The Icefyre Conquest 31

“These knights think their prissy Southron gods give a damn fuck about them,” Greatjon grunted, running his sword over the whetstone, glarin

“These knights think their prissy Southron gods give a damn fuck about them,” Greatjon grunted, running his sword over the whetstone, glaring at the Mallister Knights standing by the ships, before his eyes turned towards us, and he raised an eyebrow, “Do ye know why they don’t you greenboys?”

“Because they don’t exist?” Harrion hedged carefully, looking at the giant man as if he would leap across the distance and shove that giant sword in our guts.

“Hah!” the Greatjon snorted, before guffawing loudly, and I watched out of the corner of my eye as the other Lords chuckled with Karstark’s father slapping him on his back, “They are learning. If only these guys knew how to swing a sword now.”

“Greatjon!” the Lord of the North’s voice echoed through the camp, and instantly, everybody straightened up as Eddard Stark walked into view, clad in his armor already, Ice being carried by a couple of servants towards the ship the Greatlord was going to sail in, “You and Karstark will lead the men with me at the front! Roose and Medger will handle the stragglers and our rear. Robb, Jon, Lyanna, you will be with me.”

“Aye, as you command,” everybody nodded at Greatjon’s words, and we stood up, and once again, I felt mighty uncomfortable about the armor I had been given, the heavy breastplate weighing down upon my arms as I moved towards the ships. We had not worn the armor yet, for in case the ship wrecked midway, then at least we would have a scope of swimming instead of being dragged to the depths by the steel’s weight.

I had been given a full suit of heavy plate. An agglomeration of the finest suit of plate the North had to offer, all from the best castle-forged steel of Winterfell, a well-made ringmail, and an arming doublet. It was not every day a bastard was given a custom-fitted armor that even most of the lords of the North couldn’t afford–or get their smiths to forge. It was an impressive and blatant showing of favor, for there were other northern bastards with us, and the best armaments they could boast of were a ringmail and a brigandine. The padded surcoat depicting my chosen heraldry–a white direwolf head with red eyes on black, the same colors as Ghost–betrayed my baseborn origin for all to see, but I didn’t bring myself to care. Uncle–no, father, for what was he but the man who had decided to raise us despite all odds and options given to us–cared. He cared, and I loved him for it.

Armor was a game-changer. It allowed you to make mistakes, last longer in battle, protect your life once you were tired, and turn you into a virtual medieval tank. Lords and powerful knights wore armor not only because they could display their wealth and status with fancy ornamentation but also because it worked. Weapons being equal, a combatant without armor would lose a fight against one with armor nine times out of ten, and even the biggest fool would want to leverage.

But there was one small problem with armor. While it being custom-fitted made it easy for me to move in it due to the very good distribution of weight, the rigidness prevented me from drawing a bow. The armor wasn’t meant to flex and bend to the posture of a bowman drawing the string or aiming properly. A full suit of plate was perfect for hand-to-hand combat. Atop a horse or foot, with sword, mace, axe, or lance, it didn’t matter; it was the deadliest and most honest clash of steel and mettle–face to face.

And it was heavy.

Metals were heavy, and being dressed from head to toe was no different. All of the armament I wore totaled slightly above fifty pounds. For men who were physically pushed and trained as soon as they could walk to fight and kill, it was not a problem.

But even a trained woman lacked the endurance to fight long while saddled with such weight. There was a reason the she-bears of Mormont favored an arming doublet and a light ringmail, along with a shield–their armaments weighed only two-fifths that of mine. It also allowed them the flexibility to use slings and bows.

But no matter how much I wanted to lie to myself, it was plain to see that Eddard Stark cared. My sister had a fitted gambeson of a splendid make. Fifteen layers of specially treated linen, wool, and hardened leather, both quilted and glued together, with rows of steel scales sewn into the final layer. Real tempered steel, not run-of-the-mill iron or soft steel most men-at-arms or knights used. It didn’t look like much, but neither arrows nor axes could pierce the armor, and it was nearly just over a third of the weight of my own armor. Visenya wasn’t going to fight on the front but command a company of archers, which was a relief.

Of course, seeing my coat of arms, she didn’t miss the chance to make hers a black wolf head on white on her padded surcoat, courtesy of her own direwolf, which continued the theme of our reversed coloring.

On the way here, I had heard of several Septas and Septons, servants of the Seven that they were, whispers in hushed tones about how it was a crime, to let a bastard, and `a heathen at that, lay hands on Trueborns. While passing through the camps of the Riverlanders and the Reachmen that had traveled with us down the Kingsroad, soldiers and servants alike would look at me with muttered words and skeptical looks, but yet, no one said anything too radical—not with the King’s threat of a lost head still fresh in everyone's minds.

