Chapter 28: The Serpent on the Waves
Chapter 28: The Serpent on the Waves
289 AC, Month of the Red Fox
The Royal Fleet assembled at Seagard was a magnificent, chaotic beast. It was the full might of the Seven Kingdoms brought to bear against the folly of the Ironborn. Great, lumbering war dromonds from the Crownlands, their hulls painted with the crowned stag, floated beside the sleek, white-sailed galleys of the Vale. Hired merchant cogs, their decks hastily converted to carry soldiers and siege engines, bumped against the proud warships of the Riverlands. It was a testament to the power of the Iron Throne, a force that could crush any single kingdom that dared to stand alone.
And within this vast armada, Alaric's Onyx Fleet was a dark and silent predator. His ten warships, led by his flagship, The Serpent's Kiss, were of a design unseen in Westeros. They were a hybrid, born of Alaric's intellect and Pentoshi shipbuilding skill. They had the narrow, fast hulls of pirate galleys but were reinforced with the strength of war dromonds. Their sails were a complex rigging of black canvas that allowed them to catch the wind with superior efficiency, and each was armed with a pair of large, scorpion-like ballistae mounted on rotating turrets, weapons that could fire heavy iron bolts with terrifying accuracy.
The commander of this grand force was Stannis Baratheon, the King's brother and Master of Ships. Alaric's first formal war council with him took place in the great cabin of Stannis's flagship, Fury. The cabin was as stark and joyless as the man himself. There were no comforts, only maps, charts, and the grim reality of war.
Stannis was a man carved from granite. He was tall, with the dark hair and blue eyes of the Baratheons, but he possessed none of Robert's easy charm or Renly's handsome grace. His jaw was perpetually clenched, as if he were grinding his teeth on the injustices of the world. He looked at Alaric not as a fellow commander, but as a complex, distasteful problem he was duty-bound to solve.
"Lord Blackwood," Stannis began, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Your reputation precedes you. They say you see things other men do not."
"I see facts, Lord Stannis," Alaric replied, his tone equally cool and business-like. "And the facts of our situation are what we are here to discuss."
Stannis laid out his plan. It was simple, direct, and utterly predictable. "The Iron Fleet under Victarion Greyjoy is the heart of their power. We will sail our combined fleet directly to the Iron Islands. We will seek out their fleet and destroy it in a decisive engagement. Once we have control of the seas, the King's army can land on Pyke unimpeded."
"A sound strategy, my lord," Alaric conceded, "if Victarion Greyjoy were a fool. But he is not. He is a brute, but he is a cunning brute. He will not wait at anchor to be trapped and destroyed by a superior force."
He unrolled a map of the western coast. "My intelligence network," he said, using the cover story for his scrying and analytical abilities, "reports a different reality. Victarion is not at Pyke. He has taken the bulk of the Iron Fleet and is positioned here," he tapped a location in the sea-lanes west of the mainland, "near Fair Isle. He intends to blockade the Ironman's Bay, to intercept and destroy our fleet as it attempts to round the coast. He plans to use the winds and rocks of the islands to his advantage, picking us off ship by ship."
Stannis's thin lips tightened. "Your 'intelligence network' is remarkably well-informed. Better than the King's own."
"Information is the sharpest weapon in any war, Lord Stannis," Alaric said smoothly. "And I have invested heavily in keeping my blades sharp. Victarion's plan is a good one, but it has a flaw. He expects us to sail into his trap. He does not expect the trap to be sprung on him."
Alaric outlined his counter-proposal. The main fleet, under Stannis, would indeed sail north, but they would take a wider, western route, feigning a direct course for the isles. Alaric, with his faster Onyx Fleet, would take a coastal route, hugging the mainland before cutting across the sea to come up behind Fair Isle. They would catch the Iron Fleet in a classic pincer movement, a hammer and anvil, with Stannis's fleet as the anvil and Alaric's as the hammer.
Stannis listened, his expression unreadable. The plan was unorthodox, reliant entirely on the strange boy-lord's mysterious intelligence. But it was also strategically sound, and Stannis, above all else, was a man who respected sound strategy.
"Your plan carries great risk," Stannis said. "If your intelligence is wrong, your fleet will be caught alone and destroyed."
"I am confident in my sources," Alaric stated. "However, a commander must prepare for all contingencies." He then made his secondary move, the true purpose of which was hidden beneath layers of logic. "The Ironborn are ferocious in boarding actions. Their captains and lords are often formidable fighters themselves. To incentivize my men, who are taking on this more dangerous flanking role, I would ask the King's permission, through you, for the right of salvage. Specifically, my legion claims the right to any personal arms and armour taken from the captains or nobles on any ship boarded and captured by my own forces. A bonus, to reward their courage."
Stannis ground his teeth. The request was irregular, bordering on the mercenary. It was a request for plunder, something unbecoming of a great lord. But it was also... logical. Rewarding elite troops for a high-risk mission was sound command. And it cost the crown nothing.
"Your men are well-paid, Lord Blackwood," Stannis said stiffly.
"And they will be well-rewarded," Alaric replied. "It is how I ensure their loyalty remains absolute. Fear and gold are the only two currencies a sellsword truly understands, and my men, whatever their origins, have a sellsword's heart."
After a long, tense silence, Stannis gave a curt nod. "I will grant your request. It is irregular, but the logic is sound. May the gods have mercy on the Ironborn who fall into your hands. I suspect you will not."
With the plan set, the great fleet put to sea. For a week, they sailed as one before, at a predetermined point, the Onyx Fleet broke away, its black sails vanishing over the southern horizon while Stannis continued his slow, deliberate advance to the west.
