Copyright Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback goes a long way to encouraging my writing.
Chapter 46: Against the Tide
"Fear is a valuable commodity."
– Captain Jorg Seastark
The Flaming Stag of House Baratheon flew in a gloomy grey sky, flapping in the gentle breeze as if the weather itself meant to snuff out its fire. They'd been on Dragonstone for a week now and the fortress hadn't sent so much as a messenger to them. It seemed by all guesses that they'd be in for a long siege. That was not good news at all. Euron Greyjoy had taken the Shield Islands last they heard and that left the Mander and the Reach itself vulnerable without the Redwyne Fleet there to defend it. Instead, the fleet was here, on a volcanic rock that reeked of sulphur, salt and brimstone. There were worse smells, one supposed, but he longed to return home…
Home. Where was that exactly? He'd not seen his brothers or father in so long now and he'd gotten married in their absence, even becoming a father.
The thought of his young wife brought a fond smile to his lips. Desmera Redwyne had wed him shortly before the realm plunged into rebellions, the price for his curly red-orange and freckled young wife was his allegiance and his knowledge; such as it was – not to mention his ship… that wasn't strictly his to give…
Lord Redwyne had spent a small fortune building himself a Seawolf of his very own; naming it the Arbor King.
Jorg had a son from his pretty young vine. Paxon Seastark was the boy, only a year old, named to honour Desmera's father.
He hated this island, honestly. It was damp and dreary and Dragonstone itself loomed over them like a shadow.
"Captain," the call came from his cabin door.
"Enter," he answered with a sigh, stroking some silver hair that rested to his side.
The man entered and immediately turned his eyes away from his captain.
Jorg laid in his feathered bed with a valyrian beauty half-way beneath his covers.
"Speak," he bid the messenger.
"I-" The man's eyes lingered on the woman.
"Eyes off the girl," Jorg demanded. "What news have you?"
The girl in question stirred in her peaceful sleep – stark naked under the covers – her silvery clocks were spawled out on the pillows.
Dragonport was filled with 'Dragonseeds' as the locals called them, all purple eyed with silvery locks and unnatural beauty that Jorg had found himself all too easily swayed by when he'd laid eyes on the beauty in his bed. She was an innkeeps daughter but dressed in silks and finery the girl could pass for a princess.
At least that's what Jorg thought. The girl was his little dragon, as he called her; much to her amusement.
He'd have to leave her here when they left though. Lord Redwyne would never allow him to keep the girl around…
"Lord Paxer summons you Captain…"
Speak of the old man and he would appear.
"Very well," Jorg frowned. "I'll be there shortly…"
The girl in his bed groaned and slowly opened her violet eyes.
"I'll be there eventually," Jorg decided instead.
The messenger looked ready to argue.
"Piss off now," Jorg demanded, stroking silver hair over the girl's ear.
"My Lord," his dragon smiled sweetly at him.
Gods. He'd hate to leave such a beauty behind.
"Morning little dragon," he kissed her neck.
The messenger left before he was forced to witness more.
Jorg grabbed his azure shirt and burgundy tunic from the table and made to dress himself once he was done.
"Should I remain here m'lord?"
"Aye," he told her as he pulled on his black trousers.
"Will the siege be over soon?" the dragon-girl asked hesitantly. "Father says it's bad for business…"
Jorg didn't think so, not when the fortress showed no signs of surrendering.
"I hope so," he told her instead.
"I'll be here," she smiled sweetly.
"Good girl," Jorg winked at her before he left his cabin.
Outside the deck of the Seawolf was manned by a skeleton crew at best as most of his men – his father-in-law's men in truth – were ashore either securing the port or preparing for a siege. Storming the walls was nearly out of the question entirely… unless they wished to lose a great many men in the process…
He went largely ignored by his crew as he passed them by and two Redywne knight's fell in behind him down the plank and onto the pier proper.
"Anything new?" Jorg asked of his knights.
He'd taken to naming them Ser Left and Ser Right for they followed him everywhere thus.
"I couldn't say Ser," Ser Left answered.
"Ser Loras grows restless," Ser Right added helpfully.
Jorg himself was a Knight courtesy of Lord Redwyne's insistence.
Ser Jorg Seastark. It had a nice ring to it, Jorg thought, but he cared little for the andals faith. Lord Paxter would expect his boy Paxon to follow the Faith of the Seven no doubt though – that was a matter of some conflict between the two men; but sweet Desmera kept her father in check more often than not.
He'd have to buy her something pretty upon their return to the Arbor…
"Ser Jorg," the guardsmen greeted him as he approached the Arbor King.
The ship was the Seawolf with added finery and grapes in place of his direwolf on burgundy, two decks, the first lined with scorpions.
Lord Redwyne had sunk a small fortune and many trees into its construction over the years.
"Lord Paxer sent for me," Jorg was halted by the cabin door on the upper deck.
The guards shared a look and opened the door for his passage.
Inside was a fine oaken table with carved vines throughout and all the lords and knights of importance in attendance.
"We've wasted enough time doing-"
All eyes turned to Jorg's arrival.
"You're late boy," Lord Redwyne scolded him quickly.
"Forgive me good-father," he smiled his best smile. "I overslept…"
"With that whore of yours," Redwyne countered with a scowl.
"Not a whore," Jorg argued for the girl. "I've not pai-"
"You shame my daughter with your actions Ser."
"I'll not bring any bastards back to dishonour my sweet wife, have no fear – I vow it My Lord."
Lord Redwyne glared daggers at him only to relent and shake his head in disappointment.
"As I was saying," it was the Knight of Flowers, dressed in his white cloak.
"We cannot delay further," Jorg hummed. "How do you purpose we take the fortress then Ser?"
"I will demand single combat," Ser Loras declared confidently.
The Lords and Knights present muttered their options.
"I had hoped to end this bloodlessly…"
"There's no time for that anymore My Lord," Ser Loras disagreed heartily. "With the Shield Islands taken, you know as well as I that your fleet is needed back in the Reach. We've no time to wait on their surrender; or your miners to breech those walls. It would take half a year or more to starve them out."
"I fear you're correct Ser," Lord Redwyne was forced to agree with the young flower.
"Should they refuse your demand though Ser," one of the Westerlanders worried.
They'd brought some two thousand Lannister men with them from King's Landing.
"We'll lose many no doubt," Jorg butted in, filling himself a cup of Arbor Red wine.
