Game of Thrones: The Black Dragon King

On the sea, a massive fleet of ships headed towards Bloodstone Island. Each ship hoisted its sails, which billowed like giant white wings in the sea breeze, the seahorse emblem practically leaping off the sails. Leading the fleet was the flagship, the "Sea Serpent," its bow raised high, as if to pierce the sea mist ahead, guiding the entire fleet resolutely towards Bloodstone Island.

The sailors on the ship were busy but orderly, each with a resolute expression on their face.

Viewed from above, the entire fleet possessed a disciplined and aesthetically pleasing quality. The ships maintained a reasonable distance between each other, avoiding collisions due to excessive closeness and maintaining overall coordination due to excessive distance. Flexible small sentry boats guarded the flanks, troop transports were in the center of the formation, and warships were distributed at the front and rear, forming a well-structured and balanced formation for both offense and defense.

As they approached the coastline, accompanied by the sound of horns, the flat-bottomed boats responsible for the beaching extended numerous oars from their sides, rowing the water in a neat and powerful motion, leading the charge towards the rocky shore. Warships patrolled the outer perimeter, their archers and slingers ready for battle, prepared to attack at the first sign of enemy activity. Under the command of the horns, the entire convoy steadily approached the coastline of Bloodstone Island.

As the ships approached the beach, several sunken vessels blocked some of their progress. However, the obstructed Valerian warships did not slow down; relying solely on the seamless cooperation of the oarsmen and the precise coordination of the rudders, they skillfully and safely navigated around the obstacles. The turning ships tilted to the point of near capsizing, then, to Reid's astonishment, slowly righted themselves.

"What the hell are you admiring?! Get to work!!!" Damon's shouts echoed from afar as "Bloodworm" Korakshu began its dive.

Just as Reid was marveling at the elite and experienced Valerian family fleet, the pirates of the Three Bitch Kingdom had already launched flaming stone projectiles at the fleet preparing to land.

Bloodworms swept over the catapults, their slender necks arching as they precisely unleashed scorching crimson dragonfire upon the exposed catapults.

The Night Fury followed closely behind, swooping down and destroying two counterweight catapults with its dark blue dragonfire plow.

Despite the terrifying pressure from Dragon Flame, many catapults from the Three Bitch Kingdoms continued their fierce resistance, raining down stones that created massive splashes on the sea around the fleet. One after another, the beached flat-bottomed boats were unlucky enough to be hit. One boat was struck midships, its planks instantly shattering into pieces, debris flying everywhere. Seawater rushed in, and the boat tilted visibly. The soldiers on board panicked, jumping into the sea, their faces filled with terror, swimming as far away from the ship as possible, only to be quickly sucked into the whirlpools of the sinking vessel and drown in despair. In comparison, the suffering of the fully armored landing soldiers inside the cabins was relatively less…

Some ships escaped fatal damage, but suffered casualties from the stone projectiles. The decks were in disarray, with crews frantically trying to plug leaks and fight fires...

The dragon in the sky continued its circling attack, each breath of dragonfire from the bloodworms and night fiends carrying an aura of annihilation, gradually destroying the defenders' strength. Under the suppression of the sky overlord, the flat-bottomed boats began to run aground one after another.

But the pirates of the Three Bitches Kingdom did not give up the fight. Arrows rained down like locusts, leaving the soldiers crammed on the deck with little room to dodge. Some used their shields to block, while others simply ducked down to minimize the exposure of their unprotected parts.

Under the relentless barrage of stones, crossbow bolts, and stray arrows, nearly three hundred elite sailors and soldiers awaiting landing perished at sea within a mere fifteen minutes. Wounded crew members and soldiers screamed in agony, their blood staining the decks. However, the officers at the bow remained indifferent, knowing that only by reaching land could they have a chance to retaliate.

"Fifty yards!" the lookout shouted.

"Lower the sails and row against the current!" the captain ordered.

The sailor struggled to overcome the slippery and sticky ground beneath his feet, quickly untying the knots in the ropes binding the sails to release the wind force trapped by the sails.

"Get moving, you pigs!" Urged on by the officer, the oarsmen in the hold began to row laboriously in the opposite direction.

The speeding boat visibly slowed down, its bow tilted slightly, and with a minor collision, half of its hull gently slid onto the beach.

