The longships came into sight at noon. Beginning as dark specks on the watery horizon, they became larger and larger until each ship in the sizeable fleet became as clear as glass, from the armoured men that manned their oars to the fluttering sails that flew high above them, each one emblazoned with a different crest of arms. Among the menacing emblems displayed were scythes, ships, skeletal hands and any number of different animals, from krakens to nine-headed serpents.
Dennett clenched his short spear tightly as he gazed on the Ironborn-infested sea that stretched out below him. As a man-at-arms of Seagard in service of House Mallister, he'd prepared for this moment for years. All who grew up in the shadow of the The Booming Tower were brought up with a mixture of hatred and fear of the reavers from across the sea and he was no different. When he was a young lad his Ma would tell him and his brothers stories of Dalton Greyjoy, the Red Kraken, and Qhored the Cruel, stories that had given him nightmares as a boy and still made his toes curl even as a grown man. The only thing that had comforted him had been the knowledge that the Ironborn had not set sail on a reave in any great numbers in over a century; yet now the bronze bell of The Booming Tower rang behind him. The Ironborn had come.
"We'll be alright, won't we, Den?" Wallace asked from beside him. His brother's voice sounded high and scared, an echo of Dennett's own inner mess of emotions.
"Of course, little brother," he said, smiling with as much cheer as he could muster. "What's a few raider scum against good Rivermen steel, eh?"
"Aye," agreed their comrade and friend, Paton, from Wallace's other side, "we'll send the rapist fuckers back into that sea they love so much. Let's see how much they like a good spear through the throat, right lads?"
A chorus of agreement sounded from the men-at-arms along their section of the wall that were in ear shot. They were a mixture of Lord Jason Mallister's own household guards and men-at-arms, as well as those soldiers that had come with with the various minor lords and landed knights sworn directly to Seagard that had started to arrive only yesterday, just the day after the news of the Lannisport fleet's destruction had reached them. Thankfully as soon as good Lord Jason had received the raven, the young lord had called his banners and locked down the coastal town for a siege. He knew, as did many others, that Seagard would be one of the first targets of the so-called 'King of the Iron Islands'. They had been proved right when longships had been sighted off the coast at dawn that morning, sending the castle and town of Seagard into a panic. Lord Jason had restored order handily, however, and by late morning Dennett and his comrades had been deployed on the walls and the smallfolk of the town ordered to stay indoors.
"Here the hairy-arsed bastards come, men!" Ser Perwyn of Hag's Mire, the knight placed in charge of Dennett's section, shouted, pointing below them. "Ready yourselves!"
Dennett leaned forwards, looking over the shoulder of the man in front of him to see the longship at the head of the Ironborn fleet reach the now deserted dockyard below them. He knew little of different lords and houses and their heraldry, but even he recognized the golden kraken of House Greyjoy that flew from the ship's mast. The ship looked large to Dennett, larger than any of the longships among the modest Seagard fleet though smaller than the Silver Eagle and the Lord Jason, the war galleys in the Seagard fleet, which had been hidden in a cove just south of Seagard; Lord Jason knew it was no match for the oncoming Ironborn fleet and so had chosen to save his ships rather than risk them being captured or destroyed. Dennett watched as armoured man after armoured man vaulted the side of the ship to land on the docks of Seagard, the fearsome warriors looking like Ironborn legends of old, even as several more ships full of reavers reached the shore, each bringing a fresh wave of soldiers.
"Fuck…" Wallace breathed. "How many of them, d'you reckon?"
"Five thousand?" Paton guessed, with a shrug. "Maybe more."
"That's more than we have," Wallace pointed out, shuffling his feet.
"Aye," Dennett sighed. "Two thousand more, at least."
"Do they have strong walls on their side?" Ser Perwyn had apparently heard them. "We have the high ground, we have the archers and we have the better fucking soldiers! Am I right boys?"
