A/N: Hey everyone. The funeral for my grandfather was yesterday, and it was... a good one. Very loving. Still numb a bit, so I'm getting this out. Hope you really like it. Kinda need this boost right now.

Enjoy.

Chapter 79: The Sea Lion

"...And the result of this was…" A raised hand cut off Rhaella in mid-sentence. Her first instinct was to grow annoyed and snap at whomever silently interrupted her, but she wouldn't. No, she loved this interrupter too much. "Yes, Baelon?"

The young Prince was seated in a chair in the lesson chamber, hands folded on his lap. While these rooms were usually used by Uncle Aemon in teaching the children their knowledge, for today it was the Dowager Queen that utilized its facilities. "But…" Jon spoke, pausing. Anyone else would have mistaken it for hesitation or weakness, but Rhaella knew what it was. Her grandson was a perfectionist, and was making sure he used just the right words. "I believe that King Viserys, First of His Name, had a dragon. He was the last rider of…"

"Balerion!" finished the pupil sitting next to him, beaming widely at knowing the right answer.

Rhaella let out a sigh. "Daenerys, I know you are excited for the lessons today, but do not interrupt your nephew when he's speaking." The little sprite was just as smart as Baelon, but less reserved. She wasn't like Rhaegar in that way, more like her brother Duncan, always seeking to impress others and be the first to answer, even if it sacrificed a little accuracy that Baelon wouldn't think of doing.

For her part, she hung her head. "Kessa, muna."

Kissing the crown of her hair, Rhaella chucked her cheek, which brought a smile to her face. "In any case, Daenerys, you were right. It was Balerion. And yes, Baelon, Viserys, First of His Name, was the Black Dread's final rider. But it wasn't truly a bonding experience with them because Balerion, having survived since before the Doom of Valyria, was at least three hundred years of age and on his last legs."

"He died after Viserys rode him?" Rhaenys asked, just as inquisitive as her aunt.

"Sources vary," Rhaella shrugged, "But it is commonly determined by both historical texts and our family's oral history that it was at least a few weeks. Balerion rode through the skies with Viserys once, was unable to fly again, and passed away before a proper bond could be formed between him and the future King."

"A bond like you have with Jaimexes? Or kepa with Aegarax? Or n'uncle Vis with Maerys?"

She nodded. "Aye, Baelon. That very bond." After hearing about the changes in the Targaryen brood following the Greyjoy raid on the Red Keep that very nearly ended in disaster, Rhaella felt it prudent to expand their lessons. Not just simply learning the history of their House, but the understanding of it in relation to their greatest gift - dragonriding. It was difficult for Rhaella since much of it was lost to history along with their first dragons, but her own experiences plus family lore gave her enough. "None of you have bonded with your own dragons yet, so I cannot begin to describe what such a bond feels like."

"When will we bond with a dragon, muna?" Dany asked.

"You and kepa keep six eggs," Rhae insisted, smiling. "Can we hatch them?"

Rhaella shook her head. "Sweetlings, a dragon isn't a playmate or a weapon like a dog or a horse. A dragon is…" She closed her eyes, thinking of the right words. "A dragon is as much a sibling or uncle or aunt as all of you are to each other. They are intelligent, sensitive creatures, often smarter than men, but only one of dragonsblood can even begin to feel such intelligence."

Baelon blinked. "You mean we can talk to the dragons?" Dany and Rhae listened intently for Rhaella's answer, as did Egg… though the eldest son of the brood remained quiet. He wanted to learn, but rarely spoke.

"Yes, Baelon, you can."

"How? All they do is growl or hoot or scream or roar."

A good question, but one that vexed the Dowager Queen because she didn't know herself. "I can only describe it as innate magic. Somehow a dragon can understand you and you it, though familiarity helps make the process easier." Having raised Jaimexes and Maerys from hatching, Rhaella found it easier to speak to them than to Aegarax. "But nothing can compare to the bond one forms with your own dragon."

