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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter 58
CHAPTER 58
DAVOS
Blackwater Bay was rough and choppy, whitecaps everywhere. Black Betha rode the flood tide, her sail cracking and snapping at each shift of wind. Wraith and Lady Marya sailed beside her, no more than twenty yards between their hulls. His sons could keep a line. Davos took pride in that.
Across the sea warhorns boomed, deep throaty moans like the calls of monstrous serpents, repeated ship to ship. “Bring down the sail,” Davos commanded. “Lower mast. Oarsmen to your oars.” His son Matthos relayed the commands. The deck of Black Betha churned as crewmen ran to their tasks, pushing through the soldiers who always seemed to be in the way no matter where they stood. Ser Imry had decreed that they would enter the river on oars alone, so as not to expose their sails to the scorpions and spitfires on the walls of King’s Landing.
Davos could make out Fury well to the southeast, her sails shimmering golden as they came down, the crowned stag of Baratheon blazoned on the canvas. From her decks Stannis Baratheon had commanded the assault on Dragonstone sixteen years before, but this time he had chosen to ride with his army, trusting Fury and the command of his fleet to his wife’s brother Ser Imry, who’d come over to his cause at Storm’s End with Lord Alester and all the other Florents.
Davos knew Fury as well as he knew his own ships. Above her three hundred oars was a deck given over wholly to scorpions, and topside she mounted catapults fore and aft, large enough to fling barrels of burning pitch. A most formidable ship, and very swift as well, although Ser Irnry had packed her bow to stern with armored knights and men-at-arms, at some cost to her speed.
The warhorns sounded again, commands drifting back from the Fury. Davos felt a tingle in his missing fingertips. “Out oars,” he shouted. “Form line.” A hundred blades dipped down into the water as the oarmaster’s drum began to boom. The sound was like the beating of a great slow heart, and the oars moved at every stroke, a hundred men pulling as one.
Wooden wings had sprouted from the Wraith and Lady Marya as well. The three galleys kept pace, their blades churning the water. “Slow cruise,” Davos called. Lord Velaryon’s silver-hulled Pride of Driftmark had moved into her position to port of Wraith, and Bold Laughter was coming up fast, but Harridan was only now getting her oars into the water and Seahorse was still struggling to bring down her mast. Davos looked astern. Yes, there, far to the south, that could only be Swordfish, lagging as ever. She dipped two hundred oars and mounted the largest ram in the fleet, though Davos had grave doubts about her captain.
He could hear soldiers shouting encouragement to each other across the water. They’d been little more than ballast since Storm’s End, and were eager to get at the foe, confident of victory. In that, they were of one mind with their admiral, Lord High Captain Ser Imry Florent.
Three days past, he had summoned all his captains to a war council aboard the Fury while the fleet lay anchored at the mouth of the Wendwater, in order to acquaint them with his dispositions. Davos and his sons had been assigned a place in the second line of battle, well out on the dangerous starboard wing. “A place of honor,” Allard had declared, well satisfied with the chance to prove his valor. “A place of peril,” his father had pointed out. His sons had given him pitying looks, even young Maric. The Onion Knight has become an old woman, he could hear them thinking, still a smuggler at heart.
Well, the last was true enough, he would make no apologies for it. Seaworth had a lordly ring to it, but down deep he was still Davos of Flea Bottom, coming home to his city on its three high hills. He knew as much of ships and sails and shores as any man in the Seven Kingdoms, and had fought his share of desperate fights sword to sword on a wet deck. But to this sort of battle he came a maiden, nervous and afraid. Smugglers do not sound warhorns and raise banners. When they smell danger, they raise sail and run before the wind.
Had he been admiral, he might have done it all differently. For a start, he would have sent a few of his swiftest ships to probe upriver and see what awaited them, instead of smashing in headlong. When he had suggested as much to Ser Imry, the Lord High Captain had thanked him courteously, but his eyes were not as polite. Who is this lowborn craven? those eyes asked. Is he the one who bought his knighthood with an onion?
With four times as many ships as the boy king, Ser Imry saw no need for caution or deceptive tactics. He had organized the fleet into ten lines of battle, each of twenty ships. The first two lines would sweep up the river to engage and destroy Joffrey’s little fleet, or “the boy’s toys” as Ser Imry dubbed them, to the mirth of his lordly captains. Those that followed would land companies of archers and spearmen beneath the city walls, and only then join the fight on the river. The smaller, slower ships to the rear would ferry over the main part of Stannis’s host from the south bank, protected by Salladhor Saan and his Lyseni, who would stand out in the bay in case the Lannisters had other ships hidden up along the coast, poised to sweep down on their rear.
To be fair, there was reason for Ser Imry’s haste. The winds had not used them kindly on the voyage up from Storm’s End. They had lost two cogs to the rocks of Shipbreaker Bay on the very day they set sail, a poor way to begin. One of the Myrish galleys had foundered in the Straits of Tarth, and a storm had overtaken them as they were entering the Gullet, scattering the fleet across half the narrow sea. All but twelve ships had finally regrouped behind the sheltering spine of Massey’s Hook, in the calmer waters of Blackwater Bay, but not before they had lost considerable time. Stannis would have reached the Rush days ago. The kingsroad ran from Storm’s End straight to King’s Landing, a much shorter route than by sea, and his host was largely mounted; near twenty thousand knights, light horse, and freeriders, Renly’s unwilling legacy to his brother. They would have made good time, but armored destriers and twelve-foot lances would avail them little against the deep waters of the Blackwater Rush and the high stone walls of the city. Stannis would be camped with his lords on the south bank of the river, doubtless seething with impatience and wondering what Ser Imry had done with his fleet.
Off Merling Rock two days before, they had sighted a half-dozen fishing skiffs. The fisherfolk had fled before them, but one by one they had been overtaken and boarded. “A small spoon of victory is just the thing to settle the stomach before battle,” Ser Imry had declared happily. “It makes the men hungry for a larger helping.” But Davos had been more interested in what the captives had to say about the defenses at King’s Landing. The dwarf had been busy building some sort of boom to close off the mouth of the river, though the fishermen differed as to whether the work had been completed or not. He found himself wishing it had. If the river was closed to them, Ser Imry would have no choice but to pause and take stock.
The sea was full of sound: shouts and calls, warhorns and drums and the trill of pipes, the slap of wood on water as thousands of oars rose and fell. “Keep line,” Davos shouted. A gust of wind tugged at his old green cloak. A jerkin of boiled leather and a pothelm at his feet were his only armor. At sea, heavy steel was as like to cost a man his life as to save it, he believed. Ser Imry and the other highborn captains did not share his view; they glittered as they paced their decks.
Harridan and Seahorse had slipped into their places now, and Lord Celtigar’s Red Claw beyond them. To starboard of Allard’s Lady Marya were the three galleys that Stannis had seized from the unfortunate Lord Sunglass, Piety, Prayer, and Devotion, their decks crawling with archers. Even Swordfish was closing, lumbering and rolling through a thickening sea under both oars and sail. A ship of that many oars ought to be much faster, Davos reflected with disapproval. It’s that ram she carries, it’s too big, she has no balance.
The wind was gusting from the south, but under oars it made no matter. They would be sweeping in on the flood tide, but the Lannisters would have the river current to their favor, and the Blackwater Rush flowed strong and swift where it met the sea. The first shock would inevitably favor the foe. We are fools to meet them on the Blackwater, Davos thought. In any encounter on the open sea, their battle lines would envelop the enemy fleet on both flanks, driving them inward to destruction. On the river, though, the numbers and weight of Ser Imry’s ships would count for less. They could not dress more than twenty ships abreast, lest they risk tangling their oars and colliding with each other.
