Chapter 68: Seagard’s Answer
Seagard answered faster than Arthur had expected.
Lord Jason Mallister did not hesitate long after reading Arthur’s letter. He had fought the Ironborn for years, had watched their sails rise like bad news over the western sea, and had buried enough Mallister men to know hatred without needing poetry for it. With Euron Greyjoy’s main strength raiding north, the Iron Islands had exposed their own ribs. It was a rare chance. Men in Westeros usually wasted such chances by calling councils until the gods lost patience.
Lord Jason did not.
There was another reason for his swiftness. Arthur had promised land forces, provisions, and a fair division of spoils. More than that, he had offered something Lord Jason understood at once: a chance to wound the Ironborn where they felt safest. The Mallisters were not the greatest house in the Riverlands, and after the war, their position with House Tully had grown more delicate than either side cared to say aloud. An alliance with the new lord of the Westerlands, rich in mines and increasingly unpleasant to ignore, had its own value.
So Lord Jason sent his eldest son, Ser Patrek Mallister, aboard a fast ship with a written reply and a token of command from Seagard’s fleet: a spearhead engraved with a silver eagle.
Ser Patrek met Arthur in a private chamber inside the lord’s offices at Lannisport. He looked more settled than he had at the Twins. The sea wind and war had scraped some of the eager shine from him, leaving behind the harder look of a soldier who had learned that courage was useful only when tied to discipline.
“My lord,” Patrek said, bowing with one hand over his chest, “my father gives his approval to your plan. Seagard can send fifteen galleys and thirty longships, carrying four thousand sailors and soldiers. My father will command ten of the larger ships himself. I will lead the rest.”
Arthur listened without interrupting.
Patrek continued, “We know the waters, the reefs, and the weak points of the Ironborn ports. My father asks only one condition. You will command the land war, but naval movement, engagements, and landing sites must respect the judgment of our captains. As for spoils, we accept what you wrote: each side takes what it needs, with fair division after.”
It was reasonable. More than reasonable, perhaps. Lord Jason had seen the prize beneath the risk. Ships, sailors, craftsmen, charts, hostages, leverage. The Ironborn had spent generations believing the sea made them untouchable. Arthur intended to correct that educational failure. A public service, really. Brutal, but most education in Westeros seemed to involve blood.
“House Mallister’s courage is well known,” Arthur said, taking the silver spearhead. “Your father’s condition is fair. Tell Lord Jason I accept it. Five thousand infantry, one thousand crossbowmen, and the first supply train of grain, arrows, medicine, and timber will gather at Lannisport within ten days.”
He paused and turned toward the men standing near the table. Smith had been summoned in haste from Casterly Rock. Flio stood beside him, quiet and attentive, the expression of a man already calculating which parts of war could be turned into accounts.
“The land campaign will decide the worth of this expedition,” Arthur said. “After landing, ports must be taken, shipyards secured, and strongholds swept clean. I need someone who can make decisions without waiting for a raven to fly back and forth while men die politely.”
Smith stepped forward and knelt. “My lord.”
“I name you commander of the landing forces for this Sea Hunt. You will have full authority over the men once they leave the ships. Flio will assist you. He will handle coordination with House Mallister, inventories of spoils, prisoners, and, if needed, diplomatic contact with Ironborn factions.”
Arthur placed the silver token in Smith’s hands.
“Remember what I want,” Arthur said. “Not merely burned docks and dead raiders. Capture ships, especially warships. Take shipwrights alive. Take sailors alive, especially captains and navigators. Gather maps, charts, knowledge of currents, reefs, ports, resources, and the loyalties of their houses. If you find captains or lesser lords who hate Euron more than they hate us, offer coin, pardon, trade, or the promise of future favor.”
Smith looked up sharply. He understood. This was not a raid dressed as strategy. It was the first stone of a navy.
Arthur continued, “The Ironborn are not a single beast. They are a nest of hungry ones pretending to be brothers until the meat runs thin. Divide them. Learn from them. Use them. I want the Westerlands to stop staring at the sea like a peasant staring at a maester’s book.”
“I will not fail you, my lord,” Smith said.
“Good. Failure would be inconvenient.”
Patrek’s mouth twitched. He had the sense not to laugh too loudly.
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Arthur turned back to him. “Ser Patrek, return to Seagard at once. Tell your father that in ten days our men will be ready at Lannisport. Your captains, Smith, and Flio will settle the route, the rendezvous, and the first target, then submit the final plan to Lord Jason and me.”
“As you command, my lord.”
The plan began moving with unpleasant efficiency. That was always the problem with good plans. Once they began, they expected men to keep up.
Over the next ten days, Lannisport turned into a barracks, a market, and a dockyard all at once. Five thousand infantry were chosen from the garrisons of the Westerlands, with preference given to men who had survived sieges, raids, and actual hardship rather than men who looked handsome holding spears. One thousand crossbowmen were selected under Horgos’s eye. He preferred men who could reload while cursing, march while seasick, and shoot without needing the ground to behave kindly beneath their feet.
Supplies followed. Grain, salted meat, arrows, quarrels, bandages, wine, vinegar, pitch, spare rope, nails, timber, and pieces for simple siege frames suited for docks and beaches. War was mostly logistics wearing armor. Singers left that part out because songs about inventory made even death sound merciful.