In truth, he knew that Ser Loras would throw the Westerlanders at the walls before any Reachmen.
"We'll lose more to the Ironborn if left unchecked," Ser Loras insisted.
"Maybe they'll accept your brave offer of combat?"
Aurane Waters was sat in his chair, boots up on the table, smirking like a fool under his feathered hat.
"I doubt it," Ser Loras frowned at that reality.
"Well then," Aurane swung his boots off the table and got to his feet. "Shall we?"
Jorg liked this bastard. He was handsome with his silver-gold hair and grey-green eyes, never once cowering under Redwyne's gaze.
Queen Cersei had pardoned him for fighting with Stannis and he'd won the woman's favour at court. She'd named him Grand Admiral – a title formally known as Master of Ships – to serve on King Tommen's small council. The way the bastard of Driftmark told it, her Grace had given ample funds for him to build his small fleet of dromonds.
His men were fiercely loyal to him and the man practically oozed charisma.
"After you Ser Loras," the bastard smiled kindly.
Tyrell huffed as he made his exit. The others followed behind him.
Jorg's eyes flashed to the topsails as he stepped back out onto the upper deck.
A grape cluster on azure flew proudly atop the sails – alongside a lone raven – its green eyes peering down at them.
"Ser," the bastard of Driftmark nudged him.
"Huh?" Jorg blinked, looking to the man.
"Looking for something up there Seastark?"
He glanced up again. The raven was gone.
"It was nothing," he answered. "Just a bird…"
"Mhmm," Ser Waters shrugged it away without much thought.
Jorg shook off a sudden chill in his bones. He could've sworn its eyes were-
"Come along Seastark," Ser Desmond smiled at him.
"Aye," he chuckled. It was nothing to fret about. Just a bird… sometimes he'd forget that the South wasn't like back home…
Past the village on the docks and up the cliffside, a great winding walkway led up to the gates of Dragonstone's fortress – where countless would be slaughtered if they were forced to storm the fortress; that seemed likely. The walkway was so narrow that barely two men could stand beside each other. A damn death-trap.
"Cheer up Seastark," Ser Desmond nudged him as they ascended the walkway under the banner of peace.
"I'm fine," Jorg insisted with a frown.
"Oh I see that lad," the knight wasn't fooled. "You worry for your family?"
Family? "Aye," he decided. "I do Ser…"
"You and I both then," Desmond admitted quietly.
The sulfureous air burned inside Jorg's nose as white smoke poured from cracks and vents on the Dragonmont ahead.
As they neared the gates of fused black stone, Jorg saw they were engraved with dragons and wyverns and hellhounds; the fortress of Dragonlords – long since lost to stags of all creatures. One supposed that the Dragon Lords of old were rolling in their graves to see their home having fallen quite so low as this…
"Who approaches!?"
Ser Loras stepped forward as the others halted.
"I am Ser Loras Tyrell of the Kingsguard to his grace King Tommen of-"
"Piss the fuck off," the gatehouse replied.
Ser Loras wasn't amused.
"You are outnumbered," he insisted with a fury. "Surrender now!"
Silence came from the dark gloomy gatehouse.
"Piss of pretty boy," came the answer. "Ain't no arses for you to bugger here!"
It took all of Jorg's strength to not giggle at that.
Waters made little effort to hide his amusement though.
"I would speak to your commander," Loras told them with a scowl.
Silence. "I don't think Lord Davos wants none of your buggering nether, Ser!"
Aurane snorted at that, all smiles, uncaring for the glares sent his way.
"Send for him! If you do not, we'll-"
"Oh fine," the gatehouse answered. "I'll fetch him, but don't think he'll be too keen…"
"What's your name Ser!?"
No reply came. They were gone… or they were just ignoring him…
"Well," Ser Desmond muttered. "This is going well…"
Their pretty little white flag of truce fluttered in the breeze.
Jorg took a moment to look around. On the horizon at sea, those morning fogs were still thick; the air damp and thick.
A flock of birds flew over Dragonport and the world seemed oddly peaceful.
The silence was broken by the sound of chains and steel. The gatehouse opened.
"Ser Loras," a man greeted them, safely behind the thick blackened portcullis.
"And you are?" Loras asked the man impatiently.
"Lord Davos Seaworth," the man answered. He didn't look like a lord.
The man had an ordinary face, weathered by the elements; with a beard and thinning brown hair peppered with grey.
He wore a simple blue tunic with old boots and brown breeches. Jorg had seen merchants dressed in finer stuff…
"Lord Seaworth," Ser Loras named him with a frown, clearly disappointed. "I challenge you, fight me – let us-"
"I'll stop you there if it's no trouble Ser," Lord Davos halted the young knight.
"You dare to-"
"I'm not much of a fighter you see," the rugged lord didn't seem ashamed by it.
"If you refuse, we will storm this castle and-"
"And you will die," came the matter-of-fact reply.
"We may lose many," Ser Loras was angry now. "I will tear this fortress down with my bare hands before the day is done though Ser!"
Lord Davos raised one brow at that notion.
"These walls were forged with the sorcery of Old Valyrian, I'm told…"
"It makes no difference Ser!"
Jorg had his doubts about that but didn't dare voice them.
"We will never surrender," Lord Davos told them plainly.
"See reason My Lord," Ser Desmond stepped forward one foot.
"I see well enough," Davos told him with a weary sigh.
"You can't win," Jorg spoke up finally. "If you surrender now, you-"
"You must be Captain Seastark?"
Jorg blinked. How in the gods name did-
A raven swooped down onto the man's shoulder. It cawed at them.
"We will never surrender Queen Shireen," Lord Davos declared firmly.
The raven cawed and spoke "Never" with a flap of its dark midnight wings.
"So be it!" Ser Loras spit venom, more snake than flower. He stormed down the walkway.
"That was entertaining," Aurane muttered as he left.
"We'll throw the lions at them," Ser Desmond added.
The raven tilted its head and seemed to stare at them intently.
"Come along now Jorg," Desmond insisted sadly. "We're done here."
Lord Davos hadn't left yet. He just stood there with the green-eyed raven on his shoulder.
The chill had returned with a vengeance. Something was very wrong… Jorg could feel it…
It didn't long for Lord Redywne to recall the council to plot the siege ahead of them with all his knights and lords in attendance.