Beyond the line of warships, Davos could see the Red Keep up on Aegon’s High Hill, dark against a lemon sky, with the mouth of the Rush opening out below. Across the river the south shore was black with men and horses, stirring like angry ants as they caught sight of the approaching ships. Stannis would have kept them busy building rafts and fletching arrows, yet even so the waiting would have been a hard thing to bear. Trumpets sounded from among them, tiny and brazen, soon swallowed by the roar of a thousand shouts. Davos closed his stubby hand around the pouch that held his fingerbones, and mouthed a silent prayer for luck.
Fury herself would center the first line of battle, flanked by the Lord Steffon and the Stag of the Sea, each of two hundred oars. On the port and starboard wings were the hundreds: Lady Harra, Brightfish, Laughing Lord, Sea Demon, Horned Honor, Ragged Jenna, Trident Three, Swift Sword, Princess Rhaenys, Dog’s Nose, Sceptre, Faithful, Red Raven, Queen Alysanne, Cat, Courageous, and Dragonsbane. From every stern streamed the fiery heart of the Lord of Light, red and yellow and orange. Behind Davos and his sons came another line of hundreds commanded by knights and lordly captains, and then the smaller, slower Myrish contingent, none dipping more than eighty oars. Farther back would come the sailed ships, carracks and lumbering great cogs, and last of all Salladhor Saan in his proud Valyrian, a towering three-hundred, paced by the rest of his galleys with their distinctive striped hulls. The flamboyant Lyseni princeling had not been pleased to be assigned the rear guard, but it was clear that Ser Imry trusted him no more than Stannis did. Too many complaints, and too much talk of the gold he was owed. Davos was sorry nonetheless. Salladhor Saan was a resourceful old pirate, and his crews were born seamen, fearless in a fight. They were wasted in the rear.
Ahooooooooooooooooooooooooo. The call rolled across whitecaps and churning oars from the forecastle of the Fury: Ser Imry was sounding the attack. Ahoooooooooooooooooooo, ahooooooooooooooooooooo.
Swordfish had joined the line at last, though she still had her sail raised. “Fast cruise,” Davos barked. The drum began to beat more quickly, and the stroke picked up, the blades of the oars cutting water, splash-swoosh, splash-swoosh, splash-swoosh. On deck, soldiers banged sword against shield, while archers quietly strung their bows and pulled the first arrow from the quivers at their belts. The galleys of the first line of battle obscured his vision, so Davos paced the deck searching for a better view. He saw no sign of any boom; the mouth of the river was open, as if to swallow them all. Except . . .
In his smuggling days, Davos had often jested that he knew the waterfront at King’s Landing a deal better than the back of his hand, since he had not spent a good part of his life sneaking in and out of the back of his hand. The squat towers of raw new stone that stood opposite one another at the mouth of the Blackwater might mean nothing to Ser Irnry Florent, but to him it was as if two extra fingers had sprouted from his knuckles.
Shading his eyes against the westering sun, he peered at those towers more closely. They were too small to hold much of a garrison. The one on the north bank was built against the bluff with the Red Keep frowning above; its counterpart on the south shore had its footing in the water. They dug a cut through the bank, he knew at once. That would make the tower very difficult to assault; attackers would need to wade through the water or bridge the little channel. Stannis had posted bowmen below, to fire up at the defenders whenever one was rash enough to lift his head above the ramparts, but otherwise had not troubled.
Something flashed down low where the dark water swirled around the base of the tower. It was sunlight on steel, and it told Davos Seaworth all he needed to know. A chain boom . . . and yet they have not closed the river against us. Why?
He could make a guess at that as well, but there was no time to consider the question. A shout went up from the ships ahead, and the warhorns blew again: the enemy was before them. Between the flashing oars of Sceptre and Faithful, Davos saw a thin line of galleys drawn across the river, the sun glinting off the gold paint that marked their hulls. He knew those ships as well as he knew his own. When he had been a smuggler, he’d always felt safer knowing whether the sail on the horizon marked a fast ship or a slow one, and whether her captain was a young man hungry for glory or an old one serving out his days.
Ahooooooooooooooooooooooooooo, the warhorns called. “Battle speed,” Davos shouted. On port and starboard he heard Dale and Allard giving the same command. Drums began to beat furiously, oars rose and fell, and Black Betha surged forward. When he glanced toward Wraith, Dale gave him a salute. Swordfish was lagging once more, wallowing in the wake of the smaller ships to either side; elsewise the line was straight as a shield wall.
The river that had seemed so narrow from a distance now stretched wide as a sea, but the city had grown gigantic as well. Glowering down from Aegon’s High Hill, the Red Keep commanded the approaches. Its iron-crowned battlements, massive towers, and thick red walls gave it the aspect of a ferocious beast hunched above river and streets. The bluffs on which it crouched were steep and rocky, spotted with lichen and gnarled thorny trees. The fleet would have to pass below the castle to reach the harbor and city beyond.
The first line was in the river now, but the enemy galleys were backing water. They mean to draw us in. They want us jammed close, constricted, no way to sweep around their flanks . . . and with that boom behind us. He paced his deck, craning his neck for a better look at Joffrey’s fleet. The boy’s toys included the ponderous Godsgrace, he saw, the old slow Prince Aemon, the Lady of Silk and her sister Lady’s Shame, Wildwind, Kingslander, White Hart, Lance, Seaflower. But where was the Lionstar? Where was the beautiful Lady Lyanna that King Robert had named in honor of the maid he’d loved and lost? And where was King Robert’s Hammer? She was the largest war galley in the royal fleet, four hundred oars, the only warship the boy king owned capable of overmatching Fury. By rights she should have formed the heart of any defense.
Davos tasted a trap, yet he saw no sign of any foes sweeping in behind them, only the great fleet of Stannis Baratheon in their ordered ranks, stretching back to the watery horizon. Will they raise the chain and cut us in two? He could not see what good that would serve. The ships left out in the bay could still land men north of the city; a slower crossing, but safer.
A flight of flickering orange birds took wing from the castle, twenty or thirty of them; pots of burning pitch, arcing out over the river trailing threads of flame. The waters ate most, but a few found the decks of galleys in the first line of battle, spreading flame when they shattered. Men-at-arms were scrambling on Queen Alysanne’s deck, and he could see smoke rising from three different spots on Dragonsbane, nearest the bank. By then a second flight was on its way, and arrows were falling as well, hissing down from the archers’ nests that studded the towers above. A soldier tumbled over Cat’s gunwale, crashed off the oars, and sank. The first man to die today, Davos thought, but he will not be the last.
Atop the Red Keep’s battlements streamed the boy king’s banners: the crowned stag of Baratheon on its gold field, the lion of Lannister on crimson. More pots of pitch came flying. Davos heard men shriek as fire spread across Courageous. Her oarsmen were safe below, protected from missiles by the half deck that sheltered them, but the men-at-arms crowded topside were not so fortunate. The starboard wing was taking all the damage, as he had feared. It will be our turn soon, he reminded himself, uneasy. Black Betha was well in range of the firepots, being the sixth ship out from the north bank. To starboard, she had only Allard’s Lady Marya, the ungainly Swordfish—so far behind now that she was nearer the third line than the second—and Piety, Prayer, and Devotion, who would need all the godly intervention they could get, placed as vulnerably as they were.
As the second line swept past the twin towers, Davos took a closer look. He could see three links of a huge chain snaking out from a hole no bigger than a man’s head and disappearing under the water. The towers had a single door, set a good twenty feet off the ground. Bowmen on the roof of the northern tower were firing down at Prayer and Devotion. The archers on Devotion fired back, and Davos heard a man scream as the arrows found him.
“Captain ser.” His son Matthos was at his elbow. “Your helm.” Davos took it with both hands and slid it over his head. The pothelm was visorless; he hated having his vision impeded.
By then the pitch pots were raining down around them. He saw one shatter on the deck of Lady Marya, but Allard’s crew quickly beat it out. To port, warhorns sounded from the Pride of Driftmark. The oars flung up sprays of water with every stroke. The yard-long shaft of a scorpion came down not two feet from Matthos and sank into the wood of the deck, thrumming. Ahead, the first line was within bowshot of the enemy; flights of arrows flew between the ships, hissing like striking snakes.