The men cheered, Dennett and his brother joining in, though it did little to lessen the nervous coils that had settled in the pit of his churning stomach.
Below them the Ironborn had begun to gather just shy of bow range. They'd produced ladders from somewhere and seemed to be mustering for an assault already, though half their fleet was still in the sea.
As it was the Iron Islanders didn't attack for another hour, instead choosing to wait for their other ships to dock. The Ironborn amused themselves through the wait by taunting Dennett and his fellow men-at-arms and knights atop the walls by shouting, cursing, obscene gestures; one man even took out his cock and took a piss in front of them, much to the jeers of his fellow reavers. This all stopped when one fool got too close to the walls and took an arrow in the eye. It had been the Seagard men's turn to jeer then.
Finally, every longship had docked and everything seemed to settle for several long moments. Together the Ironborn host seemed great, a mass of glinting steel, greater than anything Dennett had seen for he'd not fought in the rebellion. Dennett could practically feel every other man on the walls tense, as all sensed what was coming. The Ironborn too seemed restless, the many soldiers below shifting and moving below the swelteringly hot midday sun.
Then a few Ironborn took a few hesitant steps forward, as a shouted command ran along the Islander host. A few seconds passed. A horn blew. Then it was as if a dam had burst. Thousands upon thousands of men surged forwards as one, with swords or axes or maces, among other deadly weaponry, clutched in their hands. Others, usually a group of around six, carried the ladders with which they would attempt to breach Seagard's walls.
A hundred paces out.
Dennett sent up a quick pray for the Father to watch over him and for the Warrior to guide his spear arm.
Eighty paces out.
At the shouted command, taken up by Ser Perwyn and the other commanders, the archers atop Seagard's walls loosened. Hundreds of arrows arced up into the sky and fell upon the Ironborn host, many finding a target. Screeches of pain rang out, but the volley did little to slow down the Ironborn charge; the archers kept firing.
Fifty paces out.
Someone behind him pissed. Another threw up, the acrid smell of it mixing with the stink of shit and sweat already evident among the waiting men.
Thirty paces out.
Wallace let out a whimper, though Dennett paid him no mind. He blew out a breath and tried to relax the bone tight grip he had on his spear and shield, but it seemed they were set in a claw like hold that his bones refused to lessen.
Twenty paces out.
The archers continued their relentless barrage. The range was so close now it was hard to miss, and the iron tipped arrows plunged down in the heavy mass of men rushing up the slope towards Seagard.
Ten paces out.
And then the assault ladders were at the walls, unintelligible shouts were torn from throats and everything became anarchy.
The man in front of Dennett attempted to push the top of the ladder that had appeared in front of them off and away from the wall, but the Ironborn far below had a strong hold of its base. Dennett looked around him. All along the wall ladder after ladder was being raised by frenzied attackers, archers were doing their best to pick off any Ironborn they could, with several Islander bowmen attempting to fire back with limited success, and men atop the walls were scrambling to push the ladders back and, if that failed, readying their weapons for whoever scaled that ladder first. Men were screaming, bows were twanging and far off the first clash of steel on steel could be heard.
"Dennett!" he heard Paton yell. "Pay fucking attention, by the Seven!"
Swallowing around his dry throat, Dennett turned to see the first of the enemy had appeared at the top of the ladder. The man in front of Dennett took a step forward and stabbed forward with his spear, sending the Ironborn tumbling down the ladder; he was gone as fast as he'd appeared.
They had no time to relax, however, for soon another Ironborn had appeared, an extremely large man with flaming red hair and a great two-handed axe. The man in front of Dennett rushed forwards with another man-at-arms to block the warrior's way, but the broad chested Ironborn warded them away with ease by swinging his huge axe in several long, warning arcs. The two men retreated a step, and that was all the ginger haired Ironborn needed to throw a leg over the side of the stone palisade and drop down onto the walk way. Behind him another Ironborn head popped up from the ladder and Dennett knew they were in trouble.
