TBOV: Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Fall of Braavos

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Fall of Braavos

“We Braavosi are descended from those who fled Valyria and the wroth of its dragonlords. We do not jape of dragons.”

―Tycho Nestoris to Jon Snow

…

The Braavosi wedge struck the gap like a mailed fist. Jace watched from above as the leading dromonds surged through the breach, smashing into the reformed Westerosi line. The crash of timber, the splintering of oars, the sudden roar of men locked in combat drifted up even over the wind’s whistle. A grand melee erupted – ships grappling, marines swarming over railings, arrows sleeting between decks, catapults flinging stones and pots of pitch. Even from this height, it was a terrifying, chaotic dance of destruction, ships locked together like wrestlers, the sea between them churning with debris and struggling men. Vermax shifted restlessly beneath him, the wound in his shoulder weeping blood onto his scales, his growls low and menacing.

For a time, the Braavosi fought with the fury of cornered men. Jace saw their wedge drive deep into the Westerosi flank, the fighting thickest where Koja’s flagship, The Unmasked, battled alongside the heaviest Braavosi dromonds. But the sheer weight of Westerosi numbers began to tell. The mass of the Green crescent folded towards the gap, pressing the Braavosi advance, threatening to crush them entirely.

Then came the signal Jace had been waiting for – a sequence of colored flags hoisted on The Unmasked. The retreat. As planned, ships on the outer edges of the melee began to disengage where they could, oars digging frantically, turning back towards the narrow passages leading into the lagoon. Those locked too tightly in the fray, like the Unmasked, were abandoned, their crews fighting on as a sacrificial screen to delay the enemy pursuit. A calculated, brutal necessity.

“Now, Luke!” Jace shouted, urging Vermax forward despite the drag from his injury. “We shield the retreat!”

They dove towards the pursuing Westerosi vanguard, loosing coordinated blasts of fire. Vermax’s green flame washed over the forecastle of a large Lannister carrack, sending sailors screaming into the sea. Arrax’s pearly fire sheared the mast from a Redwyne galley. Scorpion bolts flew wildly around them, but they stayed mobile, striking and weaving, forcing the lead enemy ships to falter, buying precious minutes for the retreating Braavosi.

It was then that the horizon turned dark with wings.

From the west, beyond the edge of the world where the sun bled towards the sea, they came. Six shapes, growing larger with terrifying speed. Jace’s blood ran cold. He recognized them instantly. Vhagar, Vermithor, Silverwing. Flanking them, the smaller, swifter forms of Sheepstealer, Seasmoke, and Tessarion. Jace’s suspicions had been proven correct. Aemond had held them back. Waiting. Watching. And now, the true trap was sprung.

Panic seized the retreating Braavosi fleet. Oarsmen strained, captains screamed orders, but there was nowhere to run. Vhagar descended first, ignoring the princes, her target the helpless ships below. A river of fire, thicker and hotter than anything Vermax could produce, engulfed three galleys at once, melting timber and men into slag. Vermithor and Silverwing followed, their combined flames turning the sea into a boiling cauldron, the screams of burning men swallowed by the dragons’ roars. Scorpions fired desperately from the Braavosi decks, but the bolts seemed mere annoyances to the elder dragons, glancing off scales hardened by decades, doing little more than enraging the great beasts.

The other three dragons climbed, angling towards Jace and Luke. Sheepstealer, Seasmoke, Tessarion. Three against two, and Vermax wounded.

“Dive!” Jace screamed, pulling Vermax into a sharp, banking turn.

But Sheepstealer was faster, larger than Vermax, and his rider rode him with wild abandon. The black dragon slammed into Vermax’s flank, jaws snapping. Jace heard Vermax shriek as claws tore at his wounded shoulder. They tumbled through the air, locked in a vicious grapple.

He caught a glimpse of Luke and Arrax trying to maneuver away, but Seasmoke and Tessarion were upon them. Seasmoke dropped from above, while prince Daeron brought Tessarion up from below. Arrax, valiant but small, was caught between them. Jace watched in horror as Seasmoke’s jaws closed around Arrax’s neck, while Tessarion’s claws ripped away his left wing. The white dragon gave a final, piercing shriek. Jace saw Luke’s small form thrown clear, tumbling end over end, before Arrax’s headless, broken body plunged towards the sea like a stone.

“LUKE!” Jace’s roar was lost in the thunder of wings and dragon screams.

Blinded by grief and rage, he spurred the injured Vermax, trying to break free from Sheepstealer’s grasp, trying to reach his brother, trying to do something. But it was too late. Seasmoke and Tessarion, their kill finished, turned towards him. Vermax, already bleeding and grappled by Sheepstealer, had no chance.

Jace barely registered the searing pain as Sheepstealer’s teeth closed around his torso, biting clean through leather and mail and flesh. The world tilted, a kaleidoscope of fire, sea, and sky. His last conscious thought was of his mother’s face, her pleas for him to be safe. Then darkness swallowed him whole, his lower body still strapped to Vermax’s saddle as his dragon fought on for a few more heartbeats before being overwhelmed.