In the harbor, captured Lannister cogs and galleys were repaired and reinforced. Merchant ships were bought, hired, or pressed into service with enough compensation to make their owners complain only in private. In total, more than fifty transports and escort vessels were prepared, ugly in arrangement but useful. They did not need beauty. They needed to carry six thousand men across hostile water without drowning them first.
The Grey Shadow network worked without rest. Every scrap of knowledge about the Iron Islands was gathered: old sailor tales, smuggler routes, maps half-eaten by damp, captured Ironborn accounts, merchant gossip, and the angry memories of men whose homes had burned under black sails. Slowly, a rough picture formed.
Pyke. Great Wyk. Old Wyk. Harlaw. The main ports. The houses. The captains. The old grudges. The newer ones.
The best news was that Euron Crow’s Eye had indeed taken the main Iron Fleet north and was raiding the western coast of the North. The islands themselves were guarded mostly by local fleets, older captains, lesser men, and those too important or too inconvenient to follow Euron. Victarion Greyjoy held much of the remaining strength. Brave, dangerous, and not celebrated for subtle thought. A man did not need to be clever to split skulls. Westeros kept proving that tragedy.
Other Ironborn leaders were less united. Aeron Damphair, Balon’s brother, had drowned himself in faith without dying properly. Korlen Riftjaw Greyjoy of Old Wyk was said to despise Euron’s rule. Harras the Maiden of Harlaw, a female captain with more sense than many lords born with three names and no brain between them, valued trade and survival more than madness. The Iron Islands looked strong from afar. Up close, they had cracks.
Ten days later, under a gloomy late autumn sky, the fleet gathered beyond Lannisport.
More than sixty vessels darkened the water. Mallister galleys flew the silver eagle. Westerlands ships carried Arthur’s banners. Captured sails, patched hulls, new rigging, and nervous crews filled the harbor. It was not a royal fleet. It was not elegant. It looked like something built by necessity, coin, spite, and men who had run out of patience.
Smith, Flio, Lord Jason, and Ser Patrek stood aboard the Mallister flagship, Seagard, studying the final map.
“Our first target is here,” Lord Jason said, tapping a marked harbor on Great Wyk. “Kingsport.”
The name flew close enough to King’s Landing to be unfortunate, and it was more than enough proof that names could be crimes against clarity.
“It is the second-largest port in the Iron Islands,” Jason continued, “and a main base for Victarion. The harbor is open, easier to approach than Pyke, and its defenses are weaker. Take it, and we seize ships, supplies, and morale. We also cut movement between Great Wyk, Old Wyk, and Harlaw.”
“We cannot afford a long siege,” Smith said. “We land fast, take the docks, seize the shipyard, and hold only as long as needed. The Mallister ships break the outer defenses. Our transports beach under cover. Infantry clears the harbor. Crossbowmen take the high points. Flio handles bribes and surrender terms for anyone with more sense than pride.”
“Some will have neither,” Patrek said.
“Then they will be lighter to bury,” Smith replied.
Lord Jason looked at the sky, then at the sea. “The wind is right. Order the fleet to sail.”
The horn sounded low across the harbor. Sails rose. Oars struck water. Anchors were hauled up with chains groaning like old men asked to stand too quickly. The fleet turned north, slow at first, then with growing purpose, moving toward grey water and worse weather.
Arthur watched from the highest tower of Lannisport until the last sails vanished into the lead-colored mist.
This was the first large operation he had launched without commanding it in person. That annoyed him more than he cared to admit. Storms, reefs, Ironborn ships, unfamiliar coasts, alliance friction, Victarion’s temper, and the usual human fondness for ruining simple instructions. Any one thing could tear the whole plan apart.
But he could not be everywhere. That was the problem with ambition. It expanded faster than a man’s body.
The Westerlands could not remain a landlocked lion forever, clawing at hills while the Reach and Arbor ruled the sea. Arthur needed ports, ships, sailors, and confidence. The Iron Islands were the first test. Not the last.
“My lord,” an attendant said softly, “the wind is growing stronger. We should go inside.”
Arthur took one last look at the empty horizon and turned away.
His mind had already moved. Casterly Rock. The Reach. King’s Landing. Dorne. Dragonstone. The Riverlands. The North. The system options that still demanded absurd amounts of resources and time: 【Advanced Shipyard】 and 【Naval Academy】.
The lion on land was not yet fully tamed. The sharks at sea had already shown their teeth. Naturally, the world expected him to handle both while the rest of Westeros practiced setting itself on fire.
“Send word to Diana,” Arthur said. “Casterly Rock’s defenses are not to slacken. Tell Kator and Beland to increase scouting and harassment near Highgarden and Old Oak. I want the Reach thinking our main strength remains close. Tell Grey Shadow I want every reaction from King’s Landing, the Reach, Dorne, and Dragonstone to the Sea Hunt, even the smallest rumor.”
The orders went out.
Below, Lannisport quieted little by little, but the gears of war had already shifted into a larger and more dangerous shape.
The first cry of the iron ships had gone north.