Chapter Text
The cold winds blew hard from the east off of the waters of the vale. Daemon had often used Gulltown as a waystation for his voyages to Braavos and the port of Ibben. He’d drank in their taverns, f*cked in their brothels and broke bread with the sailors there. Now, he sailed to sack the city and burn their ports.
Daemon always hated the cold. When he was young, a harsh winter had frozen blackwater bay solid. Him and his sister had gone out playing on the ice, trying to reach Dragonstone by sled. But as they can in sight of the volcanic island, Daemon had fallen through the ice. His arms and legs seized up in the impossible cold, and he’d thrashed and flailed in the water for what felt like an eternity. Luckily, his sister had brought a rope, managing to pull him back up. He’d spent the rest of the day with his uncle Aerion, shivering under a mountain of blankets. It didn’t feel too different fifteen years later, shivering in his blue scale-mail armour.
Casso, Daemons Ibbenese first mate, was almost enjoying the cold. He was pissing off the side of the ship, one hand on a flagon of wine and another on his co*ck. From all their hair on the man’s body, you couldn’t tell he was completely naked. “Behold, drowned god of Westeros! I give you a water of my bladder, as offering so that I will not drown!”
“The drowned god is more like to take that as an insult!” shouted Falia Pyke, the captain of the neighbouring longship, Merman’s Wife. Her good eye was closed, so she didn’t have to look at Casso’s manhood.
“Well… then he won’t want to take me! If I was a sea god, I would never take a man who would piss in my ocean!” Casso shouted back.
“I don’t think the drowned god, if he exists, cares!” Daemon shouted. “There are probably men pissing into the ocean from Lannisport to Yi Ti!”
“Whatever you say, demon.” Casso said, finishing his piss and redressing himself in his furs. “You seem nervous.”
“Because I am.” Daemon snapped. He knew he was heading into battle but didn’t know against who. The Arryn fleet he could handle. The Arryn fleet augmented with Braavosi ships, he couldn’t. He shouldn’t have been worried. He’d taken his whole fleet, galleys, longships, cogs, even a few whalers to serve as shields, all mounted with scorpion ballistae and catapults, and well over a hundred crossbowmen, bowmen and boarding parties. If it came to it, he had a warhammer to fend off boarding parties.
“Do not worry.” Said Casso, giving Daemon a toothy grin. “Or… worry a bit, to make your senses better. But not so much to blind you.”
Daemon nodded and rubbed his chin. Above him he saw Vhagar, ridden by Visenya, silently gliding high above them in the night. She would be the one to set the Arryn fleet and port ablaze, while he would engage the ships that left port as a distraction.
Then, he saw it. The burning torches of the city of Gulltown, dark behind its large land walls but shining like the sun from port. He fetched his Myrish eye, a great metal-and-glass tube that magnified his vision, to look at the port more closely. He saw dockworkers running around, deckhands unfastening ropes and shouting orders… and he saw the Arryn fleet, hastily assembled from trading vessels converted into warships, as well as a few longboats.
“Alright you filthy mongrels!” Daemon bellowed. “Bring the whalers ‘round the front!”
A flag boy translated his commands into flag signals. The fleet slowed down, with the whalers sailing around the front, powered by what must’ve been a hundred strong Ibbenese oarsmen. They created a line, blocking the Arryn fleet from view.
Daemon smiled. “Catapults! Ready, and loose on my signal!”
The flag boy translated, and the galleys behind him began to load their catapults, covering the rocks in pitch and setting them afire.
“NOW!” Daemon bellowed, and soon a dozen flaming rocks flew through the air, over the whalers and into the unseen fleet. He heard the smashing of wood and the yelling of sailors. Daemon’s crew cheered, yelling curses at the Arryn fleet. He also saw bursts of fire from above from Vhagar, diving the Arryn fleet and lighting rows of them on fire.
“Prepare to fire again!” Daemon yelled. “And watch our flanks!”
As the catapults reloaded, a few Arryn longships came spilling out from behind the whalers. “Left! Left!” Daemon shouted, but Falia Pyke and her longships were already there. They rammed the stragglers, with boarding parties butchering the unprepared crews with axes and swords. He saw Falia behead a sailor in a single blow, kicking his severed head into the sea. From the right, scorpion ballistae shot other longships to pieces. And all the while, Vhagar continued to dive and burn.
It was all going so well. Until Casso shouted “CAPTAIN!”
He looked at the Ibbenese man, who was looking through his Myrish eye. “What!”
“PURPLE SHIPS! EAST!”
Daemon snatched the Myrish eye from Casso, and his heart filled with horror.
He saw what looked like two-hundred purple hulled and sailed ships, sailing impossibly fast, from the east. He saw them boarding his catapult galleys, water dancers sneaking up on their crews and cutting their throats. Daemon’s worst nightmare had come true: the bravos were here, and between them and the whalers holding back the Arryn fleet, he was trapped.
