The Arbor 105 AC
Aemon Targaryen
As Aemon rode atop the colossal form of Balerion the Black Dread, he couldn't help but marvel at the sheer power and terror embodied by the ancient dragon. Truly he would never grow bored of such a thing. Balerion may have lacked the agility of some of the younger dragons, but what he lacked in speed, he more than made up for in sheer devastation. Balerion was absolute. To point him in one direction, everything in that general direction was now a sea of black flames.
With each beat of his massive wings, Balerion sent gusts of wind howling through the air, tearing at the fabric of the world below. As he soared through the skies, the ground trembled beneath his weight, a dark shadow cast over the land below. Entire armies would be picked up and thrown about if Balerion flew too close to the ground. He was a living tornado.
When Balerion roared, it was as if the very earth itself cried out in anguish, the sound echoing across the battlefield like thunder rolling across the heavens. Men quaked in fear at the sound, knowing that the wrath of the Black Dread was upon them. He was the living earthquake.
But when Balerion breathed fire, the true horror of his power was unleashed. A torrent of black flames poured forth from his gaping maw, engulfing everything in their path in an inferno of destruction. The air seemed to catch fire in his presence, the heat so intense that it scorched the soul. He was a living wildfire.
In the presence of Balerion, armies stood no chance. He was a force of nature, a living embodiment of destruction and chaos. To face him in battle was to face the wrath of the gods, and few could hope to survive such an encounter. He was a living disaster. He was the living death. He was the living dread.
As Aemon embarked on his journey to the Arbor, he anticipated encountering scattered bands of Ironborn soldiers or perhaps even larger groups that he could swiftly dispatch with the might of Balerion by his side. Memories flickered through his mind of the terrifying display of power he had witnessed as Balerion's mere approach had sent enemy forces scattering like leaves in the wind, tossed about by the dragon's colossal wings.
As they drew nearer to the Arbor, an island nestled in the southern reaches of the Reach, bordering Dorne yet firmly rooted in Reach territory, Aemon braced himself for the possibility of facing Ironborn ships intent on raiding the island's shores. He spotted the telltale sails of the Ironborn vessels dotting the horizon, each one a harbinger of chaos and destruction.
But Aemon had Balerion at his side, a force of nature capable of unleashing devastation with but a word. As the Ironborn ships came into view, Balerion's fiery breath was unleashed upon them. It engulfed the vessels in so fierce black flames that they were consumed instantly, leaving nothing but charred remnants on the waves.
As Aemon and Balerion approached the Arbor, Aemon couldn't help but be captivated by the breathtaking beauty that unfolded before him. Ghost sat on his saddle, a position that was a cross between sitting and lying down. As quiet as the grave, Ghost lay next to Aemon and watched Aemon hold the reigns. The island emerged from the depths of the tranquil waters like a verdant jewel set amidst a sea of sapphire. Lush greenery blanketed the landscape, with emerald forests stretching outwards to meet the azure skies.
The waters surrounding the island mirrored the clear, cerulean hue of the sky above, their surface shimmering in the sunlight like liquid diamonds. Gentle ripples danced across the surface, creating a mesmerizing mosaic of reflections that seemed to sway with the flow of the tide. From what Aemon had heard, letters and ravens, the waters were not this calm just a few days ago. Storms have been harsh here, as of late, just like they have been in Storm's End.
As Balerion glided gracefully through the air, his powerful wings beating rhythmically against the currents, Aemon couldn't help but feel a sense of wonder wash over him. The island seemed to beckon to him, its beauty drawing him closer with each passing moment.
The closer they flew, the warmer the air grew as they descended towards the island's lush shores. Aemon could see the vibrant hues of the foliage below, the rich greens mingling with bursts of colorful blooms that dotted the landscape like jewels scattered upon velvet.
The scent of saltwater and sweet blossoms filled the air as they neared the island, a heady fragrance that enveloped them like a warm embrace. Aemon's heart swelled with appreciation for the natural splendor surrounding them, a stark contrast to the chaos and devastation of war that had plagued the realm in recent months.
As Aemon surveyed the horizon, his gaze fell upon a sight that awakened him. Before him stretched the vast expanse of the sea, its surface shimmering under the sun's golden rays. And upon that azure canvas floated a fleet unlike any he had ever seen.
The Redwyne fleet, a formidable armada of ships, laid before him in all its glory. The sails billowed in the gentle breeze, each vessel a proud testament to the naval might of House Redwyne. Aemon beheld the sheer scale of the fleet, a sight that dwarfed any naval force he had encountered in his lifetime.
Memories stirred within him, memories of another life as Jon Snow, where the Redwyne fleet had been a formidable force to be reckoned with. He recalled the ties that bound House Redwyne to his wife, Margaery Tyrell, through her grandmother Olenna Tyrell, and to House Hightower through Margaery's mother. The memories have failed him, and they would fail him once more, and a thousand times more, but he did recall thinking that the Tyrells of his time were more powerful and stable in the Reach than any Tyrell before them.
Luthor Tyrell married Olenna Redwyne. Aemon recalled Margaery telling Jon Snow that Olenna was set to marry a Targaryen, a son of Aegon the Unlikely, to ensure the Redwyne fleet would support the Iron Throne through blood. Still, like all of Aegon's children, the betrothal was broken. Margaery claimed her grandmother would say it was her choice, and she found her way into Luthor Tyrell's bed, and he was honor-bound to marry her; Margaery claimed she did not believe it was Olenna who chose to stop the betrothal because only the Crown could do such things.
But Margaery did say that Luthor marrying House Redwyne gave the Tyrells far more legitimacy and a stronger position. Then Olenna had her daughter Mina Tyrell marry back into the Redwynes to leave no question of the union and used the position of close ties to the Redwynes and the ability to marry a Lord Paramount to get her son, Mace Tyrell, to marry a Hightower daughter, Alerie Hightower, Margaery's mother. By having two families whose might was equivalent to Lord Paramount's in wealth and naval power, respectively, the Tyrells gained such stability.
It was so stable that gaining the Tyrells as an ally and their forces of over one hundred thousand knights and the largest naval power in the continent made it a guaranteed victory unless you were a fool. Margaery was not shy in naming Renly, Joffery, and Cersei as fools for squandering such powerful allies and yet named Tywin Lannister a cunning man for seeing that Lannisters were in a bad position in facing both the Riverlands and North, a war Tywin was losing if not for the Red Wedding, and having to somehow have enough forces to against Stannis and Stormlands. Margaery also admitted her father, whom she loved dearly, was foolish in supporting Renly when he could not gain the full might of the Stormlands, only a bit more than half, and because the fact that Renly was second in line, as Stanis was first, making Renly's claim illegitimate at best. She said as he could remember as best he could, 'We had the chance to join with King Rob before he was wed and have a combination of three kingdoms against the Lannister's one, or join Stannis who had the part of the Stormlands and all the Crownlands, and we choose the younger brother who had merely three-fourths of the Stormlands who did not have the most powerful army compared to the other contenders.'
The only way the Lannisters could continue to hold the kingdoms was if the Tyrells were willing to bolster their numbers, ensure their navy, and give them the food to keep King's Landing a float, and that was not counting the ravaged lands through the war or the fact that Dorne was less than likely going to keep their position of neutrality for long. The Lannisters, the moment it was said that the royal children were bastards, had begun writing the world's longest suicide note, and without the Tyrells, the axe would have come down on their necks. And yet Cersei squandered it at the end, and the House Lannister was brought down and made to bow low.
