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.
Post by THE REAVING KING on Sept 9, 2017 22:15:15 GMT
The Reaving King sat on Dragonstone’s obsidian throne. The sable cloak around his shoulders was embroided at the neck with the golden arms of the Greyjoy kraken. Underneath, he wore blackened Valyrian steel and charred links of chain. Upon his brow sat the Driftwood Crown. Pieces of goldenheart wood had been added to it; pieces taken from Rhaegar Targaryen’s legendary, and broken, bow.
Before him was his Drowned Court.
Mathew Kenning, the Kisser of Hawlaw. Jon, Kulon, and Orrm, the three heads of House Goodbrother. Black Blood Iryk Merlyn. Bane Orkwood, Eater of Arrows. These men and the others at court were the fiercest Ironborn. They stood there, all, in full armor, barring their scars as proudly as their king did now.
All their eyes were on it, he knew. The weeping stitches on his cheek were black on his windburnt skin, and half his ear was gone. What was left was a mess of burns that sealed the wound.
In the middle of the hall were twenty bound men. They were on their naked knees, which oozed pus and blood onto the stone. Their backs were mess esof fresh scars. Their hands were bound by human hair taken from their comrades.
“Your Pretender Prince is dead,” spoke the Reaving King. “Many of your friends have pledged their ships to me. Do the same, and you live on as Drowned Men. Deny me your service, and I’ll deny you your right to live.”
Most of them were silent. Most. One looked up, anger in his eyes, and then another beside him. They were older men, grizzled; they knew what it meant to fight to survive. And they knew that there were some things they would never do.
One opened his mouth to speak but the Reaving King had already dismissed him. Before the first word tainted the air, Black Blood Iryk stepped on the back of his neck and shoved the dissenter’s open mouth into the ground. The breaking teeth sounded like coins as they danced across the stones. The captain screamed and the other went silent as the morning sea. Black Blood picked the dissenter up by his hair and dragged him through the doors.
Standing on the other side was Porkloin, who had been summoned by the king.
He was beckoned in, even though the other nineteen captains still knelt there bound. No crier in the Reaving King’s Drowned Court existed, and so there was no hailing or introduction. Such wasn’t needed for Ironborn. Captains knew each other by their ships and their deeds; titles only meant something for their King, and for those risen by the Drowned God himself to war against the Storm.
Today, Porkloin would receive such a title. So the King willed it, so it would be.
The doors parted and a sad excuse for a man was drug from the chamber just beyond. The fat ironborn stepped aside, casting an indifferent glance to the soon to be corpse. It was all the reaffirmation he needed. Better to die than to dare look into the abyss of the heart. It was quicker. It didn't cost you your pride. Your trifles were at an end. Despite the peace of death, Porkloin couldn't say he preferred it. Not for himself.
There were plenty of bounties and banquets to be had. Averting his black shark eyes, he continued his gait, somewhat numb to the environs. The men gathered beyond were better men than he, all with much more iron in their veins. All he had was fat, fear, and enough creativity to survive the seas the monsters that floated upon them. There was no wind in his sails, but he still floated on. To have to report his captain's, the captain's loss...
In front of these men, in front of the dregs that may join them... It was a daunting task. Still, Porkloin sauntered in, slick boots falling to make echos as meek as his heart. A fool of a man, the tub of lard spared barely a glance at the rest of the best in the room, nor the worst that tainted their presence. His eyes were locked upon the man on the throne, a dragon's throne in a dragon's castle. His gaze drifted to the crown as he himself drifted closer, driven by some otherworldly current.
Finally, he stopped before the man. The Salt King. The Lord Reaper. Had he ever stood this close? Never bore had he bore this much import, and perhaps he would not still. Within his small mind, that was the best future: a face in the crowd. Not important enough to trust, nor punish, just important enough to die. Rather it was slaying greenlanders or feeding the drowned god, it was the best Porkloin could hope for. Death was the only certainty he could trust in life.
That it would end.
He bowed his head.
