Lord Victarion Greyjoy
The waves of the narrow sea lapped at the ships of the Royal Fleet, Victarion Greyjoy was stood next to the wheel of the ship staring out into the vastness of the waves. He had grown up on the waves, had lived and fought on the waves, this was where he belonged not on the land debating politics and intrigue. This was what he was made for, and he intended to write yet another glorious song of what he and his men were to do today. The Brightflame fleet had been spotted, off the coast of what was known as the Sailor's Doom, a stretch of land jutting out from the middle of nowhere where ships had been know to maroon on occasion for years at a time.
Whoever was leading the Brightflame fleet was either mad or stupid or both, no sane sailor would ever dare go near the Doom, not even if the whole wealth of Westeros was on offer and yet that was where they were heading now to give battle and draw them away from Westeros and save the kingdoms more war. Peace had been good to Victarion, but some part of him hungered for war, better it is out on the waves where he would know what to do than on land.
Beside him his second son Dagon stands still, not moving and not saying anything merely standing and staring. Dagon was always a quiet lad, never as loud nor robust as Harlon, still a good sailor and a better fighter, someday he would take command of the Iron Victory and lead her to more glory. Today though he would serve as Victarion's second in command. "What do you see son?" Victarion asked his second son.
Dagon was silent for a moment before he responded. "The waves are pushing us close to the doom and those fools out near it. Whether we survive or not will depend on whether they fall for the trap."
The trap Dagon spoke of was the chain, dragged by each of the 200 ships that made up the royal fleet, they would sail close to the doom and then drop anchor and unleash the chain and then sail away once they were a safe distance away the torches would be lit and thrown. Wildfire, it had served him twice now, it would serve for a third time. "My lord," Nute the barber said coming up to Victarion's shoulder. "Their masts have been spotted on the horizon."
Victarion nodded and said. "Give the signal, it is time dropped the chain." The chain was dropped, and yet even as they were moving their own ships away from the inferno that was soon to erupt, more enemy ships appeared from behind them. "We're surrounded. Unleash arrows." Victarion shouted, men began boarding the ships and Victarion un- slung his axe and the fighting began.
This was what was good about fighting on the sea not the fire, but the feel of steel on steel above the waves. Swinging his axe Victarion growled and growled and swung and killed and swung and killed. Some bastard cut him but then soon enough was dead slain by axe and steel. The fighting went on, swinging, hacking, blocking and dodging. Victarion ran through the men who had boarded his ship and then with the battle lust on him jumped onto other ships and began the same process there.
On it went through the ships, hacking and slashing fighting for their lives, hacking and slashing, hacking, cutting, ducking and dodging on and on it went. Victarion took cuts and bruises but still he fought on cutting his way through a third ship that had been boarded by enemies. Hacking, his axe was red with blood, covered with the same slippery substance that it had been against the Redwynes. On and on and on and on and on, through the fog of battle he ploughed on, hacking and slashing, hacking and slashing. The chain lay forgotten and unlit though the enemy ships could not come to aid their allies, watching helplessly as their comrades were slain.
There was much more discipline amongst the royal soldiers than there had been amongst the Ironborn a fact that both gave Victarion pride and hurt his pride at the same time. On and on they fought, discipline and skill meeting together to end the troops the Brightflame had sent to fight them. A horn was sounded and then another, and then another. Still men kept coming at Victarion and Victarion slew them, they would get no ground from him, another horn sounded. "Where are those horns coming from?" he bellowed during a lull in the fighting.
"From beyond the chain my lord." Ser Montague replied. "They are calling for aid I think or perhaps for a truce."
Victarion grunted. "No truce, tell the men to burn the chain."
The order was given and soon enough the ships pulled away the chain sank into the water and then rose once more when the enemy ships tried to cross through it. Cutting them down to wood and splinter, their crews died screaming, pain and agony, on it went, on and on. "Light the torches and throw." Victarion said and it was done. Death and destruction that was what war was, and that was what Victarion excelled in. Death and destruction, all he knew was death and destruction.
The flames burned brightly, high in the sky when Ser Montague came to him once more. "There is news from the rest of the battle if you would hear it my lord."
"Speak then." Victarion said.
"Their fleet was destroyed though it was but a probe. Or so one of the prisoners says. Your son Dagon died slaying one of the Brightflame princes, and some of our ships have damage that will need repairs on Tarth." Montague said ever to the point.
"This prisoner where is he?" Victarion asked.
"On the Iron Victory my lord. Would you speak with him now?" Montague questioned.
"Aye I would. Show me to him." Victarion responded, and so when they boarded his ship, he saw his son Dagon's body covered with blood and dirt, and his eyes closed, he said a silent prayer and walked on. The prisoner was dark as night, and tattered and torn raving it seemed though he straightened out when he saw Victarion. "You say this attack was a probe? What do you mean?"
The man laughed and raved and then turned serious as if possessed. "Maegor Brightflame is no fool, he bears the name of a cruel dragon but has the cunning of the smartest one. The probe was to distract the royal fleet from the main action. Fleets are sailing forth for all ports of call. Destruction will happen and the red one shall triumph. Your time is ending."
"What is this madness?" Victarion growled but the man would speak no more. "Kill him, and send word to King's Landing to warn them of further attacks and ask for more instructions. We must dock in at Tarth."
And so on the fifth day of the third month of the 298th year after Aegon's Landing, the war of the Brightflame had truly begun with the ending of the battle of the narrow sea. More death and destruction would soon follow.