Even some Myr warships, in a last desperate bid for survival, tried to break through the tightening siege. But the sight of the dragon circling above froze them in their tracks. Syndor, the massive beast that dominated the skies, blotted out the sun as he loomed overhead. With wings stretched wide and flames spewing like the wrath of the gods, he turned the sea into a furnace.
The commander of the Myr fleet stood on the bow of his battered flagship, his once-proud frame hunched in silent despair. He watched as Syndor's flames engulfed another of his ships. Screams of dying men echoed across the smoke-choked sea. His eyes, bloodshot and sunken, followed the destruction helplessly.
His heart wrenched with agony. Every instinct told him to fight, to resist—but doing so would only consign more men to the abyss. After a long, tortured silence, he gave in to the unbearable truth. Trembling, he raised his arm and gave the final order.
"Raise the white flag…" His voice was barely a whisper, yet it carried the weight of a broken kingdom.
The tattered white cloth rose weakly in the wind, a quiet symbol of surrender. The cacophony of war slowly faded. The sea breeze cooled. Silence—ominous and absolute—fell upon the battlefield.
Aftermath of the Battle
Though battered and weary, Gavin's soldiers wore the expressions of hard-earned triumph. Blood and soot smeared their armor, yet pride gleamed in their eyes. They moved swiftly to tend the wounded, secure the prisoners, and begin salvaging what remained.
The remnants of the Myr fleet were a shadow of their former glory. Most ships were wrecked or sinking, others adrift and burning. The captured crews sat slumped on shattered decks, stripped of weapons and hope.
From the sky, Syndor descended slowly, landing on the scorched deck of the Belerys with an earth-shaking thud. His scales shimmered with residual heat, smoke curling from his nostrils. Gavin dismounted smoothly, running a hand along the dragon's flanks with reverent familiarity.
"You were magnificent, Syndor," he murmured, voice low but firm.
Hassan approached at a run, awe in his eyes, breath still catching from the adrenaline. "That… that was no battle, my lord. That was judgment from the skies."
Gavin didn't respond immediately. His gaze turned to the horizon, eyes narrowing in thought. The surrender had given him more than victory—it had gifted him over twenty intact warships. A windfall no general would ignore.
"Treat the prisoners well," Gavin ordered. "And get crews on every ship that still floats. Anything that can be salvaged, we tow back to camp. I want every plank accounted for."
Moments later, the Myr commander was brought forward. Gavin had instructed that he not be bound. The man approached slowly, his armor scorched, shoulders slumped, face ghostly pale.
He dropped to one knee before Gavin, unbuckling his sword—an ornate weapon once worn with pride. Raising it with both hands, he bowed his head low.
With a voice strained and hoarse, he declared,
"My lord… I am Evan Stuart, commander of the Myr fleet. I surrender, on behalf of every man still breathing. Please, in the name of the gods—show mercy."
Gavin regarded him coolly. His voice was firm and unyielding.
"Evan Stuart. I accept your surrender. You and your men will be treated with the dignity due to prisoners who no longer fight."
Relief rippled across Evan's face, but shame kept his eyes downcast.
"Thank you, Dragon King," he murmured. "You show more honor than we deserve."
Gavin's tone shifted.
"Now speak. Tell me about Myr. How many ships remain? Why were you here?"
There was a pause—brief, but telling. Evan seemed to weigh every word before answering.
"Myr has… fewer than ten warships left. The rest were sent to the central front, at the disputed lands. We received word—via raven—that you were moving on Tyrosh. Our orders were to reinforce the port."
Gavin's brow furrowed slightly. "Only five thousand guards in Myr? What of the Golden Company? The Second Sons?"
Evan hesitated again, then replied,
"I… I don't know the full details, my lord. I'm a soldier, not a senator. But most of the Golden Company, and half of our slave battalions, were ordered to the interior. It was part of the Three Cities' strategy."
Gavin considered that quietly, then gave a slow nod.
"Very well. Evan Stuart, I want you to take your surviving men and help repair the captured ships. Once the war is done, you may choose: freedom, or a place among my fleet."
Evan's head snapped up, shock and gratitude battling in his eyes.
"You… you would give us that chance?"
Gavin's expression was unreadable. "Loyalty is earned. But opportunity must be offered."
Evan bowed low.
"Then I swear it. We will not fail you."
As Evan was led away, Hassan stepped forward, his brow furrowed with concern.
"My lord… if he speaks true, then Myr has lost all power at sea. Should we still strike the bay?"
Gavin turned, his eyes hard as steel.
"Yes. We go to Myr Bay. Whether Evan lied or not, the fleet is shattered. This is our moment to end their naval power for good. Burn their docks, their forges, their shipyards—leave nothing that floats."
He paused, then gave Hassan a second order:
"I'll take twenty sailships to Myr. Send the rest with Jorah—clear every coastal town. If it can't be carried, burn it. No survivors. No legacy."
Hassan stiffened, nodding sharply. "As you command, Dragon King."
Westeros — The North
The king's procession crawled northward like a slow, regal serpent. The banners of House Baratheon fluttered above the muddy King's Road—golden crowns atop black stags silhouetted against grey skies.
King Robert Baratheon rode at the head, his black warhorse snorting steam into the cold air. His armor, heavy and ornate, caught the dim sun in gleams of silver and steel. He cut an imposing figure, his massive frame unwavering, eyes scanning the unfamiliar landscape of the North.
Around him, the white-cloaked Kingsguard rode in silence, shields gleaming, swords resting in ornate scabbards.
In the center of the procession, the queen's gilded wheelhouse groaned through the muck, the wheels sinking deep into the wet earth. The velvet curtains occasionally parted in the wind, revealing Queen Cersei, regal even in discomfort, her emerald eyes narrowed as they took in the bleak northern wilds.
She shivered, wrapping her fur-lined cloak tighter.
"This land is as cold and joyless as its people," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Her tone dripped with disdain.
She turned her gaze to the looming horizon, where Winterfell waited.
"Let's hope the Starks remember who their king is…"