Dany's eyes sparkled. "Tell us, muna." Her mind was thinking of all the things she would do with her dragon when she obtained one. A beautiful beast, just like Syrax or Meraxes or Silverwing… Jon and I shall ride as high as can be. The thoughts were magical and brought her great happiness.

Her mother encouraged such thoughts, but found it her duty to keep them from growing too idealistic or brutal. "Your bonded dragon is like the bond between your love, or your child… but there's something more. It's almost like you share a mind - you know what your dragon feels and your dragon reciprocates."

"Uncle Aemon says that one with the dragonblood and wolfsblood can warg into a dragon? Is that true?" Since he was the only dragonwolf among them, Baelon obviously was referring to himself.

"I'm not sure," she replied honestly. "I am not an expert on… warging." Truth be told, she barely knew what it was and resolved to ask Aemon or Lyanna later. "But the most important thing to remember is that just as a Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing, a Targaryen without a bonded dragon misses a key part of their soul."

"How so, grandmother?" Rhaenys asked.

"Viserys, First of His Name, rode a dragon once and then when Balerion died never rode again. He was a competent king and a good man, but without a dragon… he was blind to the depth of the rift between his loved ones. Failed to use decisive action to stamp down the feuds between them, and it led to ruin." Thinking of all that their family had lost during the Dance, it made Rhaella's heart ache in agony.

Rhaenys crossed her arms. "That pig Aegon should've let Rhaenyra take the throne as Viserys wanted." Given their mother was Lyanna and they were raised on a steady diet of her favorite novels and histories, the brood-was decidedly pro-Black.

She was as well, but also realistic. "Mistakes were made on both sides, Rhae. From Aegon and Aemond to Jaecarys and Lucerys. All failed to heed the most important rule - dragons can hold the greatest anger or hate in their hearts, but they are strongest when united together. Such anger derives from passion, which can create the deepest love."

"Like the conquerors… or Jaehaerys and Alysanne," Dany beamed.

Rhaella smiled. "Aye, which is why you need to make sure your own bonds are secure before even thinking of seeking out a bond with dragons."

Baelon rose, rushing to his grandmother and hugging her. "I promise, grandmother."

"Me too!" Dany was right on his heels, followed by Rhaenys and finally Aegon, all hugging her. "We won't fight like the Dance. I promise."

A merry laugh tumbled from her lips as Rhaella hugged them back. "Of that I have no doubt, my loves."

Such a good mood her brood had given here was only bolstered as Rhaella entered the nursery, finding Marya Seaworth tending to Princess Myrcella - her youngest son Maric was playing in the corner. "Oh," Marya exclaimed. "Rhaella. I did not see you there." Friends now, they were on first name bases."

"Tis fine, I just wished to see my darling dragonlion."

Seeing her mother, Myrcella immediately reached for her, squirming within Marya's arms. "Mu-na, mu-na!" Her first words, said only a few moons before. Gods, Rhaella was so proud as she took her in her arms.

"Hello, my sweet little hatchling." Nothing was going to stop her from enjoying Dany and Cella grow up, a priceless eventuality she knew the gods had blessed her with. "You look just like your kepa - yes you do, yes you do." She tickled Cella's stomach, the babe squealing happily.

"There's no denying it, your Grace," Marya chuckled from behind her. "That babe is clearly a Lannister by blood, if not by name." Her hair was a golden flax that shone in the sunlight, contrasted with eyes of the purest indigo.

"I wouldn't have minded for her to be a Lannister by name." Rhaella would have married Jaime in a heartbeat, but alas his oaths to the Kingsguard needed to be respected - true adherence to form would have been ending their couplings, but she'd burn any Septon or Septa that demanded it of her. Jaime was hers, and Rhaella wasn't giving it up. "She's a mix of dear Joanna and I believe my father. A perfect mix of lion and dragon." Another kiss to her chubby cheek, which made Cella babble.

"Mu-na! Mu-na!"

Tossing a ball against the wall, young Maric pushed himself up. "Momma, can I go?"

Marya turned to look at her son. "And where do you wish to go?" Her boys would burn down half the Red Keep if they were left unsupervised.

