Seventh Moon of 269
Old Wyk
They departed two days after the awards ceremony. This followed the arrival of two ravens at Pyke, bringing news from Saltcliffe and Great Wyk. Now knowing Alaric's true identity, Tywin passed along the information contained in the letter from Saltcliffe: Disaster.
The letter from Saltcliffe brought grim news. The northern fleet was almost entirely decimated. Since most were longships, they were easily capsized by the great fish, and before they could even board the northern or Dornish caravels, the Deep Ones killed, painting the sea red. All the longships, without exception, were overturned and their crews killed. In less than an hour, the north had lost more than 600 men before even setting foot on Saltcliffe.
Fortunately, neither Jeor nor Jorah died, and the Dornish fleet remained in perfect condition compared to the northern one. The remaining forces were more than enough to topple Saltcliffe, which had its full strength since they had not answered the call to Old Wyk.
Having received the news, Alaric was then notified that a letter had been sent to Saltcliffe, advising them to head to Old Wyk by way of Great Wyk. With this last bit of information, he was dismissed without knowing what the letter from Great Wyk said. He only came to know a day later, during the voyage to Old Wyk, through Steffon, whom he now accompanied on his massive dromond.
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The Hour of the Gate (9 P.M.)
"There were almost no casualties according to the letter sent by Lord Jon Arryn. He said that since the ships from Redwyne, Oldtown, and Gulltown were more than enough to withstand the attacks of those monster whales, despite losing several men at the hands of the fish-men," Steffon explained, holding a crossbow and scanning the sea with quick eyes.
He, just like Andrey and Lyonel beside him, was on guard, waiting for the Deep Ones to show themselves again.
But they weren't the only ones on guard atop the dromond. Almost every man on deck held a crossbow, with some on the masts holding bows. The plan was to fire first before engaging physically, and this was repeated on the decks of all eighty ships in the fleet.
Yes, eighty. Many ships were left behind. Some were completely lost while others were left at Pyke to be retrieved later. This was done at the request of Corwyn Velaryon, who advised in favor of increasing the number of people per ship so they could better defend them, as opposed to continuing with the full fleet, which no longer had enough crew to sail or defend them properly.
"Your Grace, it is better to leave the ships where we can return and reclaim them eventually than to lose them forever on the high seas," he had told King Aerys.
Even unbalanced, even Aerys perceived the common sense in Corwyn's words. And so, more than 40 still-functional ships were left behind.
"What happened to the northern fleet, mostly being from your house, was a totally isolated tragedy," Steffon finished.
"So it seems. But still, I thank the gods, old and new, for sparing my family," Alaric replied, trying to suppress his frustration at losing nearly all the ships won from the Drumms.
"Spared? Considering how both your father and brother possess Valyrian steel swords, I think it's safe to say the gods blessed them instead," Andrey commented, still surprised by the fact that House Mormont had two Valyrian swords in its possession.
"That reminds me of something," Steffon spoke again. "When you meet with your father, warn him to prepare for the proposals Tywin will make for your brother's sword. They won't be low."
Alaric replied very directly and dryly, "We will not sell it."
Steffon, in turn, gave an even drier response: "It doesn't matter."
Andrey, meanwhile, was on a completely different line of reasoning.
"With Ice of the Starks and Longclaw of your house, the addition of Red Rain puts the number of Valyrian steel swords in the north at three. The highest in all of Westeros… How the hell did the kingdom that almost never interacts with the Targaryens end up with the most of them?"
The one who answered his question was neither Steffon nor Alaric.
"By not losing them in stupid fights or wars," a low voice spoke behind him, startling Andrey.
"Son of a—at least make a little noise before speaking, dammit!" Andrey complained.
In contrast, Alaric greeted him, "Ser Arryk of the Deep."
"Ser Alaric the Dauntless." Turning to Andrey, he continued where he left off. "Throughout modern Westerosi history, the north has been, for the most part, peaceful. With no civil conflict, a revolt from a house wanting to steal the Starks' status as Paramounts like the Boltons did in the past, or the Starks themselves becoming tyrants and inviting rebellion, very few occasions arose where they could lose their Valyrian swords. Occasions that always manifested in the south, far from them. In short, they now possess the largest amount because they are not ones to start or participate in conflicts which, throughout the history of Westeros, brought only mutual ruin."