"I'll lead the vanguard," Ser Loras left little to no room for argument.
"Ser," Lord Paxter frowned. "The plan is to use the Westerland forces first…"
"There's no need to throw away our own lives," Ser Desmond agreed with his lordly cousin.
"I have the vanguard," the Knight of Flowers insisted once more.
There was no argument with the boy in this it seemed.
"We should have the fleet prepared," Jorg suggested eventually.
"The fleet," Lord Paxter raised a brow at him as if he'd grown a second head.
"There's no threat to the fleet here Jorg," Ser Desmond offered helpfully.
"The Fleet is unmatched," a knight from Goldwyne scoffed at the mere notion.
"Why'd you say that Seastark?"
It seemed only the Bastard of Driftmark took him seriously.
"There has been-"
They'd think him a fool or mad or worse…
"-I have a bad feeling, is all; what harm is there in being safe?"
"Nonsense boy," Lord Paxter dismissed him. "The only fleet remotely capable of challenging us is the krakens and by all reports they're months away from us, it would be impossible for them to pass The Arbor without our notice! The fleet is quite fine, besides, we've the whole bay patrolled…"
Jorg had seen these patrols. Small galleys in groups of four; their banners more a deterrent than their strength in truth.
"They are meant to prevent smugglers and the like," he argued. "Not-"
"Having larger vessels would not be practical on patrol Jorg," Ser Desmond countered.
"Indeed," Lord Redwyne hummed. "If the Greyjoys snuck around somehow; our patrols would retreat in good order with word."
"And if whatever they face is-"
"Enough boy!" Lord Paxter yelled at him.
He'd not listen, the old fool was too wroth with him to do otherwise.
"As you say," Jorg lowered his head meekly. Curse the old fool and his pride.
Once the council was over, only the Bastard remained to talk his peace.
"Your feelings," Aurane pried. "There's something you've left out…"
"I-" Jorg blinked. He'd think him crazy…
"Spill my friend," the bastard smiled charmingly.
When had they become friends, exactly? Still, the bastard was at least willing to listen…
"My family," Jorg began with a sigh. "We've used birds – ravens and hawks and the like for centuries to be our eyes at sea…"
"Ah," Aurane chuckled. "The raven on the onion lord's shoulder has you worried?"
"It's nothing Ser, just a foul feeling is all…"
The Bastard of Driftmark looked at him for the longest time.
"I believe you," he decided plainly.
"…you believe me…"
"I do," his smile beamed. "As you say; what harm is there in caution?"
Aurane's idea of caution and his own were likely two wholly separate affairs.
"My men will be at the ready," he vowed with a hand to Jorg's shoulder. "You will do the same, yes?"
His own men were not quite so loyal to him as Aurane's were…
"I shall," Jorg nodded with little confidence.
"Excellent my friend," Aurane downed a cup of wine and made to leave.
It wouldn't take long for Jorg to be proven right, though he'd wish he was wrong.
If there was one age old principle that Jorg clung tightly to, it was that running away was no bad thing; so long as you ran towards something – that it may feel less like cowardice. He'd ran before because it was only sane to flee from that great serpent of the depths. What man wouldn't turn tail from such a creature that threw ships up from the waves like they were wooden toys fit only for children to play with and discard? What man wouldn't run? What mad man would have done differently?
He feared the answer to that question was closer than he'd like. The raven's eye- he couldn't quite shake it; the feeling that lurked deep within his bones.
It had been looking at him, he was certain of it…
It wasn't a thing he could tell the andals – gods forbid – they'd dismiss him at best, or name him a madman…
Perhaps a heretic? What was the Faith's punishment for heretics?
"My lord?" The girl snapped him from his thoughts.
"Your things," he threw a shirt to her on the bed. "Get dressed- this is over…"
"I don't understand what-"
"Return to your father," Jorg frowned deeply.
"Have I displeased you m'lord…"
"No," the answer came a little too easily.
His thoughts twisted and stormed within his mind.
"It's not safe," he decided with a sigh. "You must return home."
"Father would never take me," she pleaded, her smile gone – if it was ever real.
"He's your father, isn't he? He'll forgive you…"
She shook her silvery locks.
"He'll disown me…"
"Fathers are-"
Jorg's gaze lingered on her watery violet eyes.
"Family," he knelt beside the bed and took her hand in his. "It's complicated…"
"He's proud," she told him with her head hung low. "We're the descendants of Gaeron Waters, we is; blood of the Dragons…"
Jorg didn't have the first clue who the hell that was and nor did he care… but she was a pretty thing and he hated to see her sad…
"He died," she continued mumbling. "Trying to tame the Cannibal and prove himself during the Dance."
The Dance of Dragons. He'd heard her spin that tale before – not that he'd minded before, her voice was held a poetic sweetness to it – her oh so beloved ancestor was the bastard son of some Targaryen of old. Gaeron had taken two of his three sons up to the Cannibal's Lair to tame the great dragon and prove his lineage.
He failed, naturally; but this girl's father claimed some distant kinship to the third son of that very same dragonseed.
"He's your father," Jorg squeezed her hand. "He'll forgive you… he must…"
Would his own forgive him? Family was everything to the Stark's – cadet branch or not – to shed the blood of Stark was to forswear all right to life.
"You're afraid," the dragon girl read him like a book, if she knew how to read one of those. "Why? I-"
"Fear is a valuable commodity," Jorg didn't deny it. "It's common sense at its purest…"
His heart jumped at the knock on the cabin door.
"WHAT IS IT!?"
"Cap-" The man had barred in after knocking.
"What!?" Jorg demanded, back to his feet with one hand on the handle of his steel.
"Sails spotted captain," the crewman declared with a fretful look.
Sails? The cold damp dread in Jorg's bones crept its way up his spine.
"Whose sails," he moved to the door and slammed it shut behind them. "Greyjoy?"
"No captain," the crewman shook his head as they stepped out onto the deck.
The men were rushing about the Seawolf's main deck.
Jorg hurried up the steps to the rear of the quarter deck.
"Give me that," he snatched the spyglass from his crewman and brought it up to his eye.
They weren't cheap things – these far-eyes from Myr – though compared to Imperial glass he'd found them rather disappointing honestly. In this situation, he found himself cursing that he'd gifted his own personal imperial spyglass to Lord Redwyne for his last nameday.
Looking through the myrish glass Jorg could see the fog to the north-east of Dragonstone.