"Prince Baelon wants to show me the dragon skulls," he said excitedly. It wasn't every day his mother took him to the Red Keep, and getting picked by the Crown Prince as a playmate was an honor even a kid from Flea Bottom could recognize. "Please?"

On the one hand, the Prince would be accompanied by Princess Daenerys and they would burn down the entire city if left unsupervised in their mischief. On the other hand… Ser Jaime was assigned to guard duty and he was a good chaperone. "Alright, you may go. But be back on time for supper." He couldn't be told twice, shooting out. "Gods," Marya snorted, running a hand through her brown hair. "Four boys just like their father, and another on the way." She cupped her belly. "I'll be grey of hair by the end of next year."

Rhaella smiled at her friend's consternation. "Do not fret, Marya. Your husband will return from his command at sea a hero and likely a Lord. I see no reason why you wouldn't obtain enough nursemaids to ease your burden." No maid could remove the wonder that a mother felt when cuddling her babe close, but in taking the laundry or preparing meals, they served an invaluable purpose that even the modest Rhaella wasn't willing to part with."

"True… true…" A tear came to Marya's eye. "If he returns."

Setting Cella down, Rhaella embraced her friend. "Do not think of such things. He will return."

But Marya shook her head. "This isn't smuggling, which had its own risks. Davos is sailing against the greatest seafarers since Corlys the Sea Snake."

"Didn't you say Davos was the greatest since Corlys?"

"I did, but he's never fought in a true battle before. I… I… if I lose him…" Rhaella simply stood there, letting Marya vent her worries out on her shoulder. Any day now, even likely this very moment, the two great fleets would be clashing in the Reach if the reports were accurate from Rhaegar and Oldtown. You better come home, Ser Davos. I shall never forgive you if you leave my friend a widow. A dragon answered to neither man nor god… what was stopping her from going to the seven hells and exacting her revenge.

You better send Euron Greyjoy there.

"And so it begins," stated Ser Davos Seaworth, looking at the crew of his flagship - the Sea Lion. Above atop the mainmast fluttered the banner of the three-headed dragon, also emblazoned on the sails while the mizzenmast flew Davos' personal sigil of a roaring sealion. "Say your last fookin' prayers and then get to position."

"Aye, my Lord," came the reply, a reply soon shared across the assembled royal fleet as it steamed westward through the Arbor Straits - bugle calls and horns signalling the beginning of the advance. Those of the Seven prayed to the Father and the Warrior, the Northmen their silent prayers of the old ways, while the few fire and Valyrian worshippers conducted their own rituals.

Gripping the railing of his carrack, sails unfurled in all their glory, Davos breathed in the sea air. Watched the sunlight sparkle atop the blue-green waves, a few dolphins breaking the surface as they fled the coming battle. On each side of him were the wall of sailing and oared ships assembled for this day, and ahead were the eight surprises he had in store for the enemy.

"Gods protect us," he murmured, to which gods… he did not quite know. Whichever one would get him back home to Marya and the boys.

Miles away, a different sort of ritual was taking place. "Please! Mercy!" The screams of the thrall were cut short as Denys Drumm brought his blade across his neck. Instead, a rasping gurgle emerged, blood slowly filling his throat and lungs. Death would come soon, but the Ironborn lieutenant tossed him into the drink. A gift for the drowned god.

Euron looked at the tiny stain of red blood before it passed by in a blur. Similar offerings were being done in every flagship of the fleet, heralding the future where thousands more would satiate the hunger of the drowned god of their enemies. "Here this, you cunts! Any man that doesn't fight will join that bastard in the drink!" He slammed his booted foot against the metal grate to the thralls manning the oarbanks of the King Harwyn. "You win, you get your freedom!" He drew his sword and held it in the air. "What is dead may never die!"

"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!"

From the massive spire of the Citadel and tower of Hightower, dozens of Maesters and the entirety of House Hightower could witness the coming clash between the Iron Fleet and the Royal Fleet - recording it for the annals of history. For the Ironborn, Euron commanded the center of ninety triremes and carracks with his nephew manning the reserve a mile behind him. On their left was Rodrik Harlaw with sixty smaller longships and biremes to navigate the shoals closer to shore. Prince Victarion had the majority of their sailing ships, powerful carracks and caravels ready to turn the royal flank.