It was Paton who ran forward, ducked under the man's axe swing and stabbed the Ironborn through the weak armour covering his upper calf, his spear tip sinking all the way to the bone and ripping through armour, skin and muscle. The warrior bellowed in pain and brought his axe up for a retaliatory swing, but Paton dived out the way, stumbling backwards. The warrior made to follow but was blocked by the same two men-at-arms he'd warded off less than a minute before. The man who'd been in front of Dennett blocked the warrior's axe swing, while the other man-at-arms came up behind him to stab the man through the back and out his chest. The Ironborn sunk to his knees and Paton finished him off with a spear through the throat.
Only then did Dennett remember the other Ironborn warrior and his shouted warning came to late to the man that had stabbed the large Ironborn through the back. The man's eyes widened, and Dennett looked down to see a sword impaled through the man's back and appear out from his stomach. The man collapsed and the Ironborn warrior behind him pulled out his ebony-coloured sword from the dead man's back with a vicious grin. Behind him another Ironborn warrior vaulted the side of the wall, sword and shield in hand.
Paton moved forwards to engage the second man who'd appeared, while the man who'd been in front of Dennett took on the second man. As the two separate pairs moved to face off, Dennett inched forwards, looking for a moment to strike and felt Wallace and a few other men follow. Then he saw it. The Ironborn who was battling Paton was locked in a fierce stalemate, his focus intently on Paton. The man had his arms lifted up, showing a gap in his armour.
Dennett took this opportunity to act, sidling forwards until he was in spear range of the second warrior. Dennett didn't hesitate to stab upwards powerfully, spearing the man's armpit and tearing his shoulder from his body. The man let out a high-pitched scream, a scream that died when Paton followed up by slashing his face, painting the man with a red smile. Dennett and Paton shared a quick grin, before surveying their surroundings.
On the next ladder over Ser Arwyn Grey, Lord Jason's bannerman, and his men were holding strong. Ser Arwyn himself was on the front line, and Dennett saw him hack off the arm of an enemy attempting to fight their way onto the wall. Ser Arwyn flung the man off the ladder and turned with deadly purpose to find another opponent.
On the ladder at their other side Ser Perwyn was being driven back by a bearded, helmless warrior. Dennett watched, helpless, as the warrior found a weakness in Ser Perwyn's defences and drove the poor knight to his knees by sheer strength and force of will, knocking his sword aside carelessly. Before Dennett's eyes Ser Perwyn looked up at the man who'd disarmed him, desperate and defeated, and said something, Dennett couldn't hear what. The warrior ignored him and raised his axe high in the sky, bringing it down in a flash of steel to sever Ser Perwyn's head from his shoulders.
With difficulty Dennett tore his eyes away from the spectacle and turned back towards his own ladder, where he was met with a sight that turned his blood to ice. Wallace, spear wrenched from his hands, stood facing the Ironborn with the black sword and vicious grin. Ignoring Paton's shout, Dennett forged forwards, running as fast as he could towards his brother, even as more Ironborn appeared at the top of the ladder. It was not fast enough.
The Ironborn punched his sword out and into Wallace's ribs, before giving the sword a violent twist and sawing it across Wallace's stomach. Pink, bloody guts half fell out of the open stomach, as the Ironborn heaved his sword out of the wound with a wet sucking noise. Dennett's brother gasped and stumbled back, mouth agape, before keeling over never to rise again.
The Ironborn laughed. Dennett let out a thundering roar of anger.
He didn't allow himself a moment to think. That would come later, the grief and the mourning. Now he had only one thing on his mind: vengeance.
The Ironborn blocked his first, vicious thrust, a look of surprise on his pock-marked face, before he smirked.
"Friend of yours, was he? I hope you're more of a challenge," he taunted. "I could of took him with my left hand, while taking a piss with the right."
