Chapter 72: Sulphur Reef
The fall of Kingsport struck the Iron Islands like ice water poured into boiling oil.
Victarion Greyjoy was on Old Wyk when the news reached him. He had been using axe, threat, and volume to persuade captains who objected to Euron’s iron price. Persuasion, Ironborn style. It left fewer arguments, though not always fewer enemies.
When he heard that Marren had been taken and Kingsport had fallen, he refused to believe it.
For about three breaths.
Then he exploded.
“The Westerlands?” Victarion roared. “Mallister’s silver eagle? They set foot on the land of the drowned god? They took Marren?”
A Lysene crystal cup died first. A chair followed. Then a table. No one pointed out that the furniture had not commanded the enemy fleet. Victarion did not look ready for counsel.
“Every ship that can move sails now,” he ordered. “We return to Kingsport. I will hang them from their own masts. I will feed Jason Mallister’s bones to crabs and make the Westerlands remember the sea.”
He abandoned the trouble on Old Wyk and gathered what he could: more than thirty longships and nearly two thousand Ironborn warriors, angry, hungry, and eager for revenge. He also sent fast ships to Pyke, Harlaw, and every island still loyal to House Greyjoy or temporarily afraid of Euron.
The answers were less heroic than he wanted.
Pyke sent five ships and a small force, largely because Aeron Damphair had more interest in visions than in worldly war. Harras of Harlaw sent two ships and excuses about guarding against opportunists from the Reach. Other houses sent token help, delayed, or pretended not to have received the call. Ravens could be very unreliable when lords wished to be cowards.
The Iron Islands had never been a single fist. Balon had united them through force and plunder. Euron held them through terror, madness, and the strange fear that clung to his name. But Euron was away in the North. Kingsport had fallen. Victarion had failed to protect his own base. Men began measuring their loyalties again.
That was what men called honor when the numbers changed.
Inside Kingsport, another war had already begun.
The former harbor master’s residence served as the allied command post. Smith, Lord Jason, Flio, Ser Patrek, and several Mallister captains gathered around a rough table. A crude map of Great Wyk, Sulphur Reef, and nearby channels lay beneath their hands. Beside it were prisoner sketches, Grey Shadow notes, and Flio’s first reports from informants.
“Victarion has thirty ships, perhaps more if stragglers join him,” Lord Jason said. “Two thousand men at most. He reaches the outer waters by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Our fleet is no smaller with the captured vessels,” Patrek said. “But our men are tired, our crews unfamiliar with the reefs, and the Ironborn know these waters.”
“In open sea,” Jason said, “a direct battle would be costly. Perhaps even.”
“We cannot let him enter the harbor,” Smith said. “The defenses are damaged. If he reaches the docks and turns this into a boarding fight among ships, our infantry advantage shrinks. We beat him before the harbor.”
“Intercept him at sea?” one captain asked.
“No.” Smith pointed to a narrow channel between Sulphur Reef and Howling Gorge. “Here. The waterway is narrow. Reefs on both sides. Currents strong. Large ships cannot spread properly. Victarion will be furious and in haste. He will want to rush through and strike the port. We make the passage bite him.”
Lord Jason frowned. “We do not know those reefs as well as the Ironborn.”
“We do not need to know everything,” Flio said. He spread several sketches across the table. “Some captured sailors know the safe channels. They were encouraged to draw them.”
Patrek looked at him. “Encouraged?”
“With coin, pardon, and the sight of men who refused both,” Flio said. “A balanced argument.”
No one asked further.
Flio continued, “We have places to hide small craft. Places to anchor fire ships. Reefs where engines can be placed. We need not destroy his whole fleet. Delay him, maul the vanguard, break confidence, and force him to retreat or take the long way around.”
“And after that?” Patrek asked. “He comes again. If we look weak, the other Ironborn may join him.”
“That is why we also divide them,” Smith said. “Korlen and Harras.”
Flio nodded. “Korlen Riftjaw hates Euron. Harras of Harlaw is practical. Her house values trade and shipbuilding. They do not love Greyjoy madness when it empties their holds and fills their graves. If we show strength and offer terms, we can keep them neutral. Perhaps more.”
If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
“What terms?” Lord Jason asked.
“Recognition of their authority in their own islands. Non-aggression. Trade through Lannisport, Seagard, and Kingsport if we hold or return it. We buy iron ore, salted fish, whale oil, furs, and ships. We sell grain, cloth, timber, medicine, weapons. We also hint that if Euron falls, the future of the islands may favor men who chose survival over madness.”
Patrek was not convinced. “They may pretend to agree and warn Victarion.”
“They may,” Flio said. “That is why the ambush matters. If Victarion bleeds, they will listen more carefully. Men respect reason more when it arrives carrying proof.”
Lord Jason studied the map. “The ambush will be mine.”
Smith nodded. “You know the sea better. I will hold the port, repair defenses, and keep Marren secure. Flio, prepare the envoys. Quietly.”
The plan moved before doubt could grow comfortable.
Under forced Ironborn guidance, Mallister captains took ships out under night cover and positioned them near Sulphur Reef. Several captured old vessels were filled with pitch, oil, broken timber, and anything else eager to burn. Ballistae and small engines were dragged onto hidden rocks by men who had no desire to be called heroes but were sent anyway. The main Mallister ships waited in lee and fog, behind a bend where the reef hid them from early sight.