Davos, approaching from the east, advanced without the same lighter vessels that had served Ironborn reavers so well over the centuries. Lucerys Velaryon's fifty galleys anchored their right, while the thirty carracks and forty cogs of House Redwyne sought vengeance for Oldtown on the left. The Sea Lion commanded the center personally, forty galleys and twenty carracks, and kept Wylis Manderly and Stannis Baratheon behind with thirty and twelve galleys respectively.

But ahead of his ships were Davos' secret weapon. Eight former grain merchentmen under the Velaryon flag, equipped with banks of oars and packed with firepower. He dubbed them the 'galleass,' while the men of the fleet preferred the colloquial term 'whale.'

It wasn't until midday that the two fleets met each other, and by then a stiff wind bracketed the ships from the east - advantage given for the Targaryen fleet. Keeping his ships tight together, Euron planned to fan them out when they were close to the enemy to prevent them from reacting to his penchant for envelopment. His galleys were fast and nimble, but the sudden advance of the massive Galleasses forced him to fan them out far earlier than intended. "Fire!" At his order, the rapid-fire naval catapults hurled their flaming projectiles at the lumbering whales. They were slow to maneuver, but their banks of sails made them faster than imagined and soon they closed to the still tightly packed galleys.

Each ship was tightly-packed with catapults, scorpions, and archers, and they unleashed the seven hells all across their broadsides. Three Ironborn triremes practically disintegrated under the onslaught, while the faster carracks labored under multiple fires.

But as soon as the carnage unleashed by the galleasses was wrought, they passed through the two line deep Ironborn center. Slow, the whales couldn't effectively turn with the winds hurling them westwards, not with the few oars they had. Savaged, Euron's center was now meeting Davos' on even terms.

Each fleet simply crashed into each other. The faster Ironborn sailed in groups of three or four, trying to maneuver around gaps in the royals while the larger carracks and galleys unleashed vicious broadsides, crippling ships for boarding. Minutes ticked by as one by one, all ships began engaging each other in a furious melee. Grabbing his spyglasses, Euron saw the lead carrack of the royal fleet. "That's him! That's the smuggler!" It was in the middle of a furious broadside with a carrack of House Orkwood, superior firepower taking its toll… but leaving the Sea Lion vulnerable. "Set course to ram them!"

"What is dead may never die!" The Ironborn motto was useful in all occasions.

"Loose!" Two dozen longbowmen released their flaming arrows, bracketing the Ironborn ship. It's masts had been felled, fires awash on the deck. Davos watched it with a tired smile. Not half-an hour in to the battle and already the exhaustion was near overwhelming. Already the Ironborn were surrounding his ships and vice versa, all semblance of coordinated maneuver lost as the former attempted to ram them while the latter preferred broadside raking and boarding.

His ship had notched three kills so far, but the worst was yet to come. "My lord!" Davos' captain, his former quartermaster from the smuggling days, was frantic. An arrow had grazed his temple, covering half his face with blood. "King Harwyn off the port fore! Moving to ram us!" Sure enough, the golden kraken trireme was heading straight for them, steel prow ready to break their back.

Davos acted quickly. "Hard port! Meet em head on!"

The hopes for a quick kill from Euron died as the Sea Lion lumbered around to face them… but not enough to miss. Ironic, the carracks were far faster but in short bursts his triremes had the advantage. "The Iron way, boys!" Euron could have sworn he spotted Davos as the ships converged.

"The Iron Way!" Both ships shuddered as King Harwyn's ram crashed into the forecastle of the Sea Lion.

In the rear of the Ironborn line, the captains of the eight biremes and thirty longships readied their advance towards the gap opened between both the royal left and center and the royal right and center - its captains eager to envelop Davos' command or finish off the Velaryons in the north…

"Your Grace! We must advance!" Gylbert Farwynd begged his Prince. Their ships were fast and could easily close the gap Euron ordered them to hold for just this eventuality.