Dennett growled, but didn't respond. He feinted to the warrior's right before bringing his spear down towards his right side but the Ironborn jumped to the side, the weapon hissing passed him. This time it was the Ironborn who attacked, shoving forward with speed and ferocity. Dennett caught the warrior's first strike on his shield, and his second and third, each attack increasing in savage intensity. Dennett tried to retaliate by driving his rounded shield into his opponent's solar plexus and following up with a stab of his spear. The warrior was driven back a step by the shield bash, but he saw the spear thrust coming and batted it away easily, quickly stepping to the side and aiming a slash at Dennett's left side. Dennett brought his shield round to deflect it but was caught by his surprise when the warrior threw himself forwards, diving at his shield. Dennett just had time to bend his knees and brace himself behind his shield. The sudden impact pushed him backwards, but he kept tight hold of the shield's handle. The warrior pulled his sword up against the shield and brought his other hand round to push against the thick wood. A spear was useless at such close quarters so, throwing caution to the wind, Dennett cast it aside and reached for the dirk fastened at his belt, clutching the shield with all his strength as the warrior tried to pull it away from him. As he pulled the knife out, he lashed forwards with his foot. His steel capped boot connected with the Ironborn's balls. The man yelled in pain and his grip on the shield slackened. With a violent tug Dennett pulled the shield out of the man's grip. The Ironborn stumbled forward from the motion, his head bowed, giving Dennett a chance he had to take.
With a howl of anguish and rage he jumped forward and drove the dagger with all his might into the point where the man's neck met his shoulder. Dennett pushed it down against the resisting flesh all the way to the hilt, bathing his gloved hand with blood. The man looked up at him with surprised eyes, a trickle of crimson blood running from the corner of his mouth.
"That's for my brother, you fucking cunt," Dennett spat.
He twisted the dagger and pulled it out. Dennett watched with grim satisfaction as the Ironborn fell to the ground, coughing up blood.
Dennett took a step back, looking about him. The situation had grown dire in recent minutes. The Ironborn had gained a real foothold in their part of the walls, half a dozen of them were holding around the ladder with more appearing every minute. Men-at-arms were doing their best to drive them back but they seemed to have stalled. Paton was on the ground, unmoving.
"Lord Jason!" One of the men-at-arms yelled. "He's sallied out!"
Dennett started at the man's shout but moved to the edge of the wall to find the man was telling the truth. Lord Jason himself, with two hundred horsemen, had sallied out from a side gate and were charging the Ironborn's right flank. The Ironborn below had formed a loose shield wall but even now men were beginning to break away and back off from the approaching cavalry. Dennett thought Lord Jason and his knights looked like storied knights from the Age of Heroes, all sunlight flashing on gleaming armour and great destriers forging through long green grass. He watched with bated breath as they connected with the Ironborn flank with a great crash of steel. The screams of men and horses both quickly followed, but within moments the charge had broken through the thin flank and were riding on towards the men waiting at the bottom of the ladders, though with several less men.
Cheers broke out amongst many of the Seagard men-at-arms, but the Ironborn weren't done yet. Many of the Ironborn that had gotten a foothold on the walls fought on and Lord Jason's charge was quickly stalled when he came up against the larger body of waiting Ironborn. The fight for Seagard was still on.
Dennett picked up a discarded sword at his feet, then turned to the Ironborn still holding the area around the ladder. Letting out a slow breath, he joined the fray.
He helped a man-at-arms dispatch an Ironborn with a squashed nose, before joining the ring of men-at-arms surrounding the ladder and the Ironborn defending it, a group that was getting larger and larger. A warrior wearing dark plate with an open helm, showing an old, weathered face, seemed to have taken charge of them, yelling at his fellow Ironborn to form up as he finished off a man-at-arms with an easy flick his sword. Dennett glanced around him, realising that this was the most penetrated part off the wall; every other ladder seemed to be contained. But if the Ironborn broke through here they could easily filter into the town proper, as well as give heart to the other Ironborn attackers. They needed to stop the Ironborn here and to that they would have to take care of the leader.