"I don't see any-"
The fogs were thick as a winter blizzard.
The sky was grey – yet he spied wings among the clouds.
"Shit," he cursed when he saw it. "Shit, shit, shit, fucking shit…"
"Captain?"
It was here. They were bloody screwed.
Jorg brought the glass back up to eye, to check he'd not simply gone mad…
"Shit," he could still them – the tall white masts creeping above the thickness of the fog.
"Captain," another of his crew came thundering over. "The Lord Admiral is leaving!"
His eyes darted to the sight of Velaryon sails speeding away on favourable winds.
"The OId, the True, the Brave," Jorg muttered curses.
Lord Waters had turned his cloak and ran with the winds.
Smart man…
"Captain!"
"Your orders m'lord!?"
The crew was awash with panic.
"Raise the sails," Jorg decided after a pause, shoving the spyglass aside.
"Jorg?" A woman voice greeted him.
Shit. She was still on the bloody ship…
"Get in the cabin," he demand from her. "Stay there and lock the fucking door!"
"I-" Her dragon's eyes were wide with worry.
"DO IT NOW!"
She turned on her heels and slammed the door shut.
"What about Lord Redwyne!?"
"He's away," Jorg dismissed; the old man could not hope to save them…
The Westerlander forces were already assaulting Dragonstone – led by the Flower Knight – there would be no recalling them now…
Shouts of "To Arms!" and "Stations!" and "Sails!" filled the air between a few heartbeats.
Jorg's eyes locked onto it and his own heart skipped a beat or two.
Its great brow broke through the fog like a silver lance through grey plate.
"Shipwright," he muttered so low that it was scarcely a whisper – more akin to a prayer than a curse.
It's great silver wolf's maw snarled at them all, with three decks and tall sails; it made the Seawolf look small.
"The enemy is upon us!" Some brave Redwyne Knight yelled. "Let's take 'em!"
Jorg heard their heartfelt cheers of approval. Strong, loud, confident.
"Fools," he didn't voice his doubts.
More sails appeared through the fog…
Then more… and even more… hundreds of them…
With each sail revealed, the Andal's shouts grew less and less certain.
Aurane's fleet might just escape – Jorg reckoned – if only because he'd left them behind as a distraction.
The Winter Fleet had cleared the fog for the most part and no shout scared Jorg so well as "Starks!"
"Captain," one of the crew looked to his with wide eyes.
"Look to the Arbor King," Jorg shook himself from his stupor.
The Redwyne's newest flagship had already lifted anchor.
"Can we-" the man hesitated. "Can we win this, m'lord?"
Jorg eyed the man, younger than even him; with fear in his eyes.
"Raise my banner on the main mast," Jorg decided. It might just save him… maybe…
On the Shipwright a young Prince Brandon lowered his silver-imperial spyglass and glanced towards his uncle.
"They're fleeing," he noted the aquamarine sails going south-west with the winds.
"No matter, let them run," King Rodrik didn't seem concerned by the fleeing vessels.
He looked kingly in his black leathers and silver plate; though it was lighter than usual – at sea speed would serve them all better than thick heavy plate – the king wore the Shipwright's crown atop his head; all runes and swords with salt air in his hair. "They're amassing," Brandon muttered, frowning at the sight of their enemy.
The great Redwyne Feet looked a mess with panic as they lifted anchors and rallied to the largest vessel among them.
Some were still docked at Dragonport though, caught unprepared at anchor.
"See that one nephew? At the rear there?"
King Rodrik's eyes remained fixed on the horizon.
Brandon brought the spyglass back up to his eye and had to look twice to be sure.
"Seastark colours," he mumbled in surprise.
Looking to his uncle, he wasn't quite sure what to say.
The ship was the Redwyne's second largest, lingering at their rear.
"That one," the King declared. "We spare it… if possible…"
"And the others, Your Grace?"
Brandon knew the answer well enough.
"They have made their choice Bran…"
The Winter Fleet crawled forward as a raven soured in between their sails, graced with all the colours of the Sunset Islands, so many scores of scorpions and ballista bristling across a hundred decks. She dived in from the south, souring over the deck and landing behind a young wolf prince.
"Nephew," Lyarra spoke, a cloud of raven feathers and black vapours dissipating behind her.
Prince Brandon nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Fuck!" He cursed, sighing when he noticed there was no danger.
His Uncle only cracked the slight smirk in reply to his sister's arrival.
The Princess was all smiles, as she always seemed to be…
"Dear nephew," she ruffled his hair like a child.
"Princess," Brandon frowned, batting away her hand.
"What news?" Rodrik pried from the raven-princess.
"So dutiful," she rolled her emerald eyes. "All is as I've told…"
Brandon raise a brow at that. This woman held too many secrets.
"Excellent," the King seemed confident as he eyed the horizon ahead.
Yells of "Knock!" echoed out followed by the thunder of drums.
Sails of azure flew defiantly ahead of them, their flagship rather unimpressive.
The drums sounded again, again, again, like the rhythmic beat of a heart.
"To arms!" One voice yelled out, as another man waved a blood-red flag.
The crew of the Shipwright answered with thunderous chants of "Stark!" to accompany every beat of their drums.
Clouds gathered in the gloomy skies above them, a storm brewing as rain began to fall – as if the gods themselves wept.
The Shipwright was outpaced by the Winter Fleet's smaller vessels, as sails of Fisher and Wright and Mormont rushed ahead; the winds at their backs, they cut through the water with ease. "Aim for the big one," Rodrik mumbled, seemingly to no one, though Brandon knew full well the wings in the sails would be listening to their king.
Prince's Brandon's hand fumbled at his swords hilt impatiently as he watched their swifter ships pull away to the left and right.
"Why aren't they attacking, Your Grace?"
Their own forward ballista – mounted at the fore of their greatest ships – had already unleashed a volley at the enemy, with every other bolt striking hulls in a splinter of wood or ripping at sail; others missed at such distance… but they could afford the expense… while sections of the fleet circled around…
The Redywne's ships held small catapults at their rears and foremasts, it appeared…
"They're not in range," the King answered his concerns.
Brandon could only watch as the Redywne's tried desperate to close the gap between them.
Lord Fisher's snow-classed sails were showering azure sails with bolts coated in burning tar, giving flame to cloth and wood and meat.
"Almost," Rodrik muttered to the sea air that blew through his raven hair.