South of the Blackwater, Davos saw men dragging crude rafts toward the water while ranks and columns formed up beneath a thousand streaming banners. The fiery heart was everywhere, though the tiny black stag imprisoned in the flames was too small to make out. We should be flying the crowned stag, he thought. The stag was King Robert’s sigil, the city would rejoice to see it. This stranger’s standard serves only to set men against us.
He could not behold the fiery heart without thinking of the shadow Melisandre had birthed in the gloom beneath Storm’s End. At least we fight this battle in the light, with the weapons of honest men, he told himself. The red woman and her dark children would have no part of it. Stannis had shipped her back to Dragonstone with his bastard nephew Edric Storm. His captains and bannermen had insisted that a battlefield was no place for a woman. Only the queen’s men had dissented, and then not loudly. All the same, the king had been on the point of refusing them until Lord Bryce Caron said, “Your Grace, if the sorceress is with us, afterward men will say it was her victory, not yours. They will say you owe your crown to her spells.” That had turned the tide. Davos himself had held his tongue during the arguments, but if truth be told, he had not been sad to see the back of her. He wanted no part of Melisandre or her god.
To starboard, Devotion drove toward shore, sliding out a plank. Archers scrambled into the shallows, holding their bows high over their heads to keep the strings dry. They splashed ashore on the narrow strand beneath the bluffs. Rocks came bouncing down from the castle to crash among them, and arrows and spears as well, but the angle was steep and the missiles seemed to do little damage. Prayer landed two dozen yards upstream and Piety was slanting toward the bank when the defenders came pounding down the riverside, the hooves of their warhorses sending up gouts of water from the shallows. The knights fell among the archers like wolves among chickens, driving them back toward the ships and into the river before most could notch an arrow. Men-at-arms rushed to defend them with spear and axe, and in three heartbeats the scene had turned to blood-soaked chaos. Davos recognized the dog’s-head helm of the Hound. A white cloak streamed from his shoulders as he rode his horse up the plank onto the deck of Prayer, hacking down anyone who blundered within reach.
Beyond the castle, King’s Landing rose on its hills behind the encircling walls. The riverfront was a blackened desolation; the Lannisters had burned everything and pulled back within the Mud Gate. The charred spars of sunken hulks sat in the shallows, forbidding access to the long stone quays. We shall have no landing there. He could see the tops of three huge trebuchets behind the Mud Gate. High on Visenya’s Hill, sunlight blazed off the seven crystal towers of the Great Sept of Baelor.
Davos never saw the battle joined, but he heard it; a great rending crash as two galleys came together. He could not say which two. Another impact echoed over the water an instant later, and then a third. Beneath the screech of splintering wood, he heard the deep thrum-thump of the Fury’s fore catapult. Stag of the Sea split one of Joffrey’s galleys clean in two, but Dog’s Nose was afire and Queen Alysanne was locked between Lady of Silk and Lady’s Shame, her crew fighting the boarders rail-to-rail.
Directly ahead, Davos saw the enemy’s Kingslander drive between Faithful and Sceptre. The former slid her starboard oars out of the way before impact, but Sceptre’s portside oars snapped like so much kindling as Kingslander raked along her side. “Loose,” Davos commanded, and his bowmen sent a withering rain of shafts across the water. He saw Kingslander’s captain fall, and tried to recall the man’s name.
Ashore, the arms of the great trebuchets rose one, two, three, and a hundred stones climbed high into the yellow sky. Each one was as large as a man’s head; when they fell they sent up great gouts of water, smashed through oak planking, and turned living men into bone and pulp and gristle. All across the river the first line was engaged. Grappling hooks were flung out, iron rams crashed through wooden hulls, boarders swarmed, flights of arrows whispered through each other in the drifting smoke, and men died . . . but so far, none of his.
Black Betha swept upriver, the sound of her oarmaster’s drum thundering in her captain’s head as he looked for a likely victim for her ram. The beleaguered Queen Alysanne was trapped between two Lannister warships, the three made fast by hooks and lines.
“Ramming speed!” Davos shouted.
The drumbeats blurred into a long fevered hammering, and Black Betha flew, the water turning white as milk as it parted for her prow. Allard had seen the same chance; Lady Marya ran beside them. The first line had been transformed into a confusion of separate struggles. The three tangled ships loomed ahead, turning, their decks a red chaos as men hacked at each other with sword and axe. A little more, Davos Seaworth beseeched the Warrior, bring her around a little more, show me her broadside.
The Warrior must have been listening. Black Betha and Lady Marya slammed into the side of Lady’s Shame within an instant of each other, ramming her fore and aft with such force that men were thrown off the deck of Lady of Silk three boats away. Davos almost bit his tongue off when his teeth jarred together. He spat out blood. Next time close your mouth, you fool. Forty years at sea, and yet this was the first time he’d rammed another ship. His archers were loosing arrows at will.
“Back water,” he commanded. When Black Betha reversed her oars, the river rushed into the splintered hole she left, and Lady’s Shame fell to pieces before his eyes, spilling dozens of men into the river. Some of the living swam; some of the dead floated; the ones in heavy mail and plate sank to the bottom, the quick and the dead alike. The pleas of drowning men echoed in his ears.
A flash of green caught his eye, ahead and off to port, and a nest of writhing emerald serpents rose burning and hissing from the stern of Queen Alysanne. An instant later Davos heard the dread cry of “Wildfire!”
He grimaced. Burning pitch was one thing, wildfire quite another. Evil stuff, and well-nigh unquenchable. Smother it under a cloak and the cloak took fire; slap at a fleck of it with your palm and your hand was aflame. “Piss on wildfire and your cock burns off,” old seamen liked to say. Still, Ser Imry had warned them to expect a taste of the alchemists’ vile substance. Fortunately, there were few true pyromancers left. They will soon run out, Ser Imry had assured them.
Davos reeled off commands; one bank of oars pushed off while the other backed water, and the galley came about. Lady Marya had won clear too, and a good thing; the fire was spreading over Queen Alysanne and her foes faster than he would have believed possible. Men wreathed in green flame leapt into the water, shrieking like nothing human. On the walls of King’s Landing, spitfires were belching death, and the great trebuchets behind the Mud Gate were throwing boulders. One the size of an ox crashed down between Black Betha and Wraith, rocking both ships and soaking every man on deck. Another, not much smaller, found Bold Laughter. The Velaryon galley exploded like a child’s toy dropped from a tower, spraying splinters as long as a man’s arm.
Through black smoke and swirling green fire, Davos glimpsed a swarm of small boats bearing downriver: a confusion of ferries and wherries, barges, skiffs, rowboats, and hulks that looked too rotten to float. It stank of desperation; such driftwood could not turn the tide of a fight, only get in the way. The lines of battle were hopelessly ensnarled, he saw. Off to port, Lord Steffon, Ragged fenna, and Swift Sword had broken through and were sweeping upriver. The starboard wing was heavily engaged, however, and the center had shattered under the stones of those trebuchets, some captains turning downstream, others veering to port, anything to escape that crushing rain. Fury had swung her aft catapult to fire back at the city, but she lacked the range; the barrels of pitch were shattering under the walls. Sceptre had lost most of her oars, and Faithful had been rammed and was starting to list. He took Black Betha between them, and struck a glancing blow at Queen Cersei’s ornate carved-and-gilded pleasure barge, laden with soldiers instead of sweetmeats now. The collision spilled a dozen of them into the river, where Betha’s archers picked them off as they tried to stay afloat. Matthos’s shout alerted him to the danger from port; one of the Lannister galleys was coming about to ram. “Hard to starboard,” Davos shouted. His men used their oars to push free of the barge, while others turned the galley so her prow faced the onrushing White Hart. For a moment he feared he’d been too slow, that he was about to be sunk, but the current helped swing Black Betha, and when the impact came it was only a glancing blow, the two hulls scraping against each other, both ships snapping oars. A jagged piece of wood flew past his head, sharp as any spear. Davos flinched. “Board her!” he shouted. Grappling lines were flung. He drew his sword and led them over the rail himself.