Flio chose two envoys. One was a Westerlands veteran who had once been captured in an Ironborn raid and learned enough of their tongue to insult them properly. The other was an old Mallister sailor who had traded near Harlaw in better years. They carried letters in Smith’s name, gifts of gold, wine, silk, and promises more valuable than any of them. One sailed for Old Wyk. The other for Harlaw.
In Kingsport, Smith pushed repairs without mercy. Captured scorpions were moved to stronger positions. Barricades were raised. Crossbowmen were placed on roofs and towers. Wounded men were treated. Prisoners were sorted. Marren Greyjoy was held alive, fed enough to be useful, and guarded enough to remain a bargaining piece rather than a corpse with a famous name.
He was also allowed to hear certain rumors. Not by accident. Men heard best when they believed no one wanted them to.
The Westerlands had more ships coming. Victarion had already lost support. Korlen and Harras were in contact. Euron’s enemies were multiplying. Marren listened, said nothing, and grew paler.
By the next afternoon, Victarion’s fleet appeared beneath the grey sky.
More than thirty longships came fast, black sails full, krakens and drowned god carvings snarling from their prows. They rushed toward Kingsport like a flock of crows over water.
Victarion stood at the prow of Kraken’s Wrath, bare-chested despite the cold, scars and tattoos exposed, both hands gripping a great battle-axe. His eyes fixed on the distant harbor.
“Faster!” he roared. “Through the reef. Straight to the port.”
The fleet entered Sulphur Reef.
The channel narrowed. Reefs rose black from the water. Currents pulled at hulls. Even Ironborn sailors slowed, hands tight on oars and rudders.
The vanguard passed the narrowest point.
Then fire answered.
Ballistae and catapults hidden on the reefs loosed first. Burning jars and stone shot slammed into the crowded Ironborn formation. One longship caught fire along its side, sailors screaming as they leapt into cold water. Another took a stone low in the hull and began to list. Arrows followed from unseen positions.
“Ambush!” someone shouted.
Victarion bellowed over the panic. “Forward! Through it! The harbor is ahead!”
Then the fire ships came.
Old captured hulls, packed with pitch and flame, drifted into the channel on current and wind. They came crookedly, which somehow made them worse. Ironborn ships swerved, collided, scraped reefs, and tangled oars. One longship backed into another and trapped both long enough for a fire ship to kiss them. Men screamed as flame climbed sailcloth.
From behind the bend, Mallister ships struck.
Arrows fell like hard rain. Javelins followed. Scorpion bolts punched through shields, ribs, and planks with no interest in rank. Boarding hooks flew. Mallister sailors and Westerlands crossbowmen leapt onto trapped vessels, killing across decks slick with water and blood.
The narrow channel became a butcher’s lane.
Ships crashed, burned, grounded, and sank. Men fought on decks, in water, and across broken oars. Victarion was terrifying. He led his guards onto two Mallister vessels and cut down more than a dozen men himself. His axe opened shields, helms, and bodies with the same simple argument.
It was not enough.
Personal courage could win a deck. It could not repair a broken formation, clear reefs, stop fire, or make frightened captains hear orders over screams. The Ironborn fleet had entered the trap in haste and now paid the full price. Mallister coordination, prepared positions, and range did what rage could not.
After nearly an hour, Victarion understood that forcing through would cost him the fleet.
The order to retreat looked like defeat because it was.
Ironborn longships pulled back in disorder, leaving seven or eight burning or sinking wrecks, hundreds of dead and wounded, and enough pride floating in the water to poison the fish. The Mallisters did not pursue deeply. Their own ships were damaged, and their casualties were not small. Several warships needed urgent repairs. Hundreds of men were dead or wounded.
Still, the port held.
More importantly, every watching Ironborn house would hear that Victarion Greyjoy had bled in his own waters.
That night, his battered fleet anchored in the lee of a barren island. The shame of retreat and the knowledge that Marren remained captive gnawed at him. He drank little. Broke less than expected. That was how his men knew his anger had become dangerous.
Then two messages arrived.
The first came from Old Wyk. Korlen Riftjaw sent condolences for the setback, then mentioned, vaguely enough to be irritating, that envoys from the Westerlands had brought an interesting offer concerning trade, truce, and the future arrangement of the Iron Islands. He advised Victarion to cool his wrath and consider what served their people.
The second message, from Harlaw, was sharper beneath its politeness. Harras the Maiden wrote that trade could be discussed, peace was desirable, and the future of the Iron Islands should be decided by Ironborn, not by one madman’s fantasies.
Victarion read both letters twice.
Anger still burned. But reason, that unwelcome guest, began finding a way through the smoke.
Marren was captive. Kingsport had fallen. His fleet had been bloodied. Euron was away in the North, burning villages and making enemies faster than even Ironborn tradition required. Korlen and Harras were not rallying behind him. Aeron preached survival in the drowned god’s name. If he attacked again and failed, the Greyjoy name might drown without needing a storm.
Victarion clenched his fist until his knuckles cracked.
Perhaps it was time to talk.
Not surrender. He would never call it that. Men valued words almost as much as swords when pride needed clothing.
He summoned his scribe.
“To the lord of the Westerlands and Lord Mallister,” he dictated. “Tomorrow at noon, in neutral waters beyond Sulphur Reef, you and I will each take one ship and speak face to face. Prisoners and truce terms will be discussed. Victarion Greyjoy.”
The wedge had entered the iron.
Now came the work of widening the crack.