Bent forward just enough to not topple over.
''Ya, uh, called fer me, ya grace?'' 'Your grace' was correct, right? After all, the Greyjoy was a king now.
Post by THE REAVING KING on Sept 9, 2017 23:46:57 GMT
Fear.
It oozed off of every man Quellon had ever met. Sometimes it tried to mask itself as respect, or hatred, or something more nebulous still. But he could smell it all the same. It was the stench of sweat and of bile, of hot blood and shaking hands. It bled from the eyes and it twisted words and it caused swords to drop in battle.
Porkloin might as well had been made of it. He stood before the Reaving King knowing that, if the Drowned God willed it, his fat life would come to an end. With all his blubber and meat, he could feed the god’s court for days. Merlings and sharks would feast on him better than they had in a thousand years.
But that time had yet to come.
“Orsyn,” began the king. “You have served for years now as Saltblade’s first mate. Under him, victories have gathered around you like fat on your stomach.”
The Captain Kings laughed at this. Quellon continued. “When me and the Lord Captain gathered our forces to burn the Royal Fleet, we did not imagine that Dragonstone would fall with it. These walls are strong, and the foolish men in them were determined to remain godless.
“But our lack of thirst for wealth and flesh did not daunt you. This—” the Reaving King indicated the entirety of Dragonstone with a flourish of the arm before continuing. “Was taken by you. You paid the Iron Price so that the rest of us could come and take what we wished. You gave your king a throne.”
The Captain Kings were quiet now. Quellon stared down at Porkloin.
“Saltblade has been given a mission of utmost importance. This mission has seen the title of Lord Captain removed from him temporarily. That leaves you, his first mate.”
All around Porkloin, men took the knee—matching the bound captives.
“I, as King of Salt and Rock and Reaving, name you Orsyn Leviathan, Breaker of Dragonstone and Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet.”
I had been many a moon, many a moon since anyone had called him by his trueform name. Porkloin almost didn't recognize it. A few seconds passed as Quellon spoke his words for the chubby man to wonder just who that was. Who indeed, as his face was about to change as suddenly as the winds on the open ocean. Only the drowned god knew where they would carry the humble servant of the kraken.
His lord continued with his brief summary of his career, but the penultimate portion was the events of the previous eve. Dragonstone. It was odd that such a man could not imagine the fall of the castle. Porkloin had sure imagined it. But perhaps that lent to his tenuous grasp on reality, or perhaps within his bulk there was tucked away some imaginative daring do. Who knew but the drowned god? At the mention that of all people in the iron fleet he, he had taken the castle, his head inclined.
Perhaps some of the fear was vanquished by pride. Old Cro must have been telling everyone about his charge on the gatehouse. That cunt. Probably embellished it to. To have given the Greyjoy king his throne of rock though, he couldn't believe it had been him. Saltblade, wasn't it? Speaking of, mention was made of his captain's important mission. What mission, he wondered, could that be? Serving the drowned god in his court? It obviously wasn't for him to know.
And so it disappeared from his tiny mind.
Besides, at the first mention that the spot of Lord Captain was vacant, and that he was to fill the void, he couldn't believe that either. Him? Wear a mantle of responsibility? Certainly, such things were for the highborn, or those with iron blood, such as the bastard of bastards himself. This had seemed to not escape the Lord Reaper, as he elevated the simple Orsyn on the spot. Now Lord Leviathan's head fully inclined, looked up in awe, gab half agape, shoulders slumped in sheer disbelief.
He had always heard of blessings from gods above and below, but he had never seen them come with such certainty. No longer was he just the dark haired spurn of some salt wife, he was a lord, with titles, and likely a keep. Perhaps one back in the Iron Islands, or perhaps one that he would seize from the greenlanders. It wasn't for him to decide. Looking over his shoulders in surprise to see these men with more iron in their veins kneeling... Nay, for now iron had been given to his.