The crew of the White Hart met them at the rail, but Black Betha’s men-at-arms swept over them in a screaming steel tide. Davos fought through the press, looking for the other captain, but the man was dead before he reached him. As he stood over the body, someone caught him from behind with an axe, but his helm turned the blow, and his skull was left ringing when it might have been split. Dazed, it was all he could do to roll. His attacker charged screaming. Davos grasped his sword in both hands and drove it up point first into the man’s belly.
One of his crewmen pulled him back to his feet. “Captain ser, the Hart is ours.” It was true, Davos saw. Most of the enemy were dead, dying, or yielded. He took off his helm, wiped blood from his face, and made his way back to his own ship, trodding carefully on boards slimy with men’s guts. Matthos lent him a hand to help him back over the rail.
For those few instants, Black Betha and White Hart were the calm eye in the midst of the storm. Queen Alysanne and Lady of Silk, still locked together, were a ranging green inferno, drifting downriver and dragging pieces of Lady’s Shame. One of the Myrish galleys had slammed into them and was now afire as well. Cat was taking on men from the fastsinking Courageous. The captain of Dragonsbane had driven her between two quays, ripping out her bottom; her crew poured ashore with the archers and men-at-arms to join the assault on the walls. Red Raven, rammed, was slowly listing. Stag of the Sea was fighting fires and boarders both, but the fiery heart had been raised over Joffrey’s Loyal Man. Fury, her proud bow smashed in by a boulder, was engaged with Godsgrace. He saw Lord Velaryon’s Pride of Driftmark crash between two Lannister river runners, overturning one and lighting the other up with fire arrows. On the south bank, knights were leading their mounts aboard the cogs, and some of the smaller galleys were already making their way across, laden with men-at-arms. They had to thread cautiously between sinking ships and patches of drifting wildfire. The whole of King Stannis’s fleet was in the river now, save for Salladhor Saan’s Lyseni. Soon enough they would control the Blackwater. Ser Imry will have his victory, Davos thought, and Stannis will bring his host across, but gods be good, the cost of this . . .
“Captain ser!” Matthos touched his shoulder.
It was Swordfish, her two banks of oars lifting and falling. She had never brought down her sails, and some burning pitch had caught in her rigging. The flames spread as Davos watched, creeping out over ropes and sails until she trailed a head of yellow flame. Her ungainly iron ram, fashioned after the likeness of the fish from which she took her name, parted the surface of the river before her. Directly ahead, drifting toward her and swinging around to present a tempting plump target, was one of the Lannister hulks, floating low in the water. Slow green blood was leaking out between her boards.
When he saw that, Davos Seaworth’s heart stopped beating.
“No,” he said. “No, NOOOOOOOO!” Above the roar and crash of battle, no one heard him but Matthos. Certainly the captain of the Swordfish did not, intent as he was on finally spearing something with his ungainly fat sword. The Swordfish went to battle speed. Davos lifted his maimed hand to clutch at the leather pouch that held his fingerbones.
With a grinding, splintering, tearing crash, Swordfish split the rotted hulk asunder. She burst like an overripe fruit, but no fruit had ever screamed that shattering wooden scream. From inside her Davos saw green gushing from a thousand broken jars, poison from the entrails of a dying beast, glistening, shining, spreading across the surface of the river . . .
“Back water,” he roared. “Away. Get us off her, back water, back water!” The grappling lines were cut, and Davos felt the deck move under his feet as Black Betha pushed free of White Hart. Her oars slid down into the water.
Then he heard a short sharp woof, as if someone had blown in his ear. Half a heartbeat later came the roar. The deck vanished beneath him, and black water smashed him across the face, filling his nose and mouth. He was choking, drowning. Unsure which way was up, Davos wrestled the river in blind panic until suddenly he broke the surface. He spat out water, sucked in air, grabbed hold of the nearest chunk of debris, and held on.
Swordfish and the hulk were gone, blackened bodies were floating downstream beside him, and choking men clinging to bits of smoking wood. Fifty feet high, a swirling demon of green flame danced upon the river. It had a dozen hands, in each a whip, and whatever they touched burst into fire. He saw Black Betha burning, and White Hart and Loyal Man to either side. Piety, Cat, Courageous, Sceptre, Red Raven, Harridan, Faithful, Fury, they had all gone up, Kingslander and Godsgrace as well, the demon was eating his own. Lord Velaryon’s shining Pride of Driftmark was trying to turn, but the demon ran a lazy green finger across her silvery oars and they flared up like so many tapers. For an instant she seemed to be stroking the river with two banks of long bright torches.
The current had him in its teeth by then, spinning him around and around. He kicked to avoid a floating patch of wildfire. My sons, Davos thought, but there was no way to look for them amidst the roaring chaos. Another hulk heavy with wildfire went up behind him. The Blackwater itself seemed to boil in its bed, and burning spars and burning men and pieces of broken ships filled the air.
I’m being swept out into the bay. It wouldn’t be as bad there; he ought to be able to make shore, he was a strong swimmer. Salladhor Saan’s galleys would be out in the bay as well, Ser Imry had commanded them to stand off . . .
And then the current turned him about again, and Davos saw what awaited him downstream.
The chain. Gods save us, they’ve raised the chain.
Where the river broadened out into Blackwater Bay, the boom stretched taut, a bare two or three feet above the water. Already a dozen galleys had crashed into it, and the current was pushing others against them. Almost all were aflame, and the rest soon would be. Davos could make out the striped hulls of Salladhor Saan’s ships beyond, but he knew he would never reach them. A wall of red-hot steel, blazing wood, and swirling green flame stretched before him. The mouth of the Blackwater Rush had turned into the mouth of hell.
