TBOV: Chapter Twenty-Six: The Battle of the Hundred Isles (Pt 1)

Chapter Twenty-Six: The Battle of the Hundred Isles (Pt 1)

“The Nine Free Cities are the daughters of Valyria that was, but Braavos is the bastard child who ran away from home. We are a mongrel folk, the sons of slaves and whores and thieves. Our forebears come from half a hundred lands to this place of refuge, to escape the dragonlords who had enslaved them. Half a hundred gods came with them, but there is one god all of them shared in common.”

―Kindly man and Arya Stark

…

The chill off the lagoon bit deeper than usual, or perhaps it was only the cold knotting in Jacaerys’s own belly. He ran a gloved hand along Vermax’s saddle, checking the tension of the straps, the smooth seating of the thick hide over scaled ridges. His dragon shifted beneath the touch, a low rumble vibrating through the leather, warm breath pluming white in the pre-dawn air. Vermax tasted the tension too, the unease that clung to Braavos like the stench of the smoke still hazing the eastern sky. A week. Seven days since Aemond’s dragons had scorched the sky and shattered the Sweetwater, and the city had been choking ever since. Thirst, Jace had learned, was a crueler master than fear.

Nearby, Lucerys mirrored his movements, tending to Arrax with a focused intensity that made him seem older than his years. Luke’s face was pale in the gloom, jaw set, but his hands were steady on the buckles. Arrax, pearlescent white and ever restless, nudged his rider’s shoulder, sensing the troubled currents. Jace forced his attention back to his own task, tightening a final strap. The familiar ritual offered scant comfort today. Below them, in the city’s labyrinthine canals and squares, Braavos seethed. The whispers had grown to shouts, the grumbling to open dissent. Aemond’s work had been brutally effective.

A scrape of boots on the stone landing drew his gaze. A runner, clad in the hurried livery of the Sealord’s palace guards, skidded to a halt, breath ragged. “Prince Jacaerys, Prince Lucerys,” the man gasped, bowing low. “Koja Terys summons you. The War Council convenes at once in the Palace of Truth.”

Jace exchanged a look with Luke. Another council. Another round of brittle hopes and veiled threats. He nodded curtly to the messenger. “We will attend him.” He gave Vermax a final pat. “Easy, boy. Wait for me.”

Minutes later, they arrived. The Palace of Truth felt colder than the dawn air outside. The great hall, usually bustling, held a strained silence broken only by the shuffling feet of guards and the low murmur of the men already gathered. Koja Terys stood near the head of the long table, map unrolled beneath his knuckles, face grim as carved stone. The remaining admirals and captains clustered nearby, their expressions ranging from weary resolve to barely concealed panic. The scent of stale wine and desperation hung heavy.

As Jace and Luke entered, Koja looked up, his dark eyes sharp. “Princes. Timely.” He gestured for them to join the inner circle. “We have received… tidings.”

He did not elaborate immediately, instead letting his gaze sweep the assembled men. Jace felt a prickle of unease. This felt different. Final.

“A Westerosi fast ship slipped the blockade before dawn,” Koja announced, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “It carried messengers. From Prince Aemond Targaryen.”

A collective intake of breath rippled through the room. Aemond. Always Aemond.

Koja picked up a scroll, letting it unroll with a soft rasp. “He offers terms.” His eyes flicked up, meeting Jace’s. “He informs us he is aware of our… planned sortie.”

Another murmur, this one, while unsurprised, was laced heavily with unease. Of course, he had known. Spies. traitors.

“He offers mercy,” Koja continued, voice hardening, “to any captain, any ship, that chooses not to sail today. They will be spared, he claims, following Westeros’s ‘inevitable victory.’” The sarcasm was sharp as Valyrian steel. “Furthermore, should Braavos surrender now, entirely, he promises mercy. He claims ships laden with fresh water wait beyond his lines, ready to accompany his forces when they land to… occupy our city.”

The air grew thick enough to taste. Jace felt Luke shift beside him.

