The Icefyre Conquest 36

Shield Islands.

If there was a piece of land Balon hated more than those blasted Bear Islands, it was the Shield Islands. Not because they were upstarts who had once belonged to the Ironborn–that was true for most of the North and all of those fish fuckers as well.

But at least the Northerners knew to fear them? To know what an Ironborn raid meant for their villages, for their women.. But these islanders? These were stupid as well as weak. Distaste glittered in his eyes as he looked at the hundred or so ships before him. It had galled him to leave his islands, his throne behind. But Balon was not a mindless reaver to not know his own weakness, especially when it had already been exposed once.

He had known that to fight the Greenlanders on his islands would be nothing but foolish. Sure, his men and his walls would kill a few thousand of them—but he would undoubtedly lose. Euron’s voice laughed in his head, calling a weak king and even shittier pirate, and Balon ruthlessly crushed it as he stared at the water below him, crimson swirling in the darkening surface as the night approached.

When Victarion had returned from spying on Lannisport, he had told Balon of the scorpions being built right on the docks and along the shore. The Lannister had also stationed forces in abundance along all of the landing spots along the coast. Similarly, Harras and Drumm had skirted along the Riverlands weeks ago, telling him of Seagard and the Moat’s preparations. It was then that he thought of the next step to take.

He had been met with resistance, and some even had the gall to threaten him with desertion. But it had all quieted down underneath the promised plunder that awaited them. With Stonetree being beheaded for his mutiny, but the cunt had been growing senile over the tides anyway. His fleet had been given to Drumm, and his men added to his personal force.

Thankfully, most of Rodrik’s fleet had been untouched at Old Wyk when the Northerners had attacked the Ten Towers earlier. After a moment of contemplation as he had looked at the Reavers before him, Balon found his eyes shifting to Volmark. While a decent fighter and acceptable at running his small fleet of fifty ships, Brom was as stupid as they could get. The man had no mind for words or strategy, and the only thing he knew was killing and sleeping.

Balon needed someone exactly like that.

Brom Volmark had been given all of Harlaw’s men. Similarly, he had chosen the smaller Reavers, pests and captains who thought with their cocks and swords instead of their brains, and given them command over each of the islands except Pyke. The combined might of the Iron Fleet was called upon, and carracks, longships and warships were redistributed. Bile had risen in his throat as he had seen Saltcliffe walk onto one of his warships with a sick grin, but Balon had suppressed it, knowing it was the last time he was going to see Euron’s concubine.

His plan had been simple. Let the Kingdoms squabble over his islands, while he took the thing they needed the most from right under their nose. Volmark was given command over the fleet in his name, and the rest of the smaller houses rejoiced at being given entire islands and thousands of men under their banner.

Fools.

He had already chosen a select few Lords, the strongest and those with the most experience, for his plan. Drumm, Blacktyde, and Goodbrother were essential. Each had fleets of respectable size and strength, and could raise two thousand reavers each. They also had much experience in fighting against Greenlanders, and Dunstan had always been loyal to him.

In the privacy of his tower, he had revealed his actual plan to them and Victarion. Each of them had been sceptical yet supportive, but had agreed that it was the best thing they could do right now. As much as Balon hated it, the combined might of the six Kingdoms was not something they could handle. Even though he had silently grown his fleet, the others had done the same over the last decade.

Still, with the next step decided and the fleet prepared, they had set sail. 

Summer fog had been the perfect cover for them. The Cold currents from the Northern waters met the warmer ones from the southern right to the south of the Iron Islands. If the conditions were good, the fog could span hundreds of feet in height and be as dense as Volmark’s wits. Visibility would fall to no further than a hundred feet easily, and since the stormy winds stopped just shy of Harlaw to the North, the fog lasted for days at a time. The only thing that had been a concern was timing the move just right. 

If they sailed too fast, they risked meeting the Greenlanders’ fleet on the sea.

If they sailed too late, the Greenlanders’ fleet would have met them the other way around.