The Redwyne's had closed the gap now, but they were in disarray…
Brandon winced when he saw a Redwyne catapult crash into the hull of Lord Mormont's flagship.
The impact took out its foremast and sent the crew scrambling as the mast groaned and fell…
King Rodrik was smiling, however. Prince Brandon wasn't certain why; but-
"It's time brother," the Princess said simply, all smiles and innocence.
"Fire," the King commanded. There was a pause before the thunder struck.
A flight of birds erupted from the Shipwright's masts and Prince Brandon covered his ears.
Things were not going as Lord Redwyne expected. The enemy had arrived under cover of an unnatural fog – putting the fear of the gods into his men's superstitious hearts – only for them to move at a crawl towards their anchored fleet instead of truly seizing full advantage. It wasn't what He'd have done in his foes position…
Answers came in form of shattered hulls and splintered wood. The enemy's ballista had far greater range than his own…
"Forward!" He'd commanded from the helm of his great flagship.
Great was an overstatement though now, wasn't it?
The Arbor King was a marvel, the crowning jewel of his fleet!
And yet… the flagship of their enemy made the Arbor King look small…
"And what's with that giant figurehead!?"
Lord Paxter didn't voice his frustration, but it was plain on his features.
The man's few remaining tufts of orange hair were blown about by the northern wind.
"The Queen!"
She'd rowed ahead – the winds against them – so many white-and-old oars made work of the waves.
Paxter watched in horror as she was set upon by a volley that ripped apart the ship's burgundy sails and its white-gold hull.
"Gods," the Lord of the Arbor muttered with wide eyes.
They were in range of the enemy's largest vessels now it seemed.
He'd grown up sailing her, but now the Arbor Queen began to sink between the waves.
"Close the distance!" Lord Paxter commanded bravely.
If they could get close enough, those giant ballistae wouldn't be able to fire so close!
What was the alternative? If they fled, they'd be at the Stark's mercy…
Now there was a thought Paxter never expected to have.
"Where in the seven hells did the Starks get such a fleet!?"
Seastark had some answering to do…
If this was the Winter Fleet he'd spoken of, then the boy had downplayed it! They weren't invincible though…
A cheer went out as the Proudwyne's catapult struck true, smashing into one of the enemy ships.
The great mast creaked and fell. Its colours were green-and-black.
"Mormont," Paxter knew the banner – with its bear on a field of moss-green.
"Board her!" Lord Paxter yelled out; the words echoed by his captains.
If they could seize the vessels ballista…
"M'lord," one of the crew was halted in his tracks.
"To your station crewman!"
"M- M'lord," the man didn't falter.
Turning his eyes to the enemy fleet, he saw it too…
The ridiculously large figurehead on the Stark flagship made it slow – the fools; they could close the distance and-
"What in the seven hells is-"
The wolf's maw flashed, and the Arbor King cowered.
It struck like thunder – with enough force to send his crew stumbling.
"We're hit!" The call came out.
What!? "Explain!" Lord Paxter demanded frantically.
"We're taking on water m'lord!"
"The hulls breached," one crewman yelled. "By the gods!"
"Patch it!" Paxter screamed, turning and raising his voice higher.
The crew were frantic. Chaos and disorder would be the death of them…
"Patch the breach!" Lord Paxter ordered firmly. "Continue toward-"
"They're coming to us!"
Seven hells, what were they-
Stark's flagship had seemingly grown more sails, full and bellowing in the wind.
"T- Turn!" Lord Paxter didn't hesitate.
"It's too fast m'lord!"
The great snarling wolf was upon them.
"BRACE!"
"It's going to ram us!"
The wolf's maw flashed at them again, far louder; hurling fire and death from its teeth.
Lord Paxter saw the Arbor King's foremast shatter and several of his crewmen crushed as it fell.
"Abandon ship!" One of the crew yelled, leaping over the edge in an instant.
"By the gods," is all Lord Redwyne could say as the Stark's flagship loomed over them.
The Arbor King was flung in the water like a child's toy when the silver figurehead struck.
"Knock," the cry came from the Stark's flagship as it began to pass them by.
"Draw" was followed by a mighty "Loose!"
Fire rained down from the Stark's flagship as hell struck Paxter's crew and their sails.
Arrows and Scorpion bolts fell upon the Arbor King.
"M'lord! We must aban-"
An arrow found its way into the crewman's neck, sending him gurgling to the deck.
"Father," Lord Redwyne muttered prayers as the Stark flagship slowly passed. "Mother, Smith, Warr-"
Something leapt up and bit him in the shoulder.
"-ior"
Paxter stumbled, grasping the shaft embedded in him
"Mina," he muttered the name of his wife before another arrow struck true.
Lord Paxter Redwyne – like so many Redwyne's before him – went down with his ship.
Jorg knew from the beginning that there was never any hope. Maybe, if the Redwyne's had been prepared they'd have fared better? Such thoughts were wasted breath now though. He watched from the rear as the Arbor King was pushed aside as if it were nothing; the Shipwright overtaken by banners of Sunstark and Seastark.
They'd rammed the King. That, Jorg knew too well, was more a show of strength than anything…
"Dragonfire," he'd muttered when it sounded, like thunder from the gods.
When the wolf's maw flashed and the king's hull shattered, all was truly lost.
"Imperials," Jorg cursed under his breath. The Princesses dowery was no mere gimmick.
The Redwyne Fleet was either lost or fleeing as they watched.
Jorg felt sorry for the andals, honestly, most of their galleys were rammed like Lyseni tavern whores.
Oars and hulls splintered and cracked like the breaking of twigs, splinters flying.
The rowers were likely the first to feel the pinch… poor bastards…
Their deaths would at least some small reprieve from the business of rowing.
"Captain," one of his crew rushed over. "W- What do we do!?"
Surrender? Jorg knew they'd never accept that though, this andal crew of his, more likely to turn on him instead…
"Prepare to be boarded," he decided instead with a scowl.
A few well-placed shots had crippled the Seawolf in the water already.
"Not that we could escape regardless," Jorg thought with a frown.
He'd have fled immediately, if his crew allowed for it… but they'd have refused…
"Aye Captain!" The crewmen rushed about to their stations.
Jorg's eyes fell on the vessels that approached them.
Seastark colours flew on their masts, flapping proudly in the wind.
