❝”What a shame my brother Stannis isn’t here.
Remember how he once suggested banning brothels?
The king asked him if they shouldn’t ban eating, shitting, and breathing while they were at it.
Honestly, I sometimes wonder how Stannis managed to make that ugly daughter of his.
He goes to his marriage bed like a warrior going into battle, grim determination in his eyes and a burning desire to fulfill his duty.”❞
“ONE!”
The young man’s back tensed as his arms strained.
With all his strength, he pulled the enormous oar toward himself, gripping the small handle that had been attached to it for convenience.
“AND ONE…
YOU SONS OF BITCHES!”
The first boatswain’s voice was hoarse from the effort.
He was rowing by himself as well, sitting at his own bench and wrestling with the massive oar.
There were no drums this time.
There was hardly anyone aboard who wasn’t down on the lower deck.
Only Davos remained above, steering the ship, along with a couple of wounded sailors and Mattos, who were helping with the sails and navigation.
Everyone else who could still hold an oar was down here.
Arthur’s feet once again pushed against the wooden brace, and the oar began its steady rhythm.
“And…
ONE!”
Arrows hammered against the side of the ship again.
Something struck hard near the stern, but judging by the lack of screams, nobody had been hit this time.
“Bloody…
scorpions…” Ray gasped beside him, sweat pouring down his face beneath his chainmail.
“Use your legs…
work more with your legs…”
“I…
am!” Arthur wheezed, forcing the damned piece of wood forward.
He hadn’t even had time to take off his armor.
Now he deeply regretted it.
But there hadn’t been time.
The Ironborn fleet had caught them completely by surprise and was coming after them under full sail.
Their only hope of escaping was the oars and the Black Betha’s speed.
Except the Black Betha’s crew was already badly battered.
The chase had been going on for hours, and the entire crew was so exhausted that, if anyone had still had the strength to talk earlier, now they barely had enough breath left to keep rowing.
“One!”
Somewhere above them came a piercing scream, followed by a crash and a huge splash.
Someone had gone overboard.
Or perhaps another catapult had struck.
Arthur desperately hoped it wasn’t Mattos.
Smoke drifted down into the lower deck again.
“PUT IT OUT!”
The muffled shout came from above.
The crashing grew louder.
The waves shook the ship violently.
Down in the darkness, the rowers couldn’t see anything.
They could only hear the ship shuddering around them and try to understand what was happening from Davos’s shouted commands.
The Onion Knight was working miracles at the helm, maneuvering the ship to avoid becoming easy prey for the pursuing fleet while also trying not to fall too far behind the Lion Star, whose crew wasn’t nearly as exhausted.
Davos hadn’t exactly loved the idea of being used as bait for the Ironborn in the first place.
Now?
Let’s just say he had plenty of unpleasant thoughts about his liege lord, as well as the damned Lannister who had decided to engage those longships in the first place.
Of their entire fleet, barely more than half remained.
The ships Tywin had bought, never intended for such prolonged pursuits, were falling behind one after another and becoming victims of the truly enormous Ironborn fleet.
A hundred ships.
Davos had counted at least that many.
And these weren’t the light longships the kraken’s spawn had traditionally used to raid the Riverlands.
These were powerful, heavy galleys armed with ballistae and scorpions.
They weren’t sparing arrows or ammunition in their pursuit.
And they were fast enough to steadily close the considerable distance that had separated them at the beginning.
Somehow, at the start of the escape, the Black Betha had been somewhere in the middle of their so-called formation.
Now they were much closer to the rear.
The wind wasn’t particularly favorable, and the crew was exhausted.
Still…
The strait was close.
A thin strip of land had appeared on the horizon.
All they had to do was reach it.
And pray to every god, old and new, that Stannis’s plan worked.
Davos wasn’t even entirely certain they’d managed to spot the smoke signal.
“AND…
ONE!”
Arthur hated the first mate’s half-torn voice with every fiber of his being, but even so, it forced him to pull the seemingly impossible oar toward himself once again.
“Haah…” Ray exhaled loudly through clenched teeth.
They weren’t talking anymore.
Exhaustion had crushed every other thought.
His arms felt as though they were on fire, and his back had been screaming at him for what felt like an eternity that he couldn’t do this anymore.
For the last half hour, Arthur had been lying to himself every single time.
Just a few more.
Just a few more and I’ll drop the damn thing.
Golden symbols flashed before his eyes again.
But he didn’t even have the strength to pay attention to them.
The cabin boy once again told himself this would be the last stroke.
But then…
“DRY THEM!”
The first mate’s sudden shout caught him completely off guard.
Arthur instinctively pulled the oar one more time, but immediately felt it being dragged back.
Ray was already pulling the shaft into the ship.
Arthur snapped out of it and helped him.
Other sailors were rushing around them, hauling the oars back in with relieved sighs.
“Everyone to the upper deck!”
Arthur recognized Mattos’s voice.
He hurried upward among the first.
He was incredibly relieved to see Mattos alive.
And that they were all still alive too.
Where had he found the strength to climb those stairs?
The first thing Arthur noticed was the arrows scattered everywhere.