Thankfully, one of Blacktyde’s spies had caught chatter in Lannisport, telling them of the timings of when the Royal Fleet would arrive and how they would launch an attack. Bah! Fools the lot of them. While he knew Stannis and likely a couple of other people would realise that there weren’t enough ships in the waters between the coast and the Islands, they would still have no option but to attack anyway. The winds were blowing against them, and thus, with two days to spare, Balon set sail from the Islands, telling the one being left behind that he was going to sack Bear Island and take the North. 

Arguments and protests were raised, but they quieted down when he drew his sword and told them to face the Greenlanders first. As expected, no one dared utter a word after that; the memory of the last time they had been defeated was still fresh enough in their minds.

They sailed southwest first, putting distance between the Greenlands and the Islands. The fog shielded them well enough, but it was also easy to get lost, especially when it got too dense. Thankfully, he had told others to take only the most experienced captains and ruthless, capable men. Despite that, however, he lost about fifteen ships to the fog, three drifting away in silence while others either crashed into themselves or the shallow, rocky reefs.

He could not afford such mistakes, not with his fleet already depleted.

After the first four days, Balon thought he saw a small part of Stannis’ fleet in the distance to their west, but the distance was great enough that it could have been a trick of his eyes.

On the seventh, he had steered the fleet east sharply, judging their position from the Hunter's position, the three stars angling to the North and pointing to the North Star. in the depths of his thoughts, as he had breathed in the free, salty air of the ocean and felt the water strike his chest as he stood at the helm of his ship, Balon had finally felt strength return to his bones.

Strength that he had not felt in a long while.

Still, they had approached the Shield Islands in the last hours of the ninth day, and Balon had waited until the night struck before sending ten small rowboats ahead, to skirt around the Islands’ range and block any messengers they may try to escape upriver. Ten more had been sent to scale the rocks quietly, as they waited outside the range of the lighthouse on Northshield and Southshield both. 

Timing and speed, both were important here. And if there was one thing the Ironborn were masters at other than seafaring, then it was striking hard and fast.

At the sight of the first fires being started on both islands, Balon had committed every ship to the attack that he could. All four islands had been struck at once, and as he had watched a rowboat disappearing into the Mander with some Lord and his kids on it along with a handful of men, Balon quietly brought his sword down on the guard at his feet.

Now, an hour later, he was standing on his ship once again as they started their journey into the Reach. Goodbrother had been given command of the Northshield. Orkwood, Tawney and Kenning had been left at the other three, along with two thousand men combined. It had been a good thing in hindsight to let some of his men scale the rocks first to cause fires and confusion rather than committing his whole fleet to the attack. Senwig, the Lord of Northshield, had been a busy bass, building a scorpion for himself.

While the weapon was unfinished, Balon had left Kenning with strict instructions to get help from the maester, and his own men to finish the weapon in the scant few they had. And see if more could be built beyond the initial three that were almost finished. He hated those blasted scorpions with passion, but not if they were in his hands.

Remembering how his third ship had been shot down with one of those blasted crossbows, Balon grunted and swung his sword again, beheading the noble next to the guard, cheers going up from the men around him. Caught barely a stone’s throw away from their Island, he looked down at the dead man, before looking at the boat which had caught them, “His wives and daughters are yours. But I do not want any dead bodies.”

“Reaverking,” Blacktyde began, pointing his sword at a fat-titted wench tied up by one of his men, her ragged clothes nearly torn off her udders, “This girl is his salt daughter. She was one who opened the doors to the inner rooms for our men.”

“Did she now?” he drawled, raising the bloodied sword as her sisters and her father’s wife began cursing her aloud. Eye narrowing at the interruption, Balon turned his gaze to them first, and lowered his sword so that his blade touched their noses, “Am I going to have to cut out your tongues?”

“Good,” he grunted at the fearful and rapid shakes of heads, as well as the snot–nosed, teary-eyed faces that suddenly lowered in deference. Looking back at the bastard daughter, Balon walked forward, “What’s your name, girl?”