Aemon remembered a few things of his life, but something that never left his mind was the war of the Five Kings. Jon Snow had read up on each ever king, each move, each outcome, each foolish act, and each result. Unlike the other Houses that had a stake to gain, the Starks forging their kingdom, the Lannisters stealing the throne, and Renly and Stannis taking what was there by right, the Tyrells were in the position to benefit whoever came into power more than any other and help solidify and stabilize those in power. Aemon had thought of so much in this lifetime that he thought he might never forget it.
The Hightowers, with their vast wealth and influence, had once stood as pillars of power in the realm, their riches rivaling those of the Great Houses themselves, especially since they had both the Starry Sept and the Citadel in Oldtown. They had with them the two most influential insulations in the continent that should be disconnected from nobility and yet influence nobility drastically and the commonfolk just as much, if not more. And alongside them, House Redwyne had commanded the seas with an unmatched fleet. The two Houses were anything but ordinary vassal Houses, especially since they were arguably the most notable and important Houses outside of the Lord Paramount.
But now, as Aemon looked upon the Redwyne fleet before him, he couldn't help but feel a pang of melancholy. The ties that had once bound, or rather eventually bound, the Tyrells to the Redwynes and the Hightowers seemed to have never existed yet, leaving the Reach vulnerable in the face of external threats. The two greatest supporters of House Tyrell, during Jon Snow's time, were merely doing as they saw fit; from what Aemon recalled when speaking to maester Vaegon, somehow, he knew not how the Redwynes and Hightower were kin, but they were, and it made it clear why the Redwynes were so easily up in support of the Greens. Some part of him realized by helping the Redwynes here, he would be helping the Greens inadvertently, but that same part of him died quickly in his mind when he realized that if he had done anything that firmly placed him with the Blacks or the Greens, he would be doomed to do nothing to set things in place to stop the Long Night.
The sight of the Redwyne fleet filled Aemon with a sense of hope. For in those sleek vessels and billowing sails lay the potential to turn the tide of battle, reclaim lost glory, and restore the realm. If anything, this Greyjoy Rebellion, destroying a part of the Velaryon fleet and what would lead to the destruction of the entire Greyjoy fleet, would put all the naval power firmly on the side of the Greens. No amount of time would allow the Blacks to grow too drastically since Corlys would now be suspicious of any fleet growing and surely find a way to stop it all from happening. Aemon disliked that this war had put things into motion. Aemon would despise it later.
As Balerion descended, the massive dragon, with a size of over eight hundred feet and wings more than twice that size, cast a shadow that engulfed the land below. As he landed upon the island's shores, the force of his descent sent powerful gusts of wind rippling through the air, stirring the vegetation below as if a hurricane had swept through.
The ground trembled beneath the weight of Balerion's colossal form, and Aemon could feel the earth quiver with each step the dragon took. Yet despite the chaos wrought by his arrival, there was an air of anticipation among the welcoming party that approached.
Aemon watched as nearly fifty riders bearing the banners of House Redwyne rode forth to greet him, their faces a mix of awe and reverence. Their mounts moved with a grace that belied the urgency of their mission, their hooves stirring up clouds of dust as they made their way toward the dragon and his rider.
As the welcoming party approached, Aemon could discern the distinct banners of House Redwyne unfurling in the breeze. Each banner bore the house's sigil: a burgundy grape cluster emblazoned upon a field of vibrant blue, a symbol of their renowned vineyards and mastery of the seas.
Leading the group was a tall man, his auburn hair catching the sunlight as it framed his freckled face. His piercing blue eyes held curiosity and reverence as he rode forth to greet the arriving prince. This was Lord Eyan Redwyne, the head of House Redwyne and ruler of the Arbor. Aemon, fully of his dragon, watched as the horses grew far more fearful of the monstrosity behind Aemon.
As Lord Redwyne drew nearer, he guided his steed with practiced ease, his stature commanding respect even amidst the imposing presence of the dragon and its rider. Lord Redwyne dismounted and walked to Aemon before taking a knee; the others that followed their Lord did the same. Aemon bid them to rise, and they rose quickly before growing serious. It was just as he was raising that Ghost leaped off the dragon and slid down Balerio's wing to stand by Aemon's side, but so quick was the wolf, and so quiet that to all those, save for Aemon, it was as those Ghost just like his namesake and appeared. The Lord and knights all cringed in fear, but the wolf did nothing but keep his red eyes on Lord Redwyne. With a courteous nod of his head, he greeted Prince Aemon Targaryen in a tone that was both respectful and welcoming.
"Your Grace," Lord Redwyne began, his voice carrying the weight of his noble lineage. "What a pleasant surprise to see you here on the Arbor. We were not expecting such esteemed company." He inclined his head slightly, his manner deferential yet tinged with curiosity.
Aemon returned the greeting with a polite nod, his expression grave as he spoke. "An honor, my Lord. I have long wished to meet with the Lord of one of the greatest fleets in both living memories and the books in the Citadel." Aemon hated flattery, but Margaery beat it in Aemon's head, saying that it was best to deal with Reach lords with more honeyed words than biting steal.
Lord Redwyne smiled a broad smile that proved Margaery's words truer still. Aemon noticed that the lord kept his eyes on Ghost, ever slightly keeping his gaze while also being subtle enough to make it seem like he never kept his eyes from Aemon. Still, years of being next to the dire wolf taught Aemon what to look for in a man afraid of his companion, and Lord Redwyne was very much afraid. It was interesting for the Lord to be more afraid of the wolf than Balerion behind him. Still, he supposed Targaryens with dragons were common enough, unlike dire wolves this far south. "The honor is ours, Your Grace. To have the rider of the Conqueror's dragon here at the Arbor, no greater honor than this."
Aemon nodded; his face showed no smile, serious or, as his aunts would mock, brooding. "Lord Redwyne, I regret to inform you that my visit is not solely leisurely. I have found troubling information concerning House Redwyne and your fleet's safety."
The mention of danger caused a furrow on Lord Redwyne's brow as he regarded Aemon with concern and curiosity. "What sort of trouble do you speak of, Your Grace?"
Aemon's gaze met Lord Redwyne's, his tone serious as he revealed his suspicions. "I have reason to believe that the Greyjoys may soon set their sights upon the Redwyne fleet, just as they did with the Lannisters. Their recent actions have left a trail of destruction in their wake, and I fear your fleet may be their next target. They have tried before, and I know of storms delaying their attacks, but be assured their eyes are firmly upon you."
Lord Redwyne's expression hardened at the mention of the Greyjoys, but he shook his head in disbelief. "There have been no sightings of Greyjoy ships near the Arbor, Your Grace. And with the storms that have plagued these waters as of late, even the most seasoned sailors would find it difficult to navigate."
Aemon listened intently, but his resolve remained unshaken. "Indeed, Lord Redwyne, but with the Velaryon fleet decimated on the other side of the continent and the Lannister fleet all but destroyed, the Redwyne fleet stands as the primary obstacle to Greyjoy supremacy in the Sunset Sea. They may strike when least expected, and I cannot afford to ignore the threat they pose."
The gravity of Aemon's words hung heavy as Lord Redwyne considered the implications. "What would you propose, Your Grace?" he asked, his tone measured yet tinged with concern.
Aemon's gaze hardened as he outlined his plan. "I have come to ensure the safety of the Redwyne fleet and to discuss the possibility of a counter-offensive against the Greyjoys. We must be vigilant and prepared to defend our shores against any threat."
