Aegyr, Admiral of Volantis, looked over the bay of Lys from the cities great lighthouse, where he had established his camp for now, and swallowed tightly.
To say that he was outnumbered would be an understatement. Volantis all told had raised three-hundred and fifty vessels, a hundred and twenty of which were Dromonds of War, for their navy, intending to use them to fight off the Navy of Braavos after crushing Tyrosh and Lys. That had not been feasible, however.
Lys unfortunately, had proven more difficult to hold than anticipated. The Lysenes poisoned his captains and burned down storehouses, generally making a nuisance of themselves. Already he had needed to execute dozens of rowdy citizens just to keep order, and they bubbled and frothed even now.
Especially now, what with the fleet which had appeared on the horizon. Sails beyond number flew flags of the Seven Kingdoms, of Braavos and of Tyrosh in the distance, and dozens of sell-sails too swelled their ranks even further.
Perhaps fifteen-hundred ships sailed down upon him, and most not of small classes. By tonnage, it was perhaps the greatest fleet assembled in the history of the Free Cities.
He grit his teeth. He had expected numbers, expected to be outmatched by twice over perhaps, but the foe quadrupled his strength. If he won this day, he would be the greatest admiral in history, he might even replace Maegor as Triarch when the old man finally gave in to time.
He doubted he would win.
Yet despite that he would still fight, for that was the duty assigned to him, and to flee would mean death more cruel in all likelihood than whatever it was the fates had in store for him today, for the R'hllorites held sway in Volantis now, and a coward would soon find himself in their bonfires. Even his family would not be able to save him.
So, he turned to the man beside him. "Send out the signal to retreat into the straights."
The man nodded, running up to the platform above him, and the lighthouse's ancient bronze mirrors began to turn with a great noise of grinding stone and rolling metal.
Aegyr sagged into his chair, even with all he had planned, the enemy was simply too numerous.
This battle could not be won on the water.
______________________________________
Jon watched with interest as Lord Stannis man, the onion knight, ran back and forth to wave flags and give orders to the other ships in the fleet while ignoring the one he stood on the deck of.
Personally, he thought it was all a little silly, the Lord wasn't technically even their supreme commander, that went to the Braavosi Sealord on the 800 Oar Galleas two miles behind them, but then, perhaps he had communicated orders to Lord Stannis that Jon just wasn't aware of.
Either way, it was growing increasingly clear that the Royal Fleet would be going in first, and he did not like the look of the straights. Especially since the Great Stag and her Sisters would be at the head of the spear.
"Pardon me, milord," he started, best to be polite with the highborn. "But what should our heading be?"
"Heading?" Lord Stannis asked. "Southwest, bring us up along the eastern face of the city. Those straights are a trap for sellsails and morons, and our cannons will be best used elsewhere."
Jon felt a wave of relief wash over him. The Lord, ah, Admiral, was a good seaman after all. He had nearly forgotten.
As he turned the wheel, he took the chance to glance at Lys. It was a great white city, larger by a mile than Kings Landing, with glimmering marble towers and domes that would dwarf the Red Keep easily. It sat at the edge of the waves, with its walls facing into the bay on its east side and the straights on its north. A small town with docks ran around the southern shore of the bay outside the walls, and he could almost imagine it on a normal day being a haven for ships from all across Essos, Sothoryos, and even the Summer Islands. There was a sort of glorious wholeness to the city like it had been built out of a mountain already present, that it was meant to be there just as it was.
Jon suspected that that wholeness would be lacking by the end of the day, as his eyes turned back to his own deck, where the mortars were being prepared for shore bombardment. Soon fire would rain from the sky on the defenders in shrieking and horrific fashion. The mortar shells were designed to catch the air and whistle to inspire terror, and you couldn't pay him to stand under their explosive barrage.
He stabilized their course southwesterly, noting that the rest of the royal fleet he could see was following suit. The Tyroshi however, we're breaking off and making for the straight, though not without caution, many of their sellsails were taking the safer route around the island to come into the back of the Volantene fleet on the other side of the Straights, and more still were holding back, unwilling to commit to terrain that gave the Volantenes the advantage.
He heard the shout of "FIRE" from the deck below, and quickly pressed his hands to his ears as the cannons started to roar, a dozen balls went flying from the ship along with a great plume of smoke, and the whole vessel lurched slightly from the recoil. Two hit the water, causing great plumes in the brine blue sea, but the rest hit the walls of Lys Dead-on, knocking great chunks of stone loose, though no breach existed yet.