''Lord Reapa,'' his melon head swiveled back forwards and he too took a knee. Genuine gratitude? The side effect of shock? Perhaps both. ''I cannot thank ya enough fer tha onahs.'' What a horrid speech this was. Struggling to get back to his feet, he reckoned he ought to give a little better account of himself. ''I ain't got many fancy words, ya grace, but tha little ones I got are good ones.'' He was trying his very best to look and sound as confident as his previous master.
''I'll continue ta serve will all I got tucked in here,'' he slapped both hands on the plate that held his belly back. ''I love burnin castles,'' maybe he shouldn't have mentioned that given that he had burnt half of this one, Quellon's castle now. ''I can't wait ta burn some more, all of'em, until the greenlanders ain't got no more ta hide in.'' Certainly the Salt King had not done this for nothing. ''Just tell me where ya want me ta point my boat.'' He glanced over his shoulder for but a moment.
Post by THE REAVING KING on Sept 10, 2017 16:30:14 GMT
The Reaving King listened to Orsyn’s lackluster speech. He nodded along where he needed too, and gave the up-jumped Leviathan nods where appropriate.
When he finished, the Captain Kings all stood. Then they attacked.
Orsyn was unlike to be able to resist men with such anger inside of them. They would punch and kick and scream and shove. Quellon spoke all the while.
“You will be drowned now, Orsyn Leviathan, just as Saltblade was when the Iron Fleet was made. Survive your captains, and you will find yourself ready.”
The Reaving King stood from his throne and descended the steps. Both doors in the front of the hall swung open and more Captain Kings spilled in and some left. Orsyn would be beaten by all of them, treated by Dragonstone’s maester through the night, and then he would be drowned in the Bay of Dragon’s bloody waters. Only then would he truly be Lord Captain.
Walking past the crowd, the Reaving King nodded to his first mate. Once Orsyn was finished with his inauguration, she would inform him of what he was to do with the Iron Fleet. Tomorrow, the Crownlands would bleed. And then, the world.
The cool breeze did little to assuage his bruises. Not one, but two, black eyes. A split lip. The previous day has been one of the few days he was thankful for being so fat. All that flub had absorbed a lot of the blunt force trauma. Of course that didn't mean that he still wasn't sore. He should have been layed up in a bunk, or some suite at Dragonstone. Not here in Blackwater Bay at the head of twenty ships. But here he was, Lord Captain Orsyn Leviathan, commander of the Iron Fleet.
It still felt surreal, but he had a job to do. From their new keep at Dragonstone, the Iron Fleet had been split into quarters. With a garrison of twenty five of their ships, including Legend's End the three other parts unfurled like the arms of a kraken to clutch at the Crownlands and squeeze the life out of it. Three targets had been selected, three task forces were sent, twenty ships a force and five to ferry messages back to Dragonstone and their Salt King.
Porkloin got the big pick, Duskendale. It was also the furthest from their new home. So his arm had gone out before anyone else's. The sea was just as black as the midnight sky above them, living up to its name. Dressed in his typical armor, a ragged longcoat had been added to denote his new rank. In the distance the lights of the port city gleamed through the dark. They would have no idea they were coming, just like Dragonstone.
That was the hope.
Five of the sturdiest ships would plow right into the docks to be followed by the rest. They would bleed the town of needed supplies to keep the ironborn hale and whole for their future conquests. Of course his own new command, the Devourer would be one of these. The lardy Lord Captain wasn't feeling up to a fight right now. Thankfully the rest of his score was, and the city should offer them relatively little resistance.
''We got the wind in our sails,'' Crozer said to his right, his new first mate. ''We'll be right in the city before they know.'' Porkloin nodded like he knew what he was doing.
''Right, remember,'' he said in a slightly hushed tone. Voices carried on the water. ''Only food, drink, and fucks. Don't take nothin else.'' Grunts of approval came from all around. ''If we take tha castle, be sure ta bring me any chilen. Any too young ta hold a sword but old enough ta not be suckin a titty. Our Salt King wants hostages.'' More grunts of approval, though they were much more begrudging this time around.
