Chapter 22: The Kraken's Death Knell and the Wolf's Ascendancy (Ironborn War: Part 3)
The dying autumn winds carried whispers of salt, fear, and impending doom across the North. Dagon Greyjoy, the Kraken King, having consolidated his battered but still formidable fleet of nearly one hundred longships, had vanished into the vastness of the Sunset Sea. His ploy was audacious: a wide, deceptive arc to bypass the vigilant Volmark patrols that had savaged his initial assaults, followed by a swift, devastating hook back towards the mainland to strike at a prize that would redeem his bloodied reputation – the wealthy, symbolic port of Torrhen's Square. He dreamt of mountains of plunder, of fresh thralls to row his ships, of a victory so resounding it would silence the whispers of failure that had begun to haunt his name in the Iron Islands.
But Dagon Greyjoy did not sail alone. Lyra Volmark's greensight, a constant, unwavering beacon in Aelyx's mind, tracked his every league, her consciousness a ghostly sentinel upon the Sea Scourge's mast. Every feint, every change in course, every surge of the Reaver King's desperate ambition was known to Aelyx almost before it was conceived.
"He turns east, Father," Lyra's mental voice reached Aelyx aboard the Leviathan, now the heart of a concentrated Volmark armada. "His course is true for Torrhen's Square. He expects to find it fat and undefended. He believes he has outwitted us."
Aelyx allowed a cold, predatory smile to touch his lips. "The greatest deceptions are those our enemies weave for themselves, my daughter. He sails into the wolf's maw."
The Volmark fleet, a unified force of twenty prime warships, had rendezvoused at a desolate, mist-shrouded archipelago of uninhabited Skagosi skerries. Visenya's Stormbringers, their hulls bearing the scars of recent skirmishes but their crews' morale sky-high, merged seamlessly with Maegor's Ironclads, whose warriors were still heady from their crushing victory over Grimfang's squadron. The veteran Skagosi admirals, Kael and the stoic Lyra (no relation to Aelyx's daughter, but a formidable commander in her own right), commanded the reserve squadrons, their ships forming the unyielding backbone of the fleet. Aelyx's word was law, his strategic vision unquestioned.
Simultaneously, on the mainland, King Torrhen Stark, acting upon the urgent counsel relayed by Torrhen Volmark, had moved with uncharacteristic speed. A force of two thousand grim-faced Northern spearmen and archers, led by his second son, Beron Stark, a young man eager to prove his mettle, was marching hard for Torrhen's Square. Torrhen Volmark himself, at his father's subtle suggestion, accompanied this force, not in direct command, but as the King's liaison to the Volmark fleet, his presence a symbol of the unified Stark-Volmark defense. He also carried with him a small, heavily guarded detachment of fifty Skagosi elite guards, "to assist in the town's direct defense and ensure seamless communication with Lord Aelyx's fleet." Their true purpose was to provide Torrhen with a loyal, magically aware bodyguard and a direct conduit for any necessary subtle interventions.
The trap was meticulously set. Torrhen's Square, a prosperous town nestled in a wide bay, was now bristling with newly arrived Stark reinforcements. Its small stone keep was garrisoned, its townsfolk armed with whatever weapons they could find, their initial fear now tempered by the sight of Stark banners and the promise of the mighty Volmark fleet patrolling offshore.
As Dagon Greyjoy's armada rounded the headland and surged into the bay of Torrhen's Square, their kraken banners snapping arrogantly in the wind, they saw what they expected: a seemingly vulnerable port, ripe for the taking. Their war horns blared, a cacophony of savage anticipation. Longships fanned out, their warriors brandishing axes and swords, eager for the slaughter and the spoils.
They did not see the twenty dark warships of House Volmark, hidden by a freakishly thick bank of sea fog that clung to the northern arm of the bay – a fog that had rolled in with unnatural speed just hours before, courtesy of Aelyx's subtle attunement to the elements, amplified by Aenar's growing mastery over atmospheric enchantments from the sanctuary on Skagos.
