The retreat was, as Steffon had imagined, carried out at the cost of great losses.
It was a tragedy. A massive disaster.
Of the original ninety ships that were boarded by the Iron Fleet, only forty-nine succeeded in fleeing.
Forty-one ships and, approximately, more than 3,000 men failed to join the retreat and were left behind—likely dead.
And now, more than three hours later, the continental forces, led by the two dromonds, were still beating a retreat, with the Iron Fleet and the "monster whales" still pursuing them and trying their best to finish them off.
And despite both fleets receiving the same wind in their sails, the Iron Fleet somehow possessed far superior speed than that of the humans, making it possible for them to ram and board the ships.
The only vessels spared from this were the two dromonds, which were too large for such tactics, leaving the enemy with no choice but to keep ramming them in hopes of creating holes in the hulls and sinking them.
So the battle still continued. The number of ships and men continued to drop, and of the forty-nine that succeeded in fleeing, four others were wiped out by the drowneds, leaving only forty-five in flight.
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The Hour of the Watch (4 A.M.)
"Hit one!" a man at one of the scorpions shouted excitedly.
"There are still many more, yeah?" another spoke at his side, lifting another bolt and loading the scorpion.
"Yeah."
"Then keep going and try to hit more than you miss. The bolts are almost gone, yeah?"
"Yeah…"
The target mentioned by the first sailor was one of those sea monsters that continued to ram them and slow their speed.
This had been ordered by Steffon Baratheon after realizing that, besides the abnormal speed of the enemy ships, they also did not sink even when the hull was riddled with holes by half a dozen bolts and the interior flooded with water.
It was as if the sea itself were pushing them to the surface.
Alaric, noticing how the waves beneath the enemy ships rose and behaved strangely, forming behind and moving forward in favor of the ship, knew it was not just appearance; the sea was truly helping the drowneds.
The entire sea was practically enemy territory.
"You will never leave our islands alive!"
While cutting another rope thrown onto the dromond's bulwark by the drowneds below, Alaric had his attention drawn by the only remaining drowned on deck.
He was tied to the mast and had both legs and arms amputated, rendered incapable of doing anything other than screaming at Steffon, who was questioning him for information.
"Throw yourselves into the sea and drown! Perhaps then the Drowned God will have mercy on your souls, Greenlanders!"
Steffon found little success.
Little, but not nonexistent. From the small amount he managed to extract, it was discovered that only those "truly faithful" to the Drowned God were transformed into drowneds, while the "false followers"—those who did not have him in their hearts—were transformed into Deep Ones, who were devoid of intelligence and knew only how to follow orders, rendering them unable to rebel.
The loyal received immortality, and those who were not were enslaved.
"You fool! I feel no pain—can you still not accept it?"
The drowned screamed in response to Steffon, who placed a lit torch near the stump where his leg should have been.
Irritated, Steffon raised the torch and shoved it into his mouth, forcing it down his throat and leaving a noticeable bulge in it.
"Untie him and leave him facing me." Staring into the eyes of the drowned, who did not gag even with the foreign object inside him, Steffon spoke to the men around him. "And bring me a spear. I want to send a warning to the rest of them."
For the first time, Steffon, watching the drowned avert his eyes toward the small yellow speck on the horizon, detected fear in them.
On the other hand, Alaric, who observed their interaction from time to time, had detected fear coming from him several other times. And just as Steffon had finally noticed it, it always surfaced when he looked at the horizon, becoming increasingly apparent with every glance, until Steffon finally caught on.
But while Steffon thought the fear came from realizing his intention to impale him, Alaric knew the real reason: sunlight.
Having opened the panel, tapped on "drowned," and read its description, Alaric already knew that Valyrian steel was not their only weakness.
According to the brief description offered by the system, the drowneds return to their original human form, becoming mortal and feeling pain again.
It was a pity that Alaric, accustomed to interacting only with other humans and not checking racial descriptions, had not thought to check their description earlier, which revealed they could heal lost limbs by coming into contact with the sea, if the limb was nearby.
He would have also learned that they were weak against the lightning element and Holy.
A lesson learned that later made him read the description of the race "Human of the Andals," which, to his surprise, granted resistance against magic of non-divine origin. In other words, only paladin magic worked with full effect against them.
"Hold him steady!" Steffon said while placing the spearhead near the exposed anus of the drowned, which, like the other orifices, also leaked water.
Feeling no empathy for the drowned, but also not being sadistic enough to want to watch that, Alaric looked away and went back to staring at the same yellow point on the horizon that the drowned had stared at before, which grew every second and signaled the arrival of The Hour of the Nightingale (5 A.M.).