Alaric commanded from the quarterdeck of The Serpent's Kiss. He was in his element, the complex dance of wind, current, and sail a problem he could solve with mathematical precision. He pushed his ships to their limits, his crews a mixture of his own loyal Pentoshi and hired Tyroshi, all of whom were learning that their strange, young lord knew more about the sea than any captain they had ever served.
The night before the battle, Alaric did not sleep. He was in his cabin, which had been converted into a scrying chamber. A large, shallow bowl of polished obsidian rested on his desk, filled with seawater and a single drop of his own blood. He stared into its dark, reflective surface, his mind reaching out, guided by the power of the stone and the knowledge gleaned from his previous, more costly, rituals. He sought not a grand vision of the future, but simple, practical intelligence. Wind direction. Sea currents. The exact position of Victarion's fleet.
The vision came, a swirling, grey image of the Iron Fleet, lurking like a pack of wolves in the lee of Fair Isle, exactly where his intelligence had placed them. He saw Victarion Greyjoy on the deck of his flagship, the Iron Victory, laughing with his captains, confident in their trap.
Alaric pulled back from the vision, a cold smile on his face. "The mouse does not know the cats are coming from two directions," he murmured.
The next morning, they sprung the trap. Alaric's fleet, having circled around the island, came screaming in from the east, the wind at their backs. The Ironborn lookouts saw them far too late. The black-sailed ships were on them before they could form a proper battle line.
"Fire the scorpions!" Alaric commanded, his voice cutting through the rising din of war cries.
The heavy ballistae on his ships unleashed a volley of iron-tipped bolts, each as thick as a man's arm. They did not aim for the hulls, but for the masts and rigging. The sound of splintering wood and tearing sails filled the air. Several Ironborn longships were dismasted in the first volley, left dead in the water.
At the same time, the main fleet of Lord Stannis appeared on the western horizon, a forest of masts and sails, closing the net. The Ironborn were caught, trapped between the fast, hard-hitting Onyx Fleet and the heavy anvil of Stannis's dromonds.
Victarion Greyjoy, roaring with fury at being so completely outmaneuvered, ordered his ships to turn and fight. The battle devolved into a chaotic, ship-to-ship melee. This was where Alaric's true plan went into effect.
"Ser Damon," Alaric's voice was calm, relayed to the flagship of the Legion's boarding parties by a signal flag. "Your targets are the ships flying the banners of the great houses. Harlaw. Drumm. Blacktyde. Ignore the lesser ships. Capture the captains. Secure their steel."
On the deck of the Onyx Serpent, Ser Damon Flowers grinned, a wolf tasting blood. "You heard the lord!" he roared to his men. "We're going hunting for treasures! Boarding parties, to the ropes!"
The Onyx Legionaries were devastating in the boarding actions. Their heavy plate made them impervious to the axes and thrown weapons of the Ironborn. Their massive shields formed an unbreakable wall on the enemy decks, and their short stabbing swords were perfect for the brutal, close-quarters work. They fought with a terrifying, silent discipline, a machine built for slaughter.
Ser Damon himself led the assault on the flagship of House Harlaw, a great longship commanded by one of Rodrik Harlaw's sons. Damon was a whirlwind of destruction, his greatsword cleaving through the Ironborn raiders. He fought his way to the Harlaw captain, a giant of a man wielding a fearsome black axe. Their duel was brief and brutal, but Damon's superior armor and relentless assault won the day. He shattered the man's shield, then his collarbone, and as the Ironborn lord fell, Damon's boot was on his chest.
"The sword," Damon growled to his men, pointing at the Valyrian steel blade sheathed at the fallen man's hip. "Take it."
The battle raged for hours, but the outcome was never in doubt. The Iron Fleet, caught in the perfect trap, was systematically annihilated. Victarion Greyjoy, his own ship a wreck, managed to escape on a smaller vessel, but his fleet was shattered, burned, and sunk.
By dusk, the sea around Fair Isle was littered with the wreckage of the Ironborn's pride. It was the most decisive naval victory in the history of the Seven Kingdoms.
That night, on the deck of The Serpent's Kiss, Alaric took inventory of his true prize. Stannis Baratheon had won the battle and the glory. Alaric had won the war and the rewards. Nervo supervised as the spoils were brought aboard. Caskets of silver and gold, yes, but those were trivial.
The true treasures were laid out on a table in his cabin. The first was the Valyrian steel sword, Nightfall, taken from the Harlaw captain. Its steel was a dark, smoky grey, with the characteristic ripples flowing like captured water within the metal. It was a weapon of legend, a priceless artifact.
The second was a Valyrian steel dagger, its hilt carved from kraken bone, taken from the body of a reaver captain sworn to House Drumm. Its blade was just as sharp, just as impossibly light.
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Prometheus's voice was a calm confirmation in his mind. <
A runner arrived from Lord Stannis's flagship, requesting Lord Blackwood's presence to celebrate their great victory. Alaric sent back a polite refusal.
"Inform Lord Stannis that I am occupied cataloguing the spoils owed to my men," he instructed the runner. "And tell him that with the sea lanes now clear, my fleet will begin preparations to transport Lord Stark's army for the invasion. There is still work to be done."
He had no time for celebrations. The naval war was won. But the true prize, the Iron Islands themselves, still awaited conquest. And he knew, from the histories that only he had read, that the islands held other secrets, other treasures, other opportunities for a man ruthless and cunning enough to take them. The game was far from over.