Three Fortresses

Hardhome Castle

Davos hated the far North. He hated the cold, the endless wind, he distrusted the company and to an extent, he disliked the ale. The true North, as they would call it, he thought morosely as he bitterly regretted not buying a thicker cloak as his wife had insisted. What had started as a single voyage had grown, grown and grown further as metals and grain went North and rare woods and furs went South. Lord Stannis had approved silently so he had been burdened with the necessary but thankless task of representing the Crown's tacit approval in such matters.

It was small comfort that Lord Stannis had entrusted him with such a task, negated by the feeling that he had climbed higher than he had ever imagined and there was no handhold in sight lest he slipped and fell. Still, there was naught to be done complaining about the situation so he squared his shoulders and carried on. So he did.

Patrols were avoided with almost graceful ease, so were storms for that matter and for all the difficulty that it entailed, the journeys did seem to be getting easier as Summer came closer and even this far North, the wrath of winter seemed to lessen. A sudden lurch seemed to put a halt to his improving mood as he grimly accepted the fact that had he been younger, it wouldn't have affected him so. Better weather or not, I am getting far too old for this task. Foolhardy tasks such as this are best left to foolhardy boys.


When he had first laid eyes on Hardhome, it boasted a tower that could generously be called a keep. Now it boasted four and a larger keep to boot, all bound by low and stout walls surrounded by a stake-filled moat. What had once been the only trapping of civilization north of the Wall (if one were to ignore the stories of Thenn Valley), had given rise to something that could give fair competition to the likes of Maidenpool and Duskendale.

What had once been a paltry band of half-a dozen fishing vessels and the remains of something that might once have been a Dromond had given way to a small fleet of them. But it was the ships which didn't belong to them that were truly shocking; the purple ships of Braavos, the whaling monstrosities of Lorath and even a graceful Swanship or two found berth along the protected bay. It makes sense however, Braavos is always hungry for lumber and fuel, the Summer Islanders must have prized the furs this far North, something neither of the two free-cities had in abundance and as for Lorath, well… where there are harbours, there are taverns and brothels. There was a smattering of other ships too, though with the lack of colours, they might as well have come from King's Landing or Asshai as far as he he knew.

Still he had a task to do and the less time he wasted idling, the faster he could leave. Though come to think of it, he wondered whether the lords in the South would be partial to mammoth cheese.

Masyaf (and Davenport)

Balon's words echoed in his mind over and over, until he could hear them in his sleep. The Northerners have erected a new fortress at Sea Dragon Point brother. I want you to scout out the land. When we rise again, I will not have our swords and axes bared to the South only to be attacked by the North. I want to see what these Greenlanders are capable of. He muttered those words in his sleep now, had even written them over but they remained stubbornly constant. Scout, not raid, he thought grimly. That's what we have been reduced to, mere rabbits running at the sight of Greenlanders. Even pirates are bolder than this.

His hand itched for an axe and a skull to bury it in, though whose was a matter of thinking, Euron, Balon, King Robert, Ned Stark, Stannis Baratheon, all good choices. Who was Balon to command him onboard his own ship? Balon may rule the Iron Islands as a lord but on the sea every captain is his own king. Balon may have been a great Ironborn lord, been a king once but the defeat in battle had withered him. King Robert may have spared the man his head but he may as well have chopped off his manhood. Still, the Ironborn will rise again and this time, with a true king.


Masyaf came into view at dawn and Victarion scowled at the sight. What had once been wooden hills and bare coasts had given way to a castle on a cliff overlooking a small harbour with a tower and a fleet to boot. Nestled in the edge of a sheltered bay, Victarion called forth one of the cabin boys, something Pyke and pointed towards the tower. "What is that boy?" "A signal fire Captain. They are used to…" "I know what they are used for." He growled out. "They are leagues from the nearest lordly castle and no one visits this far North. So why in all seven hells do they have signal fires?" The boy stuttered and Victarion shoved past him, disgusted at the cowardice shown.