Soon, the reaving would begin.
In the distance a fire burned bright, its reflection flickering across the water. Sharp Point's watch tower seemed to double as a lighthouse, which made finding it a lot easier along the coast line. Bane Orkwood lowered his spyglass from where he stood on his own warship. In command of his own arm of the Iron Fleet, his tendril around be wrapping around the ancestral home of House Bar Emmon. It was a good prize, and close to Dragonstone.
Once the rest of the castle burned like the top of its tallest tower, they could sail back to their king's new throne to drink and fuck their new saltwives. The Crownlands would know fear, and Captain Orkwood couldn't wait to be the cause of it. Bitterness simmered under his plated black raiding leathers that his king had picked Saltblade's fat saltwife over him, but with plenty of greenlanders to take it out on, he could live with it.
He had been sure to beat that chubby cunt good at his coronation too.
''Get ready boys,'' his calloused hand collapsed the spyglass as a wicked grin spread across the bald, scared face, a few of the old tears in his flesh hidden by a stubbly beard. ''We goin right up onto the shore.'' Walking to the rail, he spoke up so the ironborn below could hear him. Who gave a shit if the stupid fucking greenlanders heard? ''Ten of us will be landing north of the castle, the other ten ships is goin south. We hit the castle from both sides at once.''
There were a round of hearty quips of a agreement, but nothing more than a few words.
''We supposed to raid their larder and warehouse, burn their homes, rape their women, and steal any fucking highborn babies.'' Those were the standing orders from their glorious new Lord Captain. ''I fuckin hate cryin cuntin babies. So if anyone asks any of yous, you didn't find a fuckin one you didn't have to brain, got it?'' Nods and small hurrahs of approval sounded through the gathered sailors. Ironborn crew were like dogs, they often took on the personality of their master.
They hated babies too.
The sound of his boots hitting the sand was one of the few things gracing Donvar Drumm's ears. Only the rhythmic crashing if waves against the shore dominated the night along the beach near Stonedance. In the young captain's opinion it should be redubbed Fingerdance after they took her. The ocean breeze blew through his hair, the locks as black as his heart. The thick strands around his scalp were tied into a topknot.
Something that could be called a beard hid his soft baby face. What the Drumm lacked in years he made up for in tenacity. That's why he landed most of his forces right under Stonedance's nose. His strategy was simple: have his ironborn cutthroats charge in and overwhelm the sleepy defenders before they knew what was happening. From his vantage point on the beach he could see some of the castle peeking over the top of the hill.
From the looks of the few torches and lanterns he saw shining through the darkness, they didn't know they were there. Signaling to the raiders gathering around them on the beach, only the light of the moon and the stars lit their way. Outside of their slick leathers and the few jingles of their armor and weapons, none made a sound. Standing orders were to 'keep your cock sheaths shut.' And so not a single man spoke, least they lose their tongue.
The silent sailors flowed through the grass topped dunes like the water on which they sailed. It wasn't long before they came to a road leading right up to the seat of House Massey. Staying low the ironborn poured onto it. Still crouching and quiet, it wasn't until the torches on the wall began to congregate on the side the wave was to crash against that they stood in full and charged towards the dimly lit archway that foretold of a gate.
All of them shouted in a murderous rage, a promise of the massacre of Massey to come. As they slammed into the archway, they came to a dead halt. The gates were closed.
That wasn't supposed to happen…
A port city was too populated to sneak through entirely. So they had gone in loud. Their ships had plowed through the docks and the boats lashed to them leaving the water filled with splinters. The fastest among them were off first including Porkloin's old buddy Royce. These men would form a lightning vanguard to volt into the Dun Fort, taking it by storm. The rest of the ironborn coming ashore would spread through the city like a plague.
Their numbers allowed them the luxury of going door to door stealing, killing, and raping. Screams echoed into the night around the once peaceful port town, and the drunk and drowsy citizens that fled into the streets to run for the castle or the city's gatehouse added to the quagmire of confusion and chaos. Steel, food, drink, the sailors from Dragonstone were taking everything that wasn't nailed down and loading it onto their ships. The men of the Iron Islands couldn't live on malice alone.
