The year is 286 AC. King Jaehaerys II has just passed, leaving the throne without a rightful ruler. While his three children fight for the crown, Winter creeps closer, and unimaginable darkness looms.
Not all alliances will be so typical this time. In fact, many people have a crucial effect on the way this story is told. As for the ending, we only hope there are enough people left alive to tell it after its passed.
Events
Join us for our first event, the wake of recently deceased King Jaehaerys II.
Updates
AUG. 19: So we are now officially open to the public. We have a mini-event flashback thread going on, and our main event just began. Feel free to make a second canon if you can keep both of them active enough.
Don't hesitate in pestering staff with questions; it's what we're here for! Let's raise a glass and make a cheer toward a successful launch of Winds of Winter.
The Ironfleet had spent a month at sea, leaving the Iron Islands as soon as word had gotten to the Ironborn that the passing of Jaehaerys Targaryen had been reduced to a matter of time. Had it ever been an issue of importance at all? Probably not. The realm would go to shit. And Saltblade would have his part.
After the Ironborn had sailed around the Southern end of Essos, they had approached Westeros from the East. Lord Greyjoy had taken his personal honour guard along the coast of the Reach, letting the fuckers from Hightower to Sunspear see that he was on the move. Naval defenses of the Reach tied up on the other side of the continent, Saltblade had maneuvered the fleet of a hundred-or-so longships into a natural bay below South of the Northern arm of Blackwater Bay.
Staying close to the sharp cliffs had allowed the Greyjoys to evade the patrols of the royal fleet. A patrol ship or two had been spotted, but Saltblade's men had made short work of the royal sailors. Their harbour, the island of Dragonstone, was barely an hour's worth of sailing down South, and they were all resting peacefully in their ships, sleeping in their bunks like all sailors prefer.
All of them. Save the last survivor of one of the caught vessels' crews. The man was weak. Dehydrated, cut up and marked with the telltale Ironblood of Saltblade's seaborn weapons, the bastard had not been lacking entertainment while Quellon had fucked about in the capital.
The man was a sobbing mess. "I told you," he groaned, no longer even able to feel pain, no longer blessed with hope. And still, he was low on the planks before the Lord Captain's feet, even though the nameless spawn of salt and hatred would have self-styled himself the bastard of all bastards.
"Half the royal fleet is anchored on the South shore to protect them from the currents. They won't see you when you approach from the North."
Saltblade nodded. "I know. You've told me. While your friends were dying to my cuts, in agony in pain, you told me. Many times."
Toward the pleading man's questioning gaze, Saltblade offered the most cruel indifference. "I simply grew fond of your pleading by the end of it."
The attack plan had been prepared. The Fleet of Reavers was ready. The only thing they lacked was the appearance of their Lord. And then the island of dragons would be illuminated, not by fire of lizards from a time long gone, but by the raid on their fleet.
"Prince Rhaegar is going to kill you all," the man spat, finding defiance as he was dragged over the railing Saltblade's ship. Noble in death, was it? No. Only spite.
It seemed like they were reaving more, killing more these days. There was no complaint from Porkloin, as if he ever complained. Couldn't pay the iron price if your weren't raiding. Without that, he would probably starve. Arms interlocked with one of the doomed greenlander's, another ironborn along his other side, the chunk of funk shoved the the fool over the side of his captain's flagship, paying his curse no mind. Hadn't been the first he heard.
KERSPASH!
''What is dead may never die,'' he muttered, perhaps to spite the man's words, or perhaps to see him on his way. This little excursion had been fun. Not as fun as raiding that Targaryen's panty drawer some days back, but at least this outing had a few more men to kill. And of course more ships meant more food. Their cargo unloaded, Porkloin shoved his bulk off the railing and turned in place with little grace. His sausage fingers squeezed under his breastplate.
And produced an actual link of sausages. Only three, but it was a bounty enough. Cramming it in his rot filled mouth, he gorged himself audibly, breathing heavily through his nose. He needed to consume all he had taken before they hit the next funeral ships. Then he could stuff every crevice with even more. All three links inhaled, Porkloin sucked the meat grease from his still blood stained finger tips. Added to the flavor.