“Jon, you and Robb will be with the infantry. Your task is to kill the Ironborn, and keep any reinforcements from coming behind us. The King and I shall be attacking Balon’s towers directly, and thus, you shall hold off the reavers until Balon lies dead,” he commanded, and I looked at Visenya, silently asking a question. He followed my gaze and a look of realization appeared in his eyes, before he continued, “Lyanna shall join Maege once we reach the Pyke. The Mormonts and the Glovers will be clearing out their shipyards and docks, and hold off the other islands from landing the Pyke ashore—though, they are going to be busy enough with the other kingdoms. You are in command of the archers of Winterfell, and will clear out their lighthouses and the towers nearest to the docks once the shore is secure.”

“No one is sending even half as many men as we have brought,” Robb said, looking behind him at the gathered Northern army, various flags of the marching Houses flying in the eastern wind, “Was it a good decision to bring so many of our soldiers on the campaign? We could have just as easily taken the Islands with two thousand fewer swords. Our coffers are not running that deep Father, not since we commissioned those glass gardens to be rebuilt, and the grain that Tyrell brought with him—and well…regular feasts aren’t good if we don’t want to touch our reserves.”

“We have enough,” came the reply as Lord Stark looked at his heir, before nodding in the direction of the Iron Islands, “There is plunder aplenty in those islands, and most of the soldiers will find more than enough to cover the cost of the march and the fighting. And that is without counting the amount of gold, jewels, and various items Jon and Lyanna brought back from Harlaw Island.”

“Are we really going to kill every Ironborn?” Robb asked after a few moments of silence, all four of us watching the Mallister ships, and the few Glover ones that had sailed down the edge of the North slowly raise anchors, our soldiers walking upon the vessels as we prepared to set sail. For a moment, silence seemed to echo upon our ship, as we all looked at the Lord of the North, for it was not a father or an Uncle that stood before us any longer. And I could understand Robb’s apprehension–hell, I was feeling some of it myself. It was one thing to kill and behead a raiding party, or a band of wildlings in the name of peace…but it was a whole other thing to cull thousands in the name of war.

This was a genocide, plain and simple.

It had been easy, to sacrifice the prisoners to the Heart Tree, and while I had been surprised to see the offerings be accepted visibly by the Weirwood…it was only now that the full weight of what was transpiring around me settled upon my mind. Here and now, upon this ship, I now realized that after than truly fucking the canon out of the window for the most part…I had now idea of how the events would play out once this ship sailed, both literally and metaphorically.

Day by day, month by month, things had changed rapidly since I had woken from the dream where I had met my parents. My views regarding the world and my family had shifted drastically in some matters, and yet, one thing became more cloudier than a winter snowstorm. Just how was I supposed to go about things after this? Do I go east, look for the Targaryens that had escaped Stannis years ago, or do I go back North?

And that was without the surprise that had been Rhaenys supposedly being alive. While I had enough trust that the visions, or the dreams that I had experienced while unconscious had been true…I was still a little skeptical about Rhaenys’ survival. The city had been sealed by Aerys long before Tywin laid siege to it, and eventually sacked King’s Landing. Elia Martell had been raped and butchered by the Mountain, while the corpses of Aegon and Rhaenys were presented to Robert, gift-wrapped by the Lion Lord. Hypothetically, if there was a way for the girl to be smuggled out of the keep, why wasn’t Aegon carried out the same way? Or even Elia Martell along with both of her children.

Lorch’s babbling, terrified words had revealed much of the events of the Sack, which had forever been shrouded in the wake of the horror caused in the Maidenvault, as well as the fall of the Targaryens…but yet, it only gave one side of the events, and that too from an incomplete perspective. With how Elia had declared my half-sister to be alive…it was a complicatio-nay, a nightmare of epic-fucking-proportions.

It revealed why Gaelithox hadn't been taken with either Visenya or me, as Vhyraxes or Caraaxes had. The fiery bronze dragon was most probably meant to be Rhaenys’ mount and partner, and it showed in the way he had acted till now. While Gaelithox listened to us, and was never aggressive beyond some growling, I now realized just why it was so…lazy. The dragon just didn't feel any excitement at our presence, the kind of energy that seemed to come over Vhyraxes or Caraxes, probably realizing that while Visenya and I had hatched him and taken care of him, we were not his.

After that, next came the question of just where the fuck Rhaenys was?

The most logical answer would be the east, much like the Daenerys and Viserys…but yet, if the daughter of Rhaegar was seen and recognized in the Free Cities or the Pentoshi lands…word would have long since spread through Westeros itself, or at least, in its upper echelons. Robert Baratheon would have stopped at nothing to get her killed, and neither would have Tywin Lannister, from what I had gleaned of the Old Lion and his pride regarding his House and his legacy.