“And Rhaenyra?” Jace asked, his own voice tight with the knowledge of what was most likely coming.

Koja’s gaze was unpitying. “Mercy. Should your mother renounce her claim to the Iron Throne. Should she, you and your brothers return to Westeros, obediently and peacefully, to face his judgment.”

Unbidden, a harsh laugh escaped Jace. “Obediently? To the Butcher?”

“There is more,” Koja said, silencing him with a look. “Somehow, word of these terms has already spread beyond these walls. By midday, Otharys and his faction will be stirring the canals, demanding capitulation. Already, men whisper of surrender in the winesinks and counting houses.” He slammed a fist onto the map. “We cannot wait. We sail now. We break his blockade before the city tears itself apart from within, before a mob delivers us all to Aemond in chains!”

A chorus of assent rose from most of the admirals, voices thick with grim determination. But not all.

Near the door, a portly captain named Bellegere, known more for his fat purses than his courage, cleared his throat. “Master Terys,” he began hesitantly, “perhaps… perhaps the prince’s offer warrants consideration? Water… mercy… if the odds are truly so—”

Before he could finish, A guard came from behind to place a hand on his shoulder. Steel flashed. Bellegere gave a choked gasp, eyes wide with shock as a blade slid between his ribs. He crumpled, falling heavily onto the marble floor, staining the polished violet patterns crimson. Another captain beside him, one Mollono, cried out and started to back away, hand reaching for a sword that wasn’t there. A second pair of guards moved with brutal efficiency, one driving a shortsword through Mollono’s throat, silencing his protest in a wet gurgle.

Silence crashed down upon the hall, broken only by the dying men’s ragged breaths. Jace stared, horrified, a cold dread washing over him. Luke flinched beside him, hand instinctively going to his own dagger. Koja Terys watched the executions with chilling impassivity, his face unreadable. The guards dragged the bodies away without a word, leaving smears of blood upon the floor.

It was a purge, Jace realised then. Koja had called this meeting not just to rally, but to root out the waverers, the potential traitors. The ruthlessness of it sent a shiver down Jace’s spine. This was the face of the general’s resolve, stripped bare. There would be no turning back.

Koja surveyed the remaining captains, his eyes hard as diamonds. “Are there any others who wish to reconsider our course?”

No one spoke. No one dared even breathe too loudly.

“Good,” Koja said flatly. “To your ships. We muster beneath the Titan. May the gods of this city grant us victory, for we shall grant the Westerosi none.”

✥✥✥​

Hours later, the lagoon churned with activity. Five hundred ships – a fraction of the fleet lost at the Stepstones, but all that Braavos could muster – were forming up. Galleys, dromonds, even converted merchant carracks bristling with scorpions. Oars dipped, sails were unfurled, and slowly, painstakingly, the armada began to thread its way out through the narrow sea gates, passing beneath the shadow of the Titan, whose stony gaze seemed fixed on the distant, hostile horizon.

Jace and Luke took to the sky. Vermax climbed swiftly, the wind tearing at Jace’s cloak, the familiar surge of draconic power a counterpoint to the cold dread still clinging to him from the council room. Arrax flew beside them, a flash of pearl against the bruised grey clouds. They ascended high, far above the range of any scorpion bolt, circling wide over the outer islands.

Below, the Westerosi fleet lay waiting. Jace’s breath hitched. Koja’s spies had estimated two thousand hulls, and from this height, it looked like every bit of that, and perhaps more. A vast, curving crescent of warships stretched across the sea, an impenetrable barrier mirroring the arc of Braavos’s northwestern coast, sealing the lagoon. Their numbers were staggering, a testament to Aemond’s terrifying efficiency. Dark hulls, sails bearing the seahorse, the lion, the direwolf, the tower, the rose, the falcon, the trout, the red sun pierced by a golden spear, and above all, the three-headed dragon of his own house, turned against him.