''We sailin south, captain?'' Pork was a man who took things at face value most of the time. Saltblade was the thinker around here, that's why he was the captain and not him. Though there were probably many other reasons too, and now was far from time to consider any of them. Perhaps the bastard of bastards didn't trust a dying man's pleas. After all, once you pushed them past a certain point they would say anything to make the pain stop.
That's why he typically never bothered with talking.
Post by THE REAVING KING on Aug 27, 2017 16:26:45 GMT
The captain’s quarters of Legend’s End were a somber affair. The shelves were stacked with books, the carpets covered in scrolls and wax droppings, the windows lined in candles that were dim as stars, some made of dragonglass, black as the night between.
They were unlit. All save one, whose black light drank what the wax burned.
Quellon removed his eyepatch.
He blinked once, twice. A semblance of sight returned to it. It was like looking through a pinhole filled with honey—blurry and discolored and small.
It was what he paid to light a glass candle. What he paid to learn a secret forgotten in the west.
Putting the eyepatch down, Quellon pulled from his drawer a can of oily black stone. It was greasy to the touch, as if fire burnt, and perhaps, if Quellon was correct, it was.
Today was an auspicious day. Tonight an auspicious night. A dragon had died and a new one would soon rise. But it would not be a silver-haired king that sat the Iron Throne next. In fact, on one would ever sit the Iron Throne again.
The end of days was upon Westeros, and Quellon dreamed the coming of an age of deep seas. No fire could survive under his waves. The Iron Throne would rust and be smashed against the rocks of the Iron Islands. That was what the prophets had told Quellon. That was what he would make true.
Uncorking the can, Quellon dipped his finger in and drew out a thick, black ooze. It smelled like copper and lightning. Holding his eye open, he dripped the ooze into it and gritted his teeth as it filled his vines with sun fire. Nothing could compare to what he felt now. Nothing could hurt half as much.
And then it passed.
Quellon blinked once, twice. He wiped the excess from his eyelid. Then he looked around, and smiled to himself.
Until the battle ended, Quellon had access to both of his eyes. The Lord Reaper was ready to take his harvest.
Saltblade would see Quellon’s half of the Iron Fleet crest the horizon. They moved across the waves like the penumbra of the executioner’s blade over the faces of the accused.
From the deck of Legend’s End came three rapid fire signals.
Post by RHAEGAR TARGARYEN on Aug 27, 2017 18:54:39 GMT
Reach out your hands Don't turn your back Don't walk away How in the world Can I wish for this? Never to be torn apart Close to you 'Til the last beat Of my heart
Brother would be joining him for his fill of Dronish swill, it would be a night to remember. For the two had not shared a drink in countless moons. Having excused himself from the late ceremony of his father. Having honored the Targaryen King the best he could in death. If he could acquire the Iron Throne with just words he would have it so.
Together with his beloved and children they had rejoined his royal fleet and sailed towards their temporary home. Just how many days before they could move to the Red Keep? Coming upon the harbor of second throne. Wife with children in arms were tucked in the warmth of their shared personal quarters.
" My little red sun I will return shortly to your side."
A passionate kiss shared between the two as he pulled himself up and through the belly of the vessel. Guards that could be summoned by name by the young prince. They had served him for what felt his entire life. House Targaryen owed them greatly.
Coming upon the deck of the massive galley. Purple eyes resting upon the night sky he no longer shared with his father. It would take awhile for him to cope with that but with Rhianu he knew he could withstand it. Coming upon his men that prepared the vessel to dock upon the harbor.
Of them one did not belong, misfit armor of his servants dressed him. Approaching the stranger with his blades at his hip. Had a noble sent an assassin for him and his family. Ready to put an end of the guard until his eyes fell upon the ivory hair and eyes of the stranger. Resting his blades and turning towards the front of ship.
martell by blood, targaryen through wedlock. fiery and unkempt, the red sun will go to any measures to assure her beloved is seated upon the iron throne.