"Come on, laddies," said man declared, taking a menacing step forward, "Let's show these green landers the fury of salt and iron. Let's show them what it is to hold to the Old Way."
The Ironborn around him bellowed their agreement, and Dennett felt the dread of the men around him. Trying to push down his own fear, he stepped forward so that he was directly in the old warrior's path. The man smirked, hefting up his sword.
"You sure you want this, boy?"
Dennett felt like running but instead he said, "As sure as I am of anything, you brainless barbarian."
The man's eyes narrowed, and his smirk seemed to become more dangerous. Without warning the man lunged forwards and struck a massive blow with his bastard sword that cut through the tip of Dennett's shield. Dennett staggered but managed to catch the next blow on the crossguard of the sword he'd picked up. Too late, he realised that was the man's plan. With cruel efficiency the man drove Dennett's sword down into the ground with his own sword and brought his foot round to kick it away.
Dennett cursed his own hubris. He'd tried to go up against someone who was better armoured than him, and clearly better trained, and within three seconds he'd been disarmed. A cold feeling came over him, as he realised he was bout to die. At least he would see his brother again, though he tried to keep the reaction his mother would have at the news she'd lost two sons out of his mind. She'd already lost a husband to the rebellion and two children to the bloody flux; he didn't what she'd do after losing himself and Wallace.
The man advanced on him, sword outstretched, and Dennett backed away to the edge of the walk way. He glanced around, praying for help, but his comrades were all occupied with trying to hold off the other Ironborn.
He gulped, as an idea struck him. A terrible, suicidal idea but it was his only chance to kill the bastard in front of him.
"Say your last prayers, green lander," the man snarled, drawing his sword back for a strike.
Dennett yelled as loud as he could and charged him.
His sudden burst of action made the man pause for just long enough for Dennett to get close enough to throw himself against the man's chest plate, so that they stood face to face. Dennett shoved against him, driving him further and further back. He felt the man's free hand come up and squeeze tight against his throat, hard enough that he couldn't breathe. They heaved against each other, grunting with exertion, both grappling around the other, as they came closer and closer to the edge of the wall. Dennett's vision blackened, and his lungs screamed for air, but he kept on pushing, calling for his last vestiges of strength. Then there was a clank, and they both stopped. They'd come to the edge of the wall.
Dennett pushed harder and harder, the Ironborn straining against him, and they both began to tip over the edge. With one more prayer to the Father, he gave one last heave against the Ironborn.
He saw the warrior's eyes widen, realising Dennett's plan, a split-second before they both tipped completely over the edge.
And then they were in free fall, both still entangled amongst each other. The man's hand finally fell away from his neck and Dennett managed to finally breathe, returning the colour to his face, before the ground rushed up to meet them and all he knew was agony. Like a searing fire the pain spread through his body, touching any and everything. He tried to cry out, but the sound wouldn't come. A tear trickled down his face.
He tried to get up, but he couldn't move through the waves of pain. He felt the man he'd tackled over lying next to him and glanced over. The Ironborn had landed head first on the stone beneath them and his head was crushed in. A ball of blood, crushed bone and sprayed brains made up where the man's head used to be.
Again, he tried to get up, before realising he couldn't even feel his feet. He glanced down to see his legs were twisted and broken, almost mangled, with odd bones sticking out. A wave of nausea swept him, and he leant his head back against the cold ground. A thick cough racked him, and scarlet blood escaped his lips and landed in splotches across his face, mixing with sweat, tears and the dried blood of his previous kills. Weariness spread through him and he felt his eyelids flicker.
Tiredly, he closed his eyes and saw no more.
o-O-o
Jasper ran through the imposing but familiar walls of Storm's End. Renly's small form was ahead of him, just out of reach. His twin was laughing.
"C'mon, Jas!" Renly's voice was filled with mirth and innocent happiness. "Catch me if you can!"