Had it been Euron, Victarion, or even the brash young Rodrik, the aggressive assault would have been preordained. But it was Prince Maron Greyjoy in command, still smarting from his decisive defeat at the hands of Gregor Forrester at Bear Island. "We can't afford to! Look at those fucking monsters!" He pointed to the four galleasses, all turning around to attack Euron's rear.

Lord Gylbert was incredulous. "They can barely maneuver, your Grace." He could see how slowly they lumbered, massive sails overcoming their few banks of oars and hurling them west away from the fight. "Ignore them!"

Maron, heart pounding and sweat drenching his forehead, shoved his captain aside. "Overwhelm the monsters! I shan't let them destroy my uncle's line!" Orders were orders, the reserve swarming the beleaguered former grain and cattle transports.

Leaving the rest of the Iron Fleet on their own.

Slamming his fist against the railing, Lord Lucerys Velaryon cursed the very gods above. "How the fuck did they navigate the shoals?!" Hugging the shallow water of the coastline, the Velaryon galleys expected that the Ironborn couldn't flank them… but they were wrong as a dozen longships managed to traverse the shoals and sandbars to near envelop them.

"Longships, Lucerys," Oberyn Martell replied, holding onto his spear as if it were a holy relic. "Shallow draft. Of course Harlaw would put them closer to the coast." A large projectile from one of the Ironborn ships slammed into the sea off the side of the galley Sea Snake, Lord Lucerys' flagship. It showered the men with seawater as each force continued its medium-distance bombardment of the other.

Cursing again, Lucerys shook it off. "Fuck all of this. Full attack! Ramming speed!" The Ironborn had already rocketed forward towards them so it was their turn. "Signal right flank. Stay at war speed and turn thirty degrees port!"

"Aye, my Lord!" came the signaller, rapidly shifting the signage flags for the Velaryon right. If the Longships managed to hit them from the rear, it was all over.

The ships slammed together, whatever order in their lines of battle disappearing. Missiles traded sides from both fleets, rams hitting into hulls while gangplanks dropped, creating a dozen boarding actions within the first ten minutes of the battle joining. Included there was the Sea Snake, its oars entangled with Rodrik Harlow's own ship the Sea Song.

With a crash, the spiked gangplank pierced the hull of the Ironborn trireme. Both the Sea Snake and Sea Song grappled with each other, firmly connected. A bugler pierced the din. "Forward men!" screamed Lord Lucerys, waving his sword like a man far younger than him. "Kill the kraken fuckers…"

Oberyn watched as the commander of the Targaryen right collapsed, an arrow piercing through his eye where the visor had once been - splattering the Red Viper with blood. Ah fuck… "The Lord is down!" screamed one of the banners, sea-green surcoat identifying him as with House Velaryon. "Fuck, we're doomed!"

"Your orders, my Prince?" asked Ryon Allyrion.

Steeling himself, the Red Viper grabbed the bannerman and yanked him forward. In his hands waved the sun and spear of House Martell, while its scion held one of those symbols personally in his grip. "Charge!" Oberyn screamed. "Unbent unbroken!"

"Unbent Unbroken!" Lacking the discipline of the stronger Targaryen household guards staffing the ships in the center, the lighter Dornish spears nonetheless were lightly armored, and their curved swords proved excellent for marine combat. The Ironborn had the idea to use the chaos after Lucerys' death to charge the gangplank, but the lead berserker found Oberyn's spear thrusting through his open mouth. Crossbows pelted the crazed warriors, which didn't fell them but slowed them down long enough for the Dornishmen to disembowel and toss them over the side.

Kicking a felled man upside the temple, Oberyn emerged onto the Sea Song to witness a thing of carnage. Velaryon missile fire had left it burning in many places, while marines and reavers raced about as another Velaryon galley assaulted it from the opposite side. A pitched melee, plain and simple - only by brute force of the sword could a victor be declared from this.