Ⅱ 列王的纷争 Chapter59 戴佛斯
黑水湾内波涛汹涌，浊浪滔天。
黑贝丝号随着满潮前进，变换无常的风将帆吹得咯啦作晌。海灵号和玛瑞亚夫人号分居两侧，船与船的间隔不超过二十码。看来儿子们已学会保持战列，戴佛斯为此深感自豪。
隆隆的战号穿越海面，啸叫嘶哑深沉，犹如魔鬼的呼唤，船船相传。“收帆，”戴佛斯命令，“降桅。桨手就位。”儿子马索斯传令下去。船员们匆忙跑上岗位，推开舰上站立的士兵——每到此刻，他们总显得碍手碍脚——黑贝丝号的甲板一片忙碌。先前伊姆瑞爵士宣布入河后只准用桨，以免君临城上的弩炮和喷火弩发动攻击，引燃船帆。
戴佛斯往东南望去，凝视着怒火号的身影。她的船帆闪着金光，帆布纹饰了拜拉席恩家族的宝冠雄鹿。十六年前，史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩正是站在她的甲板上，率领舰队攻打龙石岛；这一次，他决定随陆军前进，将怒火号和舰队指挥权交给大舅子伊姆瑞爵士，此人在风息堡下随艾利斯特伯爵与佛罗伦家族一起投效。
对怒火号，戴佛斯几乎跟自己的船一般熟悉。她有三百支桨，甲板两边布满弩炮，船头和船尾各放置一座投石机，用来投掷燃烧的沥青桶。她不仅令人望而生畏，而且十分敏捷迅速。然而伊姆瑞爵士却让她的甲板挤满装甲骑士和步兵，白白浪费了她的速度。
号声再度响起，怒火号上传出指令。戴佛斯感到消失的指尖一阵麻痒。“下桨，”他叫道，“成列。”一百片桨叶同时入水，桨官轰隆击鼓。鼓声犹如硕大而和缓的心跳，每敲一下，桨动一分，百人一体，整齐划一。
海灵号和玛瑞亚夫人号也同时展开木翅膀，三舰速度一致，叶刃搅拌黑水。“减速，”戴佛斯高喊。瓦列利安大人银色船壳的坐舰潮头岛之荣光号已驶入海灵号左舷，到达预定位置，傲笑者号跟上来，但老妇人号才刚放桨入水，海马号更慢，降桅还没完成。戴佛斯朝船尾望去。果然，在后面，遥远的南边，剑鱼号一如既往地慢慢吞吞，拖在最后。她有两百支桨和全舰队最大的撞锤，但戴佛斯很怀疑船长的能力。他听见士兵们隔海遥呼，彼此鼓励。自风息堡出发以来，他们一直闷在舱内，无所事事，早已迫不及待，渴望战斗，并且自信满怀，坚信胜利。在这点上，他们和舰队总司令伊姆瑞·佛罗伦爵士倒是一条心。
三天前，舰队在文德河口抛锚后，司令召集所有船长到怒火号上召开作战会议，以传达部署。戴佛斯和他的儿子们被安排在第二战列，暴露于危险的右翼。“荣誉的位置，”阿拉德叹道，非常满意有机会证明自己的英勇。“危险的位置，”父亲指出。儿子们报以同情的目光，连年轻的马利克亦然。洋葱骑士成了老朽妇人，他能听到他们的想法，父亲骨子里还是个走私者。
呵，至少后者不假，他也不为此遗憾。席渥斯是个荣耀的贵族姓氏，但在心底，他一直都是跳蚤窝的戴佛斯。如今他要回家了，回到这座三丘之上的城市。他对船只、帆桨和海岸的了解在七国上下出类拔萃，也曾在潮湿的甲板上刀刃见红、浴血搏杀，只是今天这种战斗让他觉得自己突然成了青春少女，既紧张又害怕。走私者是决不会吹响号角、升起战旗的。一旦嗅到危险的迹象，他们便会升帆启航，以比风还快的速度逃之天天。
倘若我是司令，决不会如此行动。首先，我会挑选数艘快船深入河道，仔细审察，刺探虚实，而非轻率地猛扑而进。他曾向伊姆瑞爵士提过这个建议，舰队总司令客气地道谢，眼神却不那么友好。这个出身微贱的懦夫是谁呀？那双眼睛在问，他就是那个用洋葱换来爵位的人吗？
由于船只总数足足是小鬼国王的四倍，伊姆瑞爵士认为小心谨慎或精巧谋划都不必要。他直接将舰队编成十道战列，各由二十艘战舰组成。头两列负责扫清河道，摧毁乔佛里的小舰队——伊姆瑞爵士和贵族船长们谈笑中称其为“小孩的玩具”。紧随其后的舰只首先将船上大批弓箭手和长矛兵登陆到城下，然后加入河上的战斗。最小和最慢的船放在后面，负责将史坦尼斯的主力部队自南岸运到北岸，他们的行动由萨拉多·桑恩的里斯舰队掩护。队伍末端的里斯舰队奉命留守海湾，以防兰尼斯特军将舰只隐藏在岸边，伺机偷袭舰队后方。
公正地讲，伊姆瑞爵士的激进并非毫无道理。自风息堡而来的航行途中，海风一直不善。启航当天，两艘小船在破船湾触礁沉没，糟糕的开始。随后在塔斯海峡又沉了一艘密尔战舰。进入喉道过程中，舰队遇风暴侵袭，队列溃散，有的船甚至被吹到狭海正中。等到达洋流较和缓的黑水湾，在马赛岬的岸脊遮蔽下重整完毕，整整十二条船不见踪影，更糟的是，他们耽误了太多时间。
史坦尼斯几天前就赶到了河边。风息堡和君临之间是笔直的国王大道，原本就比海路短捷，外加国王的部队几乎全数骑马：将近两万骑士、轻骑兵和自由骑手——蓝礼违心地留给兄长的遗产。他们虽已抵达，但重甲战马和十二尺长熗奈何不了黑水河的辽阔深水与君临城的石砌高墙。史坦尼斯带着诸侯部属在南岸扎营等候，想必沸腾着无奈的怒火，猜疑伊姆瑞爵士将他的舰队带往了何方。
两天前，通过美人鱼礁时，他们遇见五六艘小渔船。渔民们一见大船便分头逃窜，最后还是被一个个抓获，关进船舱。“一小匙胜利，大战前的开胃菜，”伊姆瑞爵士兴高采烈地宣布，“有助于我们放开肚皮，打扫正餐。”戴佛斯只关心俘虏吐露的君临守备情况。侏儒似乎忙着修筑某种铁索以堵住河口，然而渔民们众说纷纭，弄不清障碍物是否完工。他暗暗希望有铁索横江，如果河道上不去，伊姆瑞爵士便别无选择，必须停下来，做好整顿。
海上众声喧嚣，充斥着吼叫、呼喊，号角、鼓声和笛子的颤音，还有成千的木桨起落击水的声响。“保持阵线，”戴佛斯喊道。一阵海风牵起他老旧的绿披风，他没穿铠甲，只罩了件皮背心，脚边搁着一顶圆盔。在海上，沉重的盔甲不但不能救人于水火，反而会断送性命，对此他坚信不疑。伊姆瑞爵士和其他出身高贵的船长却不这么看，他们在甲板上走来走去，身上的铠甲闪烁着光芒。
此时，老妇人号和海马号已就位，赛提加大人的红蟹号也即将就绪。阿拉德的玛瑞亚夫人号右舷是史坦尼斯从不幸的桑格拉斯伯爵手中夺来的三艘战舰：虔诚号，祈祷号和奉献号，她们甲板上排满弓箭手。连剑鱼号也已驶近，她帆桨并用，摇摇摆摆地在洋面挪动。一艘如此多桨的大船本可行得更快，戴佛斯不以为然地想。一定是撞锤的缘故，它实在太大，使她失去了平衡。
现下是南风，但由于舰队换帆用桨，所以行动没受什么影响。他们将跟着潮水长驱直入，但一旦入河，优势便会逆转，兰尼斯特军势必会好好利用河道激流，众所周知，黑水河入海处的水流又强又急。在黑水河里与他们交战真是蠢透了，戴佛斯心想。如果在大海中相遇，他们能从两翼合围，将敌军挤向中央，全部消灭。但在河上，伊姆瑞爵士的船再多再好都无用武之地，一次顶多摆开二十艘，惟恐桨叶交割，互相抵触。
