Above the orange coastline, the air itself was violently torn apart.
A giant dragon, its scales as black as midnight, tore across the sky at a speed mortals could barely comprehend. Each powerful flap of its wings sent a sonic boom rippling through the clouds, shaking the very atmosphere.
Damian Thorne's draconic eyes scanned the vast blue sea below. In his mind, the terrified report from the commander of the Volantis fleet, Harris, still echoed vividly:
"The Braavos fleet… they have massive, powerful crossbows, and… nearly a thousand warships!"
"A thousand warships?"
A cold sneer crossed Damian's mind. He did not doubt the accuracy of the intelligence. Mortals had their strengths, but their struggles amused him. The thought of these fragile human ships attempting to challenge him was almost laughable.
Dark clouds began to swirl, gathering around him, as though the storm itself responded to his will. He had already locked onto the retreating course of the Volantis combined fleet. With a sudden, forceful flap of his wings, his speed increased, streaking across the sky like a bolt of black lightning.
"Chase! Do not let them escape!"
On the deck of the flagship Iron Titan, the commander of the Braavos fleet barked orders, his spirit soaring at the thought of imminent victory. The retreating Volantis navy was within his grasp—victory was at hand.
Suddenly, the lookout's terrified scream pierced through the roar of the waves.
"Sky! Look! Look at the sky!"
The commander's gaze shot upward. A black shape was rapidly approaching, growing visibly larger with every passing second.
That was no bird.
It was a dragon!
"The Dragon King of Slaver's Bay has arrived!"
The news spread like wildfire across the Braavos fleet. Faces drained of color, yet the commander's eyes gleamed with frenzied anticipation. This was the moment he had been preparing for!
"All fleets! Prepare the crossbows! Target the sky!"
The order was relayed quickly, flags snapping in the wind and shouted commands echoing across the decks. On each warship, massive crossbows, sheathed in oilcloth, were drawn. Each of these colossal weapons, as large as city walls, required a dozen men to operate, winding the strings with synchronized precision.
"Moon Singer! Begin!"
From the supply ship at the rear, a hauntingly ethereal ballad arose. The voice was otherworldly, seemingly imbued with magical power. As the song flowed over the sea, a thick, milky-white mist began to rise, curling and writhing like a living thing. At first, it was a thin layer, barely noticeable. But as the song swelled, the fog thickened into an impenetrable wall, rising from the sea and engulfing the coastline of Lys in seconds.
Hovering at the flanks of the fleet were Daemon Targaryen and Laenar Velaryon, their dragons poised like sentinels. The Moonsinger's Blessing pendants on their chests radiated faint warmth. To them, the mist, dense enough to disorient ordinary sailors, was no obstacle. An invisible light seemed to penetrate the fog, granting them a clear and vivid view of the battlefield.
Below, the soldiers of the Braavos fleet began carefully transporting massive crossbow arrows, each over ten feet long, from specially constructed boxes. These arrows were pitch-black, etched with pale silver Moonsinger inscriptions. Within the fog, the crossbows themselves were nearly invisible—ghostly instruments crafted to slay dragons.
The commander stared at the looming black shadow of Damian Thorne above. Within the thick mist, the dragon appeared suspended, its movements slowed, hovering as if trapped. His heart pounded with anticipation. He believed the unprecedented feat of slaying a dragon was about to be accomplished—by his own hands.
The Moonsinger's "Divine Mist" was designed to distort perception, turning any dragon into a stationary target. As long as the song continued, and the mist persisted, the dragon would remain trapped, helpless.
"He's lost! Reload quickly!" the commander shouted, waving his flag frantically.
Damian Thorne's senses, however, surpassed mere vision. He felt the surge of magic in the air. Then, the heavy fog enveloped him.
Invisible hands, cold as ice, gripped his wings and attempted to confine him in a limited airspace. Below, hundreds of crossbows were trained upon him, and two Targaryen dragons flanked the edges of the mist, blocking potential escape routes.
Everything had been meticulously designed.
Unfortunately for them, they had chosen the wrong opponent.
In this fog—meant to be an inescapable prison for mortals—Damian perceived everything clearly. His senses surpassed sight itself: the flow of wind, the pulse of water, even the veins of magic in the air formed a picture in his mind sharper than human eyes could ever perceive.
He easily located the Moonsingers on the supply ship, their faint magical aura flickering like fireflies against the dense fog.
"Interesting struggle," he thought, amused.
A cold roar erupted from his throat, a shockwave tangible enough to ripple through the mist. In the next heartbeat, magical power, vast and immeasurable, surged from Damian's body—power a thousand times stronger than the Moonsinger's song.
He focused his will, twisting the magical fog into darkness. Where the Moon Singer's mist had been white, Damian's presence turned it into an abyss of impenetrable blackness, swallowing all light.
"What… what is happening?"
The commander's smile froze. In an instant, the clarity before him was replaced by a suffocating black void. He reached forward, but could not even see his own fingertips.
"Commander! Our vision is gone!" a subordinate shouted.
"Damn it! The Moon Singer's spell… it's trapped one of us!"
"Help! I… I can't see anything!"
Panic swept through the fleet like wildfire. Sailors and soldiers felt trapped in a dark, invisible cage, unable to see more than a meter ahead. Fear crept into every heart.
Then, a voice resonated above the blackness, deep and resonant, shaking the very soul of all who heard it. It was the sound of Damian Thorne's wings, each flap echoing like a massive drumbeat, heavy and erratic, as if the dragon were hovering casually above, toying with them.
Suddenly, a column of fire erupted, cutting through the fog in an instant. Orange-red light illuminated the surrounding darkness, exposing a scene of pure carnage: warships engulfed in flames, sailors writhing in terror, twisted and broken forms scattered across the decks.
The light vanished as quickly as it appeared, plunging the fleet back into darkness, yet the hellish scene had been seared into their minds.
Screams echoed in the blackness, mingling with the roar of Damian's wings and the crackling of flames. The Braavos fleet descended into chaos. They had sought to trap a dragon—but instead had unleashed a nightmare.
Damian Thorne, the supposed prey, had become the god of death, orchestrating a one-sided slaughter from above.
The Braavos commander, soaked in sweat and panic, drew his sword, voice trembling with authority and fear:
"Where is he?! Find him! Fire! Fire in any direction!"
But no answer came. Only the oppressive silence of fear. His own breathing grew heavy.
Then, the black fog in front of him began to stir. Slowly, impossibly, a massive outline emerged from the darkness.
Not a ship. Not a bird.
The dragon's head.
Two vertical pupils, molten gold, pierced the void. The eyes stared down at him with calm indifference, exuding the authority of a god and the promise of inevitable death.
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