Several weeks had passed since the momentous battle near Fair Isle.
During that time, the Black Betha had tirelessly sailed the rough waters of Ironman’s Bay, from the gloomy cliffs of Tarbeck Hall to the grim walls of the Dreadfort.
She sailed at the front of the squadron, escorting heavy, sluggish transports loaded with supplies, horses, and the troops needed to continue the war.
Stannis Baratheon’s fleet, riding high on the glory of its great victory, had received orders from the king to capture Great Wyk, the largest of the Iron Islands.
But the offensive required careful preparation.
The main force had blockaded Saltcliffe, holding positions in the east and supporting operations against Black Wave and Harlaw.
Fighting was already underway there.
The Ironborn were resisting desperately, making use of every rocky ledge, cave, reef, and shallow waterway their homeland had to offer.
Another part of the fleet had concentrated directly on Great Wyk.
After landing his advance forces, Stannis established two fortified beachheads.
Day and night, the sounds of battle echoed along the shores.
Hammers and axes rang out as soldiers built fortifications and drove stakes deep into the earth.
The enormous island couldn’t be taken in a single assault.
Stannis was gathering his forces for the decisive attack, supported by Kevan Lannister and a large portion of Tywin’s army, now without ships of its own.
Meanwhile, royal forces under the legendary Ser Barristan Selmy, accompanied by Tywin himself and forces from House Arryn, had landed on Old Wyk, turning it into another battlefield.
Robert Baratheon only cared about Pyke.
As always, he wanted a battle.
But he now understood that the ancient stronghold of the Iron Islands wouldn’t fall until the other bastions of resistance had been broken.
The jagged collection of rocks had several heavily defended approaches and had been transformed by Balon into a fortress that couldn’t simply be stormed from the sea.
The first frontal assault, which Robert had insisted upon, failed within a few days, leaving Stannis grinding his teeth and short nearly twenty ships.
The Royal Fleet surrounded the supposedly impregnable Pyke, but under constant fire from the towering walls, it barely managed to land several groups of soldiers near the shore, and only at considerable cost.
It hadn’t accomplished much.
The very first night proved that even though the main Ironborn fleet had been destroyed, the ships they had left were more than enough to wage a successful guerrilla war.
Huge torches made from Stannis’s burning ships illuminated dozens of small boats.
Taking advantage of their superior maneuverability and intimate knowledge of the waters, the Ironborn scattered into the darkness like rats after every attack.
Cornered Ironborn were even more dangerous.
Their warriors were accustomed to raids and sudden attacks, and they could turn any advance into a bloody nightmare.
The king was now demanding that his commanders destroy the enemy’s remaining main forces as quickly as possible so that the full strength of the royal army could finally be brought down upon Pyke.
Meanwhile, allied forces from the Riverlands and the North had captured several small fortresses on Black Wave and Orkwood and laid siege to the others.
They were taking advantage of the Kraken’s first major defeat at sea, which had forced the Ironborn to fall back on naval raids.
Balon Greyjoy had lost most of his fleet, but his brothers, Victarion and Euron, had no intention of surrendering.
They mobilized everything that could float, from old longships to fishing boats.
They knew these waters like the backs of their hands, and now they were fighting differently.
They attacked without warning, disappeared into the night, sank transports, and mercilessly slaughtered troops that had landed on the islands.
The Greyjoy rebellion had been defeated in two decisive battles, but it hadn’t been broken.
They still had a chance to bleed the Royal Fleet dry and regain control of the sea.
And if the royal forces couldn’t properly hold and supply even a moderately sized army, control of the waters around the Seven Islands would be practically equivalent to victory.
For ordinary soldiers and sailors, however, all of this was distant.
Rumors traveled quickly, but they became heavily distorted along the way, painting a rosy picture of great victories over the enemy.
For Arthur, the entire war had basically come down to two things:
The enormous battle near Fair Isle…
And endless convoys of supply ships.
Day after day, they crossed the bay, escorting transports loaded with weapons, food, horses, and soldiers.