They stuck out of the deck, the masts, and the sails.
In places, the wood around them had been scorched.
Arthur looked toward the horizon.
And dozens of Ironborn ships had formed an uneven line from shore to shore.
They were clearly slowing down.
But on the other side…
“Those are ours!”
Relieved shouts erupted across the deck.
“The Redwyne fleet!”
“Now we’ll show those bastards…”
“Everyone get ready!”
That was Davos’s voice.
“Take a shield, you idiot!”
A heavy shield slammed into Arthur’s chest.
After the oar, it didn’t seem nearly as impossible to lift as it had before.
His arm was still trembling slightly, but he firmly grabbed the handle on the inside.
Just in time.
A swarm of black arrows suddenly flew from several enemy ships.
“ARROWS!”
Someone shouted.
Arthur immediately raised his shield.
Within seconds, arrows were hammering into the sturdy wooden boards.
One arrow found a weak point and actually pierced through, its sharp tip emerging dangerously close to Arthur’s face.
He instinctively pushed the shield farther away.
Another couple of centimeters…
He didn’t want to think about what would have happened.
“Hold the course!”
Davos’s voice seemed to cut through the very air.
The Black Betha headed straight toward the Redwyne fleet.
At the entrance to the strait, white sails bearing red grape clusters fluttered in the wind like embroidered banners.
The sight brought enormous relief.
Unfortunately, the Black Betha, along with the other fleeing ships, was still trapped between their allies and the Ironborn fleet.
Only the much faster Lion Star had already crossed the invisible line formed by the allied ships.
It was slowing down now, using its oars to turn toward the enemy.
Arrows whistled overhead again.
“Shields!”
Someone shouted.
Arthur raised his wooden barrier once more.
Heavy impacts shook the shield.
From the enemy ships and from the Redwyne fleet alike came not only arrows but stones fired from ballistae.
One crashed into the water beside the hull, sending up a huge fountain of spray.
Another slammed into a stack of crates, scattering them across the deck.
A distant roar of war horns sounded.
“Look!
They’re turning!”
Arthur peered around his shield.
The Ironborn ships, which had been sailing in tight formation, were hurriedly changing course.
Some of the heavily armored ships raised their oars and began turning slowly, like sea beasts that had suddenly smelled a trap.
A couple of minutes later, Arthur understood why.
New ships appeared from behind a distant ridge of rocks.
A lot of them.
Their sails were dark and severe, bearing a black crowned stag frozen against a yellow field.
“That’s Stannis!”
“The Royal Fleet!”
A triumphant roar erupted from dozens of exhausted throats across the ships that had survived the pursuit.
And indeed, another fleet was entering the strait between Fair Isle and the western coast.
Stannis Baratheon’s fleet.
The Ironborn had set a trap for them.
Now they were the ones trapped.
From the high castle on Fair Isle, the naval battle looked like a dance of chaos unlike anything anyone had ever seen.
The Ironborn fleet filled the entire strait.
Their ships seemed to sail almost side by side, forming a black forest of masts and sails.
Huge, heavy longships with high sides, often without rams but covered in ballistae, scorpions, and catapults, poured death onto their enemies from a distance, showering the water with arrows and red-hot stones.
Speed and precision.
That was how the Iron Fleet, under Victarion Greyjoy, had burned the Lannister fleet at Lannisport.
Its maneuverability and speed were its greatest advantages.
Strike.
Withdraw.
The ancient tactic of the krakens had been perfected under the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet.
And it worked.
On the horizon, where the wide bay opened onto the open sea, dozens more ships could be seen.
Perhaps a hundred.
Perhaps more.
It seemed as though they would never end.
But Stannis Baratheon wasn’t a man who backed down because of numbers.
He needed to make sure the enemy ships had no way to escape.
And he did exactly that.
The royal fleet had been rowing without stopping ever since the lookouts spotted the agreed signal.
Now it formed two wedge-shaped lines.
The Fury, Stannis’s flagship, sailed in the center.
Beside her was the Thunder Stag, followed farther out by the Iron Lady, Song of Storms, and Red Lion.
Their hulls gleamed with fresh tar, and metal rams glimmered at their bows.
Unlike the Ironborn, Stannis’s fleet consisted of heavy galleys.
They weren’t as fast.
But they were deadly.
They were also covered with long-range weapons and packed with men shouting with excitement.
They weren’t planning on engaging in a prolonged exchange of fire.
They intended to smash straight into the enemy formation.
Cutting.
Breaking.
Sinking.
But the Ironborn weren’t fools either.
When the Fury moved forward, the Greyjoy ships responded to signals from their flagship and hurriedly formed a wide arc, intending to surround the enemy.
Their ships maneuvered faster.
Before long, it became clear that the leading Baratheon ships were heading straight into a trap.
They lacked the discipline and speed of the Ironborn, and the krakens had already begun reorganizing their formation.
“Left flank!
Tack!”
His order, repeated through signals from the flagship, was carried out almost immediately.
The galleys sailing to the left of the Fury suddenly changed course with remarkable discipline.
