Chapter 71: Grey Water
The waters around the Iron Islands had a color of their own.
They were not the bright blue of southern seas, nor the grey-green of the Narrow Sea. They were leaden, dark, and cold enough to seem hostile on purpose. The sky hung low, heavy with clouds that looked ready to fall into the water and be done with it. The wind ruled everything. It tore at rigging, bit through cloaks, flung salt into eyes, and howled through the ships like a drunk septon preaching doom.
The fleet sailed through those waters for three days.
The first day stripped away most of the soldiers’ excitement. The second took their pride. By the third, many Westerlands veterans who had faced Lannister spears, sieges, and fire were bent over buckets or leaning over rails, pale as corpses and praying to gods they had neglected when the ground had been polite enough to stay still.
The Mallister sailors did not laugh. Not openly. That restraint did them credit.
Smith looked nearly as miserable as the rest, but he kept moving between captains, maps, and signal crews. Lord Jason, Ser Patrek, and several old Mallister captains spent most hours bent over charts marked with reefs and currents. Flio moved among the ships with lists, ledgers, and quiet words, trying to keep morale from sinking faster than the men’s stomachs.
“Sulphur Reef lies ahead,” said an old captain whose face looked as if the sea had carved it with a dull knife. He pointed at a dangerous cluster of marks on the chart. “Once we pass it, we reach the western coast of Great Wyk. Kingsport sits southeast of the island. Best to circle south and strike under morning mist.”
“What of the wind?” Lord Jason asked.
“Southwest. Good for the approach. Bad for landing craft if it shifts. Crosswind near the beach.”
“Better than a headwind,” Smith said. His eyes were red from lack of sleep. “Half-sail. Silence across the fleet. Send scouts ahead through Sulphur Reef and toward the outer harbor. Soldiers check gear, eat what they can keep down, and prepare.”
The orders passed from ship to ship.
The fleet moved like a beast drawing in its claws, quiet and heavy beneath the mist.
Before dawn on the fourth day, Kingsport appeared through the fog.
It was a natural harbor shaped like a crooked horseshoe, guarded on both sides by black headlands of basalt. They rose from the water like fangs. Within them lay calmer water, docks, warehouses, a shipyard, and the dark shapes of anchored vessels. A few watchtowers stood near the outer harbor. Too few. The guards had not expected war to come to their own shore. Ironborn were very good at teaching others fear and very bad at learning it themselves.
Victarion’s main strength was not there. Grey Shadow’s reports and the scouts confirmed it. He had taken most seaworthy ships toward Old Wyk to crush a smaller rebellion caused by the collection of the iron price and to frighten captains who were less enchanted by Euron’s madness than Euron preferred. Kingsport was left with fewer than twenty medium and small longships, around five hundred defenders, and Marren Greyjoy, Victarion’s nephew. Brave, young, and inexperienced. A charming combination if one wished to get men killed.
The morning mist swallowed the approaching fleet until it was too late.
A shout split the harbor.
“Ships! Enemy ships!”
Bells rang. Men stumbled from barracks. Crews ran for moored longships. Others tried to drag scorpions toward firing angles. The harbor woke in pieces, which was no way to survive an attack.
“Raise banners,” Lord Jason said from the prow of Seagard. His sword was already drawn. “Forward.”
The Mallister galleys moved first.
Oars beat the water in rhythm, and the fifteen ships broke into two groups, striking toward the headlands and outer defenses. Scorpions fired. Stone shot and jars of burning pitch arced through the mist. One watchtower shattered near its base and leaned slowly before collapsing into spray and screaming wood. Another caught fire. Shore engines answered with bolts and stones, but their crews were too slow and too exposed.
Behind the galleys, Westerlands transports drove toward the eastern beach.
“Gangplanks down!” Smith roared from the prow of his ship. “Land! Move!”
Wood slammed against wet stone and pebbles. Men surged out, shields raised, boots plunging into freezing water. The sea climbed to their knees. Several cursed as if the water had insulted their mothers. None stopped. Spears and swords came forward. Crossbowmen followed, stumbling at first, then forming lines above the tide.
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The few Ironborn on the beach were overwhelmed quickly. They fought hard, but hard fighting was less useful when surrounded by men who had decided to be organized about killing you.
“Take the docks,” Smith shouted. “Hold the harbor mouth. No ship leaves!”
Flio came ashore behind him with guards, parchment, and a small chest of coin. A proper battlefield needed steel. A useful one also needed bribes. Men who claimed otherwise usually had enough money already.
The fighting spread into the dockside streets.
The Ironborn defenders knew the harbor well. They used alleys between warehouses, overturned boats, winch platforms, and ship timber as cover. Their axes and short spears were deadly at close range. They struck from corners, dragged men into narrow lanes, and died with curses on their lips. The Westerlands infantry suffered for every yard.
But they had numbers, crossbows, and discipline.
Smith broke the men into squads. Shields advanced first, spears behind, crossbowmen on roofs and dock platforms whenever a path opened. Resistance points were cleared one by one. Ironborn charges struck, bloodied men, and then broke against formations that bent without losing shape. It was not elegant. Nothing about dock fighting was elegant. A man slipping on fish guts could die as quickly as a knight beneath a banner.