So far, their patrols had passed without any serious clashes, which Arthur was actually quite happy about.
Soren, on the other hand, dreamed of fighting the enemy again.
Arthur was beginning to understand why the old sellsword had laughed so indulgently at his eagerness for battle.
After Paul’s death, much of Arthur’s worldview had changed.
He still trained, even harder than before, but no longer because of some vague desire to become stronger.
Now he knew one thing for certain:
He didn’t want to die.
Their ship was currently part of a large group heading toward Great Wyk, escorting Lannister forces that had reportedly established a small outpost there.
And from the very beginning, Arthur noticed something strange among the ships they were escorting.
An entire group of entertainers.
Their colorful clothes stood out sharply against the grim military uniforms and red cloaks.
A little farther away sailed an old passenger ship carrying people Arthur didn’t understand at first.
They were women dressed rather openly, their faces painted.
They laughed and waved at the sailors.
They weren’t allowed aboard the Black Betha, much to the crew’s disappointment.
“Sometimes whores are more useful than arrows,” Ray cheerfully explained when he noticed the boy’s confusion.
“The Lannisters know how to handle that sort of thing.
Stannis, on the other hand, is strict about it.
Whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing, I couldn’t tell you.”
“Why would it be bad?” Arthur frowned.
“Wouldn’t it be better to transport more soldiers instead?”
On that particular point, Arthur completely agreed with Stannis, who demanded iron discipline from his men.
According to the rumors, the king himself was a perfect example of it.
Of course, those rules didn’t apply to the other commanders, so many sailors, even if they didn’t openly complain, quietly envied their luckier comrades.
Ray laughed.
“Sure, you’re right in principle,” he said with a grin.
“But battles get a man’s blood boiling more than any wine.
Not everyone has enough self-control to remain civilized after breaking into someone else’s home.
Women help cool that blood down, for a reasonable price, of course.”
Arthur frowned.
“But rapists are hanged…”
Ray sighed and shook his head, his expression no longer nearly as cheerful.
“Of course they are,” he agreed.
“If they’re caught.”
“Now that’s an island…”
Arthur stared wide-eyed at the enormous landmass approaching them.
Great Wyk was enormous, even larger than Fair Isle, the biggest island the boy had ever seen.
Its curved coastline stretched endlessly into the distance, disappearing beyond the limits of his vision.
To Arthur, it looked like some ancient beast lying among the dark waters, wrapped in scraps of mist.
Rocky shores rose into steep cliffs, where waves crashed against them with a dull roar.
Mountains towered deeper inland, covered by scattered patches of gloomy forest.
Among the boulders near the water, enormous animals with sleek coats lounged lazily.
They raised their heads as the ships passed.
Their loud grunting, mixed with low howls, sounded almost like some ancient language.
But Arthur wasn’t looking at them.
He already knew what seals were, thanks to Paul’s stories.
Ahead, where one of the Ironborn villages had once stood, a hastily organized beachhead had been established.
The pier had been burned, and charred posts jutted from the water like the broken ribs of a drowned monster.
Instead, the ships approached as close to shore as possible, while heavily loaded boats were lowered into the water.
“Sailor Arkt,” the first boatswain called out in his booming voice.
He no longer treated Arthur like he was invisible.
Not that their relationship had changed much, but the man’s gaze had clearly become warmer.
After the new sailors had arrived, the old crew had somehow grown closer together.
All of them, even Hal, who had already managed to put his belly back on after losing weight.
“Get in the boat.
Help Tom and the others with the unloading.”
“What about me?” the cabin boy interrupted, staring at the island with wide eyes.
“Can I go with them?”
For a second, the big man’s expression became cold again.
“You can.”
A couple of seconds later, he’d already lost interest in the cabin boy.
People were everywhere.
Soldiers in dirty cloaks dragged crates of supplies, barrels of water, and sacks of grain through sticky sand and mud that reached their knees.
