"The storm breaks," Gendry muttered, the sea spray dampening his dark hair.
The waters surrounding Tyrosh were a chaotic symphony of war. The bellow of ram's horns and the shriek of bone whistles cut through the roaring wind, answered by the rhythmic, thunderous splashing of thousands of oars. Heavy galleys, burdened by bronze rams and pitch-throwing catapults, plowed through the swells, their wakes foaming white.
Through the mist, the true scale of Tyrosh revealed itself. Built upon an island significantly larger than the seat of Sunspear, the city was a fortress of wealth and vice. The Bleeding Tower loomed over the harbor entrance, casting long shadows toward the Fountain of the Drunken God. Beyond the sprawling outer districts lined with shrines and pleasure houses rose the true prize: the inner citadel, forged of impenetrable, fused black dragonstone.
To take the black walls, they first had to drown the harbor.
The Tyroshi armada poured forth from the bay—two hundred and twenty dyed-sail warships, bolstered by a score of exiled Myrish galleys. They formed a massive, vibrant wall of painted wood and steel.
The Wolf's Howl surged forward. Around her, the Narrow Sea Fleet and the Wolf Pack executed their pincer. The waters churned into a deadly vortex. To starboard, the Light of Myr abruptly hauled in its oars, narrowly avoiding a catastrophic ramming. The Fireweed was less fortunate; a passing Tyroshi heavy cruiser sheared off its port oars, snapping the thick wooden shafts like dry twigs and sending splintered shrapnel tearing through the deck.
"Crossbows!" Morosh roared from the quarterdeck.
A hail of iron-tipped bolts darkened the sky. Across the water, a Tyroshi captain with violently purple hair took a shaft through the throat, tumbling silently over the railing. Grappling hooks sailed through the air, biting into wooden rails. Boarding planks slammed down.
"Brace for impact!" Morosh bellowed.
The Wolf's Howl and the heavy galley Warhammer converged on a massive Tyroshi flagship. The bronze rams struck simultaneously, crushing the enemy hull from bow to stern with a deafening crack of splintering timber. The sheer kinetic force of the impact hurled sailors from the surrounding ships into the churning sea.
"Back water!" Morosh commanded.
The oars reversed, pulling the rams free. The sea rushed into the gaping wounds of the Tyroshi vessel. It broke apart in moments, dragging hundreds into the deep. The screaming sailors, their hair dyed in brilliant shades of vermilion and azure, vanished beneath the foaming grey waves.
The battle lines dissolved into a brutal, ship-to-ship melee. Two escort ships locked alongside the Wolf's Howl, their decks grinding together. Blood began to pool around the scuppers, spilling into the sea.
A Tyroshi vice-admiral, his beard dyed a vivid sapphire, swung onto the flagship's deck. He barked a war cry in a thick, guttural accent, bringing a heavy broadsword down toward Gendry.
Gendry kicked his helm up from the deck, catching it and slipping it over his head in one fluid motion. He drew the Valyrian steel arakh. Though forged for the sweeping strikes of a Dothraki horselord, the rippled dark blade was death in any hand. Gendry stepped inside the Tyroshi's guard and swung. The Valyrian steel parted boiled leather, ringmail, and flesh without resistance, severing the officer cleanly at the waist.
The deck grew slick with spilled viscera. Men slipped and fought on their knees.
Even Davos Seaworth drew his blade. An envoy he might be, but the Onion Knight had no intention of dying on a foreign deck. He parried a thrust from a painted sellsword, driving his dagger into the man's armpit, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Is the trap set, Admiral?" Gendry asked, his voice calm despite the carnage around them. He wiped the dark steel of his arakh on a fallen Tyroshi banner.
"The time is now, Commander," Morosh replied, signaling the horn-blowers.
The rhythm of the battle shifted. The agile, shark-like cutters of the Narrow Sea Fleet began to swarm the heavier, lumbering Tyroshi vessels, restricting their turns and pinning them against the tides.
The Tyroshi masters had poured their fortunes into hiring free riders and sellswords to command their fleet, ruling the chained oarsmen below decks with whips and fear. In doing so, they had emptied their city of its defenders.
A thunderous roar echoed from the island. Plumes of thick, black smoke began to rise over the rooftops of Tyrosh. Inside the city, the slaves had risen. The pre-planted weapons and smuggled leaflets had ignited a powder keg. On the shores, slaves overwhelmed the harbor defenses, turning torches upon the very catapults meant to repel the Wolf Pack.
The sight of their burning city shattered the Tyroshi morale. The panic spread to the holds of the warships. Below decks, enslaved oarsmen turned on their overseers, fighting with broken chains and bare hands.
"Kill the masters!" the chant rolled across the water, echoing from the burning city to the bleeding fleet.
The once-fearsome Tyroshi armada disintegrated. Ships began to strike their colors, white flags fluttering wildly in the gale. Others frantically turned their oars, attempting to flee the encirclement.
"The harbor is open!" Morosh shouted, expertly reading the shifting currents and the gaps left by the mutinying ships.
The fastest vessels—black-hulled pirate hunters like the Swordfish—shot through the wreckage, dodging floating masts and burning hulls. They slammed into the stone piers. The outer gates of Tyrosh, forced open from the inside by bloodied slaves, stood wide.
The Wolf Pack infantry surged ashore. The Tyroshi sellswords scrambled to meet them, but without the heavy cavalry that defined Westerosi warfare, their lines fractured. The melee spilled into the streets, a chaotic slaughter where the bright, unnatural hair of the Tyroshi defenders made them perfect targets for Myrish crossbowmen.
Davos stood near the bow of the Wolf's Howl, lowering his bloodied sword. The city was falling.
"The Warrior has heard your prayers, Commander," Davos said quietly, the wind tearing at his grey cloak. "The day is yours."
Yet, a cold knot formed in Davos's stomach. With the Narrow Sea fleets firmly under Gendry's command, the sellsword markets were closed to Stannis. His mission was a failure before it had even begun. A storm had indeed broken over the Free Cities, but the thunder belonged to another stag.