Aemon noticed that the Lord of the Arbor seemed to bristle at the idea that a child would protect the Redwyne fleet. Lord Redwyne's skepticism was palpable as he listened to Aemon's warnings, his demeanor veering between disbelief and a thinly veiled attempt at remaining respectful. His noble facade faltered momentarily as he struggled to conceal his doubts, but he maintained his composure as he addressed the prince.
"Your Grace, while I appreciate your concern for the safety of the Arbor and our fleet, I must respectfully disagree," Lord Redwyne began, his voice hinting incredulity. "The Redwyne fleet is more than capable of defending against any Ironborn incursion. We have faced threats before and emerged victorious. The Ironborn are nothing more than sea rats, scurrying about in their ships, dreaming of conquest while we hold the power of the seas."
His words were laced with arrogance as he mocked the Ironborn, but Aemon's response was blunt and unyielding. "The Lannisters thought much the same, my lord," he retorted, his tone cutting through the air like a sword. "But now their fleet lies at the bottom of the sea, their city and port in ruins. Lannisport burns, and the flames have scarred Casterly Rock. Do not underestimate the Ironborn, for they are cunning and ruthless."
Lord Redwyne's expression grew serious once more as he acknowledged the threat. "Rest assured, Your Grace, myself and my men are prepared to defend the Arbor should the Ironborn be foolish enough to test our resolve."
Aemon's response was grim as he continued to impress upon Lord Redwyne the severity of the situation. "The Ironborn will come, my lord, of that I have no doubt," he declared, his voice devoid of any hint of uncertainty. "They seek to reclaim their former glory, to rebuild their kingdom of old, as it was during the time of the Kings of House Hoare, with the Arbor as a prized jewel in their crown. We must be vigilant, for the storm approaches, bringing the wrath of the Ironborn."
Lord Redwyne bristled at Aemon's words, his pride wounded by the implication that his fleet could not repel the Ironborn threat. "The Arbor is no easy target, Your Grace," he asserted, his voice tinged with anger. "It is a beauty, a jewel of the seas, and my fleet stands ready to defend it. We are not as weak as the Riverlords to be so easily overrun."
Aemon's gaze remained steady as he countered Lord Redwyne's pride with a dose of reality. "Pride can be a dangerous thing, my Lord. You are stating your House is stronger than an entire kingdom; you are saying House Redwyne, alone, is a match for all of the Riverlands. Even the Velaryons, who have dragons, cannot claim they can best an entire kingdom alone, and yet, you can." He cautioned, his words cutting through the tension like a blade. "Do not mistake arrogance for strength, for the folly of the proud often leads to their downfall. The Ironborn will not hesitate to strike, and we must be prepared to meet them with steel and fire."
The air grew heavy with tension as Lord Redwyne subtly questioned Aemon's capabilities, his words dripping with a veneer of courtesy that thinly veiled his skepticism. "Prince Aemon, forgive me for saying, but matters such as these are not meant for children," he remarked, his tone tinged with a hint of condescension as he alluded to Aemon's tender age of seven.
If Ghost was not mute, Aemon would have thought the wolf was growling. Ghost sneered quietly, so quiet that it was as though the wolf was consuming the sound. His quiet snarl seemed to draw far more attention than a growl from the throat of a more common wolf. All eyes trailed back to Ghost as his blood-red gaze made the air colder. Lord Redwyne seemed to recall the presence of the wolf and then gulped before his eyes trailed up once more to Balerion, and Aemon could feel through his bond with Balerion that he was pleased Lord Redwyne feared the dragon more than the wolf, but some small portion of Balerion trusted Ghost to kill the Lord far quicker than Balerion could if need be.
But Aemon's response was swift and defiant, his youthful countenance betraying a steely resolve that belied his years. "This child," he retorted, his voice carrying a note of determination, "has faced far greater challenges than you may realize. I fought in the Wildling Invasion, where over one hundred thousand wildlings threatened the realm's safety."
Lord Redwyne's response was measured, his tone subtly dismissive as he cast doubt on the veracity of Aemon's claims. "Rumors often grow wilder with each retelling, Your Grace," he remarked, his words veiled in polite skepticism.
But before the conversation could continue, Balerion, the Black Dread, roared in fury, his thunderous cry shaking the very foundations of the earth. The force of the dragon's roar was so immense that all those present, except Aemon himself, were forced to their knees, their hands instinctively covering their ears in a futile attempt to block out the loud sound.
Once the dragon's roar subsided, Aemon spoke with a calm authority that belied his age, his voice cutting through the lingering echoes of Balerion's fury. "Even if my deeds are dismissed as mere rumors, I can say with certainty that the Targaryens of Summerhall have faced formidable foes," he declared, his words resonating with quiet resolve. "We pushed back the Ironborn invasion and held off the Dornish army at Summerhall. We have proven our mettle in battle and will not falter in the face of this new threat." With that, Aemon left no room for doubt as he laid out his intentions. "Summerhall will take the next step in this conflict, with or without the support of House Redwyne," he proclaimed, his gaze unwavering as he fixed Lord Redwyne with a steady stare. "The choice is yours, my Lord. Will you stand with us in this fight or watch from the sidelines as history unfolds?"
The tension in the air was palpable as Lord Redwyne, with a solemn expression, lowered his head in begrudging acquiescence to Prince Aemon's demand for support. "House Redwyne is loyal to the crown, Your Grace," he conceded, his words carrying the weight of duty rather than enthusiasm.
Aemon inclined his head in gratitude, respectfully nodding to the Lord's pledge of loyalty. "Thank you, Lord Redwyne. Your allegiance to the crown is duly noted," he replied, his voice carrying a note of appreciation.
Turning to the matter, Aemon wasted no time pressing for action. "The entire Redwyne fleet must be prepared for departure," he declared, his tone firm and decisive. "Tell me, when can your ships set sail?"
Lord Redwyne hesitated momentarily before responding, his expression betraying a hint of frustration at the urgency of Aemon's request. "The ships are mostly prepared, Your Grace, but the recent storms have caused some delays. The entire fleet would be ready to set off in a week," he explained, his words tinged with a touch of exasperation.
Aemon's brows furrowed in disappointment, his features reflecting a mixture of understanding and impatience. "I see," he remarked with a sigh, conceding to the unavoidable setbacks caused by the inclement weather. "Very well, Lord Redwyne. We shall allow for the necessary preparations to be made." However, Aemon's patience was thin, and he wasted no time expressing his desire for swift action. "But know this," he continued, his tone firm and unwavering. "We cannot afford to delay any longer than necessary. If the Redwyne fleet was indeed ready, it should have been ready to set sail by the end of the day."
Lord Redwyne's demeanor stiffened at Aemon's insistence; his jaw clenched in frustration as he begrudgingly conceded to the prince's demands. "The storms have indeed posed challenges, Your Grace," he conceded through gritted teeth, his words laced with a hint of resentment.
Aemon nodded in understanding, though his expression remained resolute. "I understand, Lord Redwyne," he replied, his voice unwavering. "You have one week to ready the fleet. Make the necessary preparations, and ensure your ships are prepared to sail immediately." With the matter of the fleet addressed, Aemon turned his attention to the larger threat posed by the Ironborn raids. "The Ironborn have begun raiding the Westerlands, the Riverlands, and large portions of the North," he informed Lord Redwyne, his voice grave with concern. "Their focus on the Westerlands seems is almost as if to mock the Lannisters for their recent losses at Lannisport and Casterly Rock." As the gravity of the situation settled over the room, Aemon's gaze hardened with determination. "We must act swiftly to protect the realm from further incursions," he declared, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "The time to strike back against the Ironborn is before they can wreak further havoc upon our lands."
