The Icefyre Conquest 32

“It is a surprise, that Mace Tyrell was able to arrive on time,” Stannis muttered as they stood upon the deck of the Royal flagship, and Ned

“It is a surprise, that Mace Tyrell was able to arrive on time,” Stannis muttered as they stood upon the deck of the Royal flagship, and Ned nodded at the words, looking through the Myrish eye at the surcoat of the Redwynes colored upon the sails of the ships at the horizon, the red grapes on the vivid blue barely visible. The next second, he shifted his eyes eastwards, where, past the light fog rolling across the Western sea, he could see the slight silhouettes of the Ironborn ships, spanning all over the horizon.

“I had expected more,” Ned muttered, as all three navies continued to sail forward, aiming to meet a league away in a trifecta of blood, lumber and steel. “Where is Robert?”

“Drinking, I assume.” Stannis answered, taking the Myrish eyeglass and looking at the ships arrayed against them himself. “It has been years since some of the Stormlords have seen him, especially since many of them were evicted from the court in one way or the other. They all were quite eager to wine and dine with him.”

“The Court doesn’t have Stormlords in it?” Ned asked, raising an eyebrow. He had heard the rumors of course, from traveling merchants and the recent Southern party that had resided in Winterfell, of how Robert’s own people had so little influence in the capital that might not be there for all intents and purposes, with seemingly every position of court filled by Tywin’s House or those loyal to him. One of the many reasons he had put a stop to the notion of Sansa’s and Joffrey’s marriage.

“Hardly anymore, ever since Myrcella was born to Cersei,” Stannis answered, and Ned was surprised at the vitriol in Staniss’ voice, for Cersei and Myrcella both. The balding man turned towards him and frowned, casting his ever-serious face in shadow as he nodded at the lavish chambers beneath the deck. “Robert doesn’t care, so long as the Queen doesn’t shout for the whole Keep to hear, and so he lets her and her father get away with everything. Good, honest men have been imprisoned, executed, or removed from service entirely to fill the Court and the Keep with Lannister dogs. Loyal only to Tywin and his sick daughter.”

“Surely the Queen does not deserve so much…negativity,” he hedged carefully, remembering his own experiences with Cersei Lannister, and the tales that had prevailed through the Kingdoms ever since she took the crown alongside Robert. “She certainly is used to the way the things worked for her in the Westerlands, but she won’t actually do anything to undermine the Baratheon name. Joffrey and Tommen both are Baratheons, and one is set to take the seat of the Head of the House one day should Renly not marry. Why remove the Baratheon influence from the court when their power is assured for her anyways?”

“Many things are happening in King’s Landing that the realm and even you are woefully ignorant of,” Stannis scoffed, turning his stormy eyes back towards the sea. He gripped the railing tightly, the hints of that famed Baratheon fury leaking through the stoic man’s voice. “But my opinions and views hardly matter to my brother, for he calls the Great Honorable Ned Stark a truer brother than his own flesh and blood.”

“Robert’s views are not my own, I certainly do not claim to be above you in his life,” he frowned, turning his attention fully upon the Baratheon brother. “I take no pride in Robert slighting you and Renly by calling me his true brother, but you are wrong to make me the culprit of his feelings. Like it or not, you are the Master of the Ships, and I am the Lord of the North, and we are two leaders on a campaign for our King and the realm.”

“Hn,” the dour man grunted in response, turning around and walking away, leaving Ned alone on the brow.

Only minutes later, Ned remembered—he hadn’t asked Stannis what Cersei had done.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

An arrow shot past his ear, burying itself in the Ironborn’s chest, before another shot itself into his eye, and the reaver stumbled backward from the blows—and Robb watched him trip over a rope and tumble back first into the swirling waters below. Wielding his greatsword—not Ice, for that was still in his father’s hands–he cleaved through an Ironborn’s chest, the padded leather barely resisting his blow. A grimace flitted across his face as he visibly saw the man void his bowels on the deck.

Learning that men shat themselves upon their death was one thing, but seeing it was entirely a different matter, Robb realized, as he moved sideways to avoid an axe, his sword chopping through the arm that had made to hack at him. Shearing through the rusted, half-broken chainmail like a hot knife through butter and ending another Ironborn, he looked up as Lyanna shoved a knife in the last Ironborn’s eye, clearing the ship of yet another crew.

