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The peaceful afternoon in Lannisport was shattered by a series of sharp, panic-stricken bell tolls, each one more urgent than the last. The sound cut through the quiet like a blade, startling the wealthy merchants and nobles of the Westerlands so badly that many nearly dropped their gilded wine goblets. A few drops of precious red wine splashed onto their splendid garments, staining the fine fabrics with deep crimson.
"What is going on?!"
Ser Stafford Lannister, the man left in charge of the Lannister family's most important port, was roused abruptly by the sudden alarm.
Moments earlier, he had been deep in a dream, a vivid nightmare in which he stood near Riverrun. But something was wrong. There were no Lannister siege lines surrounding the castle anymore. Instead, the ground was littered with broken limbs and mangled corpses. The proud golden lion of House Lannister lay trampled beneath warhorses in the blood-soaked mud.
He refused to believe what he had seen in that dream. It could not possibly be true. His valiant nephew Jaime had already crushed the Riverlands completely. How could a few thousand men trapped in Riverrun stir up such a storm again? That old trout might still be alive, though even that was uncertain. And that white trout of House Tully, most likely, was on the verge of dying a dry death far from water.
Jolted awake by the alarm bells, this man in his fifties, a lesser branch member of House Lannister, had no idea what had just happened. But he recognized the meaning of the bell's frantic chime at once.
The port of Lannisport was under attack!
That was the only possible explanation. But then the question followed swiftly—who could be attacking them? The young wolf cub of the North, with his army, was locked in battle against Stafford's cousin, the formidable Lord Tywin. How could he suddenly appear out of nowhere to strike Lannisport?
The thought seemed utterly absurd. Did people believe that the towering mountains of the Westerlands and the impregnable fortress of the Golden Tooth were mere decorations?
Not to mention Jaime Lannister's twelve-thousand-strong army. They could not possibly have allowed an enemy force to break through.
Then what could it be? If the North was ruled out, only two possibilities remained—the Tyrells to the south, or the reeking ironborn from the sea.
But the Tyrells, at this very moment, should have had all their energy focused on their precious King Renly Baratheon. Even if they had gone mad and chosen to attack the Westerlands, they would have been stopped cold at the borders by the forces stationed in Cockleswhent.
Those wine-soaked soft-bellied lords of Highgarden—how could they have the audacity to challenge the might of House Lannister?
And then, like a man waking from a fog, Stafford Lannister finally realized what was happening. It had to be the ironborn. The raiders from the Iron Islands had sailed their longships into Lannisport under cover of surprise. Which could only mean one thing.
They had entered the war!
And more than that, they had chosen to oppose the Westerlands directly. They were now set to face the lion's deadly fangs.
Springing up from his reclining chair like a startled hare, Stafford Lannister was now fully awake. Without hesitation, he rushed to the castle's terrace, his steps fast and uneven, and his gaze immediately turned toward the wide waters of the Sunset Sea.
The moment he laid eyes on the scene before him, his heart leapt into his throat. Across the deep blue waters, countless sails filled the horizon, casting dark shadows beneath the afternoon sun. Upon those sails danced the snarling sigil of the kraken, wild and monstrous.
The Iron Fleet had arrived. There was no doubt!
This was the entire might of the Iron Islands unleashed upon them!
Throughout history, Lannisport and the Lannister fleet stationed there had suffered numerous ambushes by the Ironborn. There was little that could be done. Geography, the quality of sailors, and a host of other factors ensured that the naval forces of the Westerlands could never truly stand against the Iron Fleet.
From the infamous Kraken Wars during the era of the Dance of the Dragons, to the Blackfyre Rebellions sixty years later, and even as recently as the Greyjoy Rebellion a decade ago, it always seemed as though the Lannister fleet existed only to be ambushed, burned, and humiliated by the Ironborn.
And now, on an otherwise unremarkable afternoon in the 299th year after Aegon's Conquest, the nightmare that had so often plagued Lannisport was about to be relived once again.