Through a soft voice and knowledge superior to what someone of his birth would be expected to have, Arryk explained.
"Right…" Andrey said in a drawn-out manner with narrowed eyes. "But how the hell do you know all this? Don't you come from the 'Depths' of Flea Bottom?" he asked, voicing the doubt of everyone who heard the explanation.
But before Arryk could explain himself, a shout from the tallest mast caught everyone's attention.
"Ships in sight! Port bow!"
Those words shocked everyone.
They weren't the only ones heading to Old Wyk, but it wasn't possible they were one of theirs. Considering where the other fleets embarked, it wasn't possible those ships were any of them, which could only mean one thing.
Walking to the prow, Steffon tried to see the ships on the northwestern horizon but found nothing but the blue of the sea. Looking up at the man who shouted, Steffon gave a command: "Throw the Far Eyes!"
Obeying the order, the man on the mast threw the spyglass toward Steffon, who managed to catch it without trouble.
With the spyglass in hand, Steffon placed it to his right eye and looked back toward the northwest. After looking for a while, he lowered the spyglass with a grim face and shouted, without taking his eyes off the horizon which still didn't show the approaching threat:
"Sound the horns! The Ironborn decided not to wait for us."
As Steffon's dromond was at the vanguard of the continental fleet, Alaric could see the Ironborn fleet slowly emerging on the horizon, reaching the point where the entire horizon was covered by various caravels and some war-galleys flying the yellow kraken of the Greyjoys.
That was the Iron Fleet, normally belonging to the Seastone Chair of Pyke but now far from the hands of its owner, Quellon. As one of the most powerful fleets in Westeros, alongside the Redwyne and Royal fleets, it was massive, to the point where Alaric made a confident estimate of nearly sixty ships, which still puzzled him, knowing that the total number should be close to one hundred.
"Prepare for battle, but don't forget to keep watching the sea!" Steffon, atop the deck beside the man turning the helm, shouted to the men below. "Just because those monsters haven't returned to attack yet doesn't mean they've disappeared for good! Especially now!"
The men watching him gripped their weapons so hard their knuckles turned white.
"Ten minutes to impact!" a man at the prow shouted, looking at the Iron Fleet.
"Reef the sails!" another controlling the helm shouted.
Meanwhile, Steffon continued to speak.
"They are many, but we are more! If they couldn't stop us even inside their castles, how the hell are they going to stop us now in the open?"
Again, the man at the prow shouted: "Five minutes!"
With the moment of clash approaching, Steffon offered his final words.
"They may have their god on their side, but we have ours as well! The same God who guided us to Westeros and protected us from the demonic claws of that Drowned One for millennia! And after offering us so much, I refuse to fail them and let this iron scum prevail over us and start spreading their crooked faith in the sacred land of Westeros! It is time for retribution!"
With those words, Steffon once again managed to inflate the flames of war in the hearts of his men, who shouted about the hour of retribution.
"Get to your stations now, because we have work to do!"
Following orders, everyone moved into position, filling the three scorpions present on the dromond's deck, ready to break the enemy ships. With their hearts in their hands, the men watched as the two fleets slowly drew closer.
Steffon, finding the distance sufficient, was about to order the scorpions to fire, but seconds before, the dromond began to shake as if it had hit something.
With the memory of his last maritime experience still fresh, Steffon immediately recognized what it was.
"The monster whales are back! Hold onto something and watch for the rising fish-men! For those on the scorpions, do not cower—fire even with the ship shaking! We lose every shot we don't take."
Following orders, those at the scorpions tested their luck and fired. Two bolts struck the hulls of the enemy ships—fired by the prow and port scorpions—while the other fell into the water.
"That's it! There is nothing to fear! Show these sons of bitches what we came here to do!"
Even with the dromond still shaking, it continued to advance steadily, still on course thanks to the skill of the captain and the sheer power of a dromond. Keeping the ship on course was vital because despite its immense size—which easily shadowed the others and made it fully capable of surviving a direct impact—it was still highly preferable to avoid damage, since it was far more valuable than the enemy vessels.