Aemon's chambers were filled with the flickering light of candle flames as he poured over the reports and correspondence that littered his desk. Each parchment bore the intricate script of Valyrian, a language that flowed effortlessly from Aemon's pen as he recorded the latest developments from across the realm. Ghost was sitting by Aemon's side as he read the letters and looked over the charts.
The Vale, a region known for its rugged terrain and formidable defenses, had not escaped the Ironborn's reach unscathed. Reports spoke of sporadic attacks, their impact felt keenly by the mountain clans that called the Vale home.
In the North, however, there was a glimmer of hope. After months of relentless struggle, the Northern lords finally began to regain control of their ancestral lands, pushing the Ironborn invaders back with each passing day. Aemon's heart swelled with pride at the resilience of his countrymen, knowing that soon they would be ready to join the fight against the Ironborn menace. They could do by themselves what the Stormlands needed help to do. The North lords invaded the North to push past the Ironborn and then push them out. Aemon supposed the benefit the North lords had that the Stromlords did not was the fact that the Northerns knew the cold better than anyone. Still, both the Ironborn and the Stormlords knew wet, rain storms, and they left the benefit that the Stormlands knew their lands and were accustomed to them nearly mute.
Storm's End stood proud and defiant once more, liberated from the clutches of the Ironborn. The Stormlands, rallied by the indomitable spirit of its people and the leadership of Lord Baratheon, were poised to reclaim their honor and defend their homeland against further incursions.
Through a network of ravens and trusted messengers, Aemon maintained constant communication with his aunts, Aerea and Daenerys, who coordinated their dragonriders' efforts and House Baratheon's forces. He offered guidance and strategic counsel, charting the course for their next moves with the precision of a master tactician. Aemon had read reports of purple and silvery flames licking the castle during a nighttime storm and when Aerea and Daenerys stopped the siege.
His aunts, Viserra and Maegelle, had confirmed that Velaryons were out for revenge and blood. Aemon's thoughts turned to the Velaryon fleet, dispatched from Driftmark to reinforce their allies in the Sunset Sea. The journey would be difficult, navigating treacherous waters and facing unknown dangers. They would travel through the Blackwater Rush, traverse any connected rivers, and into the Redfork before reaching the Sunset Sea. It would take the better part of a month. Yet, Aemon harbored no doubt in their ability to overcome any obstacle.
As he penned a letter to his aunts, detailing his plans to rendezvous at Faircastle once the Riverlands had been liberated, Aemon's mind buzzed with anticipation. The pieces of his grand strategy were falling into place, each move calculated with meticulous care to pursue victory against the Ironborn threat.
The day dawned with a brilliant display of colors, the sky ablaze with pink and gold hues as dawn's first light broke over the horizon. Aemon stood upon the deck of the flagship of the Redwyne fleet, his eyes fixed on the vast expanse of ocean before him. Behind him, the Redwyne fleet lay in wait, a formidable force ready to answer the call to arms.
As the sun climbed higher in the sky, casting its warm rays upon the shimmering waters below, the command was given to set sail. The great wooden vessels groaned and creaked as they unfurled their sails, billowing in the gentle breeze that swept across the sea.
Aemon watched from the deck as the fleet began moving, each ship cutting through the waves gracefully and precisely. The Redwyne banners fluttering in the wind filled him with pride, knowing they sailed forth to defend their homeland against the Ironborn threat.
With a nod to the captain, Aemon turned and went to the ship's bow, where Balerion awaited him. The massive dragon stood tall and proud, its obsidian scales gleaming in the sunlight as it awaited its rider. With a steady hand, Aemon mounted Balerion's back, his dire wolf Ghost at his side. The dragon released a low rumble, echoing across the deck as it prepared to take flight.
As Balerion spread its wings and launched into the sky, Aemon felt the rush of wind against his face, the exhilaration of soaring high above the waves. Behind him, the Redwyne fleet followed, their sails catching the wind as they followed their prince into the unknown.
Together, they charted a course northward towards the distant shores of the Westerlands. With each beat of Balerion's wings, they drew closer to their destination, their determination unwavering in the face of whatever challenges lay ahead.
The Redwyne fleet set sail purposefully, their warships cutting through the waves with determination. The sea stretched out before them like an endless expanse of blue, the horizon disappearing into the distance as far as the eye could see.
Three hundred warships, each one a formidable vessel armed to the teeth and ready for battle, sailed in tight formation, their sails billowing in the wind as they rode the ocean's swells. The Redwyne banners flew proudly from their masts, symbolizing strength and unity in adversity.
As they journeyed northward, the weather grew increasingly treacherous. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon, blotting out the sun and casting a shadow over the sea below. The winds howled, and the waves crashed against the hulls of the ships, threatening to engulf them in their icy embrace.
Despite the harsh conditions, the Redwyne fleet pressed on, their determination unwavering in the face of the storm. Aemon rode atop Balerion, his dragon soaring high above the ships as he kept a watchful eye on the horizon. His dire wolf Ghost stood by his side, its fur bristling in the cold wind as it scanned the waters below.
The journey dragged on for another two weeks, each day a battle against the elements as the fleet struggled to make headway against the wind and tide. Aemon remained steadfast, his resolve unshaken by the hardships they faced.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the storm began to break, the clouds parting to reveal the faint glimmer of sunlight on the horizon. The Redwyne fleet pressed on with renewed hope, their destination drawing ever closer with each passing day.
Aemon knew that time was of the essence, but he remained confident they would arrive in time to turn the tide of battle against the Greyjoys. As they sailed through the vast expanse of the sea, he could only hope that their allies, the Velaryons, were also right on schedule.
The flight was a symphony of sensation for Aemon as he rode atop Balerion, his dragon's powerful wings beating rhythmically against the air. The wind rushed past him, whipping at his face with a sharp chill and tousling his hair in a chaotic dance. Despite the biting cold, there was a thrill in the air, a sense of urgency that pulsed through him with every beat of Balerion's wings.
As they soared through the skies, Aemon could feel the warmth of the sun's rays on his face, a welcome contrast to the cool breeze surrounding him. The golden light danced across the ocean's surface below, casting shimmering reflections that sparkled like diamonds on the waves.
The smell of salt water filled his nostrils, mingling with the crisp scent of the sea air. It was a refreshing and familiar scent, a reminder of the vast expanse of the ocean that stretched out before them.
As they neared the Straits of Fair Isle, the landscape below changed. Aemon could see the devastation wrought by the Ironborn raiders, the charred remains of villages and towns dotting the coastline like scars on the land.
Finally, as they reached the straits, Aemon's keen eyes spotted the Ironborn banners fluttering in the breeze; their ships gathered in formation like a swarm of blackened vultures. From his vantage point high above, he could see the full extent of their fleet, a formidable force that stretched as far as the eye could see. It was dusk, the sun was setting, and soon night would be upon them.
But even as he watched, Aemon knew that the element of surprise was on their side. The Ironborn had not noticed their approach, too focused on their preparations to heed the warning signs in the sky above. The skies were dark, and the clouds dark, each one aiding in hiding Balerion's colossal size and presence.
The Straits of Fair Isle were named for the straight passage of water between Fair Island to the west and the main continent of Westeros, more specifically, the Westerlands to the east. The straight passage of land was rather thin as Fair Isle was close to the shore of the Westerlands. If moving through the passage of water, no more than a dozen warships could move side by side; if needed, one could even swim from the Island to the shore; less than half a mile of water separated the island and the mainland. This meant no escaping east or west; if a ship got too close to either side, it would crash into the land.