“Falia, Milord,” she muttered back, eyes meeting his for a moment before she looked down, “I opened the doors to the ravenery and the family wing for your men.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause I hate them,” she spat, glowering at her bound sisters and step-mother, and the hate in her words actually made him pause for a moment, and Balon found himself looking at the bastard with a new light, “and I am not dying to save their hides. Better save myself.”

“Hn,” he hummed, pulling back from the girl, his eyes raking over her once more before he looked at Blacktyde, “Get her some proper garments. In fact, you will wear the gowns that these whores once wore, and I am taking Falia here as my salt wife.”

The last bit was said out loud, so that everyone on his ship could hear it. Murmurs sprang instantly, and Balon smiled crookedly at the nervous wench before turning around to look at the women. “Off with them now, rotate shifts if any sailor needs to sleep. We are travelling through the night. Dunstan, send your reavers ahead to clear out any fields and lookouts. Reach should be unaware of us for as long as possible. Kill any villagers that live along the coast, and row fast and hard.”

With that done, Balon watched them run off for their tasks, and Falia was taken below the deck by one of the women on board. Eyeing the lass one last time, Balon turned his eyes towards the shoreline, where even if it was not visible, Balon knew Old Oak stood.

“Dunstan, Victarion,” he called out, “Take the ships we got from these islands and get to Old Oak. Fly these flags, and make the soldiers wear their color until you reach the docks. Cut off their boats and see if you can take it without the ravens flying. Take however much you need, and leave the rest here.”

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Willas!”

“Whu-who is there?” he blinked away the sleep in his eyes, and the Heir to the Reach pushed himself upright, the stiffness in his neck persisting despite the nigh–wait. He narrowed his eyes at the distinctly dark sky outside. It was still midnight, the taste of wine still persisting on his tongue. By the Seven, it had not even been hours since they had retired from Lord Leygood’s nameday feast. Whoever woke him up better have a good reas–

“Willas!” ah, it was Margaery then, he sighed, recognising his young sister’s voice from outside his bedchamber, “Wake up, it’s urgent!”

“Let her in, Duncan,” he called out to the guard as he swung his legs off the edge of his bed, wearing his sandals as he pushed himself to his feet with a grunt, the familiar, expected throb in his ankle making him pause for a moment. But the sight of his sister rushing inside, clearly haphazardly dressed and wide-eyed, was enough to remove it from his mind. His thoughts jumped to the only thing he could think of which would cause such hysteria, and as she stopped in front of him, panicking and heaving, Willas gently grabbed her shoulders, “Margaery?! What has happened?! Is Grandmother alrigh–”

“There was a raven,” she breathed in deeply, “Maester Lomys woke up grandmother, and she woke me up to send for you. The–It’s better if you come to her chambers quickly.”

“Wha—Is Father alright?!” he muttered, quickly catching onto the only other thing which would make Margaery panic like this.

“Just come, it’s better if grandmother tells you about it,” she shook her head, pulling on his hands as she started to move towards the door. Barely grabbing his robe from where it was slung across the seat, Willas followed after his sister, the sound of his crutch striking the stone flooring echoing in the night along with the sound of their guards following after them.

The halls of Dunstonbury were quiet at this hour, the flickering torches casting long shadows against the stone walls as the sound of his crutch echoed with every step. Margaery walked beside him, silent now, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on both their shoulders.

When they reached the solar, Duncan rapped twice, then opened the door at Olenna’s sharp bark from within. Willas stepped inside, the air thick with the scent of wine and candlewax. His grandmother stood by the hearth, her usual poise worn at the edges, a parchment raised towards him. Lord Leygood himself was present too, seated stiffly, his lined face drawn and shadowed in the firelight, none of that cheer from hours ago present.

“House Hayford?” Willas blinked, staring at the crisscrossing bands at either side of a waving line as he accepted the letter, before he met Olenna’s eyes. “Since when has House Hayford been sending out letters to the realm, especially House Tyrell. I thought their lands were still administered directly by the Crown.”

“They are, it’s the maester currently in charge of the estate who has sent this,” Olenna answered, her face grimmer than Willas had ever seen it. “The raven first reached Highgarden, and was forwarded here at once. Read it, Willas, and tell me I am not dreaming.”