“CATAPULTS! AIM FOR THE WHALERS!”
“What?!” Casso protested. “My brothers are on those ships!”
“If we don’t burn them, we’ll all be dead!” Daemon shouted. The flag boy was commanding the catapults, until a scorpion bolt shot right through his chest, throwing him overboard to his death. The bravos were getting closer.
“Scatter!” Daemon cried desperately, as more ballista bolts struck his galley and the others around him. “Get the f*ck out of here!”
Judging by the disappearance of Falia Pyke, those who wanted to leave had already gone. “Prepare to be boarded!” He yelled to his men.
He dashed into his quarters, retrieving his spear and a heavy oaken shield, the blue Velaryon seahorse painted on it. Written on the inside were the words of his house, The old, the true and the brave.
He felt the ship turn, like it was trying to escape from the bravos and the Arryn’s. But then he heard yelling and the clash of steel. They were on board. Daemon grabbed his half helm and prepared himself.
To whichever gods are listen. Old, New, Valyrian or Drowned. I’m not old, but now… I ask to strike true… and be brave.
He emerged to find his men clashing with the Braavosi, wielding slender blades and almost dancing with their strikes. One ran towards him, and Daemon smashed him in the face with his great shield. Before the man could get up, he drove his spear through his chest. They’re fast, but I’m stronger. He joined Casso, fending off bravos with an axe and a fur-covered shield. They fended off the water dancers, until one snuck up behind Casso and slit his throat, dark blood spraying everywhere.
Daemon slipped on the deck, now soaked in red, watching the bravos laugh as he struggled to get up. Enraged, he threw his spear into one of their chests, regained his footing, and began to swing his shield wildly, striking bravos with the sound of splintering wood and crushing bone. As he imbedded the shield into a man’s skull, it broke in half. Daemon cursed.
In all of his adrenaline, he didn’t feel the long thin sword of a water dancer find a chink in his armour until he saw it sticking out of his breast. He yelled and whirled around, punching the water dancer square in the face, beating him as his breaths began to grow laboured and he felt weak. The water dancer only laughed, and through his broken teeth and a mouthful of blood. “Valar Morghulis, dragonseed scum!” Daemon took the man’s dagger and slashed his throat.
He stood up and felt dizzy. Breathing felt impossible, and he stumbled around like a drunkard. His heart was beating so fast. He saw the whaling ships burst into flames, which grew ever blurry as he continued to bleed.
I have to get out of here. Daemon thought. Get back to… Driftmark. Back to… Belle, and the boys. Back to…
He felt himself fall from his galley, into the bay of Gulltown. The water was impossibly cold, and he couldn’t move. For a moment, he felt like a boy again, trapped beneath the ice, looking up at the world. But he was oddly fascinated by the bright lights above him. Were they the sun? The moon? Dragons? Boats? Was he a sailor? Where was he from? Did he have a family? It didn’t matter. The lights were pretty, and the others in the water probably thought so too. All of the fire and warmth of life was waving at Daemon as he descended deeper into the watery blackness.
…
In the end, the battle of Gulltown had been a draw. Both the Arryn and Targaryen fleets wiped each other out in a tide of salt, smoke, fire and blood.
As the sun rose over the narrow sea, Visenya saw the destruction clearly for the first time. The bay was clogged full of destroyed ships, all charred and splintered. The harbour of Gulltown had been completely burned, along with the Arryn fleet and most of their Braavosi auxiliaries. Vhagar had seen to that. She still smelt the stench of burning wood on her flying armour, in her hair and on her hands.
She sat defeated on the beach, far away from the city, watching the tide wash up bodies. She didn’t know why. Maybe she was just hoping that Daemon made it out. I know my cousin, she thought. He’s sailed around the world, battled pirates and krakens and the gods know what else.
But he didn’t come. He didn’t walk up to her, joking and smiling in his blue-scale armour. He was gone, into the deepest depths of the bay, along with hundreds of others, Arryn, Targaryen, Braavosi, all.
But someone did wash up on the beach. A bravo, mumbling in the bastard Valyrian of the free cities. His body was blue and bloated, and his eyes were wild. He crawled on his elbows towards the walls of Gulltown, dragging limp broken legs behind him. Visenya placed her boot on the man’s leg. His breathing quickened, as she kicked him onto his back, groaning in pain. Visenya drew Dark Sister from her sheath, placing it over the man’s heart.
“Valar Morghulis.” Visenya said. All men must die.
The bravo gave a weak smile. “Valar… Dohaeris.” All men must serve.
Visenya nodded, and without a sound or even a scream from the bravo, she thrust her sword down into his heart.