With the Redwyne fleet coming from the south and no room going east or west, the only option to escape was to fully turn around instead of going south to the Arbor like Aemon expected them to. Aemon would need to dive down and destroy the ships enough for the Ironborn to be frightened and begin to turn around their ships and avoid the dragon to the south, but if timed correctly, it would be some time before they make the full turn, and the Redwyne ships would ram into the vulnerable sides of the Ironborn ships. Or if the timing was correct, the Ironborn would turn around trying to escape only to be pincered by the Velaryon fleet.
Aemon's hands moved with practiced precision as he reached for the arrow nestled by the side of his saddle, fingers curling around its sleek shaft. It felt foreign in his grasp, the weight unfamiliar, but he knew there was no time for hesitation. Gripping the bow tightly, he drew back the string, feeling its tension as he aimed towards the Redwyne fleet lagging behind him.
The arrows were not ordinary; they were coated in a concoction of elixirs, powders, and minerals that would ignite into vibrant flames when lit. Aemon selected one and ignited its tip, watching as the flame danced with a bright, radiant yellow hue, casting a glow that seemed to pierce through the gathering dusk.
Aemon readied the arrow with a steady hand, aligning his aim with precision honed from years of training. Then, with a swift release, he let it soar through the air, its fiery tail trailing behind it as it descended toward the waiting ships below. The yellow burning arrow singled one thing: that enemy drew near.
As the arrow arced downwards, Aemon held his breath, waiting for the signal from the Redwyne fleet. It was crucial that they acknowledged the warning and understood the imminent threat posed by the Ironborn lurking in the shadows of the straits.
After what felt like an eternity, a second arrow streaked upwards from the fleet, its yellow flame mirroring the one Aemon had fired. It was a sign that they had received his message and were alert and prepared for whatever lay ahead.
But Aemon knew that their readiness would soon be put to the test. Determinedly, he reached for another arrow, this one burning a fierce red, a signal to the Redwyne fleet that once they confirmed their readiness, he would lead the attack against the Ironborn.
With a swift motion, he let the arrow fly, watching as its crimson flame illuminated the sky. As the Redwyne fleet responded in kind, firing their red burning arrows into the heavens, Aemon knew that the time for action had come.
As dusk began to cast its ethereal glow across the horizon, Aemon stood atop the colossal form of Balerion the Black Dread, his hand gently stroking the dragon's scaled hide. Balerion, a behemoth of unparalleled magnitude, exuded an aura of primal power, his deep, rumbling breaths echoing through the crisp evening air.
Beside him, Ghost, Aemon's faithful dire wolf, nuzzled against his hand, a silent yet reassuring presence amidst the looming tension. From their vantage point thousands of feet above the tumultuous sea below, Aemon surveyed the Ironborn fleet keenly, their numerous warships dotting the water like menacing shadows against the fading light.
Suddenly, Balerion let out a deafening roar that reverberated through the very fabric of the sky, its thunderous echoes rippling across the waves below. It was a sound that sent shivers down Aemon's spine, a primal declaration of dominance that resonated with the raw power of the ancient dragon.
But amidst the awe-inspiring display, Aemon knew time was of the essence. With the Redwyne fleet poised to intervene, he had only a fleeting opportunity to strike at the Ironborn before their reinforcements arrived. He could afford two or three passes atop Balerion's formidable back before the Redwynes closed in and risked being caught in the crossfire.
Aemon's mind raced with strategy as he plotted his next move. He knew that unleashing Balerion's fiery breath while the Redwyne fleet drew near would only cause a court disaster, risking collateral damage to their allies. Thus, he resolved to maximize their impact in the limited time available, aiming to inflict as much damage as possible upon the Ironborn before the Redwyne fleet could intercept.
With a steely resolve, Aemon tightened his grip on Balerion's scaled hide, his gaze unwavering as he prepared to lead the charge against their adversaries. As Balerion unleashed a roar that shook the foundations of the heavens, Aemon felt the raw power of the ancient dragon course through his veins. The thunderous sound reverberated through the air, drowning out all other noise and filling the sky with an ominous resonance.
With a firm grip on the reins, Aemon guided Balerion into a steep dive, his heart pounding with exhilaration as they plummeted toward the ocean below. As they descended, the wind whipped past them fiercely, tugging at Aemon's cloak and tousling his hair like the fingers of some unseen force.
The sheer force of Balerion's descent seemed to defy the laws of nature, propelling them downwards with a velocity that bordered on the surreal. Aemon could feel the dragon's immense size and weight amplifying the ferocity of their dive, each beat of Balerion's wings driving them ever closer to the heart of the storm below.
Despite the perilous speed at which they descended, Aemon remained steadfast, his senses heightened to a razor's edge as they hurtled towards their target. In that fleeting moment, as the world blurred around him and the roar of the wind filled his ears, Aemon felt a surge of adrenaline course through his veins.
Aemon knew the words; to him, they were more familiar than the words of his House. "Dracarys!"
As Aemon's voice pierced the air with a resounding command, the essence of power and authority, Balerion responded with a primal roar that seemed to shake the very fabric of reality. With jaws gaping wide, the ancient dragon unleashed a torrent of black flames that surged like a tidal wave of destruction.
The flames, dark as the void itself, seethed with an otherworldly intensity, casting an eerie glow that illuminated the tumultuous waters below. As they engulfed the ocean's surface, the seawater sizzled and steamed, unable to withstand the searing heat radiating from Balerion's infernal breath. The heat is so strong the waters already steamed and bubbled. Steam was so strong and dense that fog had consumed the lands.
The intensity of the flames was such that the wooden hulls of the Ironborn ships were engulfed in an instant, consumed by a blaze that seemed to defy all logic and reason. The air filled with the acrid scent of burning wood and scorched flesh as the waters around the ships boiled and churned with a restless energy. Black flames that consumed light.
In the blink of an eye, the once-mighty vessels were reduced to little more than charred wreckage, their timbers splintered and twisted by the force of the blast. Flames licked hungrily at the surrounding waves, casting a macabre dance of light and shadow across the sea's surface.
An explosion so fast, so horrible and harsh that the waters it reached turned into a violent geyser, and explosions and forces of black fires, steam, waters, wood, and boiling flaming liquid. The fire slammed into the water in an explosion that shot the water up to the skies hundreds of feet. The blanketing steam hugged the water's surface as the screams of Ironborn echoed in the dense white fog.
The black fires lived in the white smoke. The steam grew longer, and a continuous black torrent of flames slammed into the water's surface. The great maw of Balerion, opening larger than sixty feet, continued a black line of the infernal blaze, explosion, and fires that touched the waters, reaching further hundreds of continuous explosions of steam, boiling water, and black flames. The building water rose high into the skies and fell back down in rain that burnt the skin and melted flesh from bone.
The cacophony of destruction echoed across the ocean, a symphony of chaos and despair that heralded the arrival of death itself. As the smoke billowed into the sky and the waters ran red with blood, Aemon could only watch in grim satisfaction, knowing their strike had struck fear into the heart of the Ironborn fleet.
As Balerion's relentless onslaught of black flames continued unabated, the scene below descended into chaos and destruction. The initial eruption of infernal fire had ignited a cataclysmic chain reaction, setting ablaze the wooden hulls of the Ironborn ships with a ferocity that defied imagination.
The waters churned and boiled as the searing flames licked hungrily at their surface, sending plumes of steam billowing into the air. The acrid stench of smoke and burning wood permeated the air, mingling with the salty tang of the sea to create a noxious cocktail of odors that assaulted the senses.