Horses whinnied and stamped their hooves against the wooden platforms as they were hurriedly unloaded.
Around the camp, soldiers were building fortifications.
They drove stakes into the earth, constructed wooden walkways, and reinforced the slope until it resembled a crude bastion.
Where fishing huts had once stood, there were now command tents and shelters for the soldiers.
The smell of smoke still lingered in the air.
The remains of the burned village had stopped smoldering, but the acrid scent of charred wood remained.
Two soldiers carrying spears stood guard beside freshly dug trenches.
Nearby, among the burned boats, several decapitated bodies lay in the dirt, dressed in clothing that had once been black.
The boat rocked on the waves like a living thing, rising and falling with the sea.
Arthur gripped his oar tighter, trying not to think about how heavily the overloaded little vessel leaned with every movement.
Now Ray’s insistence that he wear his armor didn’t seem quite as ridiculous as it had before.
Tom sat at the front with his arms crossed, staring ahead with his usual sly grin.
Soren, meanwhile, nervously fiddled with the rope tied around the crates, repeatedly looking around as though he expected something terrifying to emerge from the water.
Strange…
He’d been the one who insisted on coming along.
“Relax,” the older sailor muttered, lazily nudging the cabin boy with his elbow.
“If the Ironborn wanted to sink us, they’d have done it at night.
They’re not stupid enough to attack us in broad daylight.”
“What if they’re hiding up there, in the rocks?” Soren asked, nodding toward the gloomy cliffs.
“Then rest assured, we’ll see them soon enough,” Tom replied with a chuckle.
But his voice had become slightly more serious.
The boat’s bow touched the wet sand, and the sailors immediately got to work.
Arthur climbed out first, stepping into the cold water, which instantly soaked his trousers to the knees.
The cold wind made him shiver.
Fortunately, physical labor quickly warmed him up.
“Boom…”
“Hey, careful with that!” a rough voice called out.
Arthur looked up.
A Lannister guardsman stood on the shore with his arms crossed.
His red cloak was stained with dirt around the hem, but the golden lion still gleamed on his chest.
He frowned as the cabin boy dropped a crate onto the ground with a heavy thud.
Something inside it made a suspicious sloshing sound.
“Food, wine, whores…” Tom said with a grin as he unloaded another crate.
“Living the dream…”
“You?”
The guardsman snorted.
“Not likely.
But thanks for the whores.”
He grinned and gave one of the newly arrived women a lecherous wink as several satisfied soldiers gathered around them, showering them with attention.
“Though, you know, I’d trade all of this for a ticket back to Lannisport.
Never thought I’d end up on this cursed island.
Dusty old Casterly Rock was much nicer.”
“Ha.
You’re not the only one.”
A red-bearded sailor glanced at him and grinned.
“Though there don’t seem to be many of you here…”
“The advance party went ahead to scout.”
The guardsman was happy to share the latest news.
“After we took this village, we’ve been seeing scouts everywhere.
So we sent some men to check whether the Ironborn had gathered deeper inland.
Some say they’ve retreated to a fortress.
Others say they’re hiding in the woods.”
He shrugged.
“But honestly, I don’t care.
As long as they don’t come here right now.
I’m counting on a pleasant night, if you know what I mean.”
“Then we won’t be staying long,” Tom grumbled, turning toward the sailors.
“Move it!
We’ve still got fodder to unload!”
They continued unloading crates for a long time, until their backs ached and their hands began to hurt.
Sailors from the other boats joined them, carrying heavy sacks of grain, barrels of salted meat, and several more crates of arrows.
Rows of supplies were already piling up along the shore, and the beachhead buzzed like a disturbed beehive.
Then the ship’s alarm bell rang.
But the guardsman immediately grabbed his sword, while the sailors froze and listened intently.
The attack came from the ships first.
A scream sounded somewhere behind them.
When Arthur turned around, he saw one of the ships burning, sending thick clouds of black smoke into the sky.
Farther away, dark silhouettes appeared from behind a rocky outcrop.