A point could be made, for Rhaenys to be much better hidden than my aunt and uncle, owing to her not possessing the distinct, non-valyrian features, but it was still a jump and a half. Walking to the edge of the deck and peering down at the shallow waters below, I continued to think about the missing Targaryens, slowly arriving at a single conclusion.

It was not Rhaenys’ survival that would be a problem, if it ever was.

It was the ambiguity surrounding Aegon’s fate. While the remnant, or soul of Elia had spoken of Rhaenys, what is to say that hypothetically, the Crown Prince too had not been spirited away like his sister? I could not even begin to imagine the mess it would cause down the line. Already, I had forgotten much of the knowledge I had held of this world, my previous nothing but a muddled, forgotten dream that I remembered bare flashes of. Names and faces were all gone, and so were the events that had happened throughout my life. For fucks sake, I didn’t even remember how I had died, only that I had—and had been reborn here. 

Groaning mentally, I leaned against the railing, watching the ropes be pulled taut, and the shouts across the assembled Mallister and a couple of Northern ships rise, as the formal command to sail off towards the Iron Islands, and the assembling armies of Westeros was issued by my Uncle and Edmure Tully both.

As I watched a drifting weed pass beneath me, the ship lurched with the raising of the anchor, the unfurled sails catching the wind as a few large oars were used to push it past the jetty…and I sighed, turning my gaze south-west, my hand coming to rest upon the pommel of Nightfall. A moment later, I turned towards the small cabins built upon the deck, the rest of the sailors and soldiers supposed to sleep below it.

It was going to be a harrowing series of weeks for a while now, might as well get some last bit of rest before shit hit the wind.

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

“Stannis.” the roaring voice of Robert Baratheon echoed through the tents, and Jon winced, watching his once ward, and the now King of Westeros rush through the soldiers, pushing those out of the way who were too late to move themselves. He walked hastily, once again cursing his frail, weakening body, as well the brashness that had not left Robert despite the man being well into the fall of his third decade. As for why he was rushing, well he didn't want Robert to sa- “For once, you are not late!"

“Yes…my King,” Stannis kneeled, as did the soldiers and sailors under his command, but yet, Jon could practically hear the younger Baratheon’s teeth grit together in anger and humiliation, as a smattering of muffled chuckles and snorts went through the men around them. After all, even the King didn’t respect his own brother, so how the hell were the other Kingdoms supposed to? “The Royal Fleet is here as you commanded, as so are the Redwyne ships. The Dornish and the Reachmen are ready to set sail, and as are the men of the Stormlands.”

“Good,” Robert nodded, waving a hand for Stannis to stand up, and out of the corner of his eye, Jon caught sight of Tywin slowly walking towards them, his brother Kevan at his back, “Ned must have received the orders by now, so get the soldiers on the ships! I want everybody up and on the way towards the Islands in half an hour! Kingslayer! Get here and bring my hammer with you to my ship, right now!”

With that, Robert strode towards the royal ship, a large, black and gold-painted wooden monstrosity, fitted with scorpions and slots for oarsmen to navigate the ship in shallower waters. A remnant of the Targaryen fleet, Robert had it repurposed, making it grander and more imposing than what Aerys had owned. “Gather your weapons and armor!” he shouted, turning his head towards the couple of captains he could see on his side, as well Selmy and Greenfield, “You go with the King, Lord Commander, and Greenfield! You are in charge of the men from Stormlands.”

“At once, Lord Hand,” Barristan nodded, his helm clasped in one hand as he moved after Robert, while Greenfield nodded and turned towards where the men from Stormlands were watching quietly.

“Lord Stannis,” he turned around, as the soliders around them began to rush off, and ne nodded his head towards Robert’s ship, “How do you judge the battle on the sea is going to go?”

“Much worse than last time,” Stannis grunted out, his blue eyes staring in the eyes before they turned towards the said sea, “Balon and his reavers know that they can’t let us land upon the Islands, for our men are much better fitted, and much better fighters than his Ironborn. Last time, he kept a lot of men back upon Pyke and the surrounding Islands, but this time, he will send out more upon the sea. His best play would be to sink or delay as many of our ships as possible so that we can’t land a combined attack upon the Islands.”

“I agree with the Master of Ships,” the Lannister’s voice came from their left, adn Jon nodded at the man as Tywin reached them, his eyes flicking towards his son for a moment, as Jaime walked by them, Robert’s warhammer in his arms, “Much of my standing army will be attacking the island of Old Wyk. The command of my ships is yours, Lord Stannis. We have longships, five whalers, and several galleys. Most of them were for trade and fishing, therefore, there is a lack of installed scorpions on the ships.”