Instead of pointing their bows forward, they turned them sideways.
They pulled away from the attack, leaving the center exposed.
At once, the scorpions and catapults opened fire.
Smoke and flames rose among the Ironborn.
Their ships in the vanguard began taking hits.
Burning projectiles smashed into decks and buried themselves in masts.
Because of their sudden change in direction, several of Victarion’s ships trying to flank the Baratheons exposed themselves to ram attacks.
The sound of splintering wood, the screams of men drowning or burning alive, the horns, and the thunder of drums spread throughout the strait.
The battle had begun.
And the Golden Storm, Euron Greyjoy’s personal ship, was heading straight for the Fury.
Its sails were fully stretched, while the oars worked at a frantic pace.
Euron wasn’t retreating.
He intended to board.
Elsewhere, hand-to-hand fighting was already raging.
The Ironborn, just like their ancestors, had little interest in any other kind of combat.
They hooked enemy ships together, jumped onto their decks, and hacked at their opponents with axes.
Boarding was their specialty.
But in a battle this large, ships locked in close combat became easy targets for ramming.
“Turn!”
Euron shouted.
Dozens of oars dug into the churning water.
The Golden Storm, a warship, didn’t charge directly into the galley.
The Ironborn didn’t use rams.
Instead, they turned broadside to the approaching enemy so they could use their catapults and ballistae.
“What is dead may never die!
Fire!”
Euron Greyjoy, nicknamed Damphair, shouted cheerfully.
The eighth and youngest son of Lord Quellon Greyjoy held a wineskin that was already half empty.
He stood fearlessly at the very bow of his ship, leaning against the elongated head of a kraken.
It looked remarkably similar to the very organ he’d once used to win a bet that he could extinguish an entire hearth with a single stream.
The wager had involved his new ship.
He’d spent an entire year eating goat meat afterward.
He’d named the ship Golden Storm, despite Balon threatening to hang him from the mast when he discovered what his younger brother intended to use as the ship’s decoration.
Euron wasn’t afraid of death.
He trusted the maneuverability and speed of his ship.
Its weapons and arrows slammed into the high side of the Fury, punching through the hull, maiming rowers and killing warriors who hadn’t taken cover behind their shields.
But Stannis Baratheon hadn’t chosen the Fury as his flagship for nothing.
“Reform!”
His expression remained emotionless.
The only indication of the fury beneath the surface was the bulging muscles in his jaw from clenching his teeth.
Chains rattled across the deck.
The rowers shifted their oars to the port side while the helmsmen turned the rudder.
The galley changed its angle of attack, approaching the enemy ship at a sharp angle rather than directly.
“Catapults, fire!”
Stones coated in burning pitch soared through the air.
One struck the stern of the Golden Storm, punching through the side.
Another smashed into part of the mast, scattering broken wood across the deck.
The Ironborn answered in kind.
Their ballistae spat long iron bolts that slammed into the Fury, punching through wooden shields.
One projectile impaled a sailor, pinning him to the railing.
But the distance was closing.
“Scorpions, fire!”
The second level of the Fury, the scorpion deck, came alive.
Dozens of light ballistae fired bolts toward the Golden Storm, impaling sailors, shredding sails, and breaking spars.
The galley continued straight toward the enemy.
“Prepare to ram!”
At the very front of the ship, low in the hull, was a metal ram designed to punch through enemy vessels.
The Ironborn tried to turn away.
Too late.
The Fury slammed into the side of the Golden Storm with a deafening crash.
The impact threw men from the deck.
Wood splintered.
The enemy hull groaned like a cracking shell.
The ram tore straight through the center of the burning galley, breaking it in two.
“How…” Euron Greyjoy said, sounding genuinely surprised for perhaps the first time in his life.
The impact threw him from the ship.
“What is dead…”
Saltwater swallowed the rest of his words.
His heavy armor dragged him straight into the embrace of the Drowned God.
And the main battle was only just beginning.
The Black Betha sailed under full sail, its bow cutting through the rough sea.
Davos Seaworth kept well away from the thickest part of the fighting, giving his men a chance to catch their breath.
His crew was good.
But exhaustion was taking its toll.
They’d been fighting since the very beginning, forcing their way through the Ironborn formation, and they desperately needed even a short rest.
As an experienced smuggler, Davos maneuvered the ship so that there was always another vessel between them and their enemies.
That allowed them to fire on the enemy with minimal risk.
Their job was already done.
The rest was up to everyone else.
At least, that’s what Davos thought.
But war rarely gave anyone a chance to rest.
A burning longship suddenly burst from a cloud of smoke and fire.
Its mast had already collapsed, but its oars were still moving as if death itself were driving it forward.
The Ironborn on its deck screamed their battle cries, waving boarding hooks.
They knew their ship was doomed.
But they intended to drag as many enemies down with them as possible.
“Hell…” Davos cursed.
He wasn’t looking for another fight.
But he had no choice.
“Get ready!”
The burning longship slammed into the side of the Black Betha with a heavy impact.
Ironborn warriors, driven mad by pain, blood, and fire, leapt onto the deck.
The battle erupted instantly.