With the sky becoming increasingly bright and the side of the clouds facing the rising sun beginning to turn whiter than the other side, Alaric began to hear the incomprehensible screams of the drowned, who already had the spear thrust inside him, passing through him until it came out of his mouth, making it impossible for him to say anything.
"I thought you didn't feel anything!" Steffon mocked, interpreting the screams as cries of pain.
Though his gestures toward the rising sun confused him.
"Who would have thought their weak point would be the ass…" Andrey spoke beside him, drawing a laugh.
"Lord Steffon, look!" a man called his attention, pointing to the enemy ships.
Turning around, Steffon was met with the fantastic scene of the Iron Fleet ships slowly sinking into the sea. But unlike the normal way ships sink, with one side tilting first, their ships sank all at once, slowly becoming submerged.
This applied to all of them. None showed any exception to that strange event. And, to make it even stranger, the drowneds manning those ships showed no panic.
They did not walk the deck with buckets in hand, wanting to empty the water that must have been accumulating on the lower deck. No—when they went inside the ship, they did not come back out.
As for the men who had jumped onto the other ships, they threw themselves off toward their own, where they proceeded to go inside and not return, or even jumped into the sea.
Seeing that scene, Steffon, like almost everyone present on the ship, understood nothing. The only one who understood what it was all about was Alaric, who realized they were running from the sunlight. Though the sight of the ships sinking in synchronization was also a novelty to him.
"They are fleeing from the sun," Alaric heard Arryk say, becoming the first after him to understand the situation, something that did not surprise him, considering what he had discovered after reading his panel.
"Why?" someone asked.
"I think we are about to find out," Arryk said, turning toward the impaled drowned on the deck, who screamed and moved with increasing fervor, making it harder for the men holding the spear.
Following his gaze, several began to turn, including Alaric.
This was just in time to see the exact moment a sunbeam hit the dromond's deck and slowly covered the drowned, moving from bottom to top, starting with the stumps of his legs, which finally began to drip blood instead of water, bathing the heads of the men below.
With the sunlight transforming his legs, making one of them finally bleed, that was when he truly began to scream in pain. And the higher the sunbeam rose, the more parts of his body returned to normal, and the wounds present on him marked their presence with more blood, bringing more screams—but this time, in an even more muffled way, since his lungs, starting to function and become vital again, were punctured and full of blood.
Losing liters of blood in seconds from dozens of injuries, added to the inability to breathe—something that became necessary again with the return of the sun in the sky—the drowned, returning to being a common human, did not last long and died while rolling his eyes and passing out from the sheer pain.
Below him, the men, tired of receiving a blood bath, let go of the spear, causing the body to fall in front of the crowd watching him.
But as the spear protruded from his mouth, the drowned's head remained propped up, forcing his face toward the crowd. They stared into those white eyes and at the mouth overflowing with blood, which pooled in his throat before finally spilling onto the ground.
No one said a word. Everyone simply watched the scene in silence.
Here is your passage with corrected commas, punctuation, and smoother flow, while preserving your tone and structure:
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The Hour of High Sun (11 A.M.)
Finally, after six more hours navigating a sea that grew darker than usual—darkening further with every mile closed toward Old Wyk—they saw the island in the distance. They sounded the trumpet to alert the others.
The island was shrouded in a massive shadow, as if under a storm, yet no clouds hung above to create such darkness, which also radiated upward like smoke.
Beholding that macabre vision of the island, where the cultists of the Drowned God were supposedly creating those monsters, no one felt much excitement.
Unfortunately, they could not disembark instantly. Since it was certain that the forces of the Vale, the Riverlands, and the Reach had already arrived—given that Great Wyk, where they initially landed, was extremely close—they had to search for them before landing.
The plan for the three forces to reunite at Old Wyk before taking further action had been decided before they even left Pyke. Since the union of the Vale, Riverlands, and Reach was surely there, Alaric's fleet had to scout the coast of Old Wyk for them.
Fortunately, the sun was at its peak. There were still more than five hours until sunset—more than enough time to find the other fleet.
The only concern was the Northern and Dornish fleet. Not only was it the smallest, but the island where they landed, Saltcliffe, was the farthest from Old Wyk, just beating out Pyke. If they had also been attacked by the drowneds, it was almost certain that great losses had rained down upon both forces this time.
The fact that Jeor and Jorah possessed Valyrian steel swords was the only thing stopping Alaric from already declaring them dead in his mind. Unfortunately, Maege possessed nothing of Valyrian make.
