The Braavosi commander's face was twisted in sheer terror.
All around him, the sea boiled and hissed with fire. The burning wreck of his flagship, Iron Titan, screamed as it collapsed into a floating pyre, blackened and smoldering on the waves. And above it, in the dense, suffocating fog, loomed a colossal shadow.
It was not a dragon.
It was something far worse. A demon from the abyss.
Fear consumed him, burned away any thought of escape, leaving only a stark, unyielding will to die on his own terms.
With a trembling hand, he raised the command sword, pointing its tip toward the immense shadow that dwarfed everything around it.
"For Braavos!"
The commander's hoarse roar echoed like a clap of thunder across the deck. Instantly, several crossbowmen behind him snapped out of their daze. Almost by instinct, they aimed their massive dragon-slaying crossbows in his general direction and pulled the triggers.
"Call out—!"
A thick, immense arrow tore through the fog, whistling with a deadly, sharp pitch as it streaked upward into the darkness.
Damian Thorne's massive black form hovered above, eyes calm and unreadable. He observed the tiny figure racing toward him below and the crossbow bolt soaring upward, and he did not even bother to move.
The dragon's massive jaws opened slowly.
There was no thunderous roar, no deafening bellow. Only molten golden light ignited deep within his throat, a torrent of pure destructive energy forming and then gushing outward.
It was not mere fire—it was a river of annihilation, molten and unstoppable, enough to melt iron, steel, and stone alike.
A golden waterfall of flame surged downward, engulfing the Braavosi commander and his flagship. The figure charged courageously into the torrent, only to vanish into green smoke the moment it touched the dragonfire.
The hull, once sturdy enough to withstand cannon fire, twisted and melted like wax under a scorching sun, until nothing remained but vapor and ash. Even the enormous crossbow arrow, mid-flight, was devoured by the flames, and the Moonsinger rune etched into its shaft vanished without a trace.
Damian Thorne hovered amid the inferno, protected by an invisible barrier of wind that deflected burning debris and searing steam. He was a god presiding over the end of the world, and the sea below was his domain of death.
Then, with a subtle tilt of his head, the real slaughter began.
Damian twisted his neck and exhaled a second torrent of golden fire. Unlike the first, this one was not concentrated. It fanned outward in a massive wave, a wall of flames that stretched for miles across the sea.
The wind fanned the inferno, sending tongues of fire leaping and licking the decks of the Braavos fleet. Warships caught in its path erupted instantly, hissing and exploding, wood and sails turning to fiery debris.
One ship. Two ships. Ten ships.
Within moments, dozens of warships in a single line were reduced to nothing but burning wreckage, screaming sailors consumed by flame. The cries, the splintering of wood, the roar of fire—they blended into a symphony of destruction.
While Damian divided the battlefield with fire, another army silently advanced beneath the waves.
The Old Blind Man and Ni Luo led the living dead through the dark water, moving with the stealth of predators. They needed no air, felt no cold, and were entirely unaffected by the black fog above.
Beneath the surface, the world was still. Only the undercurrent, guided by Damian's will, pushed them forward.
They moved like a school of silent, invisible sharks toward their prey, undetected, unafraid, unstoppable.
Ni Luo and the Old Blind Man produced small, specially crafted candles from their sleeves. When lit, the candles glowed faintly, an eerie pale white that the water could not extinguish. The light also flared in the empty eye sockets of the surrounding undead.
Then came the command, cold and emotionless, resounding directly in the minds of every soldier of the undead:
"Control the ships intact."
The order was absolute. Instantly, the army of the living dead sprang into action. Rising silently to the surface, they crept toward the Braavosi warships, becoming invisible predators amid the dense black fog.
The sailors, blinded and disoriented, called out to each other in vain, trying to locate allies and gauge directions. They had no idea that death was climbing aboard from beneath.
Wet, pallid hands gripped the edges of the hull. Without footrests, the zombies dug their nails into the wood and climbed aboard, step by silent step. Every movement was deliberate, noiseless, inexorable.
A Braavosi sailor leaned over the side of his ship, trying to peer through the fog.
Suddenly, he felt a strange pressure around his ankle. He bent down, and a pale, waterlogged face stared at him from beneath the hull. Empty eye sockets fixed on him with unblinking intent.
"Ah—"
His scream died halfway as a cold hand clamped over his mouth. A dagger struck from below, twisting violently in his abdomen. Blood spurted, running down the hull, mingling with seawater.
More undead climbed aboard, emerging like shadows crawling out of the abyss. The decks became a chaos of blind panic. The living dead moved like phantoms, cutting down sailors and officers alike, leaving the survivors paralyzed in terror.
A Braavosi officer shouting orders never even saw his killer. Ni Luo's swords struck silently, accurately, severing throats and spines with every arc. Each swipe left the deck littered with lifeless bodies.
The Old Blind Man worked with ruthless efficiency, crushing windpipes, snapping necks, and leaving no trace of resistance.
In Damian Thorne's dark domain, the army of the dead was unmatched. With vision, precision, and utter disregard for fear, they became the ultimate reapers, executing a one-sided massacre while the sea above burned.
Meanwhile, in another airspace, Daemon Targaryen and Laenar Velaryon realized something was gravely wrong.
"Koraxiu! Go!" Daemon shouted, pulling hard on the reins of his blood-red dragon. He tried to steer the massive beast out of the unnatural black fog that now covered the battlefield.
Laenar, atop the immense Vhagar, followed closely, urging the dragon with every ounce of strength. The two dragons flapped furiously, yet no matter how fast they flew, the darkness clung to them, inescapable, endless, suffocating.
They were trapped, circling helplessly in an invisible cage.
Koraxiu roared in frustration, Vhagar thrashing anxiously, but still the black fog would not yield.
"Damn it! What the hell is this!" Daemon cursed. They could only estimate their position based on sound and instinct, but everything around them was chaos.
From below, the sounds of the fleet filled the air. But it was not a battle—they were hearing a massacre. Screams of men, the splintering of burning wood, the thud of heavy bodies striking the water… all merged into a symphony of hellish destruction.
Elsewhere, Renis was lost as well. Her "Red Queen," Melias, hovered over the Velaryon fleet, circling frantically. She could hear Daemon and Laenar's dragons roaring, but had no sense of their location.
Attempts to issue orders were swallowed by the thick, magical fog. Communication failed, commands unheard. Her heart sank.
Even the Dragon Kings, masters of the most formidable forces in the world, were trapped like headless flies. They could only listen in horror as their allies were torn apart, ship by ship, wave by wave.
A sense of unprecedented powerlessness gripped every Targaryen present.
And above it all, Damian Thorne ruled his domain. The flames, the fog, the dead—all were his tools. The sea, once alive with the hopes and might of men, had become his personal slaughterhouse.
This was no longer a battle.
This was Damian Thorne's dominion. Mine. All mine.
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