The Ironborn assault began as planned. The first wave of longships raced towards the shore, their warriors leaping into the shallows, axes raised. They were met not by terrified fisherfolk, but by disciplined lines of Stark spearmen, their shields locked, their northern battle cries echoing the Ironborn's own ferocity. Arrows rained down from the town walls, sowing chaos among the attackers.
It was then, as Dagon Greyjoy aboard the Sea Scourge urged his main force forward to overwhelm the surprisingly stout land defense, that Aelyx sprung his trap. With a silent command, the Volmark fleet emerged from the fog bank like avenging phantoms, their dark hulls cutting through the grey water, their wolf-and-kraken banners a sudden, terrifying revelation. They had sealed the mouth of the bay. The Ironborn were caught between the unyielding Stark defense on land and a superior naval force at sea.
"Now, my children," Aelyx's voice resonated through the enchanted obsidian tokens held by Visenya and Maegor. "Unleash the fury of Skagos. Leave none to tell the tale of their King's folly."
Visenya's Stormbringers, their speed their greatest asset, struck first, sweeping down the flanks of the panicked Ironborn fleet. Her galleasses, lighter and more maneuverable than the dromonds, weaved through the congested longships, their ballistae and archers creating bloody havoc. Visenya stood on the Sea Drake's prow, her silver-gold hair a beacon in the gloom, her Valyrian estoc directing the slaughter. A sudden, violent squall erupted around a cluster of Ironborn command ships, their sails ripping, their decks slick with icy rain and hail. One longship, attempting to turn and fight, was struck by what appeared to be a rogue bolt of lightning that shattered its mast and set its rigging ablaze. Visenya smiled, a fierce, terrible beauty in her battle rage, her subtle elemental manipulations indistinguishable from the wild northern weather to any mundane observer.
Maegor, with a roar that challenged the Kraken King's own war horn, led his Ironclads directly into the heart of the Ironborn formation. The Skullram smashed into longship after longship, its reinforced prow reducing them to kindling. Maegor, his Valyrian greatsword 'Ragesnarl' whistling through the air, led boarding actions with the joyous ferocity of a god of war. His Skagosi warriors, inspired by his almost supernatural strength and courage (subtly enhanced by his own battle magic), fought like cornered wolves, clearing Ironborn decks with brutal efficiency. He sought out the largest enemy ships, his goal the Sea Scourge and Dagon Greyjoy himself.
The Battle of Torrhen's Square Bay became a chaotic, swirling vortex of destruction. The heavier, better-armed Volmark warships systematically dismantled the Ironborn fleet. Volleys of alchemically enhanced wildfire – a Skagosi "secret" that burned hotter and longer than any normal pitch – turned longships into floating pyres, the screams of burning reavers a horrific counterpoint to the clang of steel and the roar of the storm Aelyx was now carefully, powerfully, and deniably, calling forth.
The sky darkened ominously, not just with the smoke of battle, but with unnaturally swift-moving storm clouds that seemed to converge directly over the bay. The wind howled, whipping the sea into a frenzy. Waves, far larger than any seen that day, began to crash over the struggling Ironborn longships, swamping them, breaking their oars, throwing their formations into utter disarray. The Northmen on shore, witnessing this sudden, terrifying escalation of the storm, fell to their knees, convinced the Old Gods themselves had come to smite their enemies. Beron Stark, watching from the town walls, felt a chill of awe and fear; the Skagosi alliance was proving to be blessed by powers beyond mortal ken.
Aelyx, aboard the Leviathan, stood untouched by the chaos, a still point in the raging storm, his will the conductor of this symphony of destruction. His eyes, glowing with a faint violet light visible only to those with the sight, were fixed on Dagon Greyjoy's flagship, the Sea Scourge. The Reaver King, a giant of a man with a tangled black beard and eyes burning with maniacal fury, was attempting to rally his men, to break through the Volmark line, but the storm and the relentless Skagosi assault were tearing his fleet apart.
Aelyx raised a hand. The wind shrieked, and a colossal wave, a true monster of the deep, rose from the churning sea, its crest like a hungry maw. It crashed down directly upon the Sea Scourge, a blow that snapped its mast like a twig and sent Dagon Greyjoy and half his crew tumbling into the raging water.