Still achy from his initiation, the new Lord Captain watched from under the shadow of his ship's bow, Crozer at his side. The desire filled the tubby highborn to go and steal his fill of food, but he still had plenty from Dragonstone's larder. This expedition was more about the ironborn as a whole. Amidst the screams of terror and plundered satisfaction, he heard someone shouting his name, or his title. It still felt like people were talking to someone else.
''Lord Captain! Captain!'' That had always been for Saltblade. Porkloin looked over to see Royce charging at him. The young sailor came to a stop before him, huffing breathlessly. The beady eyes in his father face just stared at the man expectantly. ''The castle (huff) They (huff) They already got it locked up. (huff) All the gates is sealed.'' That wasn't all that unsurprising. They did have to surge through the city to get there after all.
''Whale shit. Get back and make sure they don't leave. Peoples here gonna be real pissed at them just leaven them out ta die.'' Royce nodded. ''Off ya go.'' He commanded.
''Wait,'' Crozer cut in, pulling a waterskin from his belt. ''Here. Take this so you don't die tired.'' The archer snatched at the skin, plucking the top and having a quick sip right then before turning and running towards the winding streets of Duskendale. ''They sure had the gates closed fast for it to be so late. Usually just a skeleton night crew.'' Porkloin only shrugged in response, grunting. The beating and drowning sure hadn't helped his sore shoulder.
''It's a port city. Maybe they got more guards'n usual.''
''Just seems odd.''
''Mn,'' the fat man grunted. ''Have tha boys starting pilin the shit as soon as possible. Wanna make sure we take as much as we can.'' Old Cro nodded.
''Aye Captain.''
Still weird as fuck to hear that.
The gates had been closed tight.
On both sides of the castle.
Sharp Point was shut up tight. After the castle rained arrows on them along with rocks and tar, Captain Orkwood had ordered his mean back to the cover of the hills around the Point. They were still trying though. Arrows pelted the terrain and a few men died. A arrow speared into Bane's arm even where he was crouched in the shadow of the hill, piercing his leathers. The grizzled man let out a gruh and plunked the damn thing from his arm as if it were a mere splinter.
They didn't call him Eater of Arrows for nothing. This was the fifth he had taken just tonight.
''Captain!'' His own first mate, Pency pined for his attention behind him. Glancing over his shoulder with his cold blues, he saw the little man was pointing. Following his finger, he saw fires come alight a little ways up the beach. A cold feeling seized him. Even if he didn't know what they were yet, raw instinct warned him of the cock that was hovering around his ass. Not a moment after eight of the motes of light appeared, they flew.
Flicked through the air like swatted fireflies, they arched overheard across the beach and began impacting around their ships anchored by the beach. A couple of the fireballs hissed into the water, sure as shit, but the rest began smashing into their waiting, stationary ships. Some knocked chunks off and skipped into the sea while others stuck in place, setting the boat aflame. The crunch of wood and scream of men could be heard even from this distance.
''What in the good fuck!?'' Bane wasn't ready or interested in fighting enemies that were prepared for him. ''What cunt told them we were comin, eh?'' His fist was driven into the sand. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. His shaved head swiveled to look back to Pency. ''Get the fuckin lads back to the cuntin boats! Now!''
''What about the castle?''
''FUCK THE CASTLE!'' The captain rolled the muscled bulk of his body to fully face the fool bristling. He clapped a hand on Pency's shoulder, hard. ''If they torch the fuckin boats, we don't leave. We don't leave, we fuckin die. Easy enough to understand, shithead?'' The terrified sailor nodded hastily. A whistle in the air foretold of more raining doom. Two more streaked into Bane's back while a third thunked into Pency's skull.
Orkwood released the man at his own wounding, letting the corpse roll down the hill limply. Reaching awkwardly to pull the shafts from his back, his other hand fingered another ironborn cowering nearby.