He held no ability to further think as a reaver charged him. Oberyn raised his spear and parried the downward thrust, quickly spinning and cutting the speartip across the Ironborn's heel. He screamed and fell, slipping on blood to disappear into the drink. Another thrust to his stomach, but the Red Viper dodged it, butting the man in the head before rocking the spear back and stabbing through his throat.

From the south, fifteen galleys of House Celtigar surged towards the Velaryon left, having detached on their own accord from Davos' center formation at the sight of the still outnumbered right flank. Scorpions trained on the engaging Ironborn, the longships shattered upon impact of the six foot-long, steel-tipped bolts while the larger biremes found massive holes punched into them and started taking on water.

One by one they were sent below the waves, catapults and flaming missiles joining the fray to help those Velaryon ships locked in a toe to toe struggle of sword and spear. The Dornish fought like cornered rats, stabbing and clawing at their foes with a ferocity that stunned invaders of centuries that sought to plunder the land of the never-ending sun. Many clusters of ships came so close to each other, it formed an almost continuous melee of hand-to-hand fighting that stained the seas red with blood.

Oberyn snarled as a sword stabbed his side, the pain almost burning. Out came his dagger and stabbed the reaver in the stomach. The man, breath putrid from a set of half-rotted teeth so close against him so Oberyn could smell it, merely grunted but didn't budge so he stabbed again and again - turning the gut into a bloody pulp before the reaver collapsed. Wounded, his legs and arms moved so it wasn't fatal or too serious. The Red Viper's blood was up so he barely felt the pain as he charged back into the fray.

Aboard the Sea Song, the thralls manning the banks of oars had mutinied. Their cries of anger added to the carnage, grabbing whatever weapons were at hand to assault their masters. The tide was clearly turning.

Eyes narrowed, Oberyn spotted a large man with a steel breastplate of a scythe beheading one of his sworn swords. "Harlaw!" he screamed, catching the man's attention. "Come and face me!"

Lord Rodrik gripped the longsword in two hands, charging at Oberyn. His slashes were parried by the spear but only just. He pressed the attack, but the Red Viper was to form as he danced out of the thrusts and swings. Lacking armor, it just made him all the more maneuverable - as if even a dragon would struggle to catch him. "Get back here, cunt!"

"I would think you're the cunt," Oberyn laughed, blocking a strike. "Soon my spear will thrust inside you."

The lewd taunt seemed to enrage the Ironborn. "Fuck you, buggerer!" He snarled and charged, sword held high…

Only for Oberyn to draw his dagger and stab his arm. Harlaw dropped his spear, screaming just as the Red Viper buried his spear through his stomach. Tsking, Oberyn chuckled. "Told you. Wish me met in peaceful times - you are quite comely." Reaching down to pick up a scimitar off the ground, he pulled off Harlaw's helm and swung. Yanking the severed head of the Ironborn commander, Oberyn shouted at the top of his lungs. "This is what they sow!" he bellowed, playing off the words of House Greyjoy. Cheering, the Dornish spears, Velaryon marines, and freed thralls continued on in their struggle as the Ironborn left began to disintegrate from the pressure.

From his own heavy carrack the Iron Victory - a full three masts and six banks of sails making it the fastest ship in the fleet, Prince Admiral Victarion Greyjoy surveyed the battlefield. Already, he could spot the burning mess that had been Rodrik Harlaw's battle line, while his own brother was in the midst of a chaotic clash. "Where the fuck is my nephew…" At his rear, Victarion cursed. "That fucking, fuckface idiot!" The massive Galleasses were burning, bombarded over and over by the biremes and longships, but at what cost? Half of Maron's command had been sunk or stricken, all to fight four ships.

And finally approaching was the Targaryen left, grape banners of House Redwyne standing proud atop the massive ocean-going fleet. He turned, finding the helmsmen. "Full ahead! Right for the center of them!" Hornblows sounded the attack.

Paxter Redwyne had been chomping at the bit to win vengeance for his defeat outside Oldtown that cost him half his fleet… until he actually reached the battle. An attack of caution had overwhelmed him at the sight of the Iron Fleet, making him hesitate. This force he had was the last of the great Redwyne fleet that so provided the strike arm for the Reach kings and ensured his own massive wealth and influence. Losing it again would… he wished not to know the consequences and thus ordered his force to advance to the south.