Then the other ships fired, and the noise of Thunder came again. 2 more Galleons, and a dozen Galleas mounting excess muzzle-loaders of various sizes on their decks. The Volley crashed into the Wall of Lys with the force of the Warrior's fist, and the smell of Gunsmoke filled the air as the defenders bore witness to their walls begin to crumble, there was a cool, long moment where the whole of the battlefield seemed to be silent,
And then the guns fired again, and the walls crumbled further under the blows.
This time there was no silence, as the mortars followed suit against the city of Lys, screaming their murderous song through the air as their shells burst into shrapnel over the streets of the city, clouds of deadly metal scouring the ranks of the defenders.
And then the long-guns fired once again sending yet more of the wall crumbling into the sea.
Jon smiled as he saw the supply ships begin to move up behind the gunnery vessels. They were undercrewed and almost entirely undefended on their own, but they contained the powder and shot necessary to support the cannon-fire for hours to come.
Jon idly wondered how long it would take the defenders to realize that they could do this all day.
______________________________________
The streets of Lys were in utter chaos. The fragile peace that had been established under the Volante military had been broken the moment that the screaming volleys of death had begun to fall from the sky, and chaos had taken its place, rioters, citizen and slave alike moved through the streets towards the central district where the Volantenes had fortified themselves around the Temple Square. They slammed into the barricades there with each wave of roiling thunder from the Westerosi cannons slamming into their shore, at any moment, they threatened to breakthrough.
It was, Reylaer realized, inevitable that the city would fall, if not to the fleet than to its own people fleeing the devastation on the waterfront, a large chunk of which was now on fire.
Still, his duty as a citizen of Volantis would not let him turn from his defense of the barricades, and so he drove his spear through the chest of one more man. The fifth he had killed in the last minute alone, for every man had to do the work of ten in holding back the rioters. Most of the Volantene army on the island was at the walls, or else across the strait as part of Admiral Aegyr's trap.
As he cut his way through another of the city's frantically scrabbling masses, driving them back from the barricade, he felt a rock ding off of his helmet, and quickly pushed the less armored part of his body behind the makeshift defenses as the men and women of Lys began to pound at the defenders with hurled Bricks and stones.
'The Admirals plan had better work soon.'
__________________________________________________________
Aegyr glared down at the bay of Lys, his eyes tracing the outlines and contours of the oceanic battlefield.
To an extent, his plans were coming together. While the Braavosi, and apparently even the Westerosi barbarians had seen his trap for what it was, a large part of their allied fleets had not been so wise. Many had followed the Volantene fleet into the straights, and more still had decided to try their luck sailing around Turtle Island, likely in the foolish belief that they would catch the Volantene fleet in its unguarded rear.
They had forgotten that he controlled the land.
The only truly distressing component of the ongoing battle was the Westerosi thunder-scorpions that were pounding upon the eastern wall and sending shrieking pots of explosives into the air. While the actual damage they were doing was, to his eyes, relatively minimal, the screaming firepots were causing panic and rioting in the streets, and that would no doubt hamper his ability to move men freely through his own defenses.
At least the raging fire in the waterfront would hamper their landing forces, and the sheer size of their fleet meant that only a few of their ships could even try to land men at any given time, so for now, at least that would be a slow front. He might even be able to beat them back with effort.
No, if he was going to win the real danger was the Braavosi, who had committed nothing thus far, holding back with a war fleet of more than 700 Ships and their Sealord's banner at the prow.
No doubt they were waiting to see what Aegyr would do.
Well, he supposed it was about time to show them.
"Send the signal." He said, his voice calm despite the anticipation building in his heart.
If he was going to lose this battle, he would at least do so on his own terms.
The Lighthouse began flashing in a new pattern, and he smiled as his fleet turned about to face the flanking enemies which were trying to sail around the strait.
Then the sellsails of Tyrosh began to pile into each other, stopped at their front by a great chain which his men had raised in the water. There was another behind them. They were old things, and the Lyseni had tried to use them against him on the way in, but he had simply landed men and gone around to seize the unprotected city.
His enemies today would have no such luck, as the army on both sides of the shore opened up into the trapped and immobile sellsails with scorpions and catapults. Their shots were balls of burning tar or stuffed with oily burning rags just behind their spearheads, visible even as they are through the air into the helpless vessels.
Some tried to fire back, others to flee, but it was all pointless. Perhaps a hundred vessels were trapped between the chains, unable to flee or to avoid their fate as bolts of fiery death rained down on them from both sides. The fire leaped between the hulls and sails of the crushes together ships in glorious burning Cascades, and Aegyr smiled tightly at the display, the smoke already beginning to fill his nostrils.
