Chapter 67: Iron and Blood
Late autumn in Lannisport carried winter in the sea wind. It swept across charred docks, half-repaired warehouses, and stones that still seemed to remember blood. The port had begun returning to life in cautious steps. Fishing boats came first, because fish did not care who ruled the city. Then small merchant ships from the Arbor and Oldtown began threading through gaps the Redwyne fleet politely pretended not to see. Farther out, galleys bearing the golden rose or the silver seahorse patrolled like sharks with manners.
Arthur stood atop the new lookout tower near the docks, dressed not in ducal finery but dark leather armor beneath a wind cloak. In his hand was a letter from Winterfell, sent through Riverrun. The handwriting was hurried and uneven, written by Maester Luwin on behalf of Bran Stark.
The North was bleeding again.
Under Euron Greyjoy, the Ironborn attacks had grown more vicious. Deepwood Motte and Karhold’s bay settlements sent urgent pleas. Torrhen’s Square was under threat. The Stony Shore burned with beacon fires. Ironborn longships slipped along coastlines and rivers like ghosts with axes, burning, killing, stealing, and vanishing before proper armies could gather. The North, already weakened by war, sounded less like a kingdom and more like a wounded animal snapping at every shadow.
Roose Bolton’s remnants still stirred. The Dreadfort watched too quietly. The letter did not say they begged, because lords disliked that word. It asked Arthur to lend a helping hand in the name of alliance: troops, ships, equipment, grain, or any form of help the Lord of the Westerlands could provide. Anything, Luwin wrote, would be remembered by the North.
Arthur let the wind tug at the paper.
Troops north? March through the broken Riverlands into a North fighting Ironborn and Bolton remnants? Bleed Westerlands soldiers for Stark survival while his own rule was still hardening? No. That was not strategy. That was sentiment wearing boots.
Ships? The Westerlands barely had a fleet. Most large vessels were captured Lannister ships needing repair, and sailors were scarce. Equipment? His own men were still being rearmed. Grain? He almost laughed. The North asking the Westerlands for grain at that moment was like asking a drowning man if he had spare rope.
So what was the letter worth?
Arthur’s eyes returned to certain words. Ironborn. Euron. Longships. Coast. The Iron Islands stood between the Westerlands and the North, a chain of rocks, iron, salt, and bad decisions. They threatened the northern coast, the western sea lanes, and any dream of breaking Redwyne control over trade. They were poor in grain, rich in iron, skilled at sailing, and accustomed to taking what they could not grow. In other words, a problem. Also a resource, if handled with enough force.
Balon was dead. Euron had seized control through fear and madness, but his rule was not rooted deeply. The Ironborn had ships and sailors. Arthur had gold and needed a navy. The Iron Islands had harbors. The Westerlands needed sea power. The North needed relief. Seagard had centuries of hatred for the Ironborn and a fleet experienced in fighting them.
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A shape formed.
Arthur folded the letter and descended the tower. The port governor’s manor, now his ducal office in Lannisport, was warmer and smelled less like fish, which made it an improvement despite the paperwork inside. He dismissed the attendants, sat at the desk, and took a clean sheet of parchment.
He did not write to Winterfell. Not first.
He wrote to Seagard.
Lord Jason Mallister,
I hope this letter finds you in good health. Since we parted at the Twins, the winds of Westeros have shifted more than any sensible man would prefer. I write not to reminisce, but because a matter now stands before us that concerns the safety of the Riverlands, the Westerlands, and the honor and interest of House Mallister.
The North reports that the Ironborn raid with increasing boldness under Euron Crow’s Eye. Their longships burn the northern coast and may soon turn south again. You, my lord, have guarded Seagard against the Ironborn for generations. No house understands their harm better than yours.
Now their strength is away, their rear exposed, and their rule unsettled after Balon’s death and the turmoil of their kingsmoot. This is an opportunity.
Though I newly hold the title of Lord of the Westerlands, my power at sea is still young. I can provide five thousand infantry, one thousand crossbowmen, grain, and military stores. I can gather transports from Lannisport and supply the land forces needed for an assault. What I lack is deep knowledge of the Iron Islands and a fleet experienced in those waters. House Mallister has both.
If you are willing, I propose a joint campaign. We sail north from Lannisport to join your fleet at Seagard. With your ships as vanguard and my soldiers aboard, we strike the Iron Islands while much of their strength is tied in the North. Our aim is not extermination, but crippling: burn ports, seize grain, destroy ships, capture or kill leaders, and leave them unable to trouble our shores for years.
Spoils are to be divided equally. Captured ships, craftsmen, and sailors may be allocated by agreement.
Such action will relieve the North, protect the Riverlands and Westerlands, increase the glory of House Mallister, and provide resources to fund the continuing war. If we succeed, both our houses benefit. If we fail to gain all we seek, we still train men, test sea routes, and weaken a common enemy.
The opportunity is short. If you agree, send an envoy to Lannisport at once.
Arthur Greyoak, Lord of the Westerlands.
He read the letter twice. It was honest enough, which meant it still hid half the knife. He did not have several warships of real strength. He had captured vessels, repairs, money, transports, and ambition. That could become a navy if men squinted hard enough and no one died too early. He needed Jason Mallister to believe the plan was possible, profitable, and honorable. Fortunately, hatred of Ironborn had long made intelligent men do bold things.
Arthur sealed it with the ducal stamp.
“Send this by the fastest ship,” he told a trusted attendant. “To Seagard, directly into Lord Jason Mallister’s hands. Quietly.”
The attendant bowed and left.
Arthur returned to the window. The Iron Islands were no longer merely a nuisance in his mind. They had become prey. A dangerous kind, yes. One with teeth, salt, storms, and a culture that thought theft was a respectable occupation. But prey all the same.
The letter also sent a message even if Jason refused. The Lord of the Westerlands looked west and north now. The sea mattered. The Ironborn mattered. Lannisport would not remain a wounded port hiding beneath Redwyne patrols forever.
“Summon Flio,” Arthur told another attendant. “And prepare horses. I am returning to Casterly Rock. There are things I must discuss with Smith.”
As the man left, Arthur looked at the harbor below. New flags rose over repaired masts. Men hammered planks into place. Sailors shouted. Fishmongers cursed. Life crawled back into the city, stubborn and vulgar as ever. Good. Cities should be vulgar. It meant they were alive.
After hunting lions, perhaps it was time to hunt the sea.