"Maegor!" Aelyx's command cut through the storm's roar in his son's mind. "The Kraken King is adrift. His head, or his capture, is yours."
Maegor, his blood singing, his greatsword dripping brine and gore, spotted the struggling form of Dagon Greyjoy clinging to a piece of wreckage. With a roar, he directed the Skullram towards him, his Skagosi archers picking off the Reaver King's remaining guards. Maegor himself, disdaining a thrown line, leaped into the frigid, churning water, swimming with powerful strokes towards his prey. He dragged the sputtering, half-drowned Dagon Greyjoy aboard the Skullram like a landed fish, the Kraken King's fight all but extinguished by the sea's fury and the shock of his utter defeat.
With their King captured and their fleet being systematically annihilated by the storm and the Volmark warships, the remaining Ironborn lost all cohesion. Some tried to flee, only to be run down by Visenya's swift pursuers. Others, their ships sinking, threw themselves into the merciless sea, preferring the Drowned God's embrace to capture by the terrifying Northmen and their Skagosi allies. The Stark forces on shore dealt with any reavers who managed to struggle ashore, ensuring none escaped.
By nightfall, the Battle of Torrhen's Square Bay was over. The storm, its work done, abated as quickly as it had arisen, leaving behind a scene of utter devastation. The bay was littered with shattered longships, floating debris, and the corpses of hundreds of Ironborn. Of Dagon Greyjoy's proud armada of over one hundred ships that had entered the bay, fewer than a dozen, mostly damaged and captured, remained afloat. Thousands of reavers were dead or drowned. The Kraken's tide had broken upon the shores of Torrhen's Square and been utterly, catastrophically repulsed.
Aelyx's losses were, by comparison, miraculously light: three Volmark ships heavily damaged but salvageable, two lightly damaged, and fewer than two hundred Skagosi casualties, a testament to their superior ships, training, and his… divine fortune with the weather.
Dagon Greyjoy, bound in chains and dragged before King Torrhen Stark (who had arrived with reinforcements as the battle concluded) and Lord Aelyx Volmark, was a broken man. His ambition lay in ruins, his fleet destroyed, his name a curse in the Iron Islands for generations to come. King Torrhen, after a brief, grim council, decreed that Dagon Greyjoy would be taken to Winterfell in chains, to be publicly executed as a warning to all future Reaver Kings. His remaining captured captains would share his fate, or be sent to the Wall.
The news of the overwhelming victory at Torrhen's Square, and the capture of Dagon Greyjoy, spread like wildfire throughout the North. Lord Aelyx Volmark was hailed as the Lion of the North, the Shield of the West, his strategic genius and the might of his fleet lauded in every holdfast. The miraculous storm that had sealed the Ironborn's doom was universally attributed to the favor of the Old Gods, a clear sign of their blessing upon the Stark-Volmark alliance. No one, not even the most suspicious maester, could prove otherwise.
Aelyx accepted the accolades with practiced humility, always deflecting praise to the bravery of his Skagosi warriors, the skill of his children Visenya and Maegor (whose prowess in the battle became legendary), the resilience of the Stark defenders, and the wisdom of King Torrhen. But inwardly, he savored the triumph. The Ironborn threat was neutralized for at least a generation. His influence in the North was now unshakeable. House Volmark was not just respected; it was revered, feared, and seen as indispensable. The "Heir's Hoard" gold would continue to flow, Skagos would continue to prosper, and his true, hidden power would continue to grow, shielded by a reputation forged in a victorious, divinely-aided war.
As the Volmark fleet, battered but triumphant, sailed back towards Skagos, leaving behind a grateful, awestruck North, Aelyx stood on the deck of the Leviathan, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of blood and gold. He had played his hand perfectly. The Ironborn War was over. His children had been blooded and proven. His public power base was secure. Now, he could turn his mind more fully to the longer game, to the prophecies of a coming Targaryen dawn, and to the endless, patient work of building an eternal empire in the shadows. The Kraken was dead. The Wolf reigned supreme in the North. And the Dragon, hidden and patient, watched and waited, its own time yet to come.