The Seawind and The Mawhowl had sought them out like hounds hunting stuck prey.
Jorg knew these ships. Oddly enough, he'd felt… a queer mix of happy and terrified to lay eyes on them…
They were larger than the Seawolf by a deck, though even the Seawind was no match for the Shipwright; both vessels made his own look lesser.
Great planks dropped onto their upper deck one by one and the andal crew prepared for a fight.
Jorg took two steps aside on instinct alone.
The scorpions that lined the hostile ships fired a volley.
With a THUD and THUD and THUD, THUD, THUD, several of the andals were cut down by the bolts.
"Against the Tide!"
Jorg knew that voice…
He was dressed in leathers and steel-plate marked by wolves and ornate engraved waves.
The man – taller than Jorg by a head – charged down the planks before any others, clashing into the andal crew with two axes and a crazed look in his eyes. He screamed "Jorg!" as he cut down man after man with his axes, shattering shields and cutting throats as his own men poured onto the deck behind him.
"Cap-" one andal man stood between the two brothers, only to receive an axe to his skull.
The andal flopped to the blood-soaked deck like a puppet with cut strings.
Jorg stepped over the dead man and drew his longsword from its scabbard.
"Hello brother," he smiled nervously at the man, careful to not slip on the blood.
Maric Seastark looked furious, his eyes burning brightly; coated in a splatter of andal crimson.
"Stand down little brother," Maric demanded, letting his axes rest at his side as his crew slaughtered the andals.
"You've gotten blood all over my ship…"
"This isn't a game we're playing!"
"No," Jorg scowled. "I should say not – blood a right pain to wash out…"
"Stand. Down. Brother."
He looked to his brother, all blood and fury.
The Seawolf's crew were either dead or captured…
Jorg Seastark sighed, throwing his sword to the deck in surrender.
"Kill them all," Maric commanded. His crew slit the throats of every andal crewman on their knees.
"They were unarmed," Jorg complained, frowning at the butchery of it.
"They were the enemy," Maric scoffed at his little brother. "Are you?"
Jorg's frown turned angry.
"No," he insisted. "I'm family…"
"Family," Maric actually laughed at that.
Jorg didn't even try to avoid the right-hook from his brother.
Blood was Blood. There was more than enough of it to go around.
The rains fell hard against The Whitestrake's deck as it sailed past one wreckage then another, the clouds grey and angry, as flashes of thunder lit up the sky and the waves churned against their hull. Theirs was a small vessel with only one deck and a cargo hold – far from any wolf-of-war – but speed and winds were the Whitestrake's ally.
"Bring us in," Talan Flint commanded from the upper rear deck.
"Aye Captain," his first mate replied with a smirk.
The Whitestrake's sails sent them practically gliding towards the port.
It was half ablaze by the time they docked, with more than one galley burnt or sunk at anchor.
They'd caught the enemy with their pants down for all intents and purposes.
"Steady now," the Captain muttered as they pulled into dock.
The air was damp and smelt of salt and sulphur and smoke.
"Aye, m'lord!"
Talan trusted his crew with his life, but none more than his first. An old hand with a firm grip on the crew.
The clouds were turning dark overhead, illuminated briefly before the boom of thunder reached their ears.
"Not quite a blizzard," Talan couldn't help but compare. The storms back home were far worse during a deep winter.
The snow-classes vessels of the fleet were all docking alongside what sellsails had joined them, pulling into what spaces Dragonport offered them that weren't packed with wreckage or outright abandoned galleys. Once the docks were full, others took to the boats; landing ashore on the beaches and rushing into town.
Talan watched vigilantly with his helm tucked beneath his arm, eyeing the sellswords rushing headfirst into the small town of Dragonport.
Swords for hire they may be, but none could question the men's bravery it seemed.
"We've already won though," he supposed quietly.
Thunder lit up the sky once more in a flash.
The Whitestrake came to a sudden halt at the docks.
"With me lads," Talan put on his helm and drew his sword. "Ever Vigilant!"
The cries of "Every Vigilant" rang out in reply.
House Flint's words. His father's words…
"Fight well!" Talan shouted; his voice muffled beneath his helm. "For his grace King Rodrik! For our homes, our Prince, our Glory!"
Andals awaited them on the docks.
"Vigilance!"
"Strong as Stone!"
"Winter is Coming!"
None were so loud as Winter's call.
Lightning crackled and waves crashed against the pier as Talan leapt onto the docks.
He'd misguided the leap however, crashing shield-first into some andal knight alongside his fellows.
Flint's gauntlet came crashing into the andals face again, and again and again, until his face was a bloody ruin.
"Captain," one of the crew lifted him up.
"Push," Talan commanded. "PUSH THEM!"
The sound of steel against steel was washed out by the crash of waves and the crackle of thunder.
He kicked the bloodied corpse aside, off the pier and into the churning sea, picking up his sword from the damp wood.
The cries of "Flint!" and "Stark!" went out as battle waged on the docks and throughout Dragonport.
Some yells of "Arbor" and "Highgarden" rang from their foe, though Talan barely understood the words.
He thrust his longsword forward, in and out in one fluid motion.
The andal knight clutched his torn throat and tried in vain to keep the blood at bay.
"Die!" Talan swung again, ending the knight's life – opening him up – all blood and guts.
His blade had become dark, and he snarled inside his helmet as a blade scraped against his breastplate.
Turning, he found the knight already dead, a spear shoved through his spine by a man in a Fisher tabard.
With a nod to the man, Talan stormed forward with the others; eager to do his part in seizing the port town.
"We've won!" and "Victory!" filled the air. The shouts came quickly enough.
In the distance, the Winter Fleet had all but dominated the seas surrounding Dragonstone.
The storm raged, but the battle itself was wholly won.
"Secure the town!" Talan yelled out. They weren't done yet.
The andals were mostly dead, but many held the towns centre against them in some desperate attempt at survival.
Talan ran with his men and the others, along the pier and into the town proper to finish things.
With instinct alone, he blocked one andal sword with the back of his gauntlet. It was fine steel, thick enough, but gods did the impact sting.
"Piss off," he drove his steel and took his foes eye, feeling the blade against the bone of his skull.
The battlefield was no place for poetic fancy words. 'Piss off' seemed adequate enough…
Three andals charged at him then, eager to avenge their fallen brother.
They were dressed in plate and mail and tabards of moss-green and azure both.
