his ruthlessness and insatiable thirst for blood, seemed only to grow more sullen the more lives he took.
Nervously, the former pirate ventured a question. "Your Grace… shall I bring more prisoners for execution?"
"No," Jacaerys said with a wave of his hand. "Send the rest to the Governer Urd."
"As you command!" Coleman answered quickly, as if granted a reprieve from a death sentence.
Even for a man like him, someone who had once made a living raiding and slaughtering merchant ships, watching hundreds of captives burned alive by dragonfire stirred something uncomfortably close to fear in his heart.
Jacaerys sighed heavily. His eyes drifted to the bottom-left of his vision, where no notifications awaited him. No messages. No reward.
Fifty lives had been extinguished, yet not a single trait point had been earned.
All two thousand two hundred prisoners captured that day had been trained soldiers. None had kin nearby, and thus, their emotional connections were few.
To harvest resentment, Jacaerys had relied on beatings, humiliation, and cruelty. For a time, his efforts bore fruit. Nearly four hundred of them had generated enough hatred to yield valuable trait points.
But the harvest eventually dried up. Each group of fifty provided fewer and fewer points—down to just four or five. Eventually, there was nothing left to collect. The last two executions had brought in no gains at all.
Disappointed, he issued new orders. The remaining fourteen hundred and fifty or so captives were to be sent to excavate new deposits of wildfire pitch.
Jacaerys had no qualms about slaughtering prisoners. But they were still his property. Killing them without return was simply wasteful.
If they could no longer yield trait points, then he would extract whatever value remained by other means.
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[Chapter End's]
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