Chapter 70: Toward the Iron Islands
The combined fleet gathered off the coast north of Lannisport before dawn, where mist softened the sea and made every hull look like a ghost deciding whether to become real. Mallister warships formed the sharper part of the line, lean and practiced. Lannisport transports sat heavier in the water, packed with infantry, crossbowmen, supplies, engineers, and men trying not to look seasick in front of their friends. It was a noble effort. Many failed.
Lord Jason Mallister had not come himself. Seagard needed him, and he was too sensible to leave his seat while the Riverlands still smoldered. He sent Ser Donnel Mallister as fleet commander, with captains who knew Ironborn waters better than any man had a right to know while remaining alive. Roderik Stormwake worked beside them easily, arguing over routes, tides, landing points, and wind with the passion of men who measured death by reefs instead of swords.
Arthur listened more than he spoke. On land, he could judge ground, roads, walls, supply lines, and the stupidity of nobles with some confidence. At sea, he trusted men who looked angry at waves for specific reasons.
The plan was refined before departure. The fleet would sail north in stages, hugging the coast where possible. Scouts would move ahead in smaller craft. Grey Shadow’s agents had gathered fragments from fishermen, smugglers, and Ironborn prisoners. Euron’s main strength remained in the North, raiding aggressively. Pyke was defended but uncertain. Harlaw held ships and stores. Great Wyk had internal quarrels. Old Wyk had symbolic importance and less immediate value. Lordsport mattered if one wanted to threaten Pyke. Smaller harbors mattered if one wanted to leave the Ironborn hungry and furious.
Arthur wanted both.
The first strike would not be Pyke. That would be dramatic, which meant it was probably stupid. The fleet would hit a smaller harbor on Great Wyk, burn ships, seize food, take captains, and gather fresh intelligence. From there, they would decide whether to strike Harlaw’s stores or Lordsport’s shipping.
“Do not chase glory,” Arthur told the assembled captains. “We are not here to prove courage to men who worship drowning. We are here to make Euron turn around and find smoke behind him.”
A Mallister captain grunted. “Ironborn do not scare easily.”
“Good. Fear that arrives late stays longer.”
That earned a few smiles. Not warm ones. Useful ones.
The crossing was rough by the standards of men who preferred roads and probably gentle by the standards of the sea, which remained indifferent to human complaints. Several Battanian soldiers vomited over the sides until their pride emptied with their stomachs. Beland looked pale but endured silently. Horgos tied himself to a post for part of the journey and claimed it was tactical. No one believed him. Arthur almost laughed once, which felt strange enough that he stopped.
At dusk on the second day, scouts returned with the first sighting: two Ironborn longships moving south, likely returning from a raid or scouting route. Ser Donnel advised avoiding them to preserve secrecy. Roderik disagreed. If they escaped, secrecy was gone anyway. Better to take them fast.
Arthur let the sea commanders decide. They chose to strike.
The Mallister ships moved first, cutting across the longships’ path with practiced speed. Lannisport’s smaller craft followed, clumsy but sufficient. The Ironborn realized the danger too late. One tried to flee west. The other turned to fight, because Ironborn bravery and Ironborn foolishness were often siblings wearing the same cloak.
Crossbow bolts opened the battle. Horgos’s men fired from behind shielded rails, picking off rowers and deck fighters. Mallister archers followed. Grapples flew. The ships slammed together with a crack of wood and a roar of men.
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Beland led the first boarding group. He looked much happier with a blade in hand and solid wood beneath his feet, even if the wood floated under suspicious circumstances. Battanian infantry crashed onto the Ironborn deck behind shields. The Ironborn fought hard, axes and short swords flashing in the red light of sunset. Their captain, a broad man with a forked beard, killed two men before Beland drove a sickle blade into his knee and another into his throat.
The second longship nearly escaped until Roderik’s vessel cut in front of it. A firepot shattered near its stern, smoke rising. The crew surrendered only when crossbows lined their deck and their steering oar was hacked apart.
