CHAPTER 151
Lordsport.
Located on the northeastern coast of Pyke, near cliffs covered with towering pine forests, Lordsport was the seat of House Botley.
To the east lay the lands of House Wynch, separated by a vast stretch of dense woodland. Traveling south through those forests and climbing the rocky slopes would eventually lead to Pyke, the ancient seat of House Greyjoy.
Even by the fastest horse, the journey between Lordsport and Pyke required nearly half a day.
Because of its strategic position, Lordsport had always served as the gateway to Pyke. For generations, House Botley had been among House Greyjoy's most loyal bannermen and trusted captains.
If Garon wished to set foot upon Pyke itself, then Lordsport had to fall under his control first.
At this moment, the night was black as ink.
More than twenty longships drifted silently across the dark waters like ghosts, cutting through the calm sea outside Lordsport without making the slightest unnecessary sound.
Just as Garon had predicted at the Stony Shore, Lordsport lay before the fleet almost completely exposed. Its harbor defenses were lax, allowing them to approach unnoticed beneath the cover of darkness.
The port showed no sign that anyone had detected their arrival.
Aside from a few scattered lanterns burning along the docks and watchtowers, the entire harbor remained shrouded in darkness.
Garon stood at the prow of the lead longship. Tiny beads of seawater clung to his leather armor while his officers gathered around him.
"It seems you were right."
Asha lowered the bronze spyglass after observing the harbor for a long while.
"They truly never expected anyone to attack from the sea this quickly. Their defenses are practically nonexistent."
She paused before continuing.
"But a direct assault will still cost lives."
"The Botleys have always been loyal to House Greyjoy. Perhaps... I can persuade them."
Before Garon could answer, a young man hurried forward.
It was none other than Tristifer Botley, one of Asha's trusted followers whom Garon had released from the dungeons beneath Winterfell.
"Lord Garon, Lady Asha, let me go."
His voice carried obvious urgency.
"My father, Lord Sawane Botley, was one of King Balon Greyjoy's most loyal supporters. He would never bend the knee to Euron, that kinslayer."
"If I appear before him, he'll surely open the harbor and welcome us inside."
Asha slowly nodded.
A trace of hope flickered across her face.
"Captain Sawane truly was one of my father's closest companions."
"It is worth trying."
"If we can take Lordsport without bloodshed, our position throughout the Iron Islands will become much stronger."
Garon remained silent.
His eyes rested briefly upon Tristifer's hopeful expression before shifting toward the faint lights burning atop the distant harbor towers.
Everything he knew about House Botley surfaced in his mind.
According to the history he remembered, Sawane Botley had indeed remained fiercely loyal to Balon Greyjoy.
Precisely because of that loyalty, he openly opposed Euron's claim to the Seastone Chair after Balon's death.
His reward had been execution.
Euron had him drowned, replacing him with his younger brother, Gylbert Botley, as Lord of Lordsport.
Now that Euron had murdered Balon and seized the Seastone Chair through kinslaying, Garon suspected Sawane's fate had unfolded exactly as before.
He lowered his eyes in thought.
"Still... it costs me nothing to let Tristifer confirm the truth."
"If Sawane somehow lives, he can provide valuable intelligence about Pyke."
"If he is already dead, then Asha will finally abandon any hope of winning House Botley through family ties."
Having reached his decision, Garon finally spoke.
"You may go."
His gaze settled firmly upon Tristifer.
"But remember this carefully."
"If the man controlling Lordsport is not your father, reveal nothing about our fleet."
He paused briefly.
"Simply tell them Lady Asha escaped from Winterfell and has joined forces with House Harlaw at Ten Towers."
"I'll have your boat coated with lamp oil."
"If anything goes wrong..."
"Signal us immediately."
Tristifer froze for only a moment before nodding firmly.
"I understand."
Soon afterward, a small boat was quietly lowered into the sea.
Tristifer boarded together with two loyal Ironborn who had also escaped Winterfell with Asha.
Together, they rowed silently toward the dark harbor.
Time passed slowly.
Every heartbeat seemed stretched into an eternity.
Asha tightly gripped the handle of her axe while Garon stood perfectly still like a stone statue, his sharp eyes never leaving the tiny boat disappearing into the darkness.