Post by RHIANU TARGARYEN on Aug 27, 2017 23:41:48 GMT
☀ ☀ ☀
Ryllan and Rayna were sleeping in their bed for night as they journeyed to Dragonstone, Rhianu had insisted upon this as they departed King’s Landing to return to the island. The funeral concluded, their family had bid farewells and wished safe travels to those who exchanged similar sentiments. She wasn’t at ease, no. Quellon’s words, his exchange with Daella, and the overall mood of the funeral loomed over her like a bad omen. That’s exactly what is was, the more she thought about it. The peace Jaehaerys established was unintentionally disrupted, even though it had never been the intention of any of his children. But it didn’t mean she would falter in her support of her husband.
She would fight tooth and claw to assure that the realm addressed Rhaegar as king until the end of the nearing war.
The twins fell asleep quickly enough, exhausted from all of the affairs they attended in the royal city. Four years past their nameday was an easy enough age to hastily tire and grow fussy if required to participate in any activity that did not hold their interest. Both with hair as silvery as their fathers: a boy with eyes of ruby red and a girl with a stare of amethyst. They were little dragons she would also battle for until they were forcefully torn from her grasp. But it would never come to such an unfortunate predicament. Their calmed breathing and still forms granted Rhianu the opportunity to peel off the mourning dress and return her usual attire back to her form.
The Dornish woman followed shortly after her husband to ascend to the deck of the ship, glancing up at the sable night sky in the unsettling quiet of the night. She stood behind her husband, crimson stare following his to take in the peculiar sight he immediately noticed. “Rhaegar?” Rhianu softly inquired, demeanor alert as she came to stand directly beside him.
As the Prince of Dragons and once in direct line to inherit the Iron Throne, Aerys's Targaryen's sudden disappearance from Westeros was a loss that hurt his family in more ways than one. After five years in Essos, the Prince has returned to his homeland with hopes to prevent another civil war.
Post by AERYS TARGARYEN on Aug 28, 2017 0:42:16 GMT
Aerys has had a busy twenty four hours. From conspiring with Vaelys and the Stark Lord to stealing a Dragon Egg out of the red keep, the lost prince had little room for missteps. With one egg secured, he set off to Dragonstone with his eyes set on another. Through his cousin Vaely's clandestine effort's, Aerys was able to replace one of Rhaegar's guards without him knowing. At least, that was what he had believed.
The young dragon did his best to minimize his presence on the ship. He stayed out of everyone's way and kept to himself. This was unlike pretending to be a guard at the Red Keep—he was unfamiliar with the routines of Rhaegar's guards and he knew any encounter with his uncle would give him away. When he heard names being called Aerys knew he was in trouble. The boy hadn't thought to get the name of the guard he was replacing. Hearing nobody respond to Rhaegar's roll call was his only cue. Aerys immediately stood at attention. Then they made eye contact. Aerys froze—ceasing even to breathe when they looked at one another. Rhaegar knew. Two pairs of violet eyes locked onto one another, but just as it seemed like Rhaegar was going to have him cut down then and there he turned on his heel and gave the orders to prepare for docking.
Why? Aerys thought, yet he didn't dwell for long. When the order was given he made himself scarce while the others prepared to dock. He did a quick pat down on himself to make sure all of his belongings were still there, including the egg worth more than the castle they were docking at.
Aerys shook off his brief brush with Rhaegar. Whether he saw something was amiss or not didn't matter. It was too late to turn back now and he was more than willing to risk everything to remove the dragon egg from Dragonstone. He knew a war was coming and there was no doubt in mind that after a peaceful era the three Targaryen heirs would explore the idea of trying to hatch them once more as Aegon V had.
Post by DAELLA BARATHEON on Aug 28, 2017 4:29:05 GMT
Deep in the hold of the principle ship another dragon slumbered. Though the days had grown long and hard with that term. The sunshine to my storm cloud. That's what she had been to him. But at this point in her life she had been Baratheon longer than Targaryen, despite what her hair and eyes may tell the world. And perhaps it was time to drop the fire and blood and become the restless dirge of the deep.
It had been a quick word to Rhaegar that secured her on the ship, unknown to most. After her outburst and exchange with Quellon, Daella had little interest in conversing with anyone else. And her husband had gently suggested that perhaps she take some time off—it hurt, but he was right. And helping Rhaegar in the past had made her close with his children and wife. They were still young, all of them, while Daella's nest nearly flown. Nestled in the crook of wood and waves that rocked her in and out of sleep, she had learned in her age that sometimes, time away truly was best.
