"Ding!"A sharp, metallic clang rang out as a crossbow bolt struck Syndor mid-flight. The bolt deflected off its armored scales, but not without damage. The impact shattered part of its scale plating, revealing a gaping, bloodied wound. Molten-hot dragon blood streamed from the injury, sizzling as it hit the ground below. With a roar of fury, Syndor plummeted to the earth, wings flailing, eyes burning with pain and rage.
As it crashed to the ground, Syndor unleashed a tempest of dragonfire in every direction. Buildings near the port were instantly engulfed in flames, their structures melting beneath the heat. Soldiers nearby screamed in panic, throwing themselves to the ground or running blindly, desperate to escape the wrath of the beast.
The defenders of Tyrosh had not anticipated a ground assault. Most of their dragon-hunting crossbows were positioned for aerial defense, blocked now by the very buildings they were supposed to protect. A few bolts still managed to strike Syndor—none fatal, but enough to enrage the dragon further.
Blinded by agony, Syndor's rampage only intensified. With one powerful thrust of its wings, it surged skyward again. But the moment it ascended, another hail of bolts came screaming through the air. Sensing the danger through their shared bond, Gavin reacted instantly.
"Now, Syndor—use the firebath!" he commanded silently through their connection.
Syndor's body began to glow. The temperature around it surged. From beneath its bloodstained scales, tongues of fire licked through the cracks, illuminating its entire frame. Then—an eruption. Flames burst outward from its wounds like geysers of liquid sunlight, incinerating the bolts still embedded in its body and melting those shot in its direction.
The dragon transformed into a living inferno.
A massive, blazing figure carved from fire and fury streaked low across the water, trailing waves of scorched air. Wherever it passed, ships and structures ignited instantly. Entire decks exploded under the heat, sails turned to ash mid-flutter, and men leapt screaming into the sea, praying for the cool mercy of drowning over fire.
Some defenders dropped to their knees in awe, mistaking the dragon's wrath for divine punishment. Even the dragon-hunting crossbows went silent, their crews paralyzed by the spectacle.
Syndor, now a searing comet of vengeance, torched ship after ship until its magical energy began to fade. The fire that had once pulsed through its veins dimmed. With a final roar, it turned in the sky and began to fall back toward the Belleris.
As it approached, the blazing flame around its body dispersed, and its flesh began to knit itself whole once more, regrowing from the ashes. By the time it landed with a thunderous thud on the deck, the wounds were gone—but Syndor was spent.
It collapsed beside Gavin, wings twitching, breath ragged. Its immense chest heaved with exhaustion, and its once-brilliant scales had dulled to a charred bronze.
Seeing the dragon grounded and vulnerable, Gavin didn't hesitate.
"Retreat!" he barked. "Pull the Belleris out of range! Now!"
The order rang out over the decks. Though the enemy's catapults were still firing sporadically, Gavin wasn't willing to risk another volley. Syndor was not just a weapon—he was the keystone of Gavin's power. The fleet could be rebuilt. Syndor could not.
As the fleet withdrew under the gray-blue hue of morning, the results of their assault became clear. The once-proud Tyroshi fleet was annihilated. The port was a charred ruin. Shattered timbers and burning wreckage bobbed on the water. Smoke towered into the sky in black columns. Cries of the wounded and panicked echoed through the shattered city.
When Lord Theron finally arrived at the smoldering harbor, Gavin's fleet was long gone. In their wake, they had not only destroyed the warships but burned merchant vessels and the key shipyards. Tyrosh's ability to wage war at sea had been crippled.
Still, a handful of merchant ships had survived, preserving some connection with the outside world. But the port's lifeblood had been drained.
Theron stood at the edge of the ruined harbor, fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tight with fury. His eyes scanned the smoke-choked waters, lips pressed into a hard line.
"They will pay for this," he muttered.
The sea breeze carried the stench of scorched wood and flesh, whipping his cloak behind him as if sharing in his rage.
Meanwhile, merchants flooded into the palace, terrified and desperate. Their livelihoods lay in ashes. Theron, caught between fury and necessity, could only offer empty promises and meager compensation. Though there was still food stored within the city, it would not last long—not without resupply.
As Theron scrambled to keep his city from collapsing, Jorah Mormont led 5,000 men across the disputed shores of Essos. They landed swiftly, seizing a key dock and splitting into three battalions, each charging toward surrounding settlements.
The campaign was brutal and fast. Town after town fell to the invaders. Food stores and treasure were pillaged. Slaves were seized en masse—drafted to carry supplies and march alongside their captors. The slaveowners who resisted were butchered without mercy.
"Anyone who dares defy us—cut them down!" Jorah roared to his men.
The mercenaries obeyed eagerly. Fires lit the skies. The air stank of burning flesh and blood. Rivers ran red. With each conquest, the fleet grew stronger, bloated with resources and human cargo.
At the captured shipyards, the chaos reached its peak. Skilled craftsmen were dragged from their homes at swordpoint, their terrified families left behind. Wood that could not be carried was torched. Infernos roared in every direction, blackening the sky above.
But Jorah's work was far from done.
After a short rest, the army re-embarked. Their next destination: Mill Bay.
As the fleet sailed across calm waters, the world seemed to momentarily forget the war. The sea shimmered in a peaceful blue. The salty breeze teased the sails. Even Syndor, now recovered from his firebath, stretched his wings as he returned from hunting.
Gavin stood on the bow, his hand resting lightly on Syndor's shoulder. The dragon nuzzled against him gently, a rare show of affection.
Despite the peace, Gavin remained alert.
The firebath, though devastatingly powerful, came at a steep cost. Syndor could only maintain it briefly, and afterward, he was grounded—vulnerable. Gavin knew this. And he knew enemies were always watching.
Just then, something on the horizon caught his eye—a black dot. Then another. And another.
In moments, dozens of dark specks appeared across the sea, growing, shifting, aligning.
Gavin narrowed his eyes.
"Fleet ahead," he said, voice sharp. "A big one."
The tension on the deck coiled tight.
He watched the approaching formation. It wasn't a merchant convoy. No—this was a war fleet. A massive one.
Mill.
The realization hit like a thunderclap. The two sides had met here by fate—or design. The sea stilled, as if holding its breath.
The wind picked up.
Gavin turned to his officers.
"Signal the fleet. Ready for battle."
His voice cut through the wind like a blade.
And across the deck, the men and women of the fleet moved—silent, focused, ready.