The damned Ironborn wouldn't flank him!

Victarion hated reacting to the enemy. He wasn't a strategic planner or manipulator as Euron was, but he did hold a zeal for the to and fro of battle. What Redwyne was doing made him want to laugh, but the fact he couldn't ignore a large force of capital ships coming straight for him was frustrating in the extreme. He had to continue to sail south to catch them, taking him further and further from the rest of his brother's command.

But the command came, and the Iron Victory led his sailing ships straight at the enemy. Outnumbered and outmatched, the Redwyne ships could only turn and face the onslaught head on.

Barely fifteen minutes had passed before a quarter of the ships were on fire. Iron Victory headed straight for the Arbor Gold, Lord Paxter's flagship. Catapults bracketed the vessel, knocking the mainmast down like a snapped twig. Dead in the water, the carrack was brought alongside the caravel by the way of grappling hooks… which shredded the remaining sails.

Axe in one hand and shield in the other, Victarion was the third man to board the stricken Arbor Gold. He bashed a charging knight in the helm, axe swinging down to crush the man's skull in a crunch of steel and bone. Reavers and berserkers poured onto the vessel, Victarion leading them forward as he sunk the battleaxe into the gut of a man-at-arms. "What is dead may never die!"

Panicking, Lord Paxter had already boarded a skiff bound for one of his unengaged ships, abandoning his flagship to the fate of the Ironborn.

Salvation came in the form not of their Lord but from the galleys flying the proud Merman of House Manderly - returned to the Reach after centuries. Built rugged to withstand the harsh winds and blizzards of the north, they rushed out of the reserve to make for Victarion's command. Unlike with Lord Paxter, the white hot anger for the death of Lord Wyman didn't waver for a heartbeat. Discipline held long enough to keep them in reserve alongside Ser Stannis, but it broke at the perfect moment for the Targaryen navy.

Just as Victarion captured the battle standard of Lord Paxter's flagship, the first Manderly ship rammed into an Ironborn carrack, the Mermen fighting for the Reach once again.

Davos Seaworth would not abandon ship. Though trapped and under assault from hundreds of ironborn all around, he wouldn't seek refuge. No swordsman, he remained in the castle of the Sea Lion, firing crossbows at whomever crossed his path while barking orders to his captain and signaller. Stilling his breath, Davos' finger depressed the trigger. The bolt sailed forth and embedded in the neck of a reaver.

"Reload!" he bellowed, handing the crossbow to one of his squires as he picked up a fresh one. Information still flowed to him, telling of the destruction of the Greyjoy left, of Maron's stupidity in attacking the Galleasses, of Victarion being the only force still close to victory. He could break them decisively, he just needed more ships in his line. "Signal the reserves! Send them in the center!"

"The Manderlys have shifted south, my Lord!"

"Send whatever you can!" Aiming again, he fired once more.

Euron barely felt the blood that spurted onto his face as the man next to him was caught in the neck by a crossbow bolt. Truth be told, there was so much of it soaking him from the battle that a little more wasn't a fuss. "Keep it coming!" he shouted, burying his sword into the stomach of a Targaryen marine. "Make them pay the Iron Price!" All around him his own reavers and berserkers were battling over the Sea Lion, slowly pushing the Targaryens back from the bow towards the castle. Archers and more galleys that joined the battle were making it hard, but he could taste victory.

Such a taste dimmed as Cragorn grabbed his shoulder. "Your Grace! The enemy has committed their reserves!" Peering over the side, Euron could make out a dozen or so Baratheon war galleys hurtling towards them, unleashing hells on his ships - one was headed directly for the King Harwyn.

"Fuck." He'd have to deal with this personally. "Men! On me!" They scrambled over the gangplank just as the lead Baratheon galley crashed into the side of his own trireme.