Eventually the galley slowed, and the steps of men echoed across the bowels of the ship. Daella craned her neck upwards, as if she could see through the planks to the sky above. Carefully she untangled herself from the hammock (having refused a bed; it reminded her of her sailing days), stretching to her full height and shaking the rolls of her hair down her shoulders. Like a bear with the spring she picked her way up the steps towards the deck, sluggish but contemplative, light revealing the usual leathers and dark enameled scabbard for which she was famed.
She blinked into the dying light, out over the sea, and felt a strange roil of intuition. The kind that had saved her life many times before.
After having linked up with Lord Greyjoy and his five ships, even though they seemed to be lacking a few crewmen that now laid dead in the streets of King's lLnding, the hundred-vessel'd Ironfleet came down on the island of Dragonstone from the North end.
A wing of ships sailed around the Eastside. A wing sailed around the Westside. Like the embrace of a mother, or the embrace of a cruel mistress, the Ironfleet cut off the royal fleet's ships in their own harbour, closing the bottleneck to form a trap of destruction, abusing the geography that usually kept the anchored ships from the tides that crashed against the island.
The early hours of the morning, most sailors were still drunk, just having begun their sleep. Such is the ardor of hard-working men - when there is nothing to do, on and Island with so few whores - what is there to do but drink and dice?
Red was their demise.
Saltblade stood on the deck of the Irontide, his flagship. Watching the pincer movement of the Ironfleet spread terror, he witnessed it all: Arrows being shot at those few sailors on guard. A dozen fire-lit torches for every ship that belonged to Dragonstone. A good half of the royal fleet, possibly more. There were a lot of wood, sails and sailor for the hungry flames.
"A ship's coming in! Royal sails!"
Saltblade averted his gaze, for a moment. There really was a single ship, headed straight for the onslaught, the sky-high fire of a hundred ships being burned, their crews roasted; a ghostly reflection painted on the tall walls of the fortress on Dragonstone.
"Lord Greyjoy will take care of it," Saltblade turned away. It was the privilege of the Lord Reaper to hunt the few that escaped.
Anyway.
How many people were there on a ship? A single ship, manned by fools. And how many people were there on that island? From the castle, there came soldiers rushing to the harbour, intent on helping their fellows.
But that was just cattle, leaving the safe walls of their encampmen. But they were more than the people on that ship, and more lives meant more lives could be taken.
"Porkloin," the bastard ordered, growing tired of the fatsnack's chewing. "Signal ground assault. We're taking the fight to them."
Post by THE REAVING KING on Aug 28, 2017 13:19:25 GMT
The Iron Fleet was a murder of crows perching on the waves surrounding Dragonstone. For the Royal Navy trapped in the bay, and the waking sailors looking upon their doom, they would see naught but Greyjoy sails silhouetted by the red sun of the rising dawn. The Hour of Blood had come; there was no future for those that claimed to descend from fire.
“RELEASE!” A dozen voices shouted, each on a different ship.
Trebuchets snapped and they slung meteors from their arms. Careening balls of pitch and rock smashed into the ships of the Royal Navy. Sails caught flame. Timber turned to splinter. In a few moments, fire spread across Rhaegar Targaryen’s ships. The blossoming infernos were a meadow of red flowers reflected in the eyes of the watching Ironborn.
How long had it been since these men had a good fight? The Old Way was the Dead Way, or so it had been since Harran the Black was destroyed by Aegon the Conqueror. It was through fire and blood that the ancient king perished.
Ironic, thought the Lord Reaver.
Quellon Greyjoy stood on the deck of Legend’s End. A hot summer breeze pulled at the bellowing black cloak he wore, and his hair hung as a loose mane about his shoulders. Both eyes, one brown and one black as night, watched the conflagration without betraying his thoughts. To the crew, the Lord Reaver was a stalwart god over watching the doom of thousands of men. The soft kiss of firelight on his face and cloak, the embers that danced around him like foam during a storm—these were the crowning priests for the new Iron King.
WE DO NOT SOW had been the Greyjoy words for two-hundred and eighty years. Now, they might as well have been FIRE AND BLOOD. With the burning of Rhaegar’s ships, a new contender for the Iron Throne had entered into the great game.