战列之外，戴佛斯远眺耸立于伊耿高丘之上的红堡，黑色的建筑贴近柠檬色的天空，其下便是黑水河口。河对面，黑压压的全是人马，一见船队出现，骚动得像炸了窝的蚂蚁。史坦尼斯肯定没让他们闲着，而是着手建筑小筏，制造飞箭，虽然如此，等待也一定心焦。人群中喇叭吹响，微弱但刺耳，随即被千军万马的呐喊声所淹没。戴佛斯用残废的手指紧握装有指骨的小袋，默默祈祷好运降临。
怒火号主持第一战列，左右是史蒂芬公爵号和海鹿号，两者皆是两百桨的大船。第一战列的其他舰只分列两边，也都是百桨等级：哈拉夫人号、亮鱼号、欢笑君王号、海魔号、荣光角号、珍娜号、三叉戟号、侠剑号、雷妮丝公主号、狗鼻号、王权号、信仰号、红鸦号、亚莉珊王后号、猫号、勇敢号和龙祸号，每艘船尾都飘扬着光之王的烈焰红心，红橙黄三色。戴佛斯和他儿子们所在的第二战列后还有一列百桨等级大船，这一列由骑士和贵族船长指挥。再往后，是船身小、速度慢的密尔船，每艘船桨不过八十。更远处的船还张着帆，她们是大型商船和笨重的货船。最后压阵的是萨拉多‘桑恩的瓦雷利亚人号，一艘巨型的三百桨战舰，里斯战舰群聚在她周围，她们都有与众不同的彩绘船壳。浮华的“狭海亲王”对奉命殿后不太满意，很明显，伊姆瑞爵士和史坦尼斯一样不信任他。他抱怨得太多，老爱谈论人家欠他的黄金。话虽如此，戴佛斯却深感遗憾。萨拉多·桑恩是个足智多谋的老海盗，手下全是经验丰富的海员，在战斗中个个亡命，放作后卫实在浪费。
啊呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜
透过汹涌的白沫和齐整的拍打，怒火号前甲板上传来指令：伊姆瑞爵士发出总攻信号。
啊呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜，啊呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜
剑鱼号终于加入战列，但帆还不及降下。“加速前进。”戴佛斯咆哮。鼓声加急，击桨的速度随即跟上，木叶在水面翻飞，嗨哟——噗咻，嗨哟——噗咻，嗨哟——噗咻。甲板上，步兵们以剑击盾，弓箭手则飞快搭好弓弦，从腰上的箭袋里抽出羽箭。第一战列挡住了视野，戴佛斯只好在甲板上走来走去以便观察。迄今为止，他没发现铁索的痕迹，河口在面前无遮无拦地张开，好似要将他们尽数吞没。哦，除了……
在漫长的走私生涯里，戴佛斯常对人玩笑说他对君临的河滨比对自己的手背还要熟悉，这不难理解，他可没花半辈子在手背上潜进摸出。黑水河口两岸这两座新砌的石塔对伊姆瑞爵士而言或许毫无意义，但对他来说犹如手上多出两根指头一样。
他举手遮挡西洒的阳光，仔细眺望石塔。它们太小，藏不下多少守卫。北岸那座就建在红堡的悬崖下，与之相对的南岸石塔根基则在水中。他们在岸边挖了一道深沟，他立刻看出，如此一来，石塔便难以攻击：要么涉过深水，要么搭桥而行。史坦尼斯在塔下布置了十字弓兵，只要守卫在堡垒上露头，便能加以射杀。他所做的仅止于此。
塔底旋转咆哮的黑水里，某种事物闪闪发光。那是阳光在钢铁上的反射，戴佛斯一望便知。一条巨型铁索……然而并未升起，以阻止我们入河。这是为什么呢？
他正想仔细揣摩，不料时间不等人。前方战舰传来一阵呼喝，战号再度响起：敌人迎战了！
在王权号和信仰号飞速起落的桨叶之间，戴佛斯瞧见一列稀疏的舰船顺流而下，阳光闪烁在船壳金色的图绘上。对这些船只，他也像自己的船一般了若指掌。当走私者的时候，只要这些帆在地平线上一出现，他便知来船是快还是慢，知道船长是渴望荣誉的青年，还是垂暮之年的老人。由于他判断准确，所以每次都应付自如。
啊呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜战号长鸣，“战斗速度，”戴佛斯高喊。他听见左右两舷的戴尔和阿拉德也同时下令。战鼓狂暴敲打，船桨起起落落，黑贝丝号破浪而前。当他转头望向海灵号时，戴尔给父亲敬了个礼。剑鱼号再度掉队，被两侧小一号的船超过，除她之外，整条战列整齐得像道盾墙。
远处看来狭窄的河道，如今却辽阔得像无边的海洋，城市也在眼前愈变愈大。红堡雄踞于伊耿高丘，掌控河口要道。它有钢铁加固的工事、巨型的堡楼和厚实的红墙，好似蹲坐在河流与市街之上的凶残猛兽。堡下的悬崖多石而陡峭，点缀着苔藓与荆棘。舰队必须从城堡下经过，方能入港攻城。
第一战列已经入河，敌舰却开始逆流退却。看来他们想诱敌深入，使我军堵在一团，互相牵制，无法伸展队列，进行侧翼包围……别忘了后面还有那条铁索。他在甲板上来回踱步，伸长脖子想看清乔佛里的舰队。“小孩的玩具”包括笨重的神恩号，他认出来，还有陈旧迟缓的伊蒙王子号，丝绸夫人号和她的姐妹舰夫人之耻号、野风号、君临号、白鹿号、长熗号、海花号。可是，狮星号呢？劳勃国王为纪念他所深爱却又失落的少女而造的华美漂亮的莱安娜小姐号呢？劳勃国王之锤号呢？她不仅是王家舰队最大的战船，拥有四百支桨，更是小鬼国王手中惟一能与怒火号抗衡的舰只。照理说，应该由她居中组织防御才对。
戴佛斯嗅出陷阱的味道，却看不出敌人有任何埋伏或突袭的迹象，只见史坦尼斯·拜拉席恩庞大的舰队排成整齐的队型，一直连到天边。难道对方打算适时升起铁索，把我军一截为二？这样做好处何在？留在湾外的船照样可把人马运到北岸，虽然进度慢一点，倒更安全。
一群摇曳的橘红飞鸟从城堡上展翅俯冲，约有二三十只：这是燃烧的沥青罐，拖着长长的火尾呈抛物线射下河流。河水吞噬了大半飞鸟，也有几只在第一战列船舰的甲板上着陆，炸开，散射火花。亚莉珊王后号上的步兵乱成一团，他还看见龙祸号三处冒烟，也难怪，她最靠近河岸。第二波攻击接踵而至，这次夹杂飞箭，弓箭手从石塔上无数的箭孔中发射。一名士兵翻过猫号的船舷，撞上桨叶，沉入水底。这是今天流的第一滴血，戴佛斯心想，却远远不是最后一滴。
红堡的城垛上高高飘扬着小鬼国王的旗帜：拜拉席恩家族的金底宝冠雄鹿旗，兰尼斯特家族的红底怒吼雄狮旗。沥青火罐不断掷下，勇敢号上焰火弥漫，士兵们尖声惨叫。此时此刻，船舷下的桨手有甲板遮蔽，倒十分安全，挤在上面的步兵却不太走运。正如他所担忧的，右翼被迫承受所有攻击。马上就轮到我们了，他提醒自己，心里忐忑不安。黑贝丝号和北岸问只隔了五艘战舰，正在火罐射程之内。右舷方向，有阿拉德的玛瑞亚夫人号，笨拙的剑鱼号一一她现今落得太远，与其说是第二战列，其实更接近第三战列——以及虔诚号，祈祷号和奉献号，她们三个被放在如此危险的位置，真得希望船名所许的神灵赐福了。