“It is of no matter,” Stannis shook his head,”Scorpions aren’t much use when there are going to be hundreds of ships in such close space, and the time it would take to reload and aim properly,well, boarding another ship and taking it over would be much better. Robert had imposed a restriction on their fleet, but Balon doubtlessly ignored it, just like he had ignored every summon sent to him. We could very well be facing a force larger than last time.”

“Lord Stark and Tully will be sailing from Seagard tomorrow, will we be able to arrive at the same time as them?”

“The Sunset Sea’ warm currents move Northwards,” Stannis nodded, waving a hand in the said direction as they all listened to his words, “Mallister ships will be moving against the winds for some time, while we will have the winds and water both at our back. We will reach at around the same time, and even if we do not, then it is of no matter. Besides, Stark has capable men in his command….it takes great skill to follow Ironborns back from the Bear Islands in just a matter of half a dozen days.”

“Word was that there was a storm that they rode,” Jon commented, remembering the words front eh lady Mormomnt, as well as his namesake, Ned’s son, “it took them about a week even then.”

“The distance between the Bear Island and the Iron Islands is great,” Stannis nodded as they began to walk towards the docks, his eyes roving over the men clambering for their armor, weapons, and supplies as everyone rushed towards the ships, “I have never made the journey myself, but it has always been an uncharted distance, for none but the Ironborn move through those waters, and they haven’t ever been helpful to the Citadel’s cartographers. From what I guess though, I would put it somewhere around one seventy to two hundred leagues. Impressive, what Eddard Stark’s bastard and those Mormont women managed to do.”

“The bastard is certainly something,” Tywin nodded, and for a moment, Jon worried about just what Tywin was thinking regarding Ned’s boy, for the Old Lion was nothing but dismissing of anything that wasn’t benefiting his House and name, “Very well, Lord Stannis, Lord hand. I shall see you on Pyke, once Balon is dealt with.”

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

“We could be facing upwards of five hundred ships, and here you are, sleeping,” Robb muttered, staring down at Jon, before his eyes turned towards the three direwolves looking up at him, all sitting straight and proper as if making sure that Robb didn’t scold them for any mistake. Sighing as he saw Grey Wind tillt his head, he nodded towards his brother and waved a hand, “Wake him up please.”

With a soft growl, all three of them jumped upon the bed, licking and nudging at the sleeping man, and Robb snorted as he saw Dusk in particular nibble on Jon’s ear. Yep, that was his sister’s direwolf alright. “Get the hell up Jon!:” he finally grunted out, grabbing him by the leg and pulling him off the bed, only to get kicked right in his stomach as Jon jumped into a sitting position, a dagger raised in left arm.

“Ow,” he groaned, rubbing his abdomen, where Jon’s toes had dug in with surprising strength, as he glared at his bewildered cousin, “What the fuck was that for?”

“Who told you to barge in and wake me at this ungodly hour then?” Jon shot back, rubbing his eyes, before he turned his eyes towards the direwolves, who were once again sitting quietly, watching Jon as if they had not nibbled and bitten upon him for the last one minute, “and you? Whose side are you guys on?”

“The side that fed them meat when you were too busy sleeping,” he snorted, leaning against the door and ignoring the filthy look that Jon sent him, his eyes taking in the golden hilt of Nightfall, “I am surprised no Lord has asked you to part with Nightfall yet.”

“Tywin did, back in Winterfell.”

“Wait, what?” he blinked, looking from the longsword, to his brother’s nonchalant face, “and you didn’t think telling me or father was important enough? Was htis when the Kingslayer came to us?”

“Mhm, and well…, you had your wedding, and then your wedding nights,” Jon shrugged, jumping to the wooden floor as he grabbed the sword, strapping it to his waist, “while Father was busy with the King, as well as designating the forces and gathering the men. Besides, it wasn’t much. He just offered me some money for the sword, and I told him no.”

“You told him no?” Robbg raised an eyebrow, sitting down on an old, rickety stool as he watched Jon move towards the small window, grabbing Grey Wind as the direwold jumped into his lap, “Can’t imagine him being pleased with it.”

“Well, he agreed to wait till the war was over,” Jon answered, pulling his face back into the room adn turning around, sighing as he took a pull from the jug on the floor, “At the end of the war, I shall give him a valyrian steel sword, and he will pay me four hundred thousand dragons.”

“That is a lot,” Robb muttered after a pause, mentally remembering the last time he had seen so much gold in one place, mind flashing back to the time when he had been taken to the Stark Vaults by his father, just a few weeks prior to their march, “Will you really give him Nightfalkl though? It is much better owning a Valyrian steel sword, than four hundred thousand dragons.”

“Who said anything about Nightfall?”