The officer at the bow drew his weapon with a whoosh and slammed it against his shield, producing a piercing clang of metal striking metal: "You bastards! You've taken so much beatings! Now it's our turn! For the honor of the Valerian! Let's go!"

The officer's order instantly ignited the soldiers' long-suppressed fighting spirit. Large numbers of Valerian soldiers roared as they surged off the ship, brandishing their weapons and rushing toward the beach.

They were greeted by a group of dusty-looking Tyrosian mercenaries crawling out of the cave. They had dyed beards and hair, exaggerated hairstyles, and simple breastplates, but these did not affect their fighting ability. In other words, those who could make it in the pirate den had basically undergone a brutal selection process. These tall and strong pirates or naval soldiers wielded halberds, heavy axes, and prisms, roaring as they charged towards the Valerian soldiers.

The two lines clashed violently on the beach, the sounds of metal weapons colliding, bones cracking, and screams of the dying intertwining in an instant.

The Tyrosian mercenaries were clearly more suited to close combat. Their movements as they wielded heavy weapons were ruthless and fearless. Every axe swing was accompanied by the sound of wind tearing through the air, forcing the Valerian soldiers to parry with all their might. The heavy hammers slammed into the shields, making the Valerian soldiers' arms numb. Many were even knocked out of their hands by the impact. The Valerian's conventional shield and sword combination seemed to be at a disadvantage.

The sand on the beach was quickly stained red with blood, forming winding streams. Soldiers fell one after another in the melee, and new soldiers continued to charge forward, stepping over the corpses of their comrades.

However, the battle line did not retreat to the disadvantaged side, but instead slowly advanced towards the advantageous side. Because the attacking side had a numerical advantage, Count Sea Serpent Corliss was determined to take this most important point in one fell swoop. Valerian troop transport ships continuously rushed ashore, sending wave after wave of soldiers onto the beach.

Although the Tyrosi mercenaries were fierce, their numbers were ultimately limited. Every time one fell, it meant a gap appeared in the line, and the Valerian soldiers poured in like a never-ending tide. When the soldiers in the front ranks fell, those in the back immediately took their place, forming a new defensive line with their longswords and shields, while continuously pushing forward.

The Tyrosian mercenaries' stamina was rapidly depleted in the intense fighting, and the speed at which they wielded their heavy weapons gradually slowed, their once fierce offensive becoming sluggish. The battle situation on the beach began to subtly change; the Tyrosian mercenary line, like a sandcastle eroded by the tide, retreated little by little, while the banners of the Valerian army moved slowly forward across the chaotic battlefield.

"Raise a hail of arrows!" Admiral Krajas Dahal, hidden in the shadows of a cave in the cliff face, with only his cold, stern eyes surveying the battlefield, gave the order.

"General?" the adjutant asked incredulously. The Valerian men and the Tyrosian mercenaries were now locked in a fierce battle, and the rain of arrows meant indiscriminate killing.

"A rain of arrows!"

"but······"

Krajas suddenly sprang into action, grabbing his adjutant by the neck and slamming him against the cave wall. He stared intently into the adjutant's eyes, spitting in his face: "No buts! Go and relay the order!"

Only after confirming that the order and fear were imprinted in the adjutant's mind did he release the iron grip that had been suffocating him.

The adjutant, his face flushed red, finally got the air he craved. He staggered to his feet amidst violent coughing and panting, rushed out of the cave, and tumbled and crawled toward the cave where the archers were hiding on the other side of the cliff.

Krajas, however, continued to stare at the distant battlefield with a somber expression.

"I'm not speaking up for that Tyrosh guy, but... General, this is detrimental to the unity of the alliance, and we'll soon be questioned by the High Council," another adjutant said cautiously, choosing his words carefully.

"To hell with the council! What do you think we are in the eyes of the thirty-three governors? If we can't beat you, we won't even have a chance to be held accountable. Then we'll just be lowly pirates! The Alliance will not recognize any of us!" Krajas's voice was laced with ruthlessness as he scanned the battlefield, where the fighting was still fierce. The Valerian soldiers were like a rising tide, gradually swallowing up the Tyrosian mercenary lines.

