“The ironborn feast before battle as well.
To taste life one last time when death already stands at the door.”
– A Dance with Dragons
***
The Black Betha glided across the dark surface of the sea, her black sails fluttering faintly beneath the occasional breath of wind.
Night wrapped the ship in a mantle of dense darkness, broken only by meager flashes of moonlight reflecting off the restless waters.
More than several weeks of uninterrupted travel, shifting from sail to oar and back again whenever the wind failed, had begun to take their toll.
The crew was exhausted.
Sailors slept wherever they could find space, sprawled across the deck and in the holds below.
Only the helmsman and a handful of watchmen remained awake, lazily scanning the horizon.
Davos Seaworth stood by the rail, gazing thoughtfully into the darkness where the outlines of the Arbor would soon emerge.
There, amid the shadow of vineyards and great stone quays, waited Lord Paxter Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor and head of House Redwyne, the recipient of the first sealed scroll.
Davos did not know the contents of the letter, but he had little doubt what it concerned: the Redwyne fleet, naval maneuvers, the coming war.
Matters too sensitive even for ravens, sealed instead beneath the heavy stamp of the king.
Distance gave the Greyjoys an advantage of several months.
During that time, Robert would need to gather an army and, more importantly, find ships enough to carry it.
From what the former smuggler had heard, and Davos always kept his ear close to the ground, part of the host would march overland, joining with the strength of the North and the riverlands.
The second force would unite with the armies of the Reach, though the Reach seemed in no great hurry to involve itself in the coming conflict.
The Tyrells had suffered few losses when they abandoned the siege of Storm’s End to Eddard Stark, yet they had stood with the Targaryens during the rebellion.
In Davos’s judgment, that was precisely why the first letter had been entrusted to the Lord of the Arbor.
If all went according to plan, the royal fleet would already be sailing behind them.
Yet plans often stumbled upon unforeseen circumstances.
And those circumstances were already close at hand.
The black silhouette of a war galley was barely visible against the dark sea.
A light, swift ironborn longship crept through the night like a hunting beast, guided by the hand of Rodrik Sparr, whom Victarion Greyjoy had left behind as a scout.
His task was to warn of the royal fleet’s arrival.
Several of the fastest vessels of the Iron Fleet were also quietly observing the movements of Reach ships.
The royal fleet had not yet appeared.
By every estimate and rumor that had reached the commanders, Baratheon’s ships could not possibly have arrived in these waters so quickly, even had they sailed the very day the war began.
But Rodrik recognized the vessel his lookouts had spotted.
The Black Betha, the galley of the Onion Knight, a well-known vassal of the Master of Ships and a veteran of the war against the Targaryens, had caught the ironborn commander’s attention.
The ships of the Reach were to be avoided, much to Sparr’s displeasure.
Yet the warriors, flushed with victory over the Lannisters, had grown restless for another fight.
And Rodrik himself was keenly curious about what business had brought the former smuggler’s vessel to the Redwyne isle.
The ironborn moved silently.
No lanterns.
No needless splash of water.
Only the gentle wind and the powerful strokes of weathered arms propelled them forward.
These ships carried death.
Their warriors, hardened by the storms of the Iron Islands, were already preparing for the assault.
Some ran their fingers across the hilts of swords and axes, savoring the coming battle.
Others whispered prayers to the Drowned God, intending to dedicate a few victims to him before the night was done.
They expected no resistance.
Not here.
Not on this stretch of sea.
Near the Arbor, ships sailed relaxed and unworried.
Men believed the southern waters safe.
Aboard the Black Betha, no one yet knew that death was already stalking across the waves.
“ALARM!
WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!”
The ringing of a bell cut through the darkness.
Arthur awoke into chaos.
Shouts.
Running feet.
The clash of steel.
Heavy impacts that rattled the wooden bulkheads around him.
Before he could even understand what was happening, a violent jolt hurled him from his hammock onto the cold floorboards of the cabin.
His heart thundered in his chest. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
“ENEMIES ABOAR—”
The lookout’s voice, which moments before had echoed across the deck, abruptly choked off, swallowed by a wet, gargling rasp.
The bell rang twice more and then fell silent as well.
It was enough.
Dozens of sailors sprang from their beds and rushed upward toward the deck, where the clash of swords, screams of pain, and the war cries of the ironborn already filled the night.
The surprise attack had been discovered.
Arthur swallowed hard.
His fingers clenched into fists.
Panic boiled within him, but fear slowly gave way to desperate resolve.
Whether he wished it or not, there was no choice.
Snatching the short knife from beneath his bunk, the only weapon he possessed, he stumbled toward the ladder leading to the upper deck.
Hell awaited him above.
Moonlight barely pierced the smoke and shifting shadows cast by hastily lit torches.
The first attackers, ferried over in small boats, were already on deck.
Dark figures flashed through the frenzy of battle, moving with swift, practiced brutality.
Blood sprayed through the air.
Bodies crashed onto the planks.
