"The storm is here!" Gendry declared, gazing toward Tyrosh.
The sea around the fortress city was alive with the clamor of war—horns blew hoarse and deep, drums thundered, flutes trilled, and thousands of men shouted. Thousands of wooden oars rose and fell in unison, slapping the water as the fleet surged forward. Some warships, weighed down by rams and trebuchets, moved slower but with deadly purpose.
Gendry took in the sight of Tyrosh. It sat on an island far larger than the shadow city of Sunspear. At the harbor's mouth rose the Bleeding Tower, and deep within the city stood the Fountain of the Drunken God. Temples and shrines to a hundred different deities lined the streets and riverbanks, a testament to the city's vibrant, chaotic soul.
"The outer city will not be difficult," Gendry noted. "The problem is the inner city. Its walls are fused black dragonstone."
The city loomed larger as they approached. The plan was to seize the harbor first, then push into the streets. Even if the inner citadel held, taking the outer city would be a victory.
On the water, the two fleets clashed. Tyrosh's grand fleet numbered over two hundred ships, bolstered by twenty warships from the exiled Myrish lords. They had come out in full force.
"We have the numbers," Gendry thought. "And I have chosen the best captains." The Narrow Sea Fleet and his own Wolf Pack Fleet moved to encircle the Tyroshi ships.
The battle turned into a swirling vortex of chaos. Gendry watched as a ship called *Light of Myr* pulled its oars in just in time to avoid being sheared off, but another vessel, the *Gunpowder Herb*, wasn't so lucky—its left oars were snapped like matchsticks by a passing Tyroshi ram.
"Archers!" Moros roared. His crossbowmen unleashed a deadly volley. On a nearby ship, a purple-haired Tyroshi captain fell, nameless in the slaughter.
Grappling hooks flew across the gaps, and iron rams smashed through wooden hulls with bone-shaking crunches. Arrows rained down through the smoke, and men fell screaming into the churn.
"Advance!" Moros commanded. The *Wolf Pack* and the *Warhammer* drove forward together, smashing into a large Tyroshi warship and tearing it apart from bow to stern. The impact was so violent that men on a ship several lengths away were knocked into the sea.
"Reverse oars!" Moros barked. The oars churned the water, pulling the ship back. Seawater rushed into the gaping hole of the Tyroshi vessel, and it disintegrated before Gendry's eyes. Sailors with bright blue and green hair wailed as they were dragged down to the depths.
The battle lines dissolved into a brawl. The *Wolf Pack* and its two escorts spun slowly in the melee, their decks slick with blood.
"Die!" A boisterous voice shouted in a thick Tyroshi accent. Gendry turned to face a Tyroshi naval officer who had boarded their ship. The man wore leather armor and wielded a longsword, charging straight for him.
"Die!" Gendry pulled on his helmet. His Valyrian steel blade flashed, an indestructible crescent of death. It sheared through the officer's armor and flesh, cutting the blue-haired man in two at the waist. Gendry stepped carefully over the spill of guts; the deck was becoming dangerously slippery.
*An arakh is best used from horseback,* he thought grimly, *but I don't have that luxury right now.*
Nearby, Davos fought with cold efficiency. He had come as an envoy, not a soldier, but he wouldn't let himself be killed without a fight. The battle raged around them until the enemy ship was finally cleared.
"Captain, is it time?" Gendry asked Moros. Naval warfare was a new lesson for him. He had to trust men like Harris and Moros. *It's a shame I couldn't steal Davos,* he thought. *I like a professional.*
"It is time, Commander," Moros replied. He signaled the horn blower.
A new blast sounded, and the Wolf Pack and Narrow Sea fleets surged forward together, increasing the tempo. The Tyroshi fleet, outnumbered and outmaneuvered, began to buckle. The swift ships circled them like sharks.
"Let's see how long they last," Gendry said.
Ships collided and locked together. Rams smashed wood, and men leaped across the gaps to fight hand-to-hand. If a ship was too slow, it died. But Moros, a former pirate, knew these waters well.
"My old friend," Ser Davos shouted over the din, "you haven't forgotten your old tricks!"
"Of course not!" Moros grinned, fierce pride in his voice. "You forget how we lived on this sea. If you were slow then, you lost your head!"
The fighting was brutal. The masters of Tyrosh had spent fortunes to hire free sailors and mercenaries to lead their fleet, keeping the slave rowers suppressed to prevent mutiny. It made for a cruel, hard fight.
But the Tyroshi had made a fatal mistake. By sending every mercenary and free sailor to sea, they had left the city itself dangerously exposed.
"Kill!" "Death to the slavers!"
A roar erupted from the city of Tyrosh itself, louder than the battle at sea. Pillars of black smoke and fire rose into the sky. The slaves in the city were rebelling. The trebuchets on the walls, meant to stop the landing, were burning, destroyed by the very people they were meant to protect.
"It worked," Gendry breathed a sigh of relief. Before the attack, the Free Army had smuggled weapons and messages into the city. The masters had kept a lid on it with mercenaries, but now that the soldiers were gone, the city was exploding.
Mutinies began to break out on the Tyroshi ships as well. Seeing the fires in their home, slave rowers turned on their masters. The Tyroshi fleet, once so confident, began to collapse. Ships turned to flee back to the burning city, desperate to save their families and fortunes.
"Surrender!" "We surrender!" White flags began to rise on the hopeless ships.
Gendry looked at the chaos ahead. This was the moment.
Through the smoke, he saw his own swift ships—small sailboats and converted pirate vessels—speeding toward the docks like swordfish. They carried the soldiers of the Narrow Sea and Wolf Pack fleets, eager to storm the shore.
The harbor was cluttered with burning wrecks, sunk to block the approach, but Moros navigated the debris with a smuggler's ease.
"Kill!" The men swarmed ashore. The outer gates of the city were already open, thrown wide by the rebellious slaves. Soldiers poured into the streets, planting the banner of the Wolf Pack on Tyroshi soil.
The remaining garrison rushed out to meet them, but they were few. Blood met blood in the streets. The slaves, Free Army soldiers, and Wolf Pack warriors fought side by side, cutting down anyone with the bright hair of a Tyroshi master.
"It seems the Warrior has heard your prayers," Ser Davos said to Gendry, watching the victory unfold. "You have won."
Davos felt a heavy weight in his chest. With Gendry now controlling the Narrow Sea, his mission for Stannis had failed completely.
A storm had risen on the sea, but this storm came from a different stag.