Quellon wondered how many fools expected him to play by their rules.
“Escapee!” Jordahn, Quellon’s first mate, screamed.
A squad of royal boats cut through Dragonstone’s waters, black and greasy shadows leaving one bloody horizon for another.
“Intercept them,” Quellon said.
The instincts of an old predator told Quellon who was on those ships. He had succeeded in smoking out Rhaegar.
The sight of the burning royal fleet was enough to arouse a man, if Porkloin was that type of man. They had done fine work, the work of the Drowned God, and this was only the start. Gods were hard to please after all, so the lot of them would have to breath much more life into the old way before anyone could be satisfied. The fat sailor was happy to be alive. Any other time, the life an ironborn might not have been as exciting. You could only kill or rape so much on single ships in the open ocean.
''Oy?!'' His head snapped up, or snapped as fast as could be expected with a noggin his size. The captain had commands. Saltblade's demands were simple, as always. Greenlanders just made things complicated. At the taller (and thinner) man's words some semblance of a smirk graced his pudgy cheeks. Part of him had hoped he would get to see the inside of the legendary Dragonstone, a storied Targaryen castle.
And then burn it to the ground.
Perhaps that was the fate of all the greenlanders and their castles if the drowned god, if Lord Greyjoy, had his way. Leaping over the rail of the quarterdeck, Porkloin collapsed into a heap of flesh and armor below drawing most of the deck crews attention away from the blaze. Many laughed. A hand helped the dumpy ironborn to his feet. As he stood he recognized the scared and single blind eyed gaze of Crozer, one of the best of the crew.
''Thanks Ol' Cro,'' he mumbled. Righted, he barked at the rest of the boys. ''Alright lads, captain said we getten our boots dirty!'' A round of joyous cries broke out. The ocean was too deep a grave to fill, even with all they had given it thus far. ''To tha boats ya lot,'' he thrust a finger at the smaller craft and the crew moved to ready and disembark. ''Signal tha others, Cro,'' he said with a nod to the elder ironborn, and with a not word he went about his task with a quiet determination.
That's why Porkloin liked him. Little bitching. It wasn't long before they were rowing towards the shore. It seemed like the defenders were doing little to stop them, at least for now. Perhaps they thought them survivors from their burning fleet? Suited him just fine. Sitting at the back of his craft, he manned the rudder while the others rowed, save for the captain of course. Pork's own arms were too flabby for rowing like the rest.
In no time the familiar scrape of sand met the boat's bow.
Post by RHAEGAR TARGARYEN on Aug 29, 2017 2:39:47 GMT
Reach out your hands Don't turn your back Don't walk away How in the world Can I wish for this? Never to be torn apart Close to you 'Til the last beat Of my heart
Waves had fallen silent upon the belly of the vessel, even the night air had been stricken away. Rhaegar felt the disturbance in his breast, as his beloved came forth from the cabin. Padded feet softly catching up tom as his hand guided itself around her back, uneasy he turned to her and kept her close.
Even Daella felt the tides shift, before he could answer his fated partner the heavens lit up with flames as molten orbs were flung through the sky. Terror filled the heart of those aboard the ship as the shots volleyed around them. Crashing into the convey of vessels as the prince found his dragons roar.
" Prepare the armorments, return their attack with dragonfire."
Calling upon the guards and sailors that followed beneath him. Royal soldiers flinched at his commands, obeying him as if his words were absolute. The harbour was quickly swallowed up in flames as his stare came upon the fleet sailing through the destruction of their attack.
An alerted guard brought him his bow and quiver as he turned to his beloved. The twin daggers given to him by his father would have to be split tonight as he pushed the one that signified himself into the hands of Rhianu. Honor would have bound any other opponent but the Ironborn were a different sickly breed.
" Protect the children, while I protect you my love - guards follow her."
They had caught him flat-footed upon his vessel but he would not let himself be swallowed by the attack. Starting their retreat from the oncoming navy. Wither the firstborn of Daeron would protect his partner or not was up to him but he trusted these men with his own mortal coil. They would die long before they let one of these iron cunts touch a hair upon her head.