第二战列通过双子塔时，戴佛斯抓紧时间仔细观察。只见塔底有个约莫人头大的洞，一条巨型铁链蜿蜒而出，水上只见三个环节，其余都在河底。石塔只有一扇门，且离地二十余尺。北塔顶上，十字弓手正拼命向祈祷号和奉献号发动攻击。奉献号甲板上的弓箭手予以还击，有人被射落，戴佛斯听见惨叫。
“船长阁下。”儿子马索斯来到身边。“请戴上头盔。”戴佛斯双手接过，笼在头上。这顶圆盔除去了面甲，他痛恨视线被阻的滋味。
接着，沥青火罐如雨般在船边坠落。其中一罐在玛瑞亚夫人号的甲板上炸裂，阿拉德的船员迅速将火扑灭。左舷，潮头岛之荣光号吹响号角，桨手们拼命击桨，拍出无数水花。一只足有一码长的箭自城上弩炮射出，落在离马索斯不到两尺的地方，深深没入木制甲板，颤个不停。前方，第一战列和敌舰之间已进入弓箭射程，船船之间飞箭往来，好似嘶嘶怪叫的毒蛇。
黑水河南岸，戴佛斯看见士兵们正将粗制木筏拖入水中，大军整队，千旗飘扬。随处可见烈焰红心，渺小漆黑的雄鹿被禁锢在火焰之中，几乎无法辨认。我们理应在宝冠雄鹿旗下作战，他心想，雄鹿是劳勃国王的徽记，整个城市都会欣然接受。陌生的纹章只会引起反感。
看见烈焰红心，他不由得想起梅丽珊卓在风息堡底的阴霾中诞生的影子。至少今天我们在光天化日之下作战，用的是正派人的武器，他告诉自己。红袍女及她的黑暗子孙将与这场战斗毫无瓜葛。史坦尼斯已把她和他的私生侄儿艾德瑞克·风暴一起送回了龙石岛。之前，除后党人士发出微弱抗议外，他的船长和诸侯纷纷坚持不要女人加入这场光荣的战役。不过说归说，史坦尼斯本不打算理会，直到布莱斯·卡伦伯爵的一句话逆转了潮流：“陛下，若巫魔女还跟着咱们，将来人们便会把这场胜利称之为她的胜利，而不是您的。别人会说您靠她的符咒才赢得王冠。”在激烈的争论中，戴佛斯管住了嘴巴，但说心里话，他乐于见她被遣。对梅丽珊卓和她的真主，他只想避而远之。
右舷，奉献号朝河岸驶去，放出跳板，弓箭手随即乱哄哄地涉进浅滩，将弓高举，以保持弓弦干燥。他们冲进悬崖和河水之间狭窄的滩头。城上飞石如雨，跳跃砸落，其间还混杂有弓箭与长矛。然而角度太小，在峭壁的掩护下，这些武器作用不大。
祈祷号在上游二十多码的地方登陆，虔诚号则歪歪斜斜地朝河岸撞去。这时，守军出来了，他们冲下河岸，军马的铁蹄踏过浅滩，溅起水花。骑士们杀进弓箭手中，好似恶狼驱逐小鸡，大多数人还不及搭箭，便又被赶回船上，甚至落入河中。步兵连忙赶到，用长矛和战斧加以抵御，瞬间之后，整个场面便是血肉横飞。戴佛斯认出猎狗的狗头盔。他骑着骏马，通过跳板，杀上祈祷号，肩上的纯白披风迎风飘扬。不管是谁，只要近身，便被不由分说一斧砍翻。
过了城堡，在环型城墙之中，山丘上的君临跃入眼帘。河滨成了一片焦土，兰尼斯特把所有建筑付之一炬，并将各色人等都赶进烂泥门。烧焦的桅杆和沉没的船只堆积在河滩，使船只无法靠近长长的石码头。看来这里无法登陆。烂泥门后，三架巨型投石机露出头来。维桑尼亚丘陵顶，艳阳映在贝勒大圣堂的七座水晶高塔上，璀璨发光。
戴佛斯瞧不清前方的战斗，但能听见作战的声音。两艘战舰相撞，发出撕裂的巨响，他辨不出是哪两条船。顷刻之后，又一声巨大的碰撞回荡在水面，接着是第三声。在船木分解的刺耳尖啸中，他听见怒火号船头投石机深沉的咚——咚声。海鹿号将一艘乔佛里的船迎面劈成两半，狗鼻号却开始起火燃烧，亚莉珊女王号被丝绸夫人号和夫人之耻号夹在中间，动弹不得，她的船员正与登舰的敌人做殊死搏斗。
正前方，敌方君临号穿过信仰号和王权号之间的缝隙，猛扑而来。信仰号右舷的桨手在撞击之前及时收起船桨，但王权号左舷的桨却如火柴棍般被掠过的君临号全数撞断。“放箭，”戴佛斯命令，他的十字弓兵立刻掀起一阵致命的箭雨。他看见君临号的船长倒下，一时却想不起对方的名字。
岸上，巨型投石机的手臂一只、两只、三只，纷纷抬起。数以百计的石头爬上黄色的天空，每块都大如人头。它们坠落下来，或溅起巨大浪花，或击穿橡木甲板，把人活生生打成碎骨、肉泥和肝浆。第一战列的船已全部加入战团。爪钩穿梭，铁撞锤砸过木壳，士兵群聚登船。在流动的浓烟之中，只见箭矢遮天蔽日。人们纷纷死去……所幸到目前为止，他的部下尚无阵亡。
黑贝丝号逆流而上，桨官鼓声雷动，好似她正饥渴地寻找撞锤的第一个牺牲品。亚莉珊女王号已被两艘兰尼斯特战舰捕获，三船由爪钩和绳索连成一体。
“撞角速度！”戴佛斯高呼。
鼓点模糊，成了一片绵长、狂热、无休无止的锤打，黑贝丝起飞了，船首劈开水花，飞沫犹如乳奶。阿拉德发现了同样的机会，他的玛瑞亚夫人号与黑贝丝号并驾齐驱。此刻，第一战列已经散开，各自为战。三艘纠结的战舰就在前方，缠绕着缓缓旋转，甲板上血肉模糊，人们用斧剑互相挥砍。再转过去一点，戴佛斯·席渥斯向战士祷告，让她再转过去一点，把侧舷暴露出来。
战士定然听见了他的祷告。黑贝丝号和玛瑞亚夫人号几乎同时扎进夫人之耻号体内，把她从头到尾撞个稀烂，力道之猛，连隔着三条船的丝绸夫人号上的人也被抛入海中。相撞的刹那，戴佛斯的牙齿猛地闭合，差点咬断舌头。他吐出一口鲜血。下次记得闭紧嘴巴，你这蠢货。在海上讨了四十年生活，这还是他头一遭主动撞击别人的船。回头一看，船上的弓箭手正自由射击。
“后退，”他命令。黑贝丝号倒划船桨，河水迅猛灌进刚才砸出的大洞，夫人之耻号就这样在她面前支离破碎，成群的人落入河中。活人挣扎求生，死人寂默浮沉，而穿重板甲或锁子甲的人不论死活立刻沉入河底，不再动弹。即将淹死的人们的苦苦哀号，一直萦绕在他耳际。
一抹绿光闪过眼帘，飞向前面，落到左舷方向。刹时，一窝翡翠毒蛇咝咝叫着在亚莉珊女王号的船尾升起，翻腾，燃烧。恐怖的哭喊从前方传来：“野火！”
他脸色大变。燃烧的沥青是一回事，野火的威胁则大不相同。这种邪恶的物质，几乎无法扑灭。哪怕只有一点火星，用斗篷闷，斗篷反而着火；用手掌拍，手掌反而燃烧。“尿在野火上，你那玩意儿就得烤焦，”这是老海员们的名言之一。伊姆瑞爵士已警告过他们可能会碰上这种炼金术士的邪恶物质。所幸世上活着的火术士寥寥无几，这种物质很快便会耗尽，伊姆瑞爵士向人们保证。
戴佛斯下达新指令：战舰掉头，一舷桨手往前划而另一舷往后划。玛瑞亚夫人号也在撤离，没有沾上火苗。烈火以他难以想象的速度吞噬了亚莉珊女王号，随即蔓延到她的捕获者。绿火缠身的人跳进水中，发出非人的惨嚎。君临城上，喷火弩射出死亡，烂泥门内，庞然的投石机掷下巨石。一颗公牛大小的岩石坠落在黑贝丝号和海灵号之间，激得双船摇晃不止，甲板上的人浑身皆湿。另一颗小不了多少的石头直接命中傲笑者号。这条瓦列利安家的战舰像一块从高塔上抛下的孩童玩具般爆炸分裂，溅起的碎片有手臂那么长。