Drawing closer to Old Wyk and approaching from its eastern coast, Alaric could see a small fleet of stationary ships. Moving nearer, it became possible to discern the sigils on the sails, which included the golden krakens of the Greyjoys, the pines of the Orkwoods, and the red horn on a black field from the cadet branch of House Goodbrother.
Seeing those ships, the war trumpet was nearly sounded again, but upon closer inspection, the vessels were empty. No one manned them.
Leaving them behind, they followed the coast south to its southernmost point, which was where the Arryn, Tully, and Tyrell forces were meant to have landed.
Their assumptions were correct; three hours later, they found a large cluster of ships sporting more than ten different sigils, from the tower of the Hightowers to the eagle of the Arryns.
But most importantly, the Martell sun and the Manderly merman were present among them.
Alaric's family fleet had not only arrived but had arrived before them. Now it remained to be seen if they were alright.
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The Hour of the Hound (2 P.M.)
When the Targaryen, Lannister, and Baratheon fleet, led by the two dromonds, finally landed at Old Wyk, a large crowd had formed on the island to watch them arrive, with a small group of men standing ahead of the throng, ready to personally receive the King.
Descending the gangplank two meters behind Lord Steffon Baratheon, Alaric turned his head to the left and saw the King also disembarking, flanked by Tywin and Quellon, with two Kingsguard members in front and one behind. Even from a distance, Alaric could see by the King's face that he was furious. Tywin was saying something to him, likely trying to calm him—but in vain.
Stepping onto the beach, Steffon, instead of approaching the five nobles waiting ahead, turned left and began walking toward the King. Alaric, along with Andrey, Arryk, and several other men of the Storm's End guard, followed him.
Passing the Kingsguard and approaching the King, Steffon tried to speak to his old friend.
"Your Grace, I take full—"
"You are relieved of your position, Lord Baratheon," the King said, interrupting him without slowing his pace.
Given no chance to apologize or explain the disaster suffered under his command, Steffon was left behind, staring at his King's back.
With a sigh, Steffon resumed walking toward the nobles who awaited them.
On the way, Alaric scanned the crowd for a familiar face. He found three at once, all staring back at him with a mix of emotions:
Jeor, Jorah, and Maege.
Anger, irritation, and surprise.
Reaching the five nobles, the group found them already kneeling before the King.
"Rise," the King ordered.
Following their sovereign's command, the three Lords Paramount, the member of a Great House, and the Prince Consort stood up.
They were Luthor Tyrell, Rickard Stark, Jon Arryn, Brynden Tully, and Albin Martell, who rose to face the King of Westeros.
When Rickard stood, the first person he looked at was not the King, but Alaric, who stood three meters away behind Steffon. Alaric looked back, but quickly diverted his gaze to his family standing just behind Rickard.
"How long have you been here? Have the sorcerers—the ironmen responsible for all this—shown themselves yet?" the King asked, getting straight to the point.
"No, Your Grace," Luthor Tyrell said first, puffing out his chest. "Since we arrived last night, none of those responsible have appeared. There have been no attacks or men sent to escort us. Having not been approached during the night or early morning, we began to think we would have to make first contact ourselves. That was, until they arrived." He pointed to his left, where a small group of twelve frightened-looking men, dressed only in basic tunics, stood. "Three hours ago, this group of ironmen came to us. They said they were fugitives—the few, perhaps the only ones, who managed to escape the clutches of those behind the monsters."
The King looked at the group of ironmen with a crooked expression.
"Are you certain they are human?" he asked.
Luthor, slow to react, did not understand the implication and failed to respond quickly, losing his opening to Jon Arryn.
"We performed a general check on them, Your Grace. We found no scales on their bodies or sharp teeth."
This time, it was Aerys who looked confused.
When he had questioned the ironmen's humanity, he was referring to the possibility of them being disguised drowneds, not fish-men.
Gerold Hightower, already suspicious, placed his hand on the pommel of his sword while staring at the group the Lord of the Eyrie had mentioned.
"When they approached you three hours ago, were they wet?" Tywin asked, also suspicious, stepping in for the still-confused King while glancing at the ironmen.
Jon Arryn exchanged puzzled looks with Luthor and Brynden, who had also interacted with the men.
To their left, the men in question shifted nervously. This did not go unnoticed by Gerold.
"Their clothes—were they soaked?" Tywin continued.
Brynden, the Blackfish, having analyzed the ironmen for danger more than the others, was the one to answer.
"I believe their clothes were a bit damp around the shoulders and front, but I assumed it must have been sweat—"
"YOUR GRACE! BEHIND ME!"
Before Brynden could finish, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard shouted, shoving the King behind him and drawing his sword against the ironmen, who pulled knives from their clothes and began charging at the gathered lords.
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