Above it all rose the steady thunder of boots as more attackers climbed aboard.
“Aaaaah!”
A man’s dying scream as he fell overboard was drowned out by a tremendous impact.
The Black Betha shuddered when a massive ironborn warship smashed into her side, boarding hooks biting deep into the timbers.
Warriors clad in salt-stained armor vaulted over the rails like wolves descending upon prey.
One of them, drenched in blood and grinning hideously, ripped his sword from a fallen sailor’s chest and stepped forward at once, cutting down another.
Someone collapsed before Arthur, pierced by a stray arrow.
His eyes already stared emptily at the sky, while the golden letters displaying his name faded away before Arthur’s eyes.
He recognized him.
Senior sailor Omerek had spent the previous evening telling Arthur about his family in King’s Landing.
Now he was nothing more than a lifeless corpse sprawled across the deck.
Arthur swallowed convulsively.
Before he could even draw breath, a shadow charged toward him, a rusted axe raised high.
Fear locked his muscles.
Time froze.
Then something clicked inside his head.
He thrust his knife forward, darted sideways out of the attack’s path, and plunged the blade into his enemy’s flank while slipping on blood-slick planks and crashing to the deck.
The ironborn roared.
He stumbled, but did not fall.
He was too large.
Too strong.
Or perhaps the knife was simply too short.
And now Arthur was completely unarmed.
Realizing this, the hairy, broad-shouldered warrior grinned through broken teeth and advanced, swinging his axe once more.
Then confusion crossed his face.
His eyes slowly turned toward the bridge of his nose as a strip of sharpened steel burst through the back of his skull.
Arthur never saw who struck.
Only the blur of a sword flashing in the moonlight.
The blade withdrew from the attacker’s head.
The man collapsed, dropping his axe.
“Don’t fall asleep on me, Arkt!” shouted the sailor who had saved him.
Arthur recognized Matthos.
Once again, Matthos had saved his life.
His gaze dropped to the dead sailor at his feet.
Without thinking, he pulled the sword from the cooling fingers of the corpse.
The blade was sticky with blood.
It no longer mattered.
Arthur gripped the sword tighter, his fingers barely holding onto the blood-slick hilt.
His body trembled from adrenaline.
But there was no time to think.
The battle still raged around him.
Ironborn roared and surged across the deck, slashing bellies open, hacking flesh apart, trampling the dead beneath their boots, barely distinguishing friend from foe.
The air stank of blood, sweat, and smoke.
Somewhere nearby, an overturned torch had started a small fire.
“Move!” Matthos barked, grabbing Arthur roughly by the shoulder.
“Get up!”
Arthur lurched to his feet.
His knees nearly buckled at once.
He had stepped directly onto someone’s entrails.
It was Warm and Slippery.
His stomach twisted, and he nearly vomited.
There wasn’t time.
Another attacker had already slammed into Mattos, knocking the lean young sailor off balance and raising a sword to finish him.
Arthur forgot every fencing lesson he had ever received.
With a desperate scream, he charged.
The blade plunged into the raider’s back.
The man did not die immediately.
He swung wildly as he fell, missing Arthur by inches and forcing the boy backward onto the deck.
That saved his life.
A second ironborn, unseen by Arthur, slashed where he had been standing.
The sword whistled overhead.
Then the attacker’s throat suddenly opened from ear to ear.
Blood erupted from the wound, splattering Arthur’s face.
“Seven hells,” cursed a familiar voice.
Arthur looked up in relief.
The second mate.
“Boy, what in the name of the gods are you doing out here?
Pick up a weapon and stay behind us.
Matthos, where’s your father?”
“Near…
the stern…” Matthos answered between heavy breaths, clutching his side.
Apparently the ironborn had managed to wound him after all.
“We’re pushing through to him,” Ray said grimly, looking over the two youths who had somehow become his assistants.
The night attack lasted only minutes.
To Arthur, it felt like an entire lifetime.
Together with Matthos and Ray, he eventually fought his way to Ser Davos.
The knight and a dozen sailors had formed a hard-hitting group, driving isolated ironborn from the deck one skirmish at a time.
The raiders had relied upon surprise and attacked with far fewer men than they should have.
Now that mistake was costing them dearly.
The screams grew fewer.
The blows grew duller.
Arthur breathed heavily as the tension slowly drained from his body, replaced by overwhelming exhaustion.
Corpses littered the deck.
Too many to tell friend from foe at a glance.
The ironborn were retreating.
Those still alive backed toward their vessel, a light warship now rocking alongside the Black Betha.
They no longer charged recklessly or shouted battle cries.
Instead, they fought desperately for the rope ladders, hurling bodies aside and abandoning the wounded without hesitation.
One chained sailor tried to climb first.
His companion simply shoved him into the sea and seized the rope for himself.
“Don’t let them escape!” Davos’s voice rang across the deck.
A/N:
While everyone else is waiting for updates, com / Captain_Lag (remove the spaces)