And Steffon, thinking the Ironborn would not want to be totally crushed, expected them to also avoid a direct confrontation.
'Shit… I was wrong,' he thought, gripping the railing of the upper deck to keep from being thrown as the dromond was struck on both sides by the war fleet's ships.
As expected, the dromond survived the impact, suffering only cracks in its hull, while the enemy ship was left in an unusable state—almost a total wreck. Steffon was furious.
"Grab your bows and crossbows and rain death upon them, men! Death!"
Alaric, who held the railing on the lower deck with one hand and a crossbow in the other, hooked his leg into the railing support, bracing himself against the floor. He aimed at the ship that hit the port side—the left—of the vessel. Spotting an ironman trying to pick himself up on the crooked planks of the deck, Alaric aimed and fired without a second thought, hitting him in the back.
But to his surprise, the ironman did not fall in pain; he merely paused for a moment, only to continue standing up as if it were nothing.
An adrenaline surge? he theorized, but then he saw the man lift his head, look at him, and smile with all his teeth showing. With that sight, Alaric instantly knew something was wrong. Analyzing further, trapped in that totally unexpected vision, he also noticed how the ironman was drenched in water.
Not wet. Drenched. As if he had just stepped out of the sea. Water streamed from his hair, his clothes were soaked, dripping incessantly, and from every visible orifice, water leaked out. Watching the water run from the ear of the man—who had now grabbed a rope and was spinning it in his hands while smiling at him—Alaric quickly used his GM EYES, which shed light on the mystery.
…
Name: Fergon (27)
HP: 76 / 76
Sex: Male
Race: Drowned (Undead Subtype)
Class: Barbarian
Primal Path: None
Level: 8
Exp: 37,400 / 48,000
Ability Score
Strength: 15
Dexterity: 9
Constitution: 14
Intelligence: 8
Wisdom: 10
Charisma: 6
…
Drowned... an undead subtype. This is new, very new, Alaric thought. Looking at the other Ironborn around Fergon who were being targeted relentlessly by arrows and bolts, he realized they were also soaked. An army of undead—intelligent undead—totally different from Wights.
Shit… how do we kill them? We don't have Valyrian steel, and I doubt fire works on beings covered in water called Drowneds.
While Alaric racked his brain over the new threat, the others continued to fire arrows and bolts non-stop, initially ignorant of their ineffectiveness. But the more they fired, the more they found it strange that no matter how many arrows or bolts they shoved into them, they not only stayed standing but threw their ropes onto the deck and fired back.
The realization slowly dawned on them that something was wrong. This was unlike Steffon, who was far from the direct view but still saw the ropes reaching the deck and hooking onto the railing.
"Don't let them board!" he shouted. "Don't throw them back—cut them at once! Make them climb the hard way."
As he shouted the orders, Steffon was caught off guard and had his hand pulled to the left. He was about to attack whoever had pulled him until he looked and saw it was Alaric—the boy of a day or two's name who had saved him—looking at him so seriously that the space between his eyebrows was completely wrinkled.
"What—"
Before he could ask the meaning of it, Alaric spoke first.
"It isn't working! They aren't human!" Alaric shouted, continuing to pull him to the left until they reached the railing.
"What are you talking about, boy? Don't you see I have a ship to command?" he asked.
Alaric simply pointed down where one of the Iron Fleet ships had crashed. "Look!"
With a huff, Steffon did as Alaric said and looked at the still-grounded ship of the Ironborn. The first thing he saw left him stunned, disbelieving what he was seeing. He saw an ironman with his body pierced by several arrows and bolts, yet still standing while firing at his men using the very arrows that were stuck in him. Turning to another man, he saw a similar scene—this one had an arrow entering his eye and exiting through the back of his head. Still, he continued to stand and fire back.
This sight shocked him more than the fish-men of days ago.
"They don't feel pain, and they don't die," Alaric said at his side, breaking his immersion in the scene. "We are just wasting arrows on them."
"I can see that now," Steffon replied, irritated. This war was supposed to be something quick and simple, with the only headache being the waste of resources. Dammit, Aerys, you might have doomed us all. "What the fuck should we do now?"
The Lord of Storm's End asked himself, but Alaric answered anyway.
"We must let them board us."
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