The men cheered loudly, thumping their shields and swords and spears, as all around them, the war finally began in earnest. Ships crashed into each other in a shower of creaking, groaning lumber, as well as whistling arrows and fountain blood. The Ironborn had not been lazy all these years, he thought, watching his Royal flagship simply tear through a burning cog in its way, dozens of archers upon it shooting down any and all Ironborn in sight. They had more ships than what the restriction imposed upon them, but yet, it was well within manageable numbers, especially with the Royal and Redwyne fleets pinching the Ironborn together, moving towards the Iron Islands unimpeded.

Ahead of them, Stannis Baratheon was leading the charge of the Northern flank, while Paxter Redwyne, the Redwyne Lord was heading the Southern flank. His father was on the leading Mallister ship, with Lord Mallister, and even from here, Robb could see the fighting going on upon the deck, while the Northern and Riverland archers continued to shoot down any Ironborn climbing up from the sea. Fires raged across the ocean, as the ships burned and crumbled into broken wood, the Ironborn throwing as many torches into the sails of the royal ships as they could.

“Something is not right,” Lyanna muttered as she came by his side, cleaning his bloody knife on the Ironborn’s jacket by his feet, before she stood up straight and stared out at the battles going on. Tilting his head as he shifted his helm a little, Robb looked at the ship to their left, finding Jon tearing through Ironborn after Ironborn with Nightfall in his hand, a round shield in another—and he turned back towards Lyanna, question in his eyes. Catching his look, she nodded in the direction of the Ironborn navy, or rather, what was left of it after an hour of fighting, behind whim, he could see the silhouette of the Iron Islands. “When we left Harlaw, almost all of their merchant cogs and raiding ships were at Old Wyk, and even now, I don’t see any Harlaw banners flying in the ships around us.”

“Harras and Rodrik both are in no place to command,” he shook his head, turning his eyes towards his father’s ship, where both Theon and Rodrik were being held prisoner. “Balon must have given some other Reaver the command over the Harlaw forces.”

“And yet, the heraldry on the sides, the paint would not change,” she countered, kicking a shield by their feet, and Robb watched it skid over the blood and water before it struck a bucket and stopped, the white skeletal hand on red paint covered in blood, “And even the number of soldiers on these cogs and ships are less than what they can carry.”

“They are bleeding us for every inch, we already knew they were going to do that,” he muttered, remembering the words his father had said to them after the Royal fleet converged with them west of the mainland. “But Stannis and father were sure that Balon would send the bulk of his forces into the sea, to stop most of our forces from landing ashore on Iron Islands.”

“And yet, we are facing exactly the amount of ships that would comfortably lower our numbers,” she pointed at the reading ships, each one belonging to either Drumm, Greyjoy, or Blacktydes, with the others sprinkled in between, “Iron Islands can easily raise 600 longships, with Greyjoy’s personal fleet having boasted about a hundred alone on his own in the last rebellion. The restriction was 300 longships, and just fifty large warships. But we have seen more than half that number on its own here only, without counting the last line of defense before the Islands.”

“And that is why we stationed our forces all along the western edge of our land, because Balon would no doubt go for places like Barrowtown and Torrhen’s Square,” he pointed out. Before shaking his head looking at the next ship coming towards them, scowling as he saw how almost all the reavers were shouting and jeering at his sister. “Focus on the reavers here. If Balon goes to the North, he will be facing armies on two fronts, and he will be defeated nonetheless.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been two hours since the first blood had been drawn, by an arrow burying itself in a Baratheon soldier’s eyes, and Ned had not stopped once, save for a quick swig of some watered wine. Ice felt twice as heavy in his hands as a castle greatsword, and each step felt like he was dragging his body through winter snows. Heaving his ancestral blade once more, Ned blocked an axe coming for his chest, and with practice born of decades, he shifted the blade just enough to knock the axe off it for a moment. And yet, a moment was all he needed.

Valyrian steel parted flesh as easily as taking toys from a babe, and Ned watched the corpse fall from his sword stoically. To his side, he heard the roaring laughter of Robert as the man swung his large warhammer, clad in his famed armor…though the scaled breastplate had obviously been resized from Robert’s younger days as the Demon who had slain Rhaegar. And contrary to his expectation, the dull throb of anger and sadness at the thought of the Rebellion, and what had started it…it never came, very unlike the years previous. Watching Robert cave in an Ironborn’s head into just broken pieces of skull and pulping brains, Ned sighed and turned away, taking a step forward to open a reaver from his hip to shoulder.