Frowning at her disbelief-laden words, he looked at the parchment, the choppy but readable script lightly washed away in some rain. But he could still make out enough of it.

To His Lordship, the Honored Regent and Lord Paramount of the Reach,

May the light of the Seven guide your wisdom in these dark hours.

It is with a trembling hand and a heavy heart that I, Maester Corwis, in faithful service to House Hayford and steward of the Haywood estate, write to inform you of a calamity that defies all sense and reason.

Euron Greyjoy, the accursed Kraken of the Iron Isles has struck King's Landing under the cover of night. What devilry or sorcery fueled his assault I cannot say, but I witnessed with my own eyes green fire burning the capital to the ground, even though storms and rains ravage the now smoldering ruin.

King's Landing is no more. The Red Keep lies in ash, the Great Sept shattered, and the smoke still rises from the scorched bones of the capital. There is no word of the Small Council, or the Royal household Milord. Gods help us, they may very well all be lost. Euron Greyjoy has departed just as swiftly as he arrived, and there is no further sign of his presence in the surrounding lands.

As the nearest Great Lord and the shield of the South, I beg of you: send aid. The Crownlands reel from the blow — food, medicine, blankets, tools, and men to bury the dead and care for the wounded. Some of the lesser Crown land houses have already arrived by the time this raven reaches you to offer what aid they can, but it is not enough.

Ravens fly now to all corners of the realm, and this one bears my plea to you, my lord. A day has passed already, and this raven shall take about five more to reach you. May you find it in your heart, and your honor—to ride to the aid of the realm, before what remains crumbles into chaos.

With solemn hope,

Maester Corwis
Of Haywood Keep
Sworn to House Hayford,
By the Grace of the Citadel

“Fuck,” he breathed, not even knowing when he had soken, the words written before his eyes repeating themselves continuously. His knees buckled suddenly, and Willas was absently aware of margaery helping him sit down on the chair, his fingers still holding onto the letter, “Fuck.”

“That seems accurate,” Ollena muttered, and Willas looked up at her, finding her taking a long sip directly from the wine flagon itself, the scent of Arbor heavy in the room. “Why in the name of the Father did that mad reaver come to the capital at this moment? Blasted bastard couldn’t have chosen another time? At least when there would have been someone to defend the city?”

“Renly Baratheon would have held command as the master of Laws.”

“I doubt he had a single commanding bone in his body,” Ollena scoffed, dismissing the most probably dead baratheon callously. “There is a reason he was called the Prancing Stag. Besides, I doubt Cersei would have let him do anything, not when she could finally play Monarch.”

“Fucking hells,” he repeated once again, sweat dripping down his forehead as he looked a the parchment once again, rereading it just to be sure that he wasn’t hallucinating, “What do we do?”

“What do you mean what do we do?” Margaery shook her head, taking the letter from his hands and weaving it around with a frown on her face. “Look, I don’t know how much of this is true, but something has happened at King’s Landing. As the governing House of the Reach, we should send aid as soon as possible.”

“It is not so simple,” he muttered, giving her a look, “Harvest season is right around the corner, and one-third of our personal granaries were recently emptied for the shipment that went North, as well as to the Stormlands. To take more out of the storage without being assured of this harvest would be a mistake. Especially since Tarly’s lands were hit by an infestation, and subsequently a plague two moons ago. A sum was granted to him to cover for the medical and livelihood expenses. We were fortunate that Lord Leygood here stopped wagons and travellers from Tarly lands before his own fields were wasted.”

“Grain was sent to the capital too, along with a loan of half a million dragons,” Ollena snorted, before clarifying as Margaery made a questioning sound. “We were hoping to secure your betrothal to the Crown Prince. Coin is also being spent on a daily basis on the soldiers Mace has taken with him, as well as the Redwyne Fleet. We are contributing forty percent to the wages of the sailors, and money was also granted to the Shield Islands to increase the number of ships they hold.”