Post by THE REAVING KING on Aug 29, 2017 2:53:45 GMT
Quellon closed his eyes and imagined a cliff. A massive cliff of black, oily stone, greasy under the sunlight, fused together by dragonfire and mined from stars. He imagined the seas battering the sides of that cliff, forever unable to hollow it, to erode it, to eat away at it. He imagined that there was a king in that cliff, a great old man with great silver hair and great wisdom behind his eyes. He imagined that that king was drowning on his own spit, struggling to escape his prison.
And then the cliffs crumbled.
I am the King of Salt and Rock.
Quellon opened his eyes.
I am the King of Salt and Rock.
Legend’s End gained speed and turned sharply. It looked as if it would be broadsided by Rhaegar’s vessel.
I am the King of Salt and Rock.
Wind whipped furiously at his cloak and then tore it from his shoulders. Quellon stood there proud, a breastplate and skirt of Valyrian Steel covering his body, black as the night’s sky, worth more than a kingdom, a storied thing spoken of only in legends. His greaves and pauldrons and boots and chain links were all made from equally black castle-forged steel. From his hip hung a mace and an axe.
I am the King…
Quellon put his helmet on—it was a black thing with thick black-steel tendrils coming off the sides, appearing as kraken arms. And then he fell to one knee, bracing himself.
…of Salt and Rock!
Legend’s End turned sharply again, and her prow, a bladed thing, shoved straight into the hull of Rhaegar’s boat. The full force of it was sure to knock sailors on both ships off their feet had they not been ready for it.
And the Ironborn had been ready.
Standing, Quellon rose his left arm into a fisted salute. His mouth opened and what came out was a bestial cry that drowned out the dying screams of burning men and the thunderous breaking of ships.
His Ironborn returned his war howl. Then they ran down the length of his ship and boarded Rhaegar’s own.
martell by blood, targaryen through wedlock. fiery and unkempt, the red sun will go to any measures to assure her beloved is seated upon the iron throne.
Post by RHIANU TARGARYEN on Aug 29, 2017 4:23:25 GMT
☀ ☀ ☀
She had felt a foreboding feeling in the pit of her stomach long before they boarded the ship intended to bring them back to Dragonstone.
All of the events that transpired at the late king’s funeral promised the realm that a bolt of tragedy and misfortune was going to strike somewhere in Westeros. Rhianu wasn’t clairvoyant enough to surmise that foray was directed towards the fleet Rhaegar commanded. The enemy they faced were intent on conveying a message to the Targaryen prince, through fire raining down from the sky and painting the sable darkness a mystifying crimson. Bloodshed would ultimately occur tonight.
Fire and blood. How ironic, Rhianu mused with a mirthless smile on her face.
Fear did not reach her core, though it should have. Those on deck raced around frantically, scurrying to obey the orders barked out by their prince. She leaned into him, watching as the viciously dancing flames began to consume the ships surrounding them. Come daybreak, the water would be no more than a shipwreck bay if they survived until morning graced them with the warmth of the sun’s rays. This was not the type of assault Rhianu could shield Rhaegar from, not even if had the ability to march onto the ship of their adversary.
“Please, protect the twins with your life. Our little dragons’ fires are not meant to be extinguished yet,” she solemnly said to the guards before they joined the madness unfolding around her.
She grasped tightly onto the dagger, cursing herself for leaving her own blade in their quarters below the ship. There was no question that Rhianu could protect herself and put up a worthy fight, but the Ironborn were unyielding. One swift turn of the enemy’s vessel and its blade tore into the side of their own ship, sending her propelling forward. She only remained upright due to Rhaegar’s firm grip secured around her back.
“It seems as if they’re bringing the battle right to us, Rhaegar. How kind of them.”
As the Prince of Dragons and once in direct line to inherit the Iron Throne, Aerys's Targaryen's sudden disappearance from Westeros was a loss that hurt his family in more ways than one. After five years in Essos, the Prince has returned to his homeland with hopes to prevent another civil war.