Leaping onto the deck of the King Harwyn, Stannis unsheathed his blade - the same bastard sword Lord Lyonel used at the trial of combat against Ser Duncan the Tall. Slender and toned unlike the massive figure his ancestor had been, the azure blue eyes blazed a hard determination. The fire of redemption of himself and his house. Ours is the fury!

Spotting his antlered helm and stag-emblazoned surcoat - modest unlike the garish display Robert insisted on - the Ironborn swarmed him. A common smuggler was nothing in the scheme of things. House Baratheon was intimately connected to the Targaryen crown and would fetch them a massive haul of loot when they presented his head to Euron.

Stannis sidestepped an attacking reaver, bringing his blade down upon the fishing hook thrust at him. It snapped in two, joined as Stannis rammed his armored fist into the man's head. The Baratheon knight ignored the fallen man and moved forward, parrying a thrust before spinning his blade and slashing. Leather armor split open like lace, the Ironborn crying out in agony as his spine was severed.

Ignoring all around him but the clashes of steel on steel, Stannis braced himself as a Berserker charged at him with but an axe. A quick chop found the man's hand severed but he kept coming, ramming right into Stannis and nearly staggering him. Pushed back, Stannis raised his blade and thrust it down the Berserker's neck and shoulder. A vicious scream of anger rang in his ear. It took a moment before Stannis realized it was his own.

Another Ironborn fell to his sword and fist… then another and another. His stern expression broke for the barest moment as he smirked, feeling the same rush that Robert undoubtedly felt when in battle. Slashing across the torso of a salty-looking reaver, Stannis was just about to kick him to the ground when a flash of steel crossed his eye. He turned and parried the coming attack, just preventing it from beheading him.

"The Stag joins the battle!" Eyepatch over the Ironborn's eye, Stannis knew he could only be facing Euron Greyjoy himself. He was intimidating on his own with an almost sociopathic calm and bloodlust in his eye… the eyepatch only enhanced it. "Seems you are mine."

Stannis narrowed his eyes under his helm and thrust with his blade. Euron's leap back was anticipated, his fist crashing into the Greyjoy's chin and sending him to the ground.

But Euron was nimble. He leaped up on his feet like an acrobat, blade raised up to parry Stannis' blow before breaking off. "Best you got, stag? Even your whoring brother could fight the King toe to toe." Tossing his blade from hand to hand, he spread his arms to taunt the stag.

Charging again, Stannis felt the blade dent his shoulderplate, but the steel held as he crashed into the Greyjoy. Another punch slammed into his abdomen, Stannis barely feeling the knife stick into his side before he pushed back and sliced across Euron's chest.

"Argh!" cried the Ironborn, cupping his bleeding chest protectively. "You're gonna die for that!"

Stannis pulled out the blade, not even grunting as the haunting blue eyes narrowed at Euron through his vision slit. "Only one of us dies today." Silent, he charged again just as Euron did, their blades meeting in a furious clash. Strike, parry, strike, slash, slash - the attack continued for time interminable, both men fighting each other to near exhaustion. The battle raged around them but all that mattered to them was the other. Time slowed, and wounds piled up. Some minor, others… not so minor. But neither gave up…

Until Stannis' armored palm caught a slash, the sword failing to pierce the plate. Almost disbelieving his good luck, Stannis uppercut with his bastard blade… cutting a long stripe up Euron's face. It stung, and with blood and gore still coating his cheeks and neck it was agony. "You motherfucker!" he bellowed… but only then did Euron see the situation around him.

All across the decks of the various ships, hundreds of Ironborn lay strewn in broken or dismembered heaps. Some still fought, but were outnumbered by the rallying Targaryen and Baratheon marines that poured from the intact vessels joining in. Atop the mast of the King Harwyn, a trio of Baratheon men-at-arms has torn down Euron's personal banner - the golden kraken - with raucous cheers.

Stannis merely cracked his neck. "It's lost, Euron. Surrender now and perhaps the King will spare you death." He didn't count on it, but there was always a chance.

Euron made his decision quickly. "What is dead may never die." He leapt, diving head first into the sea.

A/N: And Davos the Sea Lion is born.

Battle was based off of the Battle of Lepanto.

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