Nearly twenty minutes later, Tristifer's boat reached the docks.
Before long, they encountered a patrol of Botley guards.
"Tristifer?!"
The captain raised his torch and stared in astonishment.
"Captain Lyken?"
Recognition immediately appeared on Tristifer's face.
"Where is my father?"
"I have urgent news for him."
Captain Lyken's expression immediately became complicated.
A trace of pity flashed through his eyes.
He quietly whispered something to one of his men.
Without another word, the Ironborn slipped away into the darkness toward Castle Botley.
Seeing this, Tristifer's heart immediately sank.
Sure enough.
Lyken slowly raised one hand.
His soldiers immediately surrounded Tristifer and his companions.
"Lord Tristifer."
"Weren't you captured alongside Lady Asha during the campaign in the North?"
"Why have you suddenly returned?"
Tristifer frowned deeply.
Rather than answering, he relied upon his status to rebuke them.
"What is the meaning of this?"
"Stand aside."
"I must speak with my father immediately."
One of the Ironborn behind Lyken suddenly burst into laughter.
"Your father?"
"He has already gone to feast with the Drowned God."
"If you wish to see him..."
"You'll have to throw yourself into the sea."
Immediately, the surrounding Ironborn joined in with mocking laughter.
Tristifer's expression instantly changed.
"My father is dead?"
"Did Crow's Eye murder him?"
"Who rules Lordsport now?"
Lyken slowly twirled the burning torch in his hand before stepping closer.
"Why ask so many questions?"
"When Lord Gylbert arrives, you'll have all the answers you need."
He narrowed his eyes.
"Tell me."
"Has Lady Asha returned as well?"
The moment those words left his mouth, the surrounding Ironborn displayed very different reactions.
Some appeared delighted.
Some looked uneasy.
Others revealed unmistakable killing intent.
Tristifer instinctively stepped backward.
In that instant, everything became clear.
"My uncle..."
His eyes flickered briefly toward the burning torch before secretly measuring the distance back to the waiting boat.
"Of course Lady Asha has returned."
By now he had completely abandoned any hope of persuading his uncle.
Only one thought remained.
Warn Garon.
Warn Asha.
As he spoke, he deliberately stepped closer to Lyken.
"Lady Asha hasn't returned alone."
"She comes with the strength of House Harlaw."
"She is King Balon's rightful heir."
"Not the kinslayer Euron."
"If you're wise, you'll welcome Lady Asha before it's too late."
"Otherwise..."
A fierce light flashed across Tristifer's eyes.
Without warning, he lunged toward Lyken, grabbing for the burning torch.
"Seize them!"
Lyken roared furiously while struggling against him.
The surrounding Ironborn immediately rushed forward with drawn axes and swords.
Within moments, the two men who had accompanied Tristifer were hacked down beneath a rain of blades.
Tristifer himself was quickly overwhelmed.
Fortunately, before they fully restrained him, he tore the torch free from Lyken's grasp.
Using every ounce of strength he possessed, he hurled it toward the oil-soaked boat waiting behind him.
Boom!
The instant the torch struck, the oil erupted into a blazing inferno.
The entire boat disappeared beneath roaring flames.
The towering fire illuminated the harbor like a beacon, violently tearing apart the darkness covering Lordsport.
For a brief moment, even Lyken and his men stood frozen in shock.
Far beyond the harbor, Garon lowered his spyglass.
The instant he saw the signal fire, every trace of hesitation vanished from his crimson eyes.
Only cold resolve remained.
Without even turning around, he raised one hand.
His voice was calm, yet every officer aboard heard it clearly.
"Sparta."
"Lead the vanguard ashore."
"Crush anyone who stands in our way."
He raised his arm even higher.
"All forces..."
"Attack!"
There were no battle cries.
No war drums.
Only the deep rhythm of dozens of oars striking the sea and the violent roar of longships cutting through the waves.
More than twenty warships surged forward like sea monsters awakened from slumber.
Their sails swelled beneath the wind while rows of oars hurled white spray into the air.
Like arrows loosed from a drawn bow, they charged directly toward the burning harbor of Lordsport.
The night assault on Lordsport had officially begun.
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