Jasper ran harder and harder, urging his wary legs ever onward but his brother remained a few steps ahead of him. It didn't make sense; he'd always been faster.
"Hey, wait up! Renly!"
But Renly pulled even further away from him, his infectious laugh still echoing in the long stone-bricked corridor. Shadows flittered across the walls in a never-ending dance as the two boys raced past large windows and brilliantly painted tapestries. Renly remained agonizingly out of reach.
"Catch me if you can, catch me if you can…" Renly sounded if he was singing. His voice was becoming ever more distant, his body becoming smaller and smaller before Jasper's eyes.
The endless corridor continued. Finally, Jasper's legs gave in. He stumbled and fell, his knees banging painfully against the hard stone.
"Renly!" Jasper voice echoed in the cavernous hallway.
But Renly paid him no mind. Eventually, Jasper lost sight of his brother and his singing faded away.
The torches sputtered and wavered in their brackets lining the walls. They seemed to be dying out as the darkness came on thickly. He was alone, and the darkness seemed to bear down on him like some monster from the stories.
Jasper screamed.
"Oi, Jasper!" He felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. "Come on, wake up, mate."
Jasper groaned, but managed to sit up, rubbing his opening eyes. Hector came into view in front of him, his mouth drawn into a smirk.
He was not in Storm's End and Renly was hundreds of miles away.
"Bloody hell," Jasper muttered under his breath.
"Come on, my prince." Hector laughed. "We've got to break camp and prepare Lord Yohn's horse and equipment. Again."
Wearily Jasper stretched his arms out. He got up slowly from his small sleeping cot with a large yawn. Hector watched him with undisguised amusement from his own cot next to him. Both of them slept in the corner of Lord Yohn's tent's first room, ready to serve their lord at any time should he call.
"This campaign life's clearly too much for you, my pampered prince," Hector teased him with an air of faux-concern. "Perhaps you should head back to Runestone? I'm sure Ysilla would love to see you."
Jasper gave no reply but a grunt and a middle finger; he was not a morning person.
After a quick breakfast of dried mutton, hard bread and cheese, the pair began their assigned tasks, which had become routine in the recent week of marching. Hector began packing away theirs and Lord Yohn's belongings, while Jasper fed the horses and made sure Lord Yohn's armour and weapons were ready for when the lord woke up.
The sun was still low on the horizon as Jasper walked amongst Lord Yohn's personal horses, feeding them from bowls of oats. The camp was beginning to stir and others, mostly servants, sentries and squires, were also up and going about their business, showing the first signs of the breaking of the camp. Men were starting to stoke the fires back into life and Jasper could hear the normal early morning mutterings.
By the time Jasper had fed and watered the horses Lord Yohn was up, chewing on a loaf of bread as Hector strapped him into set of bronze armor, which Jasper always marvelled out. It was both beautiful and practical, said to be thousands of years old and inscribed with runes that warded the Lord of Runestone from harm.
"Good morning, Jasper," Lord Yohn greeted him amiably, as the prince bowed his head.
"Morning, m'lord," Jasper replied, mid-yawn.
"My lord," Lord Yohn corrected him, "You're not a damn peasant."
"Sorry, my lord."
Lord Yohn regarded him knowingly. "Still finding the early mornings difficult?"
"I'll cope." Jasper promised him, drawing himself up.
"Good." Lord Yohn jerked his head back towards his black and bronze coloured pavilion. "Start taking down the tent. I know Horton will want us on the road in an hour- he wants to be at the Bloody Gate by dusk tomorrow- and I'm inclined to agree with him, though an hour may be too ambitious. Get to it."
Jasper nodded and hurried over to the large tent. He cleared what remained inside and packed those belongings away on one of the pack mules, before beginning to dismantle the tent bit by bit. Hector shortly joined him and soon after they'd finished.
