GOT: Molten Crown

Along the way, the soldiers aboard the warships gradually adapted to the howling wind and torrential rain.

The primary reason for their newfound stability was the iron chains linking the ships together, creating an unusually steady formation.

Upon entering Shipwreck Bay, Gerold ordered the fleet to shift formation from a U-shape to a T-shape.

The head of the T-formation was meant to run aground deliberately, clearing the way like a living minefield.

Visibility was low, and since Viserys had opted for a swift assault, this extravagant method was the only viable choice.

Whenever a ship struck a reef, the vessels following behind would immediately adjust their course.

By the time the Dragonstone fleet reached the port of Storm's End, nearly a dozen ships had run aground.

Two had even sunk outright.

But it was all worth it.

When the defenders of Storm's End began to shoot a scattered volley of arrows, the fleet—now joined into a floating island—had already dispatched small boats to launch the assault.

Viserys gazed at the clearly visible Storm's End and couldn't help but wish the soldiers would row faster.

Storm's End itself was a towering stronghold, immense in scale.

With its massive battlements and towers, it looked like a clenched fist poised atop the cliff, ready to smash down upon any enemy.

"Your Grace, to ensure we can burn the usurper's fleet, we must at least hold out until nightfall," said Ser Arthur. "I need to go to the front and direct the assault. Please remain here and keep yourself safe."

Viserys nodded, indicating he had no intention of leaving the flagship.

Most of the warships had been treated to resist fire—using teak, a wood both rot-resistant and difficult to ignite, especially in the planking.

It would take time to set them ablaze, and even more time to destroy them completely.

So battle was inevitable.

Yet Viserys was not nervous.

The three Kingsguard elites were all present. And as far as he knew, there was no one within Storm's End capable of stopping Arthur.

More importantly, no one would have expected him to strike Storm's End at such a time. Their hasty response could never match the strength of Arthur or Oswell.

This was destined to become a legendary battle recorded in the annals of history.

The fleet spread its ships laterally, and the trebuchets began their bombardment.

Before the torch-bearing soldiers reached their targets, the fleet would unleash as much destruction as possible on the enemy vessels clustered below Storm's End.

The enemy fleet, tightly packed and unable to move, was the perfect target.

Once the trebuchets were properly angled, they didn't need to re-aim. They simply fired continuously at high speed, their volleys dense and merciless.

By the time the soldiers rowing small boats reached the harbor, over twenty of the enemy's modified warships had already been sunk.

And the rest of the battle unfolded just as Viserys had predicted—an unstoppable onslaught.

Unintentionally, he had just orchestrated the first combined arms operation of this world—infantry and artillery working as one.

By the time Stannis deployed his forces, some of his ships were already engulfed in black smoke. When he realized which enemy unit had advanced the fastest, his heart sank.

That detachment was led by none other than the famed Sword of the Morning—Arthur Dayne.

Their assault was the fiercest of all.

If the troops under Arthur were a great spear, then Arthur himself was the gleaming tip.

He and his men advanced so swiftly, it was like a blade slicing through thick, fatty flesh.

Some of the defenders, upon recognizing Arthur, dropped their weapons and fled in terror.

Had they not been sheltered inside a heavy stone fortress perched atop a cliff, Stannis would have believed it impossible to resist Arthur's advance.

But Arthur wasn't after him—he was after his ships.

By the time Stannis and his men reached the harbor, some of the warships were already ablaze beyond salvation.

Within the thick smoke, flickering orange flames danced like the snarling head of a dragon.

Stannis knew the losses would be far greater than he had imagined.

The question was no longer whether they could repel the Targaryen fleet—but whether they could save even a single ship.

It was then that he encountered Oswell Whent and his forces.

The usually silent Kingsguard was just as fearless in combat. He and his men held the line at the harbor, preventing Stannis's reinforcements from advancing.

In such stormy weather, neither side could rely on archery—it was all down to blade against blade, steel against steel, a brutal, primal clash.

Meanwhile, Ser Ock led another force swiftly toward a large ship with a yellow hull.

"Ser Ock, this one looks like a proper warship," a soldier noted.

"It is," Ock confirmed.

His mother had been a prostitute, servicing sailors of the royal navy in King's Landing. He himself had been born aboard a warship.

No one knew ships better than he did.

He loved them too—and felt it was a pity to simply burn them.

Climbing the mast for a better view, Ock scanned the battlefield. He saw that most of the enemy forces had been drawn away by Arthur's assault.

He realized he had a real chance to seize all twenty ships before him.

What brought more glory—burning enemy ships or capturing them?

Without a doubt, the latter.

What if His Grace rewarded him with a barony?

Knighthood was the lowest rung of nobility—not even a proper title. Only as a baron would he be considered a true noble.

Resolved, Ock decided to bend Ser Gerold's orders slightly.

If he could bring these ships back, his rise would be guaranteed.

Standing at the prow, he shouted to his men:

"Bad news, lads—you might not get many kills today. The enemy's already fled to Ser Arthur's side!"

The men groaned in disappointment.

"But I've got good news too," Oak added with a grin. "If we seize these ships and present them to His Grace, the rewards will be just as grand!

Follow me! Take these ships—and win glory! Forward!"

Sadly, Viserys could not witness Ock's performance himself, or his appraisal of the man would have risen even higher.

This fellow had remarkable instinct.

His timing was flawless.

As the two sides clashed, rain mixed with blood, flowing in dark rivulets.

The longer the battle dragged on, the more anxious Stannis became. He watched as the smoke from the burning ships rose and gathered into a thick, towering column.

An hour passed. Then two.

As dusk fell and the Dragonstone fleet began to withdraw, he knew it was over.

The fleet he had spent nearly a million gold dragons to build was gone.

"My lord! The Fury!" someone cried.

A soldier had spotted the yellow-hulled Fury slowly moving—heading toward the Targaryen fleet like a floating island.

Behind it were over twenty ships, all following in its wake.

Stannis could only watch in helpless fury as his ships were stolen before his eyes. His face turned ashen, his shoulders trembling, and his teeth clenched tight with rage.

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