Four hours before dawn, the docks of High Tide.
Torches lit the docks as bright as day, the sea breeze thick with the scent of tung oil, rust, and the sweat of men.
Daeron Velaryon stood on the deck of the flagship, the Sea Snake, watching as the sailors hoisted the behemoth onto the ship using a pulley system.
It was covered by heavy tarpaulin, but the metallic parts exposed at the edges shimmered coldly in the torchlight.
“Be careful!
The Lord spent thirty thousand gold dragons to get this from Lys!” Daeron shouted down.
The tarpaulin was pulled away.
It was a giant crossbow, yet completely different from a standard ballista.
Its base was cast from black iron, its limbs as thick as two oak trees, and the bowstring was wound from sea dragon sinew and steel cables.
What was most unique was the “arrow” set in the groove—it wasn’t an arrow, but a black iron spear as thick as a baby’s arm and ten feet long.
The spearhead had three barbs, glistening with a dark red sheen in the torchlight, as if it had drunk blood.
An artisan wearing a Lysene-style embroidered coat climbed onto the deck, his Common Tongue heavy with an accent: “Young Master Daeron, please allow me to explain one last time.”
The artisan walked to the ballista and patted the iron spear: “The core is here.
The shaft is hollow, and inside is a cable with a valyrian steel core—although it is only an alloy mixed with a bit of valyrian steel, not pure steel, its strength is sufficient to hoist a warship.”
He pointed to the end of the cable, where it was connected to a massive iron anchor: “After the spear hits the target, the barbs will open.
If you cut the cable then, the heavy anchor will sink into the sea, dragging the prey down.
We have tested it; it can easily drag down a sperm whale.”
Daeron licked his lips: “Dragons are stronger than sperm whales.”
“That is why we have prepared four,” the artisan pointed to the hold, “each cable is two hundred yards long, enough to drag a dragon into the deep sea.
Dragons cannot swim, and once their wings are entangled, breathing fire is useless—the sea will be its grave.”
Daeron nodded with satisfaction.
He looked toward the docks, where Lord Corlys was walking down the stone steps.
The sixty-seven-year-old “Sea Snake” was not wearing ornate robes, but a deep blue captain’s outfit covered by chainmail.
His white hair was like snow in the torchlight, but he walked with his back straight, each step firm and steady.
“Father.” Daeron greeted him—he was accustomed to calling this cousin-uncle by that name to show closeness.
Corlys did not look at him, heading straight for the ballista.
He reached out to touch the cold limbs of the crossbow and carefully inspected the structure of the barbed spear.
“Lysene craftsmanship,” he said indifferently, “they cannot forge valyrian steel, but they know how to imitate it.
Can this thing really handle a dragon?”
The artisan bowed immediately: “My Lord, this is not meant to kill a dragon, but to trap it.
A dragon’s power comes from its wings and fire, both of which are useless in the sea.
As long as you hit its wings, it is finished.”
Corlys was silent for a moment.
He looked toward the northwest, where the sea was still pitch black, with only the outline of Ghost-Tooth Rock faintly visible under the starlight.
“The plan,” he said.
Daeron reported immediately: “The Sea Snake is equipped with the main ballista, and three fast ships—the Sea Wolf, the Wave Blade, and the Tide Claw—are responsible for harassment and driving it out.
We act at dawn, using the fast ships to make noise outside the cave entrance to enrage the wild dragon and force it out.
As soon as it appears, the Sea Snake will fire the first spear.
If it misses, the whaling ballistae on the fast ships will provide covering fire, using nets to interfere with its flight and buy the flagship time to reload.”
“And the bastard?” Corlys asked.
Daeron paused: “If he is there, and tries to interfere…”
Corlys turned his head, his sea-blue eyes like two pieces of ice in the torchlight: “Daeron, do you know why Driftmark has been able to dominate The Narrow Sea for three hundred years?”
“Because…
our fleet is the strongest?”
“Because House Velaryon always puts the family’s interests first.” Corlys’s voice was calm, yet it sent a chill down Daeron’s spine, “A bastard—if he lives quietly, I can tolerate him.
But if he chooses to stand against the family, choosing to side with a monster that endangers the family…
then he is neither Velaryon nor Targaryen, merely a threat that must be eliminated.”
He patted Daeron’s shoulder, with considerable force.
“The dragon must die, and the man must not live either.
If he appears, execute him on the spot under the charge of ‘collaborating with a wild dragon to attack the family fleet.’ Report it afterwards as…
an accident.
Do you understand?”
Daeron swallowed: “I understand.”
“Go.
By sunrise, I want to see the result.”
Corlys turned and left the docks, heading toward High Tide.
His silhouette stretched long in the torchlight, like a drawn sword.
High above High Tide, at the dragon platform.
The sea wind howled.
Rhaenys Targaryen stood alone at the edge of the dragon platform, her old deep red leather armor looking dim in the brightening daylight.
The obsidian dragon emblem on her chest and the red scales at her neck were the only bright colors on her at this moment.
The clamor from the direction of the docks had subsided; the fleet must have already sailed into their designated positions.
The time left to her was slipping away with the whitening of the eastern sky.
She did not hesitate further.
Closing her eyes, she sank all her focus into that faint, searing resonance deep within her blood—the bond forged with Meleys, a connection that transcended distance.
She began to chant, her voice soft at first, then carried by the wind toward the sea:
“Meleys…
sytas…
daenarys…”
(My Red Queen…
hear my call…
return…)
The ancient valyrian words, like a string of broken pearls, scattered into the deepest darkness before dawn.
This was not a command, but an entreaty—the most urgent summons between those connected by blood.
She did not know if The Red Queen, far away on Dragonstone, could hear her.
She could only wait, and pray that her will could reach out faster than Corlys’s ballistae.
The first sharp ray of morning light suddenly pierced the distant horizon.