Amidst the inferno, the Ironborn ships were engulfed in a storm of fire and fury, their timbers crackling and splintering under the intense heat. The once-proud vessels were reduced to little more than charred husks, their sails and rigging aflame as they drifted aimlessly upon the roiling waves.
The landscape was nothing but black flames; just one path of Balerion rendered everything for hundreds of yards, nothing but black flames covering the ocean surface, the white steam, and the only things that covered the gaps the fires did not touch—a sea of black flames and heat. The waters raining down, burning the flesh. The black flame was hot; only chard corpses remained as they floated on the steaming waters, boiling once more.
As Balerion soared above the chaos, his massive wings casting a shadow over the inferno below, the black flames continued to rain down upon the Ironborn fleet like the wrath of the gods. With a single pass, the dragon ships were consumed by the relentless onslaught, their crews scrambling desperately for salvation amidst the flames. Nearly seventy ships were destroyed with a single pass, the first dozen from the first eruption of black flames and another fifty from Aemon's count as he continued the single dark inferno through the Ironborn fleet.
The sky seemed to darken with the pall of smoke and ash, blotting out the sun and casting the scene below into a surreal twilight. Amidst the chaos, the cries of the dying and the wounded echoed across the waters, a haunting lament that spoke of untold suffering and despair.
As Balerion completed the first pass, Aemon guided the massive dragon into a long, sweeping turn, the movement slow and deliberate. The dragon's immense size and weight made such maneuvers ponderous, requiring careful coordination and skill on Aemon's to execute smoothly. With each beat of Balerion's wings, the air around them seemed to tremble, the sheer force of his movements sending shockwaves rippling through the sky.
Aemon gripped the reins tightly, his knuckles white with exertion as he urged Balerion through the turn. The dragon's colossal form arced gracefully through the air, his wings outstretched like the sails of some ancient ship as he banked around to face the Ironborn fleet once more. It was a sight to behold, the majestic creature carving a path through the heavens with all the grace and power of a force of nature.
As Balerion completed the turn and lined up for the second pass, Aemon felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. This was the moment they had been preparing for, the culmination of weeks of planning and anticipation. With a fierce determination in his eyes, Aemon leaned forward in the saddle, his gaze fixed unwaveringly upon the massed ranks of Ironborn ships below.
And then, with a deafening roar that shook the very foundations of the earth, Balerion unleashed another torrent of black flames from his gaping maw. The flames surged like a tidal wave, engulfing everything in their path in a seething sea of darkness. The air was filled with the crackle of burning wood and the screams of the doomed as the inferno consumed everything in its path.
The force of the flames tore apart the Ironborn ships, their hulls splintering and exploding in a symphony of destruction. Plumes of smoke billowed into the air, casting a pall of darkness over the scene below as the fires raged unchecked. It was a scene of utter devastation, a testament to the awesome power of dragonfire and the ferocity of Balerion the Black Dread.
As Balerion the Black Dread unleashed his fury upon the Ironborn fleet, the sky was rent asunder by a searing torrent of black flames. The inferno erupted from the dragon's gaping maw with a deafening roar, engulfing everything in its path in a swirling vortex of black.
The flames, black as the deepest abyss, seared through the air with an intensity that defied description. They consumed everything they touched, leaving nothing but smoldering wreckage and scorched earth in their wake. The acrid stench of burning wood and flesh filled the air, mingling with the cries of the dying and the inferno's roar.
The force of the flames tore apart the Ironborn ships, their hulls exploding in splintered timber and twisted metal showers. Each vessel was consumed, the flames licking hungrily at their hulls before devouring them whole in a maelstrom of destruction.
The sea boiled and churned beneath the onslaught, the waters roiling and bubbling as the flames danced upon its surface. The sky was ablaze with the light of the conflagration, casting an eerie glow over the scene below as the fires raged unchecked. Those unfortunate souls who chose to leap into the waters to avoid the flames were cooked alive by the boiled waters as the flesh became red and raw.
Ship after ship was obliterated in a cacophony of explosions and screams, their crews consumed by the relentless fury of Balerion's flames. The once-proud vessels were reduced to little more than smoldering wrecks, their charred remains sinking beneath the waves as the dragon continued his onslaught.
Flames and sea waters reach high into the skies as the steam competes with their height. The waters dispersed due to the force of the fire slamming into it, and the same water wished to return to the place it once was, but as they were now covered in horrible black flames, they created tidal waves of fire that did not crash into any ship in its path. Waves of fire as the front sat on the ocean's surface, serged to any ship near it; those destroyed and those not yet hit were hit by colossal waves of balance fire that brought them down into the burning, watery depths of the sea. The shore was scared by the flaming, watery waves. Ships consumed, hull and all, by waves that reach a hundred feet, made of black fires and dark waters. Then, once boats were brought down into the crashing heated depths, the white smoke and black flames would cover up their remains as if they never existed.
It was a scene of utter devastation, a testament to the awesome power of dragonfire and the ferocity of Balerion the Black Dread. As the flames finally began to die, all that remained was a smoking ruin, a grim reminder of the price of defiance in the face of such overwhelming power.
As Balerion completed the second pass, as many destroyed ships as the first pass, leaving a swath of destruction in his wake, Aemon urged the dragon to turn swiftly for the next assault. But Balerion's immense size and age meant that he could not execute rapid maneuvers. Instead, the dragon began a slow turn, his massive wings beating ponderously against the air.
Aemon's heart pounded in his chest as he watched the dragon's progress, frustration gnawing at him with each passing moment. He hated the agonizing slowness of the turn, knowing that every second wasted brought the Redwyne fleet closer to danger. With every beat of Balerion's wings, Aemon silently urged the dragon to move faster, to hasten their approach to the Ironborn fleet.
The turn seemed to stretch for an eternity, the seconds ticking like hours as Balerion lumbered through the air. Aemon gritted his teeth, his hands tightening on the reins as he willed the dragon to pick up the pace. But he could do nothing to hasten their progress, and he was forced to endure the agonizing delay.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Balerion completed the turn and began his descent for the third pass. Aemon felt a surge of relief as the dragon angled towards the Ironborn fleet once more, his anticipation building as they prepared for another devastating assault.
As Aemon prepared for the third pass, his heart pounding with anticipation, he suddenly realized that the Redwyne fleet had closed in much faster than he anticipated. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he saw that half of the Redwyne ships had formed a blockade, their sturdy hulls positioned to intercept the Ironborn vessels and prevent them from escaping.
Meanwhile, the other half of the Redwyne fleet surged forward with reckless abandon, crashing into the already battered Ironborn ships with bone-jarring force. The impact was deafening, the sound of splintering wood and twisting metal echoing across the water as ships collided with a resounding crash.
The Ironborn, still reeling from Balerion's devastating attack, were caught off guard by the sudden onslaught. Their ships, already weakened and damaged, stood little chance against the full force of the Redwyne assault. Hulls were rent asunder, masts snapped like twigs, and decks were torn apart as the two fleets collided in a chaotic frenzy of destruction.
Wreckage from Balerion's black fire floated in the water like charred remnants of a funeral pyre, adding to the chaos and confusion of the battle. The acrid smell of smoke mingled with the salty tang of the sea, filling the air with a thick, choking haze.
Amidst the carnage, Aemon could see sailors leaping from sinking ships, their desperate cries for help drowned out by the roar of the waves and the clamor of battle. The sea churned with blood and wreckage, a grim testament to the ferocity of the conflict raging upon its surface.