Maybe he was finally rising from the shadow the Rebellion had cast on his life.

Or maybe he was just growing old, he thought with a grimace as he felt his kidneys spasm for a moment, while his legs groaned in agony. And to think he wasn’t in his full armor yet.

“Lord Stark,” Jason Mallister’s level voice interrupted his thoughts, and Ned looked away from the Royal flagship, turning his eyes towards the Lord of Seagard. He had met Jason Mallister a couple of times before, once during the Tourney, once at his and Catelyn’s wedding, and the other time during the Greyjoy Rebellion, and both times, the Mallister Lord had struck him as a fair, honorable man. His blue-grey eyes were hidden behind a helm with the wings of an eagle flaring out from it, and he still had the same, warm but stern look on his face as when he had presented the body of Rodrik Greyjoy to Robert. “One of the Ironborn just spat at my face about how we are going to be defeated by the Drowned God.”

“Nothing new then,” he raised an eyebrow, wondering why an intelligent, and moreover, an experienced man in the matters concerning the Ironborn was coming to him with this. He may be in command here, but by no means was he more experienced than Jason. “Dying men say things they believe, mad men even more so.”

“And yet, it was not this that alarmed me,” he shook his head, a troubled look crossing across his face as the man continued. “He said that finally the Drowned God was back on the Greenland…that Balon Greyjoy was in Westeros proper.”

“It can't be, we came from the Northern Strait,” he shook his head,” if Balon was going to the North, his ships would have had to pass us by, and even then, the North and the Riverlands are well defended by the forces stationed along the outlets and the landing points. Your own Keep was left with a garrison of a thousand and five hundred soldiers, not counting your regular household guards.”

“And the Westerlands?”

“Tywin Lannister is many things, but stupid is far from one of them,” Eddard shook his head, “Tywin won't leave his lands undefended. And the Iron Islanders won’t leave to raid the mainland when we are going to besiege every Island they live on. It must have been just a ruse on Balon’s part, and even if it is not, then we have protected our lands the best we could already.”

“Tywin Lannister is not stupid, but neither is Balon,” the blonde-white-haired man frowned, turning his head in the direction of the Iron Islands, little silhouettes of the rocky, barren specks of land visible on the horizon. “I believe we should inform the King and the other Great Lords, so that they shall administer their forces as they see fit, if there is any grain of truth in these words.”

An hour later, the ships of the King and the Great Lords came side by side, and planks were thrown from one to another, creating bridges to Robert’s ship. There he found his friend upon the deck, glaring down at the bodies being shoved into the sea, his helm in his hands, and his warhammer gripped in the other. “Blasted Ironborn,” he breathed out as he caught sight of him, and Ned blinked as he realized that Robert had cut his beard a little, the scruffy, mead and wine-soaked mess now shorted much neater than what it had been in the early hours of the morning. Catching sight of his surprised gaze, Robert rolled his eyes and waved his hand towards Jon, “he got on my arse about it, and well, I guess I didn’t want more brains and blood stuck in my beard. Helps with the sweat too.”

“You look younger than you did in Winterfell,” he noted with a nod, and yet, Eddard could notice the tired, breathless flush that covered Robert from head to toe. Even though the man had picked up his hammer and started to train himself somewhat, he had wasted away the last decade, covering that towering, muscled body in a layer of lard and fat that drained him of any stamina and endurance he had possessed. “Where are the others?”

“Stannis is already here, as is the Martell,” he grunted, pointing a finger in the direction of the younger Martell prince. “Tyrell is coming with Paxter Redwyne, and my good-father will walk over that plank when he finally stops shitting gold I guess.”

“That man, is the reason why you have more than half of the feasts and whores you enjoy, without counting the Tourneys you are so fond of,” his foster father’s voice came over, uncharacteristically scathing and angry for once, and Ned turned around, finding the old falcon Lord walking towards them, clad in a simple breastplate for now, the Arryn falcon emblazoned upon it for all to see. His deep brown eyes glared at the already scowling king, Jon raised his palm and stopped Robert’s blustering shout before it could even be made known, “We are in a debt of over three fucking million gold dragons to Tywin Lannister, an-”

“WHAT?!”