…
Upon the prow of the Iron Fleet's flagship, a colossal warship named Iron Victory, stood Victarion Greyjoy. Clad in heavy armor and devoutly loyal to the Drowned God, the commander of the Iron Fleet bellowed to his men as they surged forward, launching a full-scale assault on the stunned and disorganized Lannister fleet.
Over a decade ago, he had led a near-identical attack. At that time, House Greyjoy had risen in open defiance of the Iron Throne. Following the bold and reckless plan of his elder brother Euron Greyjoy, Victarion had struck Lannisport by sea, destroying the bulk of the Westerlands' naval forces in a single, devastating blow.
Had it not been for the subsequent naval battle in which they were defeated by the iron-willed Lord Stannis Baratheon, commander of the royal fleet, that war might have ended very differently. For if the Iron Fleet had remained intact, then Robert, now long dead and gone to meet the Seven, would never have set foot on Pyke Island.
"Take their ships! Kill the crew first. Don't set fire unless you have to. We have bigger prey to catch after this."
Following the swing of Victarion's command blade, over a hundred longships surged forward. The Ironborn, having mobilized every vessel they could muster, began flanking the unprepared Lannister fleet from both sides, striking like wolves descending upon penned sheep. The Lannister ships, still anchored in port and caught utterly off guard, hadn't even raised their sails.
In an age when cannon fire did not yet exist, naval battles were brutal and direct. Victory often depended on the force of a ship's ram or the chaos of boarding maneuvers. At most, large vessels might be equipped with catapults mounted on their decks, hurling stones or flammable substances onto enemy ships in a savage attempt to sow destruction.
Such methods, however, were largely the domain of the largest warships. The Iron Fleet, by contrast, was composed entirely of sleek, fast longships designed for speed and sudden assault. These raiding vessels sacrificed size and durability in favor of agility and swiftness, devoting all their strength to rapid strikes and swift withdrawals.
This emphasis on speed was deeply tied to the very nature of their existence. As pirates and reavers, the Ironborn were not overly concerned with the outcome of each individual battle. Whether they emerged victorious or suffered defeat was of secondary importance. What truly mattered was the ability to retreat—so long as they could escape, they would always have another chance to strike again. In this way, speed became more vital than anything else.
"Uncle, it looks like these Lannisters are still as unprepared as ever. Honestly, they never learn their lesson, do they?"
Standing beside him was Asha Greyjoy, who had recently concluded delicate negotiations between the North and the Iron Islands. Today, she was not aboard her own ship, Black Wind, nor was she commanding from its deck. Instead, she had chosen to remain close to her uncle, a man with whom she shared a close and respectful bond, assisting him in coordinating the movements of the entire Iron Fleet.
With Theon Greyjoy's return still nowhere in sight, she remained the designated heir of Balon Greyjoy.
Asha's scornful laughter drew a sideways glance from the grim-faced Victarion Greyjoy. The fighting at the front had already begun, but the Lord Commander of the Iron Fleet betrayed no emotion in his eyes. When he spoke, his tone was even, his voice calm and unwavering.
"Asha, tell me. Do you truly believe in that young man from White Harbor—the one named Clay Manderly, was it?"
"Yes, that is his name," Asha replied with a nod. She did not quite understand why her uncle would bring up that irritating young man at a moment like this.
"You said he intends to challenge Jaime Lannister with only five thousand men, while the Kingslayer commands more than twice that number. In your opinion, what are his chances of winning?"
Faced with the question, Asha Greyjoy furrowed her brows and thought for a long moment. Yet no matter how she approached it, she could find no certain answer.
By all logic, the Kingslayer was at least a seasoned commander, someone who had crushed twenty thousand troops from the Riverlands during his march. Surely, he ought to be more formidable than a mere boy like Clay Manderly. And yet, Asha's instincts warned her otherwise. There was something strange and uncanny about Clay Manderly, something that defied common judgment.