Talan danced to his side and parried the closest to swing at his head before breaking the nose of another with his gauntlet.
"There's no rules in battle," his father had always told him.
A sword caught his vambrace and he headbutted the andal for his efforts.
"Highgarden!" His foes had wised up, charging him from three sides now.
"Vigilance!" Talan screamed in reply, charging at them without fear.
He parried the first blade, ducked under another, but the third was too quick.
The sword found purpose to sink through leathers and into flesh.
"Arghh," Talan groaned, grabbing the andal and headbutting the knight to send him staggering.
He pulled the sword free and stumbled backwards as blood flowed freely from his wound. Gods, it hurt like hell…
The flash and clash of steel didn't register as he clutched the bleeding wound.
"-int."
"Huh?"
Talan's eyes snapped forward.
The man was armoured in silver plate and a black cloak, splatted by andal blood.
"P- Prince Snow?"
"You're wounded Flint," Prince Cregan scowled.
"I-" Talan looked at his hand, wet with crimson blood.
"Fetch a healer," Cregan barked orders to a nearby man in a Mormont tabard.
"I'm fine," Talan tried to shrug it off, only to stumble when he moved.
"M'lord," one man had caught him.
"Brave man," Cregan sheathed his blade. "Foolish too…"
"Those two go hand in hand Prince Snow…"
Cregan scoffed. "You sound like my brother Flint."
"To be compared to His Grace is a great honor, Snow…"
"Wrong brother," Cregan muttered as the young heir was taken away.
Dragonport had fallen. What andals weren't killed had thrown down their weapons.
His king was dead, but the girl remained – as sweet as thing as he'd ever known – having no daughters of his own, in private he'd begun to think of the princess as near enough to a daughter of his own. Remaining by her side had been an easy choice, even if it was likely to mean his death, he only hoped the wife and sons he'd leave behind would understand why he couldn't abandon the girl. Queen now, in truth, for however long she'd remain crowned… though hope had arrived on strange tides…
"Greetings to you Ser Onion," the stranger had named him as if she knew him all her life.
The Princess Lyarra Stark was a woman near as mysterious and dangerous as the Red Woman was…
She'd brought tall tales of a vast fleet coming with the wrath of Winter itself at its command. He'd not dared to hope.
The Redwyne fleet was famed for its strength and had made short work of what few vessels remained to Dragonstone after their ill-fate at the Blackwater.
When the Tyrell boy lead his assault Ser Davos had commanded the defences personally, throwing rocks down murder holes with the rest of them; ordering boiling whale oil poured upon the attackers. Seven forgive him, that was a smell he'd not forget any time soon. And the screams… it didn't do well to dwell on those…
He was an onion smuggler. What did he know of sieges, except how best to avoid them? How far he'd come from his youth.
It turned out avoidance wasn't so far from defending. If anything, he'd found holding walls far easier than sneaking past them.
They'd lost so many. King Stannis, Blackberry, Hookface Will, Hal the Hog; drowned or burnt with so many others.
"With my sons too," Davos thought with a dark frown. "How did everything go so wrong?"
He'd meant to butcher the Red Woman for it all, but she'd fled Dragonstone. Queen Selyse threw herself from the highest tower when the witch left them.
The Mother had blessed him with seven sons, and yet he'd let that red witch burn the seven. She'd spoken to him – in his dreams – it was them who called the fire, the Mother said, them who called the shadows. Davos had sailed Melisandre into the bowels of Storm's End and watched with his own eyes as she birthed a horror.
"She killed Cressen and Lord Renly and brave Penrose," Davos had told his friend Salladhor when they last met. "She killed my sons as well…"
"Stay," his pirate friend had pleaded. "We will talk more, and you will eat, and perhaps we sail to Braavos and hire a Faceless Man to do your vengeance?"
"I've only vengeance in my belly, Salla. It leaves no room for food."
He'd looked to the pirate with pleading eyes.
"Let me go now. For our friendship, wish me luck and let me go…"
Salladhor Saan pushed himself to his feet at that.
"You are no true friend, I am thinking…"
The words hurt more than he'd like to admit.
"When you are dead, who will bring your ashes and bones back to your lady wife to tell her she has lost a husband and four sons? Only sad old Salladhor Saan…"
The man was right, but Davos owed Stannis justice; for his sons and for everyone lost to the fires… his wife would understand…
Salladhor had abandoned them with a heavy heart and Davos had not blamed the man for it.
"Under the sea, smoke rises in bubbles," the fools voice echoed through the great hall.
The jiggle of his bells and the annoyance of his voice all snapped Davos back to the present.
"Flames burn green and blue and black. I know, I know, oh, oh oh…"
Davos caught the frown on his Queen's face. She looked so unlike the child he knew.
"Black blood, blue blood, blood on the ocean floor, but green for the guests and grey for the rest, no more no more."
"Why does he sing so?"
The boy asked, breaking the halls quiet.
"Your Uncle never told you?"
A shake of his raven locks.
"He was drowned," Davos told him simply. "Lost his wits to the sea, little lord…"
The boy hummed a "Mhmmm" and lowered his stormy eyes to the black marble floors.
Edric Storm looked every inch a Baratheon, except for the prominent ears from his Florent mother.
His hair, eyes, jaw and cheekbones were all glaringly Baratheon. He was all the family Shireen had left…
Well, that wasn't strictly true; but the Florent's had either fled or been locked up after Lord Alester tried to broker a marriage for Shireen to Tommen Waters.
"Lord Tywin will see sense in my proposal," the big-eared fool had claimed.
The Baratheon men didn't falter for a second when Davos ordered his immediate arrest.
Davos might have agreed if he didn't see the 'agreement' for what it was, handing an innocent girl over to lions.
Wyverns, Griffins, Demons, Manticores, Minotaurs, Basilists, Hellhounds, Cokatrices and all manner of queer creatures lined the walls around them; the Great Hall itself was one great stone dragon lying on its belly. The kitchens were a dragon curled up in a ball, with smoke and team from the ovens vented through its nostrils.