As the Redwyne fleet crashed into the Ironborn ships, the deck became a battleground, each plank stained with the blood of those who fought upon it. The clash of steel rang out like a symphony of war, swords and axes biting into flesh with savage ferocity.
Men screamed and shouted, their voices drowned out by the din of battle as they fought tooth and nail for their lives. Swords flashed in the dim light, their edges gleaming with deadly intent as they cleaved through armor and flesh alike.
Axes whirled through the air, their razor-sharp blades biting deep into enemy skulls with sickening thuds. Spears thrust and parried, finding their mark with deadly precision as they skewered their foes upon their lethal points.
Amidst the chaos, the Redwyne sailors fought with grim determination, their faces twisted in snarls of rage as they hacked and slashed their way through the Ironborn ranks. Boarding hooks clanged against the hulls of enemy ships, latching on with a death grip as the Redwyne warriors swarmed aboard.
Hand-to-hand combat erupted in a frenzy of violence, each man fighting for his life with a desperate ferocity born of desperation and survival instinct. Bodies tumbled overboard, their lifeless forms sinking into the murky depths below as the battle raged on unabated as the fire and smoke consumed them into the boiling water.
The air was thick with the stench of blood and sweat, mingling with the salty tang of the sea to create a sickening miasma that hung heavy over the battlefield. The sound of steel on steel filled the air, punctuated by the screams of the dying and the clash of arms as the Redwyne sailors pressed their advantage with unrelenting fury.
The clash of weapons was unrelenting, a brutal ballet of death and destruction. Redwyne men fought tooth and nail against the Ironborn invaders, their weapons flashing in the dim light as they carved through flesh and bone with ruthless efficiency.
Swords met shields with a deafening clang, sending sparks flying into the air like fiery rain. Axes cleaved through armor and muscle with sickening crunches, their jagged edges leaving behind a trail of maimed and mutilated bodies.
Blood painted the decks crimson, pooling in grotesque puddles as the wounded cried out in agony, their pleas drowned out by the cacophony of battle. Limbs were severed with brutal precision, sending sprays of gore arcing through the air in gruesome arcs.
The smell of death hung heavy over the battlefield, mingling with the acrid tang of burning pitch and the salty spray of the sea. Bodies lay strewn across the deck like discarded rag dolls, their lifeless eyes staring blankly into the abyss as the tide of battle washed over them.
Amidst the chaos, the Redwyne sailors fought with a grim determination born of desperation and survival instinct. Each blow struck with lethal intent; each thrust aimed at claiming the lives of their Ironborn foes with ruthless efficiency.
The air was thick with the sounds of agony and despair, the cries of the wounded mingling with the triumphant shouts of the victors as they fought tooth and nail for dominion over the blood-soaked decks.
The sky above the tumultuous sea became a stage for a spectacle of draconic majesty as Aemon turned his gaze toward the source of the roaring. Two smaller dragons emerged from the horizon, their forms silhouetted against the dying embers of the day, coming from the north, the opposite direction the Redwyne fleet and Balerion had come.
The first dragon, a magnificent creature with scales of deep maroon, seemed to burn with an inner fire, its sleek form shimmering in the fading light. Each beat of its wings sent ripples of power through the air, casting a crimson aura that danced like wildfire in the evening sky.
Beside the maroon dragon soared its companion, a vision of sapphire brilliance that glinted like a gemstone in the dying light. Its scales shimmered with an otherworldly luster, catching the last rays of the setting sun and reflecting them in a dazzling display of azure radiance.
As the two dragons closed in on Balerion, their presence added an electrifying intensity to the already chaotic scene below. Their roars echoed like thunder across the waves, commanding attention and striking fear into the hearts of all who beheld them.
Aemon watched in awe as the maroon and sapphire dragons descended upon Balerion, their graceful movements a testament to their power and prowess. With each beat of their wings, they drew closer to the mighty black dragon, their forms glowing with an otherworldly light that seemed to imbue them with an aura of invincibility.
As Aemon beheld the approaching dragons, his heart quickened with a mixture of awe and relief. The dragon of his aunt Viserra. Vēttir, the maroon dragon, soared through the sky with majestic grace, its scales shimmering like polished garnets in the sunlight. Its wings beat with a powerful rhythm, casting shadows that danced across the roiling waves below.
Beside Vēttir flew Jēdar, a magnificent creature of sapphire blue. The dragon of his aunt Maegelle. Its scales gleamed like precious gemstones, reflecting the hues of the sea and sky in a dazzling display of color. With each beat of its wings, it carved through the air with effortless grace, leaving trails of sparkling mist in its wake.
As the dragons drew nearer, Aemon could feel the raw power emanating from their forms, a palpable force that seemed to reverberate through the very air itself. He watched in as Vēttir unleashed a torrent of maroon flames, each lick of fire burning with an intensity that matched the dragon's fierce spirit.
The maroon flames engulfed the Ironborn ships with devastating force, consuming them in a blaze of crimson fury. The wooden hulls crackled and splintered under the onslaught, their sails turning to ash in the inferno as the sea boiled and churned with the heat of the flames.
Not to be outdone, Jēdar unleashed her torrent of sapphire flames, each burst of fire as bright and brilliant as the summer sky. The flames danced and flickered with an ethereal beauty, casting an azure glow across the water as they devoured everything in their path.
As Vēttir and Jēdar joined the fray, their flames mingled with the black inferno unleashed by Balerion, creating a kaleidoscope of destruction upon the sea. The maroon flames of Vēttir danced alongside the sapphire blaze of Jēdar, blending with the dark shadows of Balerion's fire to form a swirling maelstrom of color and chaos.
As Vēttir and Jēdar unleashed their fiery wrath upon the Ironborn ships, the sea erupted in a symphony of destruction. The maroon flames of Vēttir engulfed the enemy vessels in a torrent of maroon-crimson fire, their wooden hulls splintering and cracking under the intense heat.
Beside her, Jēdar's sapphire-sky blue flames danced and flickered with an otherworldly brilliance, casting an azure glow across the water as they devoured everything in their path. The two dragons worked in tandem, their flames intertwining and mingling as they wrought havoc upon the Ironborn fleet.
Explosions of blue and red flame erupted across the surface of the sea, sending plumes of smoke and steam billowing into the air. The Ironborn ships were consumed in a blaze of glory, their sails turning to ash and their crews screaming in terror as they were engulfed by the relentless onslaught.
Through it all, Balerion's black flames loomed overhead like a dark specter, casting a shadow of death upon the battlefield. The combined might of the three dragons was unstoppable, their fury unmatched as they laid waste to everything in their path.
As the chaos of battle raged on, Aemon's keen eyes scanned the horizon, searching for any signs of fleeing Ironborn ships. Amidst the swirling maelstrom of flames and smoke, he spotted several vessels attempting to slip away to the north, their sails billowing in the wind as they desperately sought to escape the carnage unfolding around them.
With the Redwyne fleet effectively blocking their retreat to the south and the looming presence of Fair Isle and the Westerlands closing off any avenue of escape to the west and east, the only path left for the Ironborn was to head northward. However, this route proved to be no sanctuary, as the vigilant watch of Vēttir and Jēdar prevented any easy escape.
The maroon and sapphire dragons swooped down upon the fleeing ships with deadly precision, their flames cutting through the darkness like beacons of destruction. Against the backdrop of the bright inferno engulfing the central battlefield, the escaping vessels stood out like beacons, easy targets for the dragons to strike.