After mulling it over for some time without reaching any firm conclusion, she simply gave up thinking about it. With a slight shrug, she uttered a line that embodied the Ironborn's typical mindset:
"Who cares? We've already made our preparations for both outcomes. Once we sack Lannisport and destroy the Lannister fleet, even if that boy Clay Manderly ends up losing to the Kingslayer, it won't make any difference. Without a fleet, what can the West do to threaten us?"
"And if that boy turns out to be hiding his true strength and actually manages to take down the Kingslayer and those ten thousand soldiers under his command, then all the better. We'll simply join forces with him and plunder the entire Westerlands together. Those rich bastards won't know what hit them."
"The West is full of gold. We'll just pay the iron price, as we always do."
At the last sentence, the tightly drawn lines on Victarion's face began to ease, and he allowed a small, subtle smile to appear. This was indeed the daughter of the Kraken, after all. On the Iron Islands, there was no place for the refined pretenses of mainland nobility.
The Iron Fleet's naval prowess truly stood at the very pinnacle of all the Seven Kingdoms. Against the wholly unprepared Lannister fleet, it took less than an hour to bring about a complete and crushing victory. Every Lannister warship was either engulfed in flames or captured as spoils of war by the Ironborn.
Building ships was not a task that could be completed overnight. The massive keel that formed the backbone of each warship could not be fashioned from just any tree. It had to be carefully selected and seasoned through a long and meticulous process before it could be used.
Under the leadership of the seasoned and ruthless captain Victarion Greyjoy, the Ironborn carried out their operation with ruthless precision. After utterly annihilating the Lannister fleet, they launched an assault on the now panic-stricken shipyard.
With a single blaze, they set fire to several vast warehouses containing shipbuilding materials carefully stockpiled by the Lannisters. Everything was reduced to ash. Now, even if they managed to reclaim Lannisport, they could do nothing more than gaze helplessly out across the Sunset Sea.
Without ships, there was truly nothing they could do. Surely, they could not hope to use the small fishing boats of the local villagers?
Victarion had ensured that the destruction was thorough. His intent was to cripple the shipbuilding capacity of the West entirely in preparation for the next phase of his campaign—the conquest of the Fair Isle.
Without a fleet, Fair Isle's connection to the rest of the Westerlands could be severed at any time by the Iron Fleet. And when that time came, Victarion would be able to starve the island into submission. The land there was not rich in resources and could hardly sustain its own people for long.
It was a plan laid bare before all to see, a scheme that required no deception. Even someone as cunning as Lord Tywin Lannister could not conjure ships out of thin air. Across the whole of Westeros, the only major naval power currently aligned with the Ironborn was House Manderly of White Harbor. Their combined fleets were more than sufficient to overwhelm any remaining naval force.
With the Lannister fleet reduced to ash and wreckage, the only others who might still field respectable navies were a few houses in the Reach and, of course, Stannis Baratheon, who had already crowned himself and taken control of the royal fleet at King's Landing.
Yet neither of these parties was likely to interfere in the war between the Iron Islands and the West. The Reach's fleet was timid and lacked the courage to face the Iron Fleet alone. As for Stannis, there was little chance he would scorch a path across Westeros just to cross swords with the Ironborn. Did anyone truly believe that the man seated upon that cold and uncomfortable throne was still Robert Baratheon?
And so, Victarion gave his Ironborn a simple and direct order: kill as you please, slaughter without restraint, take whatever you can find. Everything you seize belongs to you.
The armies of the West were currently pinned down in the Riverlands by two northern hosts and could not withdraw. For the Iron Fleet, which now held uncontested control over the sea, the coastlines of the West were as open and unguarded as the pleasure houses of King's Landing. They could come and go as they pleased.
Soon, a great fire engulfed the entire city of Lannisport. Once a glittering jewel of the West, it had now descended into a vision of hell. The Ironborn, lacking any semblance of military discipline, rampaged with impunity. They feared no divine retribution. Everyone worshipped a different god anyway. What retribution could there be?