Marren Greyjoy made his stand at the largest dock near the shipyard, where several intact longships remained tied.
He fought with a massive two-handed axe, red-faced and roaring, his armor splashed with blood. Three Westerlands soldiers fell before him in quick succession. Around him, a hundred Ironborn gathered for a last push, defending the shipyard as if the drowned god himself had leased it to them.
“Make way,” Smith said.
He stepped through the line with sword and shield. Marren saw him and grinned like a man who thought a duel would save the morning. There was something admirable in that. Also stupid, but bravery often wore stupidity’s cloak.
Marren struck first. Smith did not meet the blow directly. He turned it with his shield, stepped aside, and let the axe spend its strength on empty air. Marren pressed again, heavy and fast. Smith gave ground, watched the rhythm, waited for the breath after a downward cut.
When it came, he smashed his shield forward.
Marren staggered. Smith’s sword lunged toward his ribs. Marren twisted just enough to avoid the worst of it, swinging back in a wild arc. Smith ducked, close enough to feel the axe pass over him, then cut upward across Marren’s forearm. Leather split. Blood sprayed. The axe dropped.
Smith struck him in the face with the shield.
Marren fell with a broken nose and a mouth full of blood. Several soldiers rushed him, pinning him before Ironborn loyalty could become inconvenient.
Their leader captured, the final defense collapsed. Some Ironborn threw down weapons. Some ran. Others jumped into the harbor and tried to swim through water cold enough to make fools of better men. Mallister archers on the ships shot most of them before they reached open water.
By the time pale sunlight pushed through the clouds, Kingsport had fallen.
Smoke drifted above the harbor. Blood thinned in the seawater. Bodies lay on docks, in alleys, across gangplanks, and beneath half-burned beams. The banners of the Westerlands and House Mallister rose over the tallest watchtower and the shipyard.
The Mallister fleet held the harbor mouth. Several Ironborn boats that had tried to flee had been sunk or captured. In the inner harbor, fifteen longships and five merchant ships were taken intact or near enough to repair. Warehouses yielded salted fish, whale oil, iron ore, rough furs, barrels of ale, and a smaller amount of coin and plunder taken from the North and Riverlands.
They had captured more than three hundred Ironborn soldiers and sailors, including Marren Greyjoy. Among them were shipwrights, carpenters, navigators, and captains. Men who could be killed easily, which made them far more valuable alive. Death was common. Skill was not.
Their own losses were not light. More than two hundred Westerlands infantry lay dead. Nearly four hundred were wounded, most during the landing and the dock fighting. The Mallister navy had lost fewer, several dozen men, mostly to shore engines and close boarding near the headlands.
Smith stood near the shipyard while prisoners were bound and wounded men carried aside.
“Count the spoils,” he ordered. “Treat the wounded. Clear every warehouse. Repair the docks. I want those captured ships guarded and inspected. No fires near the stores. Any man stealing before inventory loses the hand he stole with.”
Men moved quickly. Smith felt no joy. Victory had a habit of smelling too much like blood and burned wood for that.
Flio approached with a wax tablet and ink-stained fingers. His face showed the bright satisfaction of a merchant finding an unexpected bargain, strained by the knowledge that men had died around the bargain. Human nature, balanced as badly as ever.
“The tally is better than expected,” Flio said. “Fifteen longships, five merchant ships, supplies enough to matter, and useful prisoners. We also found more than a dozen captives in the cellar beneath the drowned god’s temple. Women and children, mostly from the North and Riverlands.”
Smith’s expression tightened. “Separate them from the Ironborn prisoners. Food, blankets, guards. When this is done, they go to Lord Mallister or are sent home.”
“Understood.”
“They are not spoil.”
Flio bowed his head. “No, my lord.”
He hesitated, then lowered his voice. “I also spoke with several captured captains and lesser men not tied closely to House Greyjoy. Gold and pardon loosened a few tongues. Victarion is at Old Wyk, but not far. He could hear of this and return tomorrow, perhaps the day after. Korlen Riftjaw Greyjoy of Old Wyk and Harras the Maiden of Harlaw are both dissatisfied with Euron. Korlen, especially, is said to have cursed him openly as a madman who brings misfortune.”
Smith looked toward the harbor mouth, where grey waves rolled beyond the headlands.
That was Arthur’s plan. Break the door, then speak through the crack.
“Good work,” Smith said. “Keep contact open, but carefully. A man biting a coin can still bite fingers. Send a fast ship to Lannisport with the battle report. Ask for further instruction. Do we hold Kingsport and force Victarion to attack us tired, or strike outward before he gathers strength? And prepare letters for any Ironborn who might prefer trade to dying for Euron’s pride.”
Flio nodded.
The harbor was theirs. That was only the first step. Victarion Greyjoy would come soon with rage, ships, and the usual Ironborn belief that fury could replace planning.
The Sea Hunt had begun.
The bloodiest part was probably still ahead. Westeros was generous that way.