c21: The Battle of Dragonstone
Lord Paxter Redwyne's fleet attacked silently under the cover of night.
With a crash, the warships cleaved the waves. The night was still, all the ships had extinguished their lanterns, and they approached the black volcanic shores of Dragonstone without a sound.
The sea wind howled.
The sailors of the fleet gripped their weapons, standing nervously on the decks, awaiting their fate as the dark outline of the island fortress slowly appeared against the horizon.
No one could guarantee their survival in the ensuing battle.
Lord Redwyne's surprise attack strategy was well-executed, but problems arose during its execution.
The attack was detected by the Dragonstone forces.
A patrolling longship of the Dragonstone garrison spotted the silent Redwyne fleet moving across Blackwater Bay and quickly issued a warning, alerting the distant lighthouse and ultimately rousing the entire Dragonstone garrison.
A deafening roar of war horns and war drums filled the air.
The last remaining Targaryen-loyal fleet, under the command of Ser Geoffrey, engaged the attackers in the narrow waters near the island, and a fierce stalemate soon unfolded on the dark, churning sea.
Meanwhile, the alarm bells of the Dragonstone lighthouse rang continuously, warning everyone on the island to be vigilant against enemy attacks.
Queen Leila, heavily pregnant and already strained by the turmoil of the realm after the fall of King's Landing, could not withstand further stimulation and was quickly escorted to her chambers within the stone fortress to rest.
The head steward, Shad, together with several castle overseers and household knights including Sir William hurried toward the beach, their boots sinking into the cold black sand as they gazed toward the distant clash of ships and fire on the water.
Viserys wanted to go along to witness a real battle, but his request was ruthlessly refused.
As the only publicly acknowledged boy of the Targaryen family still on Dragonstone, Viserys' safety represented not only his own life but the fragile continuation of the ancient Valyrian bloodline.
The silver-haired boy, left with no other choice, was led back into the castle by a nervous maid, and at the Overseer's special request two armed guards were stationed outside his bedroom to 'protect' him.
Bang
the heavy brown wooden door of the chamber slammed shut and was bolted from the outside.
Two fully armed guards stood watch on either side of the door, preventing Viserys from sneaking out into the corridors of the fortress.
Viserys was confined to the room, his freedom restricted. The boy sat on the soft bed, stunned for a long time, scratching his slightly curly silver-gold hair.
Finally, he sighed helplessly.
"Really..."
Compared to six months ago,
Viserys' bedroom on Dragonstone had become far more comfortable and well furnished for a young prince of House Targaryen.
An old, low bedside table held a half-burnt candle, and on the table sat a book with a bookmark a travel journal describing the distant cities of Essos, from the Free Cities to the smoking ruins of Valyria.
Viserys was very interested in such books and would read a little before bed each night.
On the other side stood a narrow wooden bookshelf, similarly filled with various scrolls and books brought by the old maester of Dragonstone. Even without the maester's frequent reminders, Viserys naturally understood the importance of knowledge.
At that time, he had only been frightened by the sudden attacks and uncertain future of his family, so he practiced swordsmanship somewhat obsessively for self-defense.
However, he now understood that swordsmanship was not something that could be mastered in a day or two.
Viserys' gaze then fell upon a brown wooden crate in the corner. He jumped off the bed and walked toward it.
The horns outside the window continued to echo across the island, the war drums thundered, and the sounds of sailors shouting and steel clashing faintly carried through the cold night air.
The silver-haired boy could feel his heart pounding faster and faster in sync with the distant thunder of battle, hot blood coursing through his young body.
Viserys clutched his chest, feeling his heart pounding wildly.
He did not know why he felt this way, but it filled him with a strange and fearless courage.
Even though he was only a seven-year-old child.
"Blood and fire are one,"
the boy suddenly recited the ancient words of House Targaryen for some reason, then lifted the wooden crate in the corner and revealed its contents.
A small custom-made leather armor was neatly arranged inside, along with a short sword forged specially for his size and already sharpened.
The blade was not truly razor-sharp, but during practice Viserys had once managed to cut through a straw dummy with a determined swing.
He quickly put on the leather armor and strapped the short sword around his waist.
The boy then dragged a small stool beneath the narrow stone window, climbed onto it carefully, and leaned forward over the sill carved into the thick wall of Dragonstone.
The cold night sea breeze ruffled his long silver-gold hair, brushing softly across his pale forehead.
His clear pale-purple eyes gazed toward the distant battlefield beyond the dark cliffs, where the crashing of ships and the roar of battle echoed through the darkness over Blackwater Bay.
"I hope everything goes well," he murmured, closing his eyes. He wasn't a troublemaker; he certainly wouldn't impulsively try to escape through the window and fall to his death. Viserys's bedroom was located in one of the high sea-towers on the outer edge of the ancient fortress of Dragonstone, and beneath the narrow window lay jagged black volcanic reefs where the waves of Blackwater Bay crashed endlessly against the cliffs; jumping from there would almost certainly mean certain death. He didn't intend to flee; he was simply overwhelmed by the fear of war, facing it for the first time in his young life, yet unsure who he could share his anxiety with inside the vast stone castle. He simply donned his small armor and sword to offer himself a little psychological comfort.
...
Meanwhile, far in the distance, in the darkness beyond Viserys's sight, on the turbulent waters surrounding Dragonstone, two fleets totaling nearly a hundred warships of varying sizes clashed violently upon the night sea.
A long and mournful war horn sounded across the waves.
Whoosh
The clearly marked Redwyne Fleet, having already formed its naval battle formation, with three larger and heavier war galleys serving as flagships, advanced steadily beneath the cover of numerous swift longships and oared galleys as they charged toward the Dragonstone fleet anchored near the island.
The Dragonstone fleet, seemingly caught somewhat unprepared by the sudden night assault, had hastily sailed out from the harbor beneath the looming black walls of the castle, facing Lord Redwyne's fleet charge before even completing their proper formation upon the sea.
However, their response was equally determined and disciplined.
The sea wind howled fiercely over the dark waters of Blackwater Bay.
Whoosh—
War horns echoed from several directions at once, their deep notes vibrating in the ears of the sailors and stirring a surge of grim determination among everyone present upon the decks of the battling ships.
Admiral Paxter Redwyne, former Master of Ships under King Aerys II Targaryen and the powerful Lord of the Arbor, stood atop the largest of the three massive war galleys that served as the flagship of the Redwyne Fleet.
He wore a blue and white wool cloak over his armor, with the sigil of House Redwyne a cluster of dark purple grapes upon a field of burgundy embroidered prominently across the cloth as it snapped in the cold sea wind.
He gripped the wooden railing of the quarterdeck tightly, leaning slightly forward as he carefully observed the movements and formation of the Dragonstone fleet emerging from the shadow of the island fortress.
This seasoned naval commander was not particularly imposing in appearance; instead, he looked like a thin and somewhat weary middle-aged lord accustomed to the salt winds of the sea.
His shoulders slumped slightly with age and experience, and several sparse strands of orange-red hair struggled wildly in the blowing sea breeze.
From the distant direction of Dragonstone came the echoing sound of war horns, accompanied by the deep and solemn tolling of the great bronze bells of the castle, ringing out across the night to warn the island that battle had come to its shores.
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