The sea wasn't calm.
Waves rolled restless. The ship rocked violently as shouting men scrambled across the deck, trying to keep order. The sails thrashed above, catching unruly gusts that refused to play nice. Ropes creaked. Barrels tipped. And somewhere in that mess, Kartiga stood near the stern—scrolling.
His finger flicked through the floating system window, eyes half-lidded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. If anyone had looked at him from behind, they'd think he was browsing a market list instead of dealing with a current emergency.
He muttered to himself, "Let's see…"
The menu gleamed under his gaze. His finger hovered between two choices:
Dromon.
Galleon (Early).
Together, their cost came to 400 units—the exact amount he had unlocked after the fall of Maidenpool.
A soft chime rang, and a prompt appeared.
--------------------------------------------
Confirm deployment of:
Dromon – Crew: 200–300
Galleon (Early) – Crew: 150–250
Total cost: 400 units
[YES / NO]
--------------------------------------------
Kartiga didn't hesitate.
"F**k yeah."
He slammed YES.
The system flashed once—and vanished.
Then came silence.
The world didn't change immediately.
In fact, it got worse.
One crewman slipped and crashed into the mast. Another shouted that the rudder was struggling. A barrel broke loose and rolled across the deck, hitting the rail with a heavy thud. The pirates grew closer. Their sails ballooned with wind as they split formation, closing in from three sides.
Nothing had arrived.
Not yet.
Kartiga's stomach felt bad.
Was there a delay? Had the system failed? Or worse, had he misread anything?
He looked toward the mist clinging to the east. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. Just the creak of wood. Just the beat of feet over soaked planks. Just fear settling in him.
Kai's voice cracked through it. "They'll reach us before we turn!"
Tanaka was already at the stern, tightening his grip on a loose rope, blade drawn. His eyes didn't leave the enemy.
Kartiga clenched his jaw.
And then—
A sound.
Low. Slow. Rhythmic.
Thoom… thoom… thoom…
Like a drum beneath the sea.
The mist parted.
First came shadows, elongated by fog and light.
Then the shape.
A long, sleek silhouette cut through the haze like a blade.
The Dromon.
Its hull moved with grace and purpose. Oars stabbed the sea in unison, each stroke perfectly timed, dozens of men powering the vessel forward like a living engine. Fire tubes lined at front—metal mouths spitting faint heat as the ship surged.
Greek Fire slept, coiled and ready.
Behind it, slower but no less threatening, came the Galleon.
Broad and tall. Multiple decks stacked like a floating tower. Gun ports lined both sides. Its sails stretched high into the morning mist. The nameless gold-trimmed banner on its tallest mast fluttered silently.
Kartiga stared.
The panic faded. His skin cooled. He didn't blink.
Even his men stopped working. One by one, heads turned. Swords lowered. Ropes loosened.
The pirates saw it too.
Their momentum faltered—not in speed, but in confidence.
Still, they pushed forward. Maybe too arrogant. Maybe too hungry.
But they came.
That's when the Dromon surged again.
With a burst of oars, it charged head-on at the lead pirate vessel.
The prow, reinforced with bronze, slammed into the smaller hull with a crack that echoed across the waves. Wood splintered. Men fell.
Before anyone could scream, the real terror began.
Greek Fire.
A thin arc of burning liquid spewed from the Dromon's front—arcing across air and landing on the wreckage. It didn't just burn. It clung.
Sails ignited. Men ran ablaze, only to collapse and roll, screaming into the sea.
The fire spread—one tongue of flame licking the side of the second pirate ship. Within moments, it too caught fire.
The third ship began to turn, its oarsmen rowing backward in pure panic.
Then came the Galleon.
It didn't need to attack. Its presence alone was a weight. The pirates couldn't match its size, couldn't risk close quarters. They started pulling away.
Kartiga stepped toward the edge of the deck, wind blowing back his damp hair.
He watched the battle.
Watched the pirates turn to scatter.
Watched the fire eat through wood and men alike.
A smile broke across his face.
Not a smirk.
A full, open grin of relief and joy and something close to madness.
He raised both arms and lifted his middle fingers high—aimed toward the sea, the pirates. No words, just defiance.
Then his foot slipped on the wet deck.
His balance gave out.
But Tanaka caught him before he could fall overboard.
The knight pulled him back with one hand, as if saving a falling vase.
"Easy, lord," Tanaka muttered. "You win one battle and you're already trying to drown yourself."
Kartiga wheezed a laugh. "Hell of a way to die, huh?"
Tanaka shook his head, lips twitching. "Next time, leave the celebrating until after the deck stops moving."
Behind them, the Dromon gave chase to the last pirate vessel still bold enough to linger.
The Galleon moved to flank.
And Kartiga, breathing hard, leaned against the rail.
His fingers trembled slightly.
Not from fear.
But from the strange joy of surviving another impossible moment.
------------------------------
Pentos was quiet that night.
The wind barely moved. The lights in the magister's palace glowed soft and golden, flickering behind silk curtains. Fountains whispered somewhere far below. It was peaceful—but only on the surface.
High on a balcony, a girl stood alone.
Daenerys Targaryen.
She was barefoot, her toes cold against the stone floor. Her dress was thin and pale, almost the same color as her skin. Her long silver-white hair flowed behind her, moving gently in the breeze. She didn't feel the wind. She didn't feel anything.
Her purple eyes were fixed on the sky.
She didn't want the next day to come.
Because tomorrow, her brother Viserys would give her away. To a man she had never met. A man who lived on horseback and knew nothing of her. A savage, they said.
Tomorrow, she would no longer belong to herself.
Daenerys felt small. Scared. But she didn't cry.
She had learned long ago that crying never helped. Not when her brother yelled. Not when they were hungry. Not when they were chased from one city to the next.
People called her beautiful.
They said she looked like a queen from old songs—silver hair, purple eyes, soft skin without scars. She hated it. She didn't want to be beautiful if it meant being given away like a good.
She hugged herself, feeling the weight in her chest.
Then—something felt wrong.
She looked up at the stars. One of them blinked. No—it wasn't a star. It was a shadow moving above her.
She turned.
Nothing there.
The curtains behind her swayed gently. The bedroom behind was still. The oil lamp still burned on the little table.
She stepped forward.
And heard it.
A breath.
Right behind her.
She turned fast—but a hand grabbed her.
A cloth pushed into her mouth. It smelled strange—like bitter flowers and dust. She tried to scream, but the sound didn't come out. Her arms flailed, but someone caught them. Another man grabbed her legs.
She kicked. She bit. She twisted with all her strength.
But they were ready.
They worked in silence, quick and careful. They didn't speak much—only soft words between them.
"She's fighting hard," one said.
"She's light. Wrap her in the cloak," said another.
The cloth in her mouth made her dizzy. Her body felt slow, like it didn't belong to her. But she didn't stop fighting.
Even as her arms got heavy.
Even as her vision blurred.
Even when she couldn't feel her hands anymore.
They wrapped her in dark cloth, covering her hair and face. Then they lifted her, gently but without care. She couldn't move now. Her heart still pounded, but her limbs were weak.
They slipped through the halls like shadows. No one saw them at first.
Not until it was too late.
A guard shouted—but they were already gone.
Daenerys didn't see the city walls pass by. She didn't feel the night wind anymore. She was half-awake, drifting somewhere between fear and sleep.
She had hoped the next day would never come.
How?
The last princess of House Targaryen had vanished in the night—taken before anyone could stop it.
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