Victarion gave no order for his seasoned sailors to assault the fortified stronghold within the port. The gates were sealed, the defenses tight, and the Lannister guards treated the raiders as if facing a siege.
Plunder took precedence. Who had time to waste battering against thick walls and towering ramparts?
In response, a flurry of ravens rose into the sky, sent in haste by the panicked Stafford Lannister. They flew toward Harrenhal, carrying urgent warnings of a wildfire spreading through the Westerlands. Tywin Lannister, the master of the West, had to be informed at once.
If he was not, and the Ironborn were allowed to continue their unchecked slaughter in the West, then even if Tywin triumphed over all his enemies in the end, there would be nothing left of the West worth ruling.
…
For Clay, who now resided comfortably in Riverrun with a status so secure that no one dared provoke him, the news that the Iron Fleet had pulled off a major operation at Lannisport had yet to reach his ears. To him, whether the Ironborn chose to strike at Lannisport or not did not carry decisive weight.
At this moment, what truly demanded his attention was the urgent task of eliminating the over two thousand Lannister soldiers who had broken away in defeat and were still on the run.
Four of his personal witcher guards had already returned to Riverrun. According to their reports, the Lannister remnants were destined to run out of food no matter what, for the four of them had relentlessly harassed and disrupted the Lannisters' supply lines.
In fact, the next batch of provisions meant for the frontlines near Riverrun had just been prepared for transport when the four witchers found their chance and managed to destroy a quarter of the supplies. And as if cursed by misfortune, that very shipment, shortly after setting out, ran into Lord Glover, who had swiftly led a force of a thousand cavalry south to cut off any escape.
Therefore, even without Clay besieging Riverrun, the ten thousand troops would have faced starvation within half a month. Regrettably, Clay was unaware of these developments at the time.
In an era when communication across the battlefield relied solely on shouted commands, synchronized and reliable exchange of information was little more than a fanciful dream.
"Lord Clay, according to reliable intelligence, the Lannister troops who had originally camped north of the Tumblestone River appeared at this location two days ago."
Edmure Tully had entered the chamber that had been prepared especially for Clay, bringing with him the latest intelligence from the front. As Clay followed the direction of his outstretched finger, his brow furrowed. He raised his eyebrows and asked in a low voice,
"They crossed the river?"
Edmure Tully sighed and gave a heavy nod.
"They did. Those who find themselves driven into a corner can summon terrifying strength. We caught up with them twice, but they slipped away both times. They were ruthless. Every time we got close, some of the gravely wounded among them would volunteer to stay behind and fight to the death, buying time for the others to escape."
Clay understood what Edmure Tully meant. This meant that the joint forces of House Tully and the Northern cavalry had twice failed to completely eliminate these fugitives.
After a moment of silence, Cray relaxed the tension in his intertwined fingers and spoke softly,
"It seems the Lannister army still has its share of brave warriors. They are worthy adversaries, deserving of respect."
He had originally intended to say, "You didn't lose unjustly," but upon reflection, he thought better of it. Everyone already knew the Tully forces' combat effectiveness was questionable, but to say it outright was another matter entirely.
After taking command of Riverrun, Clay had initially ordered the northern cavalry to dispatch two thousand riders in a swift operation to encircle and annihilate the last of the fleeing enemies along the banks of the Tumblestone River.
However, Edmure Tully had stepped forward and volunteered for the task himself, claiming he would take enough troops from the Riverlands to eliminate the two thousand Lannister soldiers in one decisive strike and restore honor to House Tully.
Clay had never intended to approve this request, but later, Lord Hoster Tully had summoned him into the study and spoken with him at length, urging him to consider the interests of the entire Tully family. In the end, Clay relented.
What could he do? When even the old lord spoke so earnestly, Clay had no choice but to yield. Still, to be on the safe side, he discreetly sent two hundred cavalry to accompany the force.
And now, seeing Edmure Tully rush back to Riverrun in such haste, it appeared that he was struggling to handle these two thousand desperate fugitives.
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[Chapter End's]
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