“I reckon you are feeling wonderful about that loan now,” Willas snarked, and he was aware of Margaery's surprised eyes turning towards him, as well as the fact that this was not a discussion to be had in front of Leygood. Understandable, he supposed, for he couldn’t remember the last time he had raised his voice at someone. Being crippled had taught him a lot of patience, but even that patience was given to be run through when idiotic schemes like this came back to bite them in the ass, and as for Lord Leygood…the man knew whenand how to keep his lips sealed. At the silent, stone-faced look his grandmother shot him, Willas shook his head and stood up, “I told you both, that rushing into this betrothal was a bad idea. That we should first take measure of the place we are sending Margaery into.”

“You speak as if we had the time to do so, when Ned Stark has a daughter of marriageable age to the Crown Prince, and the King was going North,” Ollena frowned, disappointed, “You aren’t naive enough to talk like this Willas. Besides, Euron certainly didn’t inform me that he was going to attack King’s Landing, or else I would have thought this in more detail. I get your frustration, and that you are Margaery’s brother, but you have your duty to the House, just as she has hers.”

“I know,” he shook his head, sighing heavily as he took a relaxing breath, aware of the uncomfortable expression on his sister’s face. Meeting his grandmother’s eyes again, Willas nodded and turned around. “I am taking stock of the granaries personally, and sending out orders to the ealdormen in our lands at least. Cider Hall and Goldengrove should both have some grain leftover if I am right. I am sending out ravens to them too.”

Lord Leygood’s jaw worked as he ground his teeth. “A kraken in the Blackwater…gods help us all.” He turned, motioning towards the window. “We shall raise the patrols along our roads. If King’s Landing truly lies in ruin, there will be refugees and worse spilling south—bandits, deserters, hungry mouths with nothing to lose. We’ll hold order here until Highgarden commands otherwise.” He paused, eyes on Willas. “My riders stand ready, should you require them.”

“A wise decision, Lord Alaestor,” he nodded in gratitude, before turning towards his grandmother, “We return to Highgarden at sunrise. There are raven sto be sent, and I need to personally take stock of out granaries at the Kee-

“What’s that?” Margaery’s mutter stopped whatever response his grandmother was going to give, and Willas turned towards her, before following her gaze to outside the window.

“What’s what?” he asked, finding nothing wrong with the starry night outside, a cool draft of wind coming into the room as if concurring with his words.

“That,” she whispered, pointing a little to the right of where he had been looking, and Willas cursed his falling vision, narrowing his eyes to find the fir-wait, fire?!

“Get to the horses,” He instantly turned to Margaery, before turning his eyes towards the door, “Ser Damien, take Margaery to Goldengrove—no, to Horn Hill, as fast as you can. Take thirty of your best men with you, and ride fast!”

“Wa-”

“There is no time,” he growled, knowing that he was grabbing her too hard, but Willas didn’t care one bit as he pushed her towards the door. “Run towards the stables, and listen to Damien. Don’t you come back before you get a letter in my writing, am I understood?”

“Willa-”

He didn’t mean to raise his voice, not at her. But the fear clawing at his throat came out rough and unkind. He saw it in the way her mouth parted in shock, in the way her breath hitched—not only from protest, but from the hurt and fear too.

“Margaery,” he said again, softer this time, but no less firm, gripping her shoulders as though to anchor her to the moment, “you must go. You must live, do you understand me? If something happens to you, I won’t be able to live. Ride hard sister, and send word to every Keep and Lord. Tell Dunstonbury is under attack, and Oldtown must set sail.”

“Ser Damien!” Alaestor snapped, already striding for the door. “You’ll not ride alone. Serjeant—rouse twenty good riders and ride with them. Tyrell blood must not ride alone!”

Her lip trembled, a tear cutting silently down her cheek. But she nodded. Once. Twice. Her hands trembled as they reached for his, and for a moment, neither moved.

Then he let go.

“Ride like the Others themselves are at your heels,” he muttered, turning away before he could see her cry.

“Ser Damien!” he barked instead, watching the fire slowly spread wider and wider, still in the distance at the coast of the Mander, but approaching closer all the same, “Get her out. Now.”