''You, Yoren. You're first mate now! Get back to the fuckin boats. Get the rest. Go!'' The man nodded in terror and started pulling and telling at his nearby mates. Snatching the last arrow from his back, Bane tossed into the sand as the moved himself, keeping low as he made for the ships through the dunes. A glance was spared back over his shoulder to the torches and fire arrows on the castle wall. ''Fuckin cunts,'' he mumbled. It would sting to leave empty handed, but he didn't come prepared for a siege.
One of his own crew, Mathias had pointed out a fire being lit on a hill in the distance. The dunes around them moved, shadows in the dark. A signal. Donvar didn't know what was going on, but he didn't need to have reaved for thirty years to know it was bad. Bolts shot into the ironborn host from both sides of the sandy roadway. Scores of his number went down in the first volley. He couldn't believe it. Crossbowmen? How had they known they were coming?!
The Drumm wasn't leaving without blood. Ordering his men to charge, he split his forces and charged right up either side of the hills boarding the road. Another volley took more of the ironborn but they still came stong. The young captain and his men slammed into the troops, every one wearing a white tabard emblazoned with the spiraled standard of Massey. They blooded those tabards, but many of the crossbowmen threw their weapons and drew their swords.
It quickly devolved into a disheveled melee. There were no battle lines, no grand maneuvers, and no strategy. The two just piled into each other. The coward greenlanders had seemingly not accounted for this. The castle could not support its exterior force. If it launched arrows it risked hitting their own men. If they opened the gates they risked being stormed. Some of the Massey cunts broke and ran and Donvar was determined to chase them when a fellow captain grasped his shoulder.
''Captain Drumm!'' He shouted, trying to break through the rage coursing through the man. ''What about the castle!?'' Right. He had almost forgotten completely about Stonedance Fingerdance. As much as he wanted to slay every Massey fucker out here, he would much rather gut the ones in there.
''Let's regroup and take it.'' Simple enough, right?
''You mad? What we gonna do? Climb the walls with our bare fingers?''
Shit. He had a point. Donvar wasn't about to let someone get away with making a good point!
''Fucking.'' A moment of hesitation came. ''Into the surrounding hills. Some fucking farms around here have got to have a few ladders. Find them!'' The other sailor looked incensed.
''You can't be seriou-'' A right hook ended his words. The iron nails Donvar wore upon his knuckles left a nasty gash on the poor fucker's cheek.
''Do I look like a jester, bitch?!'' He stood proudly over his defeated brethren. ''Find some fucking ladders.'' The sorry man picked himself up from the ground cradling his ruined face as he hobbled off. Seeing a Massey man crawling through the sand, Captain Drumm thought he saw a quick way to entertain himself after he had set his men to task. Once they had those ladders, the bastards in the castle would suffer way more than this poor shit was about to.
Standing on the foredeck of the Devourer, Porkloin lined up a throw as the horseman slowed to lance one his retreating ironborn in the back. His fat arms weren't so fast to save his trooper, but it was what it was. As the spear pierced the unfortunate sailor an axe spun into him where his neck met his collarbone, just under his sallet. Blood spurted from the wound as the knight slumped from his horse, which ran off into chaos of the battle unfolding.
Orsyn had not seen the black feathers of a raven in the dark of the midnight sky. None of the captains had. Ironborn surged back towards their ships like a retreating tide, horses on their heels. Old Cro recognized the sigil. Light cavalry from House Rosby. Their keep was close by, but to muster their host so soon... It was if they had been waiting. The fast horses poured through the streets, medicine for the plague. Porkloin hadn't seen Royce.
He didn't know what was happening with his fast strike team at the Dun Fort. Pulling another axe from where he had them stuck into the rails of his ship, the chubby Lord Captain looked for his next victim. The sound of marching boots drew his attention however. Directing his gaze up the nearest street that let into the town proper, a column of knights marched towards them on foot. Tower shields held by the front ranks prevented his eyes from seeing the exact manner of soldiers on the other side.