在漫天的黑烟和绿火中，戴佛斯瞥见一群小船顺流而下：其中有渡船、划艇、驳轮、木筏、小帆船和船身腐烂得几乎无法漂浮的货船，混乱不堪。真是绝望的挣扎，凭这一堆浮木怎可扭转战局？只能挡道罢了。显而易见，敌军战线已无法重整。左翼，史蒂芬公爵号，珍娜号和侠剑号突破了防守，冲向上游。右翼还在酣战，然而，我军中央部分却在投石机的巨石袭击下土崩瓦解，有的船调头朝下游避去，有的船靠向左边，大家都在匆忙闪避无情的石雨。怒火号调转方向，企图用船尾投石机还击，不料射程不够，投出的沥青桶只砸在城墙上。王权号失去泰半船桨，信仰号被敌舰撞穿，开始下沉。他率领黑贝丝穿出两船之间，擦过瑟曦太后装饰华丽的镀金游艇——如今艇上满载士兵而非糖果蜜饯。这记碰撞将十几个敌人掀进河中，他们试图游泳，却成了黑贝丝号上弓箭手们的活靶子。
马索斯高声叫喊，警告左舷方向出现的危机：一艘兰尼斯特战舰正挺着撞锤，直扑而来。“右满舵！”戴佛斯大喝。他的部下用桨叶推开游艇，其他人则拼命划水调头，让船首对准那不顾一切冲来的白鹿号。一时之间，他恐惧不已，生怕动作太慢，只剩被撞沉一途，幸而潮流及时帮助了黑贝丝号，当碰撞最终发生时，只是相互擦击，两船壳摩擦刮割，桨叶齐断。一块参差不齐的木板从头顶飞过，锋利如矛，戴佛斯不由得缩了一下。“登船！”他叫道。爪钩抛出。他抽出长剑，带头翻过栏杆。白鹿号的船员迎上船舷与他们对峙，但黑贝丝号的步兵如一阵钢铁洪流扫荡过去。戴佛斯穿过混战的人群，寻找敌舰船长，此人却在他靠近之前丧命。他站在船长的尸体旁，突然被人从后用战斧偷袭，幸好头盔挡下这一击，脑袋只是嗡嗡作响，并未碎裂。他昏头转向，下意识地着地翻滚。偷袭者喊叫着发起冲锋。戴佛斯双手握剑往上，抢先刺入来人腹中。
手下一名船员扶他起立，“船长阁下，白鹿号已被我方夺取。”确实如此，戴佛斯抬眼四望。大多数敌人不是已死，便是奄奄一息，还有一些人投降。他摘下头盔，擦擦脸上的血迹，调头返回自己的船，一路小心翼翼，人们流出的内脏肚肠使甲板黏滑无比。马索斯伸手扶他翻过栏杆。
接下来短短时间，黑贝丝号和白鹿号倒成了暴风雨中心的平静风眼。亚莉珊女王号和丝绸夫人号仍捆在一起，如一团绿色的地狱火，拖带夫人之耻号的残骸，飘向下游。一艘密尔战舰不幸撞上了她们，顷刻间也着了火。猫号正靠在迅速下沉的勇敢号边拯救人员。龙祸号的船长操纵坐船于两个码头间的缝隙处强行登陆，龙骨被撕得粉碎，船员和弓箭手、步兵一起蜂拥上岸，加入攻城队伍。红鸦号也被撞穿，正在缓缓倾斜。海鹿号同时与火势和敌兵搏斗，但她把烈焰红心旗插上了身边乔佛里的忠臣号。怒火号神气的船首被巨石打得不见踪影，正与神恩号接舷对战。他看见瓦列利安大人的潮头岛之荣光号撞开两艘兰尼斯特的快船，掀翻一艘，正向另一艘发射火箭。南岸，骑士们正领着战马陆续登上货船，许多小型战舰载满步兵，已开始渡河。她们格外谨慎地在半沉的船只和漂浮的野火之间挑选路径。史坦尼斯国王的全部舰队已驶入了河流，只有萨拉多·桑恩的里斯船还在湾内。很快我军将掌控整条黑水河。伊姆瑞爵士终于得到渴望的胜利，戴佛斯想，史坦尼斯终于能让军队跨过天堑，然而诸神在上，代价实在是……
“船长阁下！”马索斯碰碰他肩膀。
是剑鱼号。她的两行桨叶起起落落，但风帆始终没降下来。燃烧的沥青点燃索具，火势逐渐蔓延，爬过绳子，登上帆布，长成一个黄焰大瘤。她那笨重的撞锤，形塑成船名所指的鱼类的模样，歪歪斜斜地栽向前方水面。剑鱼号正前方，一艘小船缓缓飘来，在河中缓缓打转，形成一个诱人的目标。这是一艘兰尼斯特的废船，吃水很低，黏稠的绿血从舷板间的隙缝渗漏而出。
见此光景，戴佛斯·席渥斯的心脏停止了跳动。
“不，”他大喊，“不，不不不不不不不——！”但在一片吼叫和撕杀声中，除了马索斯，没人听见他的话。至少剑鱼号的船长肯定没听见，他兴奋不已，手中笨拙的剑终于找到了合适目标。顷刻间，剑鱼号提升至战斗速度。戴佛斯抬起残废的手掌紧紧握住装指骨的皮袋。
碰撞、撕裂、分解，剑鱼号把腐朽的废船撞成纷飞的碎片。她像一颗熟透的水果般爆裂开来，虽然没有一种水果能发出木头分裂的尖啸。伴随漫天的果肉，绿色的汁液从一千个罐子中流溢而出，好似垂死野兽的肚肠，闪耀绿芒，光彩夺目，在河面上散开……
“后退，”他咆哮，“快离开。赶快离开她，后退，后退！”绳索砍开，戴佛斯感觉到甲板移动，黑贝丝快速脱离白鹿号，木桨重新入水。
接着，只听一声急促而尖利的低吠，好似什么人凑在耳边喘气。半晌之后，成了怒嚎。脚下的甲板消失不见，黑水扑击脸庞，灌进鼻子和嘴巴。他呛水，淹溺，不知身在何方。在无边的惊恐中，戴佛斯盲目挣扎，直到终于浮出水面。他吐出积水，深吸口气，抓住最近的木板，紧抱不放。
剑鱼号和废船消失不见，焦黑的残躯同他一起漂向下游，溺水的人们死死抓住散落水中的冒烟木板。河面上升起一个五十尺高的绿火恶魔，他旋转着，翩翩起舞。他有十几只手臂，每只都握着长鞭，鞭子一挥，那儿就起火燃烧。黑贝丝号烧了起来，两旁的白鹿号和忠臣号也一样。虔诚号、猫号、勇敢号、王权号、红鸦号、老妇人号、信仰号和怒火号全都烈焰冲天，连君临号和神恩号也未能幸免，恶魔不分敌我地狼吞虎咽。瓦列利安大人华丽的潮头岛之荣光号企图掉头，但恶魔懒洋洋地伸出一根绿手指，扫过她银色的船桨，把它们像蜡烛一样点燃。一时之间，她好似在用两排长长的明亮火炬击水划行，努力挣脱。
流水紧抱住他，裹挟着他，旋转漂流。他咬牙奋力游水，方才避免被一块漂过身边的野火残片触到。我儿子呢？戴佛斯想，但在这一片空前的喧嚣中，根本无法寻找。又一艘满载野火的废船在身后爆炸。整条黑水河似乎从河床开始沸腾，到处是燃烧的桅杆，燃烧的士兵，船只爆裂的碎末纷飞于空气之中。
这样下去，我将被冲进海湾。但不管怎样总比待在这儿强，只要能离开，就可想办法上岸。他是个货真价实的游泳好手，何况萨拉多·桑恩的舰队就在海口，伊姆瑞爵士命令他们留在湾内担任后卫……
这时，激流刚好把他的身子转了个方向，似乎要他仔细瞧瞧下游等待着的残酷命运。
铁索。诸神救我，他们把拦江铁索升起来了。
在河流汇入黑水湾的宽阔海口，铁链紧密地伸展，大约比水面高出两三尺。已有十几艘战舰撞上屏障，湍急的黑水正把其他船只牵引过去。几乎所有船都在燃烧，尚还完好的也无法幸免。透过铁索，戴佛斯看见萨拉多·桑恩舰队的彩绘船壳，但他知道自己永远也到不了那儿。一座由火红的钢铁、炽热的船木和旋转的绿火组成的长墙挡在他们之间。黑水河口成了地狱之门。
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