With each fiery breath, Vēttir and Jēdar unleashed their wrath upon the fleeing Ironborn, their flames painting the night sky with streaks of crimson and azure. The sea churned and boiled as the ships were engulfed in a torrent of fire, their wooden hulls crackling and splintering under the intense heat.
Amidst the chaos, Aemon watched with a grim determination, his heart heavy with the knowledge that there could be no mercy for those who sought to escape justice. As the last of the fleeing ships succumbed to the dragons' fury, the sea lay quiet once more; the only sound was the crackling of flames and the distant cries of the wounded and dying.
As the surviving Ironborn ships pressed on in their desperate bid to escape the carnage behind them, their hopes of finding refuge in the north quickly turned to despair. Unbeknownst to them, another formidable force lay in wait, ready to deliver justice upon those who dared to threaten the peace of the realm.
The dragons had been leading a fleet of their own.
From the north, the Velaryon fleet emerged like a silent specter, their warships cutting through the waves with deadly precision. As they descended upon the fleeing Ironborn vessels, the sea erupted into chaos, the clash of wood and steel mingling with the anguished cries of men.
With a deafening roar, the two fleets collided with bone-crushing force, the impact sending splintered wood and shattered debris flying in all directions. The once-proud Ironborn ships, battered and broken from their earlier encounter with Balerion and the dragons, offered little resistance against the overwhelming might of the Velaryon armada.
Amidst the chaos of battle, sailors scrambled to man their posts; their desperate shouts were drowned out by the roar of the crashing waves and the thunderous clash of the ship against the ship. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and salt as flames licked hungrily at the shattered remnants of the Ironborn vessels.
With each passing moment, the Velaryon fleet pressed their advantage, their superior numbers and strategic positioning allowing them to gain the upper hand against their beleaguered foes. Ironborn sailors, trapped aboard their sinking ships, fought bravely to the last, but their efforts were ultimately in vain against the relentless onslaught of their enemies.
As the battle raged on, the waters ran red with blood, a grim testament to the ferocity of the struggle that had unfolded upon the waves. Amidst the wreckage and ruin, the survivors of the Ironborn fleet were left to reckon the flames of black, blue, and red. Yet even as they celebrated their hard-won victory, they knew that the fight against the Ironborn was far from over and that the seas would continue to be fraught with danger in the days to come.
Amidst the carnage, the flames of battle danced upon the waves, casting an eerie glow upon the blood-stained waters. Maroon, sapphire, and black flames intertwined in a deadly ballet, their searing heat turning the sea into a maelstrom of fire and destruction.
Velaryon warships, their prows adorned with the sigil of their noble house, bore down upon the Ironborn vessels with relentless ferocity. The clash of steel upon steel filled the air as sailors fought tooth and nail for control of the decks, their weapons gleaming in the flickering light of the flames.
Ironborn ships, already weakened from their earlier encounter with Balerion and the dragons, offered little resistance against the overwhelming might of the Velaryon fleet. Hulls buckled and splintered beneath the relentless onslaught, their once-proud sails torn to shreds by the merciless onslaught of enemy fire.
Amidst the chaos, the cries of the wounded and dying mingled with the roar of the raging inferno, a symphony of agony and despair that echoed across the waves. Men fought with desperate determination, their hearts filled with the fierce resolve of those who knew that victory was the only path to survival.
Above, the dragons soared through the darkening skies, their massive forms casting ominous shadows upon the churning waters below. With each beat of their mighty wings, they unleashed torrents of flame upon the hapless Ironborn ships, their sapphire and maroon fire mingling with the inky black flames of Balerion.
The sea became a swirling inferno of color and darkness as the maroon, sapphire, and black flames danced and intertwined upon the waves. The once tranquil ocean was transformed into a hellish landscape of fire and destruction, where the very water itself seemed to burn with an otherworldly intensity. Men fought desperately for their lives, their bodies wracked with fear and adrenaline as they struggled to fend off the relentless onslaught of their enemies.
But it was all in vain. The combined might of the dragons and the Velaryon fleet proved too much for the Ironborn to withstand. One by one, their ships were consumed by the flames, their crews perishing in the merciless embrace of the inferno.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the world into darkness, the sea became a writhing mass of vivid, otherworldly flames. Marron, sapphire, and black fire danced and intertwined upon the churning waters, painting the surface of the ocean with their ominous glow.
The once serene sea had transformed into a nightmarish inferno, where the very water itself seemed to burn with an unnatural intensity. Waves of blue, black, and red fire crashed against the sides of the Ironborn ships, engulfing them in an all-consuming embrace that left nothing but charred wreckage in its wake.
The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke and burning flesh as the flames licked hungrily at the wooden hulls of the doomed vessels. Screams of agony echoed across the desolate expanse of the sea, mingling with the roar of the flames to create a symphony of horror and despair.
And yet, amidst the chaos and destruction, there was a strange and terrible beauty to be found in the spectacle. The colors of the flames danced and shimmered in the darkness, casting an eerie, mesmerizing light upon the roiling waters below.
For a fleeting moment, Aemon found himself entranced by the sight, unable to tear his eyes away from the mesmerizing display of destruction unfolding before him. In that moment, the horrors of war faded into the background, replaced by a sense of awe and wonder at the sheer power and majesty of the flames of blue, black, and red.
The sapphire blues and maroon reds danced and mixed, twirled, danced, and intertwined. It was a beautiful sight to see such blues and reds; to see such soft blues mix with strong and bold dark reds was something that stopped the mind and called for the heart. The eyes did nothing but look at the blues and reds and think of beauty brought down by the gods themselves, the gods from Valyria, and any other culture or peoples that believed in fire gods; the Lord of light himself had blessed these flames to show the world the beauty of his domains.
The night sky danced with the blues and reds, the black flames mixing with sections of blues, making shades lighter and darker, the same for the reds. A multi-colored display of red, blue, and black. The winds pushed the flames together to reach the heavens, the fires reaching the skies as the dusk had settled. The maroon and sapphire flames mixed, and the flaming shadow of Balerion, which was now the main source of light. It was beautiful.
If not, the screams of those being burnt alive.
But the illusion was short-lived, shattered by the harsh reality of the carnage unfolding around him. As the flames continued to consume everything in their path, Aemon was reminded once again of the true cost of war and the terrible toll it exacted upon all who dared to partake in its deadly dance.
The once tranquil sea had transformed into a nightmarish tapestry of maroon, sapphire, and black flames, casting an eerie, surreal glow across the water's surface. As far as the eye could see, the ocean was ablaze with the infernal hues of war, painting the world in shades of blue, red, and black.
The flames licked hungrily at the shattered remnants of the Ironborn fleet, engulfing the mangled wreckage in a relentless torrent of fire. Splintered wooden planks crackled and snapped as they were consumed by the voracious flames, casting long shadows that danced and flickered in the night.
As the night wore on, the sea of flames raged unabated, a relentless testament to the savagery of war and the unyielding will of those who fought upon its fiery stage. And amidst the chaos and destruction, the true cost of the conflict was laid bare for all to see, a grim reminder of the fragility of life and the fleeting nature of peace.
Aegon the Conqueror with Balerion, the Black Dread, had once caused the Field of Fire alongside Vhagar, the Dragon Queen, and Veraxes. It is not a terribly hard thing to burn a field of dry wheat to destroy an army. But setting fire to water itself, burning a sea? That is a different thing entirely. Aegon the Conqueror could keep the Field of Fire. The history books named that day the day when Balerion, the Black Dread, Vēttir, the Bloodfyre, and Jēdar, the Azure Wrath, caused the Sea of Flames.