''House Darklyn,'' Cro answered his internal question before he could answer it. ''Unless they was waiting in outside the city, they could have only come from the Dun Fort...'' Lowering his axe, Porkloin knew that Royce likely dined in the hall of the drowned god. He had seen plenty of men die other his short and murderous career, but this was the first time he had ever sent any to their deaths on his own. The weight of responsibility was finally pressing down him, and he thought he might be mashed flat.
The greenlanders were getting close.
''Signal tha others. Shove off.'' A rasping defeat drug in his tone.
''Porky? We still got men with their boots on the stone.'' The fat captain pointed his head of his chosen axe forward.
''They gonna march right onto tha fuckin boats. We can't wait. Gotta leave. Take what we can get.'' And they had reaved a decent bounty. But like all consumables, it wouldn't last forever. Soon, they would need to raid again. Were all the greenlander castles like this? If so, it was going to be really difficult to get enough to feed every man in the Iron Fleet. A hundred ships required a lot of men and a lot of men ate a lot of food. Food was something he was particularly fond of.
Devourer creaked and whined as it pulled away from the stone edifice that separated land from the dark waters of Blackwater Bay. He didn't leave that spot on the deck, watching the enemy roll over the stragglers left on the shore. There didn't look to be any quarter given. The fucking dogs. As hard as it was to watch, it was going to be even harder to deliver the news to Quellon Greyjoy. He prayed a silent prayer that the other kraken arms had fared better.
Of course he didn't know that the selfsame Salt King had sent a boasting letter of their victory at Dragonstone to King's Landing. He didn't know every lord in the Crownlands, and even some kingdoms beyond knew of the treachery of the ironborn thanks to the ravens of Arkas Baratheon. He didn't know the cruel plans hatched out of the desire for coin, coin the Hand had promised for pieces of their new enemy.
Not that it would have made him feel any less doomed.
Blood spurted from the man's face as Lord Drumm's nails dug deep into his flesh, practically peeling it from the bone. Some of the Massey stragglers had regrouped to try and attack their ships. Put them to the torch. The remaining sailors, a good number, swarmed back down to ensnare the treacherous fucks. Each one he killed filled him with a sense of justice, justice for the trickery they had pulled. Red showered both men and the sand drank of his life.
All the killing fed the sea and the drowned god within. Even the sky drank of it. The rising dawn sun, still held prisoner by their watery deity cast a crimson light show across the clouds in the sky. A bad omen for sailors that was ignored. Fuck the sky. Donvar had a castle to take. As he carved into the man's throat to finish him, a cluster of ironborn came surging over the dunes in the distance, sprinting towards him. Their thunderous approach drew his attention away from his murder.
The Drumm grinned broadly, blood in his teeth. Finally. They had found the damn ladders. He could get on with the siege. As his men clamored down the hill however, he saw that the rumbling noise did not belong to them. Horses. Horses with glimmering armor. The knights atop wore the same, the dawn shining off the steel. Bar Emmon banners flickered from their lances as the heavy cavalry bore down them, charging right towards the boats. From behind the castle fireballs soared through the sky.
Too late had he realized the folly of his bloodlust. The forces from Sharp Point had moved to join their allies just a short distance across the peninsula. What had happened to Captain Orkwood and his host then? Jumping from the still twitching corpse, the burning projectiles were just beginning to slam into the ships just behind him. Turning he bolted for his ship. They needed to get the hell out of here. A thought that came far too late. Donvar Drumm heard the thunder behind him grow louder and louder.
He would never set foot on a boat again.
Between his mistakes and the ships Captain Orkwood had lost to fire and stone, ninteen ships less would join the main host at the rally point before the short trip back to Dragonstone, a place none of them rightfully wanted to return to report the events of the previous eve. With Arkas' bounty, a lot of knights would be lining their pockets the following day. Perhaps the Salt King would be lining the walls of Dragonstone with heads.
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