The night enveloped Lys Island like a cloak of black satin. Even the stars hid behind the clouds, cloaking the island in eerie stillness.
Inside the Governor's Palace, the grand hall flickered with the soft glow of candlelight. Gavin and Daenerys sat at the head of the table, the rest of their war council seated in respectful silence.
Gavin stood slowly, his voice calm but commanding.
"The fleets of Volantis, Myr, and Tyrosh are closing in. But we won't let them unite. We'll strike first—divide them before they're ready, and destroy them one by one."
He turned to Hassan, eyes sharp.
"How's the training going? Have we fully replenished the fleet's crew?"
Hassan stood promptly and answered with a confident nod.
"My lord, the crew is nearly complete. Most of the new recruits are seasoned men—former smugglers, mercenaries, and sailors. They've adapted quickly with minimal training."
Gavin nodded.
"Good. At dawn, the fleet assembles. We sail for Myr and Tyrosh."
He shifted his attention to Jorah.
"Jorah. Take your men and join the fleet. All of them."
Jorah and Hassan exchanged a glance, then stood in unison.
"As you command, Lord Gavin."
Gavin turned to Daenerys, his gaze softening.
"While I'm gone, Lys will be under your protection."
Daenerys gave a steady nod.
"It will be safe. I promise."
Then Gavin's eyes moved to the towering figure behind her.
"Ser Brienne," he said solemnly, "I place the First Legion under your command. Defend Lys. Defend Daenerys."
Brienne blinked in surprise, but immediately dropped to one knee, fist to her chest.
"My lord, I swear on my life: even if it costs me my last drop of blood, I will protect them both."
As the meeting ended and night deepened, the harbor began to stir.
Warships stood anchored in formation, their hulking silhouettes shimmering beneath the moonlight. Crates of food, barrels of arrows, and casks of water were loaded with urgency. The sails flapped like the wings of beasts eager for release.
At sunrise, Gavin walked the docks in silence. Daenerys stood waiting, wind playing with her silver-gold hair. No words were spoken—only a long look, and then he turned, his cloak snapping behind him as he boarded the Belerys.
The sailing horn blared across the port, a low, echoing call that signaled the start of war.
Far to the east, the war camp of Volantis buzzed with dread as an attendant knelt before Malachor, holding a charred urn in trembling hands.
The warlord listened in silence as the story of Gavin's envoy—burned to ash before the throne—was relayed.
His face contorted in rage, veins bulging across his forehead. He crushed the crystal wine glass in his hand, shards slicing through his palm.
"Gavin Belerys dares to mock me?" he snarled. "To defy the power of Volantis?"
He rose from his seat, voice thundering through the tent.
"Gather the armies! We march for the Disputed Lands! I will crush him for this insult!"
His generals stiffened at the command and quickly dispersed, leaving Malachor standing alone, fuming like a volcano ready to erupt.
Meanwhile, the waters off Tyrosh bustled with life.
Pirate ships floated far from shore, crowding the open sea. Though the port was too small to house them all, the pirates were content. Supplied daily with food, drink, and prostitutes by Tyrosh's lords, they lounged under the sun, fishing lazily and laughing.
A dark speck appeared in the sky. At first, no one noticed.
"What's that?" a pirate murmured, shielding his eyes.
"A bird. A big one," another replied, uninterested.
But then it grew larger—much larger.
"That's no bird..." someone whispered.
A moment later, a shrill cry echoed across the deck:
"DRAGON! Enemy attack!"
The peaceful lull shattered. Bells rang out. Pirates screamed and scrambled.
"Get the ballista ready!"
"Raise the sails!"
"Get to your posts! Don't just stand there!"
But it was already too late.
With a thunderous roar, Syndor, the golden dragon, dove from the sky. Gavin sat astride his back, shield raised and eyes locked on the fleet below.
"Dracarys!" he commanded.
A torrent of fire erupted from Syndor's jaws, sweeping across a pirate ship. The deck exploded in flames. Screaming men flailed and fell into the sea as the fire consumed sails, rigging, and flesh alike.
In moments, three ships were reduced to burning husks.
Archers retaliated in panic.
"Ready!"
"Loose!"
Arrows rained through the sky, clattering harmlessly against Syndor's iron-hard scales. Gavin's shield bristled with them, but he held firm, guiding the dragon through the chaos.
A few arrows found weak spots, grazing Syndor's flank.
The dragon shrieked in fury.
"That one," Gavin growled. "Burn it."
Syndor surged downward. Flames roared once more. The pirate ship that had fired the shot erupted in a ball of flame, ammunition stores igniting in violent bursts.
Ships fled. Others surrendered. Most simply burned.
By nightfall, the waters off Tyrosh were thick with smoke and floating debris. Gavin circled high above the ruin, surveying the battlefield. His fleet moved in, securing what remained.
Syndor let out a final roar before turning westward.
Gavin's voice was low but firm as the city faded behind them.
"One city down. Myr is next."