The fight was brief. Bloody, but useful.
The captured Ironborn were dragged before Arthur. Some spat. Some glared. One laughed until Kator struck him hard enough to remove the humor and possibly a tooth.
Arthur looked at the two longships. “Can we use them?”
Roderik nodded. “After repairs. They are fast.”
“Good. Prisoners?”
“Some may talk. Most will lie first.”
“Let them. Grey Shadow’s men need practice separating lies from teeth.”
Interrogation through the night confirmed enough. Euron’s strongest captains were still north. Great Wyk’s smaller harbor at Stonehouse Bay held six longships, two storehouses of grain and dried fish, and a local captain loyal to Euron because Euron had murdered the man’s brother and called it mercy. Ironborn politics remained a charming swamp.
The fleet changed course before dawn.
They reached Stonehouse Bay under morning fog. The harbor was small, rough, and protected by rocks that made Donnel curse softly for five full minutes. The Mallister pilots found the channel. The captured longships, now crewed by selected men and forced Ironborn guides, entered first. From a distance, they looked like returning raiders.
The deception lasted long enough.
When the harbor watch recognized something wrong, crossbowmen were already within range. Bolts struck the wooden tower. One guard fell from the platform. Fire arrows followed, hitting tarred ropes and dry roofing. The Mallister ships swept in behind the captured longships, and the transports grounded near the beach.
“Go,” Arthur ordered.
The landing was ugly, fast, and loud. Battanian infantry jumped into knee-deep water and pushed toward shore with shields raised. Ironborn defenders rushed from huts and storehouses, half-armed and furious. They expected raiders, perhaps. They got an organized landing force with crossbows, axes, and engineers carrying fire.
Beland took the left side of the beach. Kator took the center. Horgos’s crossbowmen formed behind overturned boats and began shooting anyone who looked important or loud. Arthur moved with the reserve, directing men toward the storehouses and ship slips.
The Ironborn captain rallied near the largest longship, shouting for men to push it into the water. Arthur pointed him out to Horgos.
The captain died with three bolts in his chest before finishing his sentence.
Once the leader fell, resistance broke into knots. Some fought to the death. Others tried to run inland. A few surrendered when they saw the longships burning and understood there would be no heroic escape, only a cold swim and a shorter life.
By midday, Stonehouse Bay belonged to the attackers.
Six longships were captured or burned. Two storehouses were seized. Dried fish, grain, salted meat, rope, sailcloth, iron tools, and plunder from northern villages were taken. Several shipwrights were captured. Prisoners were separated: sailors, craftsmen, warriors, thralls, and smallfolk. Arthur ordered the thralls freed and fed. Some stared at him as if expecting the trick to arrive after the bread.
“No raids,” Arthur told the captured Ironborn gathered under guard. “No burning villages. No taking women and children from their homes. Those who swear service and obey will live. Those who return to reaving will hang from their own masts. I do not care which god hears them choking.”
The words were translated for those who pretended not to understand.
Ser Donnel watched him. “You mean to rule them?”
“No. Not yet.”
“That is not the same as no.”
Arthur looked at the burning harbor. “Nothing ever is.”
They left Stonehouse Bay before sunset. Smoke rose behind them. Captured ships joined the fleet. Stores filled the holds. The Ironborn would learn soon enough that their own shores could burn.
That was the purpose.
Two days later, ravens and longships would carry the news north. Euron Greyjoy would hear that while he hunted the weak coast of the North, wolves, eagles, and a grey oak had entered his waters. Perhaps he would laugh. Perhaps he would rage. Either way, he would have to turn his eye home.
Arthur stood on the deck as the fleet moved toward the next target. The sea rolled dark beneath the hull. Ahead lay Harlaw, Lordsport, Pyke, and whatever madness Euron had left behind.
The sea hunt had begun.