By that time the other highborn companions of Lord Yohn's retinue were also up and going about their tasks; Robar was strapping Ser Samwell into his plain but tough plate armour, while Osric, Ser Andar, Ser Desmond and countless others, from knights to grooms, squires and servants, rushed this way and that, all determined to make sure Lord Yohn and his men were ready to march as soon as possible.
Lord Yohn caught their eye.
"Hector, saddle the horses. Jasper- load the carts. Quickly, now."
To Lord Yohn's disappointment it ended up being nearly two hours before the Valeman army was ready to march. It took time to break camp, send out scouts, order thousands of men into marching order, along with sort out all the horses, carts, camp followers and other assorted hangers on. To further complicate matters, Lord Theomar Melcolm insisted on spending an hour in pray at the small local Septry, while Lord Benedar Belmore sat down for a veritable banquet as his breakfast which took even longer.
But finally, they were on their way. Jasper was far back in the marching order, with the baggage train. It was his turn to ride with Lord Yohn's belongings, while Hector attended the Royce lord in the vanguard where the Lord of Runestone switched between riding at the head of his levies and accompanying the other lords of the Vale in the middle of the column.
Jasper disliked the position. The thousands of marching men in front of him cast a huge dust cloud behind them, meaning he was coughing half the time and it was far from the excitement and prestige of riding with the other noblemen, but it at least gave him time to think.
He found his mind wandering. He thought of Storm's End, of Ser Ormund Estermont and the other council members, even the stern Ser Cortnay Penrose. He thought of Ser Davos and his honesty. He thought of King's Landing and the many faces he had seen there, from the beautiful Queen Cersei to the kind Lord Arryn. He thought of his brothers, fierce Robert and charming Renly and steadfast Stannis, and how he missed all of them.
And he thought of Runestone.
It had been a cold day, he remembered, the day they'd marched away. The farewells had been bittersweet; Lady Falena had hugged him almost as tightly as she had Andar and Robar; Ysilla had kissed him on the cheek, much to Osric's delight; Septon Lucos had smiled at him and whispered that he'd left him a gift at the bottom of his pack, which turned out to be a large bottle of fine ale. Even Leobald Tollett had looked sad to see them go.
The cart beneath him jolted suddenly, interrupting his reminiscence. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. They were going to war; it did no good to linger on such things. He had to focus on what was ahead, not behind.
o-O-o
Ser Davos Seaworth gripped the small pouch around his neck tightly. It relaxed him, as did the familiar push and pull feeling of Black Betha beneath him.
The weather was glorious, hot and sunny, as was usual in the long summer they were in. Davos' crew manned the deck frantically, hauling ropes, packing away oars and scrubbing the deck, and he could feel the tension in the air. They had sailed in Lord Stannis' fleet for weeks, from the dark and foreboding island of Dragonstone, to fruitful beauty of the Arbor. The royal fleet had passed Casterly Rock a day ago, and the men knew, as did Davos, that they could meet the Ironborn any day now.
Davos shivered in his coarse linen clothing. He felt out of place; he was to quick and sneaky sailing under the cover of moonlight, not massive fleets and mighty naval clashes. Some voice in the back of his mind kept reminding him that he was a poor boy from Flea Bottom. He didn't belong here.
He noticed his ship was drifting slightly and he turned to his steersman angrily.
"Tighten your steering, you fool," he told the man.
"Sorry, captain," the young man hurried to the rudder to correct his mistake.
Davos watched him wearily. He was an earnest lad, and a good sailor but he tended to get distracted. Davos would have to watch him and warn the first mate to do the same.
From somewhere to his right, Davos heard a lord horn blast- once, twice, three times. The signal for enemy ships sighted.
Davos rushed to the bow, snapping at his crew to stay put and continue their responsibilities. He couldn't see anything yet- he was further back in the line- but, then, another horn blew, then another and he knew the Iron Fleet had arrived. He clutched the pouch around his neck again, feeling the bones through the thick leather of the pouch.
The Battle of Fair Isle was about to begin.