Those who had landed on the island had no way out; they either had to hold back the Valerian on this beach or stain the island's rocks with their own blood. After receiving the order from their adjutant, the archers on the cliff hesitated for a moment before drawing their bows and nocking their arrows, pointing them diagonally into the distance, the metal arrowheads gleaming coldly in the dim light.

The crossbowmen were mostly composed of skilled Mir mercenaries and sailors. They didn't have much psychological burden in backstabbing the melee troops composed of Tyrossi. Besides differences in appearance and fighting style, daily verbal friction and unequal distribution of loot during raids were also important reasons for their mutual dislike.

Hundreds and thousands of arrows, like dark clouds whipped up by a gale, rained down on the fighting crowd on the beach with a sharp whooshing sound.

Whether it was the Valerian soldiers advancing with heavy shields or the Tyrossi mercenaries resisting with heavy axes, all were exposed to the shadow of death. The Valerian front-line soldiers were caught off guard; their shields were instantly riddled with arrows, some even piercing through the gaps in the wooden shields and embedding themselves deep in their necks and chests, screams echoing throughout. The Tyrossi mercenaries' already crumbling line was further weakened. A burly man wielding a flail had just cleaved a Valerian soldier's head when three arrows pierced his own back simultaneously, his massive body crashing to the ground, crushing the formation of two of his comrades behind him.

An arrow pierced the neck of a Valerian soldier with pinpoint accuracy, blood gushing out. He didn't even have time to scream before collapsing stiffly onto the beach. Not far away, a Tyrosi mercenary had an arrow pierce his eye socket. He clutched his eye, rolling frantically on the ground, letting out heart-wrenching screams, before another arrow struck his chest, and he fell silent.

The chaotic battle on the beach was briefly halted by the indiscriminate attack. Soldiers on both sides instinctively sought cover, glancing up at the source of the death on the cliff face. The Valerian soldiers' charge was forcibly halted; they hadn't expected their enemy to be so ruthless, not even sparing their own men. The Tyrossi mercenaries, who had been fiercely resisting, were now filled with fear and bewilderment as they looked at the cliff.

Krajas stood in the shadows of the cave, coldly observing everything, his face expressionless, as if the wails and deaths below were irrelevant to him. His fingers gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. The adjutants were silent, afraid to utter another sound. They knew the admiral had gone completely mad, but they also knew that in this desperate situation, madness might be the only way out.

"So ruthless..." Reed murmured.

"Dracarys!"

"Sarga~!"

The "Bloodworm" Korakshu streaked across the sky, its crimson dragonfire slicing through the air, engulfing the scattered Tyrosi mercenaries and the Valerian soldiers fighting alongside them.

"Well, war is indeed a contest that pushes the boundaries..." Reed shrugged, riding the Night Fury to burn the groundhogs that were peeking out from the cliff face.

On the flagship of the Valerian fleet, the Sea Serpent, Corliss, clutching the Mil Lens, was so grim his face could drip water. The image reflected in the lens made his knuckles tremble slightly. In the distance, dragon flames rising from the beach, like hellfire, dyed the sky an ominous crimson, while the wreckage floating on the sea and the struggling soldiers silently testified to the brutality of the massacre.

"That dangerous madman Damon!" Wilhelm exclaimed angrily. "He absolutely did it on purpose! This is murder! This is a crime!"

"Shut up, Wimmond!"

"Those are our people! Our people!"

"We are allies now!" Corliss said, enunciating each word clearly, his powerful voice drowning out Weimond's.

The captain of the Sea Serpent nervously swallowed and whispered for instructions on whether to adjust the fleet formation, but was stopped by Corliss raising his hand.

The naval commander, known for his composure, stared intently at the lens, his gaze sweeping over the Valerian soldiers engulfed in dragonfire—many of whom he had personally trained, now victims of Krajas and Damon's madness. A sea breeze carrying the stench of gunpowder and blood rushed towards him. Corliss took a deep breath and slammed the lens against the side of the gunwale, the metal frame striking with a dull thud.

"Continue to send landing troops!"

"But Father, we can't just watch Damon squander the family's precious elite forces!" Lannino said worriedly.

"Less talk! More observation, son." Corliss's voice was hoarse but carried an undeniable authority as he ordered the messenger, "Send up the two thousand ragtag soldiers Damon gathered!"