The larger part of the sellsails, unfortunately, was not so kind as to sail directly into his trap, but now they were cut off by the island, well separated and without their support.
His own fleet would make quick work of the mercenaries, with support from the men on the island. Especially with the blow that their burning compatriots would deal to their morale.
He glanced past the wall of smoke and death, back over to the Braavosi fleet as he sat back into his chair.
'Your move, Sealord.'
_______________________________________________________
The Sealord in question, Ferrego Antaryon, nodded gingerly at the forecast of his Great Galleass.
"My lord, should we begin our attack?"
"Soon, soon. Let's let them commit to fighting those sellswords before we move in." Ferrego said gently, leaning against the prow. "No reason to put too much pressure on when Lord Stannis is already doing us that courtesy. I doubt the Lyseni will like his methods much, but then my sympathy for slavers is somewhat lacking."
"Yes My Lord."
Ferrego nodded, dismissing the man. He wished he had a bit of wine with him for moments like this, but alas it was currently lacking.
Still, they would need to time their landings properly. They needed to take turtle Island before the Volantene forces could redistribute themselves to the eastern side of it. Once that was done they could cut those chains and disable their siege-weapons.
Then, once the Volantene navy was unsupported on one flank, or perhaps even under fire by their own captured defenses, the true fleet of Braavos would advance.
Ferrego gently inclined his head towards the captain of the Iron-Foot company, one Kenin Vance. "It seems it is about time for your men to earn their pay."
The man was fully armored, so instead of nodding, he bowed ever so slightly.
"Aye, milord. The Island will be yours."
Ferrego smiled as the man went to rally his men to the landing boats. Other mercenary captains across the fleet doing the same.
Braavosi might not have a spectacular army to call their own in the way of Volantis, but they certainly had the money to hire one.
________________________________________________________
Davos had gotten sick of covering his ears with his hands after half an hour of bombardment and had instead harassed the gunners for some of their stiffened beeswax to fit in his ears, the material was uncomfortable and obnoxious, but it suppressed the sound of the continuous cannon-fire. He had heard that some of the guns had even started to melt their barrels under the constant barrage and that the men had needed to wait for them to cool off before they could continue firing.
One of the Galleases had even suffered a catastrophic misfire as a result, killing half a dozen men, wounding two dozen more, and almost lighting the ship on fire.
The rest had slowed their cannon-fire after that, not that continuing it was even really necessary. Whole chunks of the wall had collapsed under the barrage, leaving breeches big enough for two or three men to cross shoulder to shoulder.
It was more than enough, and his Lord knew it. Lord Stannis had retired to his cabin to put his armor on and had Davos do the same. Now he followed the man onto the deck.
His Lord wore a gleaming suit of scale armor, rather than Plate, but he saw after a moment why.
The material glimmers with the distinctive wavy pattern of Valyrian Steel.
Davos could barely keep his eyes inside his head. He knew Lord Stannis had found a great hoard of the material of course, but this was the first he had heard of any armor being made from the material.
There was probably enough metal in that suit alone to make five swords, each worth a castle's ransom.
It looked good on his lord, who stood on the deck above the assembled Marines, his eyes scanning over the crowd as Davos moved up beside him.
"Men. You are my son's forces, as much as my own. I do not know you in truth, and you do not know me either. I will not pretend that we share some special bond, and I will ask of you nothing, but that you do your duty to the house of Baratheon. Do it well, and we will have victory this day." He raised his sword into the air. "Come with me then, and take this city."
It was not an inspiring speech, as those went, but it was enough in Davos opinion. These men, these Marines, they were here to prove themselves, and he had seen their training regime. They didn't need the encouragement of peasant levies, they were more like half-knights. He had even heard them call their officers Ser by mistake despite the fact that only a small majority of the men who led them held that rank.
Inspirational or not, they cheered when appropriate, and the rowboats hit the water within two minutes of the speeches end. Cannon fire and mortar-shell continuing to cover their advance, albeit at a reduced rate and a higher elevation. Davos half-grinned, half-scowled as he glared up into the raging inferno beyond the walls. His Lord bore a similar expression.
A few cracks of rifle fire echoed off of the longboat as the Marines took shots at what few Volantene defenders still remained in and amongst the shattered walls of the Eastern Bay, sending them running for cover or collapsing to the ground bleeding, it mattered little as long as they failed to hamper the assault.
There was no doubt in Davos' mind that Lys would fall today.