Chapter 610

There were many who still fought for House Baratheon, each for their own reasons, but none were as unwaveringly loyal as Davos Seaworth.

It was not just Stannis’s unyielding sense of justice that bound him. Everything he had now—his knighthood, his lands, his position as Hand of the King—had been granted by Stannis. Once a smuggler, now he wore the sigil of the King’s Hand and ruled the Seven Kingdoms in his stead. What greater honor could there be?

His seven sons thrived under this new order: Dale, Allard, Marric, and Matthos captained or served aboard royal warships; Devan had been knighted and sworn into the Kingsguard; the younger two were squires, their noble status all but assured. His wife, Marya, lived with him in the Tower of the Hand, accompanied by servants and guards. Even the most powerful lords of the realm now addressed her as “Lady.”

All of it—every bit of it—was Stannis Baratheon’s doing. And the price Davos had paid? A few fingertips. A punishment for his past crimes, fair and just beyond question.

For the lords of the Crownlands, the Stormlands, and beyond, this war might mean little more than lost lands and bruised pride. But for Davos Seaworth, founder of House Seaworth, this was everything. Should Stannis fall, he and his entire family would be cast back into the gutter, stripped of their newfound status, their future erased. Surviving would mean nothing.

And that was a fate he could not accept.

He was willing to die for Stannis.

Not just out of loyalty.

But because sometimes, failure was worse than death.
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With Stannis commanding the defense of King’s Landing, Davos had been given full charge of the fleet. He now stood aboard the flagship at the heart of the battle line, watching the unfolding engagement, listening to reports, and analyzing the enemy’s movements as best he could.

Their first realization was an odd one.

The foremost ships of Daenerys’s fleet—the ones facing the royal navy directly—bore not only the red dragon but also the kraken sigil.

That was strange.

Davos soon grasped the reason: these were Euron Greyjoy’s ships, the ones he had once sent to Meereen to retrieve his dragon-riding bride. But for one reason or another—time, circumstance, treachery—they had instead been swallowed by Daenerys’s navy. Now she had placed these former Ironborn at the very front of the battle line, forcing them to face Stannis’s fleet instead of Euron’s. She was cutting off any chance of their surrender or defection.

If they wanted to live, they had no choice but to fight.

Their second realization was far more dire.

The first cannon blast had been mistaken for a signal to engage. But then another followed. And another.

Only then did Davos and his men grasp the truth: the Night’s Watch had brought their new weapons to sea. The same cannons that had shattered the southern army at Blackwater Bay were now mounted on Daenerys’s warships, raining destruction upon the royal fleet.

The cannonballs did not come in great volleys, nor did they hit every time, but their power and range far outmatched anything Davos’s ships possessed. Even with poor accuracy, they had already torn through his plan to keep at a distance and wait for Euron’s fleet to enter the fray.

Through his spyglass, he saw smoke rising from the center of Daenerys’s fleet. He saw the formation tighten, shifting to shield the cannon-bearing ships. They weren’t pressing forward.

They were waiting.

They wanted to replicate Blackwater—drain the morale of their foes with sheer firepower, whittling them down until the battle was won before swords were ever drawn.

Davos refused to let that happen.

“Signal the fleet—full speed ahead! Flank them from both sides!”

The warhorns blared, defiant against the thunder of the cannons.

There was no room for hesitation. The Golden Company had been annihilated by these weapons, caught off guard and slaughtered before they could react. Davos would not make the same mistake.

The ships advanced, rowers straining against the waves. Fear of dragonfire kept the fleet spread out, ensuring no single blast could take out too many at once. The sails were furled, the oars working in unison, sending the ships surging forward.

The royal fleet moved like a great net, closing in on Daenerys’s forward line.

A thousand yards.

Eight hundred.

Five hundred.

Amid the ceaseless thunder of cannon fire, with iron shot whistling past and water erupting where they fell, the fleet pressed on.

They were the first navy in this world to face gunpowder on the seas. But fortune was on their side—the enemy had numbers, but their weapons were few, their accuracy lacking, their advantage still unrefined. The defeat of the Reachmen had at least given the royal fleet time to prepare, and so they did not panic, did not break.

They advanced.

Only one ship was crippled before they finally closed the gap.

The trebuchets swung into action. Ballistae loosed their massive bolts. Firebombs, stone shot, and weighted netting rained down upon the enemy vessels.

But the return fire was relentless.

Cannonballs shrieked through the air, slamming into ships, shattering hulls, sending men screaming into the waves. Explosions burst across decks, setting wood and flesh alike ablaze. The enemy’s firepower was stronger than expected—too strong.

“They shouldn’t have this much ranged firepower!” an officer yelled, ducking as a projectile whizzed past. “Ironborn ships are made for raiding, not sieges! They must have been refitted with captured Reach trebuchets!”

That was it. Daenerys’s engineers had hastily reinforced the ships with war machines stolen from the Reach.

“Prime Minister, we can’t win an artillery duel!” the officer continued. “We need to close in, board them! If we’re fighting side by side, their cannons will be useless!”

Davos agreed.

“Relay the orders—close the distance! Prepare for boarding action!”

The commanders responded immediately. The fleet adjusted course, accelerating toward the enemy. The battering rams gleamed in the fading sunlight, carving through the waves.

At last, they were close enough to see the enemy crew’s faces.

"Ramming speed!"

"Steady!"

"Hard to starboard!"

Across the battlefield, the Ironborn sought to evade the oncoming charge. But many failed.

Wood splintered. Iron groaned.

Ships crunched together, side by side, as men screamed and fell into the churning waters below.

Davos steadied himself as his ship struck an enemy vessel, nearly throwing him off balance.

It was an ungainly thing—fat, broad, lower to the water than his own. Not a warship. Likely a captured merchant vessel, repurposed for this battle.

A poor choice for the vanguard.

And yet—

Hooked grappling lines shot up from below, sinking into the railings of his ship. The enemy was lashing them together.

Not retreating. Not fleeing.

They wanted to fight.

Davos’s grip tightened around his dagger.

"Men, to arms!" he roared.

"For King Stannis!"

"For King Stannis!"

A chorus of voices rose behind him. Weapons were drawn.

And the battle truly began.