“You didn’t know?” Jon whispered as he shook his head, before turning his eyes back towards Robert, who was rapidly turning a shade of puce that Ned hadn’t imagined to be possible for a person. “And that is without counting what we owe to the Iron Bank, as well as Mace Tyrell.”

“The Iron Bank and Mace Tyrell?” his eyes snapped towards Jon so fast that Ned audibly heard the bones in his neck pop, but even that throb of lancing pain was nothing in front of the naked shock on his face. “Aerys left the coffers filled to the brim and more! I saw the vaults below the Red keep myself! And what about the taxes collected? They have been increasing constantly since Aerys’ time, and you are telling me that the Crown is still in a debt of over three million dragons?!”

“The Crown,” Jon snorted, amusement and despair both coloring his tone at once, “is in a debt of over six million dragons. We just owe the majority of that to Tywin Lannister’s generosity.”

“Bah! Generosity,” Robert sneered, thumping his warhammer on the deck, and out of the corner of his eyes, Ned saw Stannis send away the soldiers and mariners around them, while Oberyn Martell began to make his way over to them. “There is no generosity! I married his daughter and made her the Queen and his grandchildren are going to rule the realm after me. There is no generosity in him supporting his daughter’s dynasty, and I am the King!”

“And yet, you are a fool if you think that signing away offices, positions and land to Tywin and his bannermen is a good idea, just so you can fatten yourself up on more alcohol and fuck a couple more whores instead of being a King!” Jon snapped back, and Ned felt like he had stepped into a bubbling volcano, the old Falcon obviously taking out years worth of frustration now that the kettle had boiled over, his finger pointing at Robert. “You are barely able to stand for two hours, and commune with the Council for even less! Just look at yourself, and the realm you are the Ki-”

“Well I didn’t ask for it, did I?” Robert roared, his eyes flashing with the famed Baratheon fury, and Ned almost worried that he might strike Jon Arryn right then and there. It seemed as if his foster father also had the same thoughts, and Jon took a step back, but his friend wasn’t deterred. Both Stannis and Oberyn were now standing a bit to their left, and for a moment, Eddard was shocked by the seriousness on Martell’s face, but Robert’s words soon captured his attention again. “You made me the King! You made me sit on that blasted throne after that mad cunt was dead! You are the one who made me stand at the head of the armies when you very well knew I had no interest in ruling! You knew that I wasn’t made to be a King, and yet you thrust me in that bloody chair and placed this fucking crown atop my head, now you blame me for finding joy in the few things that are left for me to enjoy?!

“You didn’t want Kingship?” Jon shot right back, and Ned helplessly watched him take a step forwards, and shove a finger into Robert’s chest. “What did you think would happen once you killed Rhaegar? What was going to happen when men saw you lead them to victory, slay the Crown Prince, and proclaim your burning desire to end the Targaryens?! By the Right of Conquest, and even by the Right of Blood you won that throne Robert! And if you hate being a King so much, then lay back and keep wasting away with whores and wine—but when your Council advises you on something, then you better listen to it!”

“Your council, was for me to take my frigid bitch of a cat for my wife!”

“Father help me, this again?!” Jon snapped, throwing up his hands, and Ned made to intervene in between, only for him to catch sight of Tywin and Tyrell both walking over towards them, crossing over from their ships, and in that brief moment, Jon continued, “Tywin Lannister was the only Great Lord whose daughter you could marry, and he had allied himself with you! As your hand, it was my duty to ensure your reign stayed stable and strong, and the realm prospered! But all I seem to have done over these years is wipe your shit and bring you more and more coin to splurge on your stupidity!”

“Jon,” Ned finally spoek up, grabbing him by his shoulder, and that seemed to snap the man out of his anger, as he took a look at the men surrounding them—and not for the first time, Ned wondered what it was like to be Robert’s Hand, for it to make even a man like Jon Arryn lose his composure publicly like this. Clearly, this had been eating away at the man for years…and hadn’t Stannis said something about him and Jon Arryn sharing so-

“Why were we summoned…Lord Hand?” Tywin interrupted his thoughts, giving an emotionless glance to Robert, having no doubt heard the man’s shouts over the momentarily silent ships, “is there any change of strategy?”

“Nay,” Robert growled, glaring murder at Jon Arryn as he took a step forward, and pinched something by his heart pulling his hand back, “as the Bloody King of the bloody Seven Kingdoms, I, Robert Baratheon name Eddard Stark my Hand from now on. If anyone has any problems, they can take it up with my hammer.”