Post by AERYS TARGARYEN on Aug 29, 2017 5:10:43 GMT
“That’s…” Aerys muttered beneath his breathe whenever he saw a ship off in the distance. It was one he was intimately familiar with: Legend’s End. Aerys spent months aboard that ship and had no problem recognizing it and the Iron Fleet. Quellon Greyjoy was making his move. Capitalizing on the death of our King and divided house to fulfill his own ambitions. “Tch.” Aerys's clicked his tongue knowing his day had gotten significantly more complicated. He was surrounded by burning ships and attackers.
While securing the egg was the reason he has came to Dragonstone, there were matters of greater importance in front of him. His motives when he left for Essos five years ago soley revolved around protecting his house from the foretelling doom he saw in a vision. While things has changed since then, he knew that even if their house was divided they would be broken should Rhaegar and his family be killed here. In their own home.
Aerys drew his longsword, holding it in both of his hands as he braced himself for the incoming impact. He positioned himself between Rhianu and the path towards their children. The embers and smoke did little to obscure the Iron Born rushing to board Rhaegar’s ship. With gritted teeth, Aerys prepared to defend his family.
Boots wet from the shallow waters of the coast, the Ironborn fought their way up the beaches and from the battlements of the harbour. Somewhere between the shoreline and the castle gates, the invaders met with the soldiers coming down from the ancient seat of House Targaryen.
There were no dragons here,
Only men.
And men died.
Having broken the first wave, Saltblade watched them retreat to the safety of their castle. At least, they tried.
The combat had been a flurry, not lacking in brutality, Saltblade's swords, knives and daggers had reaped bloodily. Ironborn axes and sabers had reaped. Truly, Saltblade enjoyed killing things slowly. But in such a struggle, two groups clashing, there was no time for sadism.
Pulling a blood-soaked axe from the skull of a royal soldier, he pointed the blade ahead, ordering Porkloin.
"Take the gate house before they can regroup. If they barricade the gates, we're stuck on the beach and they're going to rain fire on us and roast your piggy skin."
Hearing the way his first mate was breathing, Saltblade laughed, and then he drove his boot into the lard boy's ass.
"Move, you fat fucking piece of shit. Take that gate house. We're not dying because you're out of breath."
It would be amusing.
Leaving the officer to take the fight after the routed castle soldiers, Saltblade turned, observing the situation.
What was there to gather?
The first objective had been reached. It had been tough to fail that. Ships laying at anchor, sailors sleeping. There was no difficulty in killing that.
Lord Greyjoy was boarding struggling ships, even if a few of them escaped, they would only spread the word of the Greyjoy raid, furthering the effect of fear and terror. It wasn't as though they could kill every living man on the castle island.
No.
A few would live. And they would report the attack to the Iron Throne. But that was a worry for another day. For the time being, Saltblade's crimson eyes gleamed about, seeking the fear, and following the steps of those that were led by it.
If there were no hope left for Rhaegar's men, they would behave with less discipline, even as they fled.
There had to be a sliver of hope left. Otherwise these fools wouldn't all run into the same direction, would they? There was the castle, of course, Saltblade watched the men that were fleeing through the gatehouse, following a stone-roofed bridge way that led up to the castle proper.
But where was a curving path below, leading between the cliffs of Dragonstone. Tugged in the safety of the shadow of the castle, there was hidden pier. Given the narrow passage way, there couldn't be more than a few ships there. If there were any to begin with. But if, then the castle's personal pier would be anyone's best bet to get off the island.
Another thought crossed his mind: He should have told Porkloin that the gate house included the private sausage collection of Prince Rhaegar. That would have made the fat fuck run faster for sure.
Anyway.
He had to catch up.
The soaked axe flew from his hand, embedding into the back of a poor soul that trailed behind. The man screamed, and fell. All the rest that laid bleeding upon the beach, he left, the cruel poison of his blades would drag them down toward a painful deaht soon enough.
Sending his gaze toward Lord Greyjoy's position, Saltblade had no doubt that the boarding action would be short-lived. If that ship's captain had any brains, he would tell the few that were still alive to make it to the boats while the Ironborn were busy with securing the ship in order to get to the island.
Even though the galleys of the royal fleet were multi-decked, more vehement than Ironborn longships and able to take a beating, what did it matter if a superior number of sea-faring rapists swarmed on board, hungry, looking for a fight that their kind had been denied for the last three hundred years by dragon fire reigning from the skies.
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