Fast Ironborn ships were racing toward them like a pack of hungry predators.
And then they struck the village as well.
“Attack!
To arms!”
A sentry’s cry rang out.
Ironborn appeared from everywhere, emerging from behind the rocks and from the sparse forest.
They rushed toward the fortifications, their axes flashing in the sunlight as wild cries filled the air.
Spearmen ran toward the forward positions while shouts were already coming from the boats and ships.
Arthur tightened his grip around his sword.
His heart was pounding somewhere in his throat.
The Ironborn were attacking.
There was no time to hesitate.
“To the palisade!” shouted the nameless Lannister guardsman, urging everyone forward.
Sailors and soldiers rushed toward the fortifications, trampling through the wet sand as the noise of battle drowned out their footsteps.
Arthur ran beside Tom, who was swearing under his breath, while Soren stayed close to them, his young face tense.
Apparently, his eagerness to become a sailor by killing a couple of pathetic Ironborn had disappeared rather quickly.
Arrows whistled through the air, drawing first blood.
The sentries were the first to meet the attackers, managing to hit several men before they reached the barrier.
The ground seemed to shake beneath their feet as the attackers crashed into the palisade.
The Ironborn tried to break through.
Their axes bit into the wood.
Spears flew toward the defenders.
Lannister soldiers fought back, shouting curses, while sailors from the ships, despite having little experience with fighting on land, fought with desperate fury.
Arthur gripped his sword with both hands and knocked aside the first strike from a cheap spear, immediately stabbing back.
Judging by the scream, he’d hit something.
But another attacker immediately took the first man’s place.
They climbed over the shallow ditch with ease, grabbing onto the logs driven into the earth.
It seemed as though they would never end.
And Arthur began to feel afraid.
“First!”
A joyful shout came from the cabin boy.
Soren triumphantly raised the sword he’d been given above his head.
Then came a groan.
Arthur turned just in time to see the boy’s thin body jerk violently before collapsing onto his knees.
Arthur stared in frozen horror at the spear sticking out of Soren’s chest.
“No!”
Arthur screamed.
But Soren was already sinking into the mud.
His fingers slid weakly along the shaft as a thin stream of blood trickled from his mouth.
At that moment, Arthur felt a surge of rage.
The fear and excitement disappeared, replaced by cold determination.
He stepped forward and swung his sword.
He felt the blade cut through flesh.
A bearded man screamed and collapsed, blood pouring onto the filthy ground.
The battle raged around him.
Another Lannister guardsman skillfully cut away a spear thrust toward him.
But the next moment his head jerked backward, and his body collapsed after another spear struck him.
Arthur kept swinging.
Slashing.
Stabbing.
Some blows glanced off his chainmail.
The ground beneath his feet had become a mixture of blood and mud.
At one point Arthur slipped and nearly fell, but managed to catch himself.
Nearby, a wounded soldier writhed on the ground, clutching his bloody stomach.
Bodies were everywhere.
Swords slid through the sticky muck, spraying blood in every direction.
Someone knocked Arthur off his feet.
He crashed into the mud, losing his breath for a moment.
But he immediately rolled over, bringing his sword up just in time to meet another enemy who had broken through the palisade with a low strike.
The man attacking him had no armor.
Arthur’s blade easily pierced his convulsing body.
Screams.
The clash of weapons.
The smell of blood and smoke.
Everything blurred together into one horrifying whirlpool of death that swallowed the boy whole.
But there were clearly fewer enemies now.
“Get up!”
Someone grabbed Arthur by the arm and desperately pulled him out from beneath the fallen attacker.
“Oh, hell…”
Arthur looked around.
It was Tom.
The older sailor was staring desperately toward the sea.
Arthur followed his gaze.
The Black Betha was desperately making for open water.
Her rowers were pulling on their oars with everything they had, trying to escape being surrounded.
Arthur’s heart sank.
They were leaving them behind.
And two light Ironborn longships were already approaching the shore.