Iron and Gold: The Battle of Lannisport

Childhood saw to Morella Lannister’s first brush with strategy. Under the tutelage of her father’s chosen mentors, her natural ability at the sport flourished early.

Aemon, the Dornish advisor sent to Highgarden to teach and observe Morella and her sisters, was the first to exclaim her gifts to the lords and ladies of the Reach. He was quickly silenced.

She commandeered the Cyvasse table with an unparalleled decisiveness against the Dornish master who first introduced her to the game. Her ability to predict, to observe and to execute was so exceptional that Aemon, though proud of his student, kept the extent of her abilities a secret. Morella’s mother ensured he would not squeak.

Morella did not squeak either. Forever a lady playing a man’s game, she knew better than to cease acting in the role she was given. The best way to win was to do so under the noses of every other player. To sit back as the sand-vipers do and wait for the opportune moment to strike.

Quellon Greyjoy was no different from these barking dogs. She knew him not for his proclaimed intentions but for his true desires.

Morella knew what he wanted, what every Iron lord before him always wanted. Though he cursed the greenlands with every breath, he hungered for a taste.

What better way to satisfy his appetite?

Quellon was a gifted strategist himself but he was a pirate all the same. Morella was no novice when it came to dealing with pirates.

A raven arrived at Lannisport but a day or two after the meeting between Rose and Kraken. The Rose advanced her trebuchets.

Unbeknownst to the rest of the realm, the Lannister mines were slowly running dry. With Tybalt in Essos, the Lions devised a new method to keep their pockets filled. The Lion Lord saw war brewing amongst rival slave nations in the East and brokered a deal. In exchange for coin, the Lannisters would build them siege machines to aid in their endeavors. Trebuchets, cannons and the like were manufactured under the lion sigil and sent off in exchange for a steady flow of income.

One of these ships did not set sail.

Faron,

See to it that our port is outfitted with these great siege machines. They will be needed for an upcoming exchange between our forces and an enemy fleet.

Have ammunition at the ready and men to man them at all times. You will see the enemy approaching.

Let them come. Spin the web, strike only when every shot is sure.

I will be there shortly.

---

Faron Marbrand watched the quiet procession of longships just offshore. By god, she was right.

He looked to his commanding officer who also looked out in disbelief. "Signal to the trebuchets. Tell them not to set anything ablaze until the longships are in full range. This will be the moment we strike." The man nodded before lighting upon his feet and quietly descending to relay the orders. Faron heard the hushed preparations as soldiers manning the foreign siege machines went to work outfitting them with large oil-slicked mounds of rubble.

The old lord raised his left fist to the moon. Its silhouette sparked a chain reaction as boulders lit up like tiny suns in their nests atop the cannon-contraptions. His hand disappeared from the white light. The night sky lit up with a different form of stars.

They rained down upon the enemy fleet, making purchase with the longship that lead the assault. Thunder erupted from the splitting wood and the shrieks of men added to the chorus. As soon as the projectiles made their targets, smaller ships set off from the port to deal final blows to the crippled foes. Ironborn were pulled from the seas and bound.

She stood upon the hill above and watched. Her face was expressionless.

The horizon glittered with fire like the rubies in Morella’s armor.

Imagine men with supple skin, black hair, coarse hair, leather armor and metal plates and thick muscles protecting them from blades and arrows. Imagine great barrels of oil and pitch, stacks of torches, cloth dipped in oil. Imagine seeing the stars fall from the sky.

Imagine that beauty, and you will be imagining properly the Battle for Lannisport.

Before the eyes of the west blossomed flowers with leaves of inferno. Embers like fireflies wallowed through the air. Screams and curses carried them further than any wind could. A father watches as his son is burned alive. A captain loses both his legs as a boulder crashes ruins his ship. Desperately he tries to grab something to stay afloat, but the pain and the shock numb his arms and a second falling star lands on his head and cracks his skull and steams his brains.

Merciless thunder echoes throughout the Bay of Lions. Men and women that had been carried to shelters cover the ears of their children to shield them from the dying men’s orchestra. A septa prays to the Crone for wisdom, to the Stranger to visit the heathens. For every curse a dying Ironborn speaks into the world, a thousand more he is sentenced too.

On the shores, longboats land. Men turn and watch the disaster. Some never go inland and instead turn and head back to the Iron Islands. What discipline there was for these ships is gone. Out of two hundred and fifty ships, one hundred and eighty never touch a coastline again.

Twenty do. They run their boats into the shore and their boots clomp through the mud. The sucking sound of low tide wet sand is a poor substitute for war drums and Rattler songs.

Lord Dellon Drumm half drags himself onto shore. Half of his face is gone and he cannot see out of that eye. Salt water eats at the wounds; it feels like locusts are in his eye socket feasting on tender vision-blessing flesh. In his hand is Red Rain. Moonlight bleeds off the edge of that wicked blade.

“Do you hear that?” A man asks. No one answers. Another man stops. He too says “Do you hear that?” Now more Ironborn are stopping and listening. They are putting hands to their ears. Some draw out axes and others knock bows and some piss themselves.

The ground quakes. Lord Dellon Drumm spits half his tongue and a gobble of blood to the dirt. He looks up and sees the charging cavalry of Logan Lannister highlighted by the strobe light-flashing of exploding Ironborn ships.

If there had been any moral left in these men they would have fought back hard enough to make the Greenlanders pay the Iron Price. But Morella Lannister used her machinations like a flaying knife and reduced these men down to their primal fears. Men picked up their ships and tried to push them back into the waves. Others drew their weapons and charged down the horses. Lord Dellon, half-mad with fear and all-mad with pain, runs into a nearby thicket. Horses cannot chase him here. Others run with him.

Underneath the gloom of bent trees and ancient bows, Red Rain was the red smile of a whore whispering to Logan “Come and find me.”