They scouted the length of the enemy line, noting the disposition of the heaviest dromonds at the horns of the crescent, the seemingly relaxed posture of the anchored ships. Earlier, sailors had spotted a lone, dark dragon wheeling in the distance – Sheepstealer, likely on reconnaissance – but now, the skies were empty save for themselves. No Vhagar, no Vermithor, none of the other beasts Aemond commanded. The absence felt deliberate. Ominous. A trap waiting to be sprung.

Their scouting complete, Jace banked Vermax toward Sellagoro’s Shield, the largest of the outer islands protecting the lagoon. Luke followed, Arrax’s smaller form cutting gracefully through the air. They landed on a high, windswept hill overlooking the sea passage, the same spot Koja Terys had designated days ago. Below, hidden in a rocky cleft, a small camp had been established. A lone figure emerged, an admiral Jace recognized – Ferrago Dimittis, fiercely loyal to Koja, his face etched with the harsh lines of a lifetime at sea. He awaited their report.

Jace dismounted, the wind whipping his hair across his face as he strode towards the admiral. “The enemy holds position, Admiral. Two thousand ships as expected, perhaps more, arrayed in a crescent. No dragons have been sighted nearby.”

Ferrago nodded grimly, his eyes fixed on the Braavosi fleet now beginning its slow, ponderous exit from the lagoon’s main channel beneath the Titan. “As Koja predicted. They mean to let us come to them.” He gestured towards the sea. He nodded then as if deciding on something of great importance. “The time is ripe, I believe, for you to be made privy of the General’s plans. Pay attention and you might learn something today, Prince Jacaerys.”

Jace frowned. “Explain.”

Ferrago leaned closer, his voice low against the wind. “The strategist plays his own game, not the enemy’s. Despite what he claimed in the meetings, Koja Terys does not intend to fight the Butcher’s fleet in the open sea. That would be suicide against their numbers. No, his plan is… bolder. He means to lure them into the lagoon.”

Jace stared, taken aback. “...That is insane,” he said after a pause.

“Precisely.” Ferrago allowed himself a thin, grim smile. “The Westerosi hunger for this city, Prince. They see the Titan, the Arsenal, the wealth… they will not resist the chance to seize it if they believe we are broken and fleeing. Koja plans to make a show of force, engage them, then feign a rout, drawing them into the narrow western passes. Only then will we engage them in earnest.”

He pointed towards the churning water where the lagoon met the sea. “Those passes… they are treacherous. The currents run strong – nearly ten knots inward during the day. But come evening, near dusk, they reverse, flowing powerfully outward. Every Braavosi sailor knows this. Koja plans to time our retreat perfectly. The narrow channels will prevent the Greens from overwhelming us with their superior numbers, forcing them into smaller, manageable groups. As we pull back into the lagoon before or just as the tide turns, the reversed current will hinder their pursuit, slow them, perhaps even break their formations against the rocks. It will give our fleet precious time to reform within the lagoon, rested, ready. Then, with the current fighting against them, we launch our counterstroke from the safety of our waters.”

Jace absorbed the audacity of the plan. It was perilous, relying on timing, currents, and the enemy’s overconfidence. Yet, it held a desperate sort of logic. “And our role? Luke’s and mine?”

“To ensure the retreat is successful,” Ferrago stated. “When the main fleet pulls back, the Westerosi will surge forward. You and Prince Lucerys must harry them. Delay their advance. Use dragonfire to break their cohesion, target their lead ships, buy the fleet the hours it needs to withdraw safely into the lagoon before the tide fully turns against them. Koja himself leads the fleet from his flagship, The Unmasked. He trusts you to guard his fleet’s retreat should he not survive the first assault.”

Jace looked out at the assembling Braavosi ships, a fragile line against the might of the Westerosi crescent. Below, the Titan stood impassive, a silent witness. Delay the enemy. Buy time. Fight dragons, potentially. He met Luke’s wide, determined eyes and nodded slowly. The weight of Braavos, perhaps the weight of their entire cause, rested on this desperate gamble, and on the wings of two young dragons against the storm. 

To say he was daunted by the responsibility would be a woeful understatement.