"Men! Look at the coast! These cowardly Northerners have erected a keep and built a town within our grasp. Many of you look and see it as a prize waiting to be taken, and it is!" There were cheers at that. "But it is more! The Northerners had no ships to the west for thousands of years, now they have a fleet! A fleet wielded by the crown's lapdog, ready to attack us the moment we claim our rights as the rulers of the sea!" He could see it now, them realising what it meant. "A dagger aimed at the heart of the Isles! Should we let it strike?" "NO!" came the thunderous response. "So let us sail, onward! For the Drowned God!" "For the Drowned God!" came the reply.

They would not see them coming.


Victarion awoke strapped to a table. His weapons and armour stripped from him with nothing but a breechclout to save his dignity. "Unhand me, you fools!" He roared, thrashing about. He screamed, demanded, threatened, ordered and then screamed some more. "As the Captain of the Iron Fleet, unhand me! Unhand me or by the Drowned God you will rue the day you dropped out of your m…"

A hit to the temple shut him up as two figures came into sight. The first wielding a cleaver came into view. "Thought he'd never shut up. Couldn't you have hit him sooner?" The second wielding the club shrugged unconcernedly, "our orders were to interrogate him. He has proven to be remarkably helpful in that matter. The fool has incriminated his masters without any coercion whatsoever. It seems like you won't need your tools after all." The first almost looked disappointed at that. "I've lost family to Iron-Scum like him for decades. So have you for that matter. Why shouldn't we fulfil his wishes and unhand him?" "Because we were ordered not to" the second replied with an air of finality. "We both know that your loyalty is strong enough to abstain from such amusements, but let us avoid such activities that might make me reconsider that."

What might have been the first's reply would not be known as Victarion started to come round. Noticing this, they both faded back to the shadows, letting the man scream and rant to his heart's content.

The Red Keep

For the first time in years, the Small Council was graced by the presence of King Robert. Also for the first time in years, they were graced to the presence of King Robert laughing. News had just come from the north of the destruction of a small Ironborn raiding fleet and the capture of its leader, none other than Lord Balon's own brother. The news, so soon after the Greyjoy rebellion could have been a prelude to a disaster and all King Robert could do was laugh…and drink. "Ha! Ha! Ha! Serves the squids right. They dare attack the crown's loyal vassals, then they should expect repercussions. I'm tempted to have the boy return Old Balon his brother's head!"

"Your Grace!" cried out lords Arryn and Tyrell and the Grand Maester in protest but Robert waved it away. "A jest my lords! A jest! The Northerners can ransom him, or send him to the wall for all I care. Still, such good showing deserves to be rewarded, a knighthood I should say!" Lord Tyrell and the Grand Maester started to protest at the idea of a Northern bastard, even one belonging to Lord Stark to be honoured so. Again, Robert bulled right over it waving a finger in their faces. "I don't want to hear anything out of you too other than 'how', 'where' and 'when'." "Your grace," now it was Jon's turn to face the king's ire. "Yes, Jon?" "How, do you plan to accomplish this? From all accounts tolerant the boy may be, he is devoted to the old gods and it's unlikely that he'd accept it in the name of the Seven. Where? From all accounts, the north is bracing for an attack and it seems unlikely that the North's shield would dare leave his holdings any time soon. And when? Again, with winter ending, the North and the Iron Isles are on the verge of war, hardly the time for ceremonies."

Lord Stannis knew then that Lord Arryn had made a terrible mistake, for nothing tempted Robert Baratheon more than the prospect of war. "So be it Jon! Let's begin then!" Jon Arryn looked uncertain at that, not having yet realised what he had done. "Your grace?" he asked warily. "It's as you said Jon, the two kingdoms are on the verge of war. The North is one of our most valuable allies. The Iron Scum are well… scum. If they are getting ideas, who do you think we should back? Hmm? Let us remind them why they should know better than to cross Robert Baratheon!"

With that; His Grace, King Robert Baratheon shifted his impressive mass off the chair, shouting at his poor squire to bring his hammer and meet him in the training yards. Lord Arryn's expression could be summed up into four words; What have I done?