The towers of Dragonstone too were dragons hunched above the walls or poised for slight; the Windwyrm seeming to scream in defiant while the Sea Dragon Tower gazed serenely out across the waves. Smaller dragons frames the gates and claws emerged from the walls to grasp at torches. Lastly, great stone winds enfolded the smith and armory, and tails formed all the arches and bridges and the exterior stairs. It was said that the wizards of Valyrian worked liquid stone with fire and magic…
Their guests however – their saviours – were wolves, entering through the laying dragon's mouth as if they owned the place… and could, if they wished it…
He was slightly taller than the last Stark he'd laid eyes on, dressed in fine silver-steel plate decorated by what seemed to be dragonglass or ebony.
"His Grace," one of the Northmen announced in crude common tongue as they entered, dressed in an array of greys and dark blues and greens. "Rodrik of the House Stark, King of the Sunset Sea and the Winter Winds, the Lord of Winterhold and Wrightport, the Conqueror of Ibben and Blood of the First Night!"
"Welcome to Dragonstone," the voice of Queen Shireen greeted them as they walked forward.
Davos smiled warmly at her when she spoke so dutiful, despite the air of sorrow floating around the girl.
"Your Grace," he stood by the Queen's side. "I am-"
"Lord Davos Seaworth," the raven-princess named him from her brother's side.
"Princess," Davos fought the urge to frown at the raven-woman.
Shireen's eyes darted to the onion knight for a moment.
"We thank you King Rodrik," she said kindly; for there wasn't a hint of malice in the girl.
The King of Winter seemed to judge them all intently before speaking.
"The enemy of our enemy," he said finally, with a voice that was deep and harsh.
"We've no conflict with House Baratheon," another spoke. It was a more familiar voice.
"Prince Cregan," Davos smiled at the bastard prince.
"Lord Davos," Cregan Snow hummed in reply.
"We dared not hope you'd arrive in time…"
"I promised," Lyarra was all smiles. "Did I not, Ser?"
"You did my lady," Davos was forced to agree. He didn't like this one – she reminded him too much of the red woman for comfort.
"Please," Queen Shireen spoke again, mustering what courage the young girl had. "It's not much… but-"
Servants rushed out from the shadows with plates full of fresh bread.
"Our thanks," Cregan took the chuck of loaf in hand but did not eat yet.
"Boy," Prince Brandon let his wolf sniff at the bread and ate once the beast seemed content.
At that, the King of Winter ripped away a piece and ate too – accepting the ancient right gladly enough.
"My brother you know," Rodrik ate only a piece, feeding the rest to one of the wolves. "This-"
"Your Grace," Prince Brandon bowed with all the courtly courtesy he'd been taught.
"-is my nephew, Prince Brandon; son of my brother Prince Artos."
"A pleasure," Davos replied kindly. "Forgive me though, might we know your plans King Rodrik?"
"We save their island, and he asks us our purpose," one Northman scoffed from behind their King.
"I come for my brother," King Rodrik declared. "And the Iron Bank comes for its debts; little more than that."
"Tommen Waters is no king…"
"Oh?" Rodrik raised a brow at that. "The spawn of incest – we've heard the tale; it doesn't matter to us."
"It's not theirs!" Edric Storm declared rather loudly.
All eyes fell on him, the wolves especially.
"Brave boy," one of the Greystarks hummed.
"And you are?" Rodrik pried without a moment's hesitation.
"Edric Storm," Davos sighed. "Natural-born son of his Grace the late King Robert Baratheon…"
"Should the debt fall to him then perhaps," Rodrik's eyes darted to the girl. "Or to Her?"
"I-" Shireen faltered under the man's cold gaze.
"Her Grace's father was a man of his word," Davos placed a protective hand on the girl's shoulder.
"Her father is dead," Rodrik said pointedly.
"She is the Rightful Queen of-"
"It's my uncle's debt, isn't it Ser Davos?"
He nodded sadly at the girl. No one so young should carry such responsibility.
"Then-" she paused, unsure. "I should pay it – shouldn't I?"
"Noble of you," Rodrik replied with the hint of a smile.
"I fear you're in no fit state to do tat little girl," Cregan argued bluntly.
"No," Shireen lowered her head. "I- I'm not…"
"To my knowledge," Rodrik glanced over to one of his lords, who nodded. "The debt falls to the crown, that at present sits on Tommen Water's head; does it not?"
"It does Your Grace," Lord Davos released a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding.
"There you have it then," Rodrik smiled at the young child-queen.
"Will you-" She seemed uncertain what to say or do…
The look from Lord Davos seemed to renew her courage.
"Will you help us," she asked ever so hopefully. "King Rodrik?"
Everyone present looked to the strange King of Winter with a mix of equal hope and worry.
"In my land we've a saying," the King began as his hand ran over the fur of a wolf beside him. "To spill the blood of winter is to forfeit your right to life…"
"House Lannister has spilled enough blood," Prince Brandon echoed his uncle.
"Distant or otherwise," Cregan hummed his agreement. "Blood is Blood. There are no exceptions."
"Winter is here for House Lannister," King Rodrik declared, as cold as winter snows.
Stark banners soon flew atop the walls of Dragonstone alongside crowned stags.
My Note(s): Happy New Year! I'd always planned to do this simply because it's pretty damn cool – to hell with how clunky it may be in reality to construct such a contraption; the cannon within a ships figurehead is perhaps a touch "fantasy" in design… but it's cool… so sue me :) crude cannons were used as early as 1132 so it's not so farfetched to have the Imperials having some fancy tricks up their sleeves. We'll cover it more later of course, but no they don't have "guns" though the Empire does grasp using sulphur & charcoal to make rather crude/very early forms of what we'd call Gunpowder. The Empire calls it Dragonfire, a closely guarded 'secret' of theirs.
Having wed his heir Darion to the Princess Cai Lóng, this addition to the Shipwright was apart of the girls dowery/marriage alliance. We'll explore it more later.
I was kinda 50.50 about introducing this but I'm keeping it very limited as to avoid being too overpowered… as if the Winter Fleet isn't already overpowered…
Spica75: I don't make a habit of replying to comments so far back as Chapter 14 but in short, its quite the commonly accepted theory that the citadel aren't so saintly; having a great many secrets – they've actively supressed knowledge for centuries – plus this isn't Europe so copy-pasting historic precedence would be wholly stupid in a world with dragons, magic, lovecraftian fish-men and shape-shifting raven ladies. I may take from our own existence in some respects, but this is still a Fantasy setting.
Tydr? I'm aware the flat earth concept is 'historically inaccurate' but Westeros isn't medieval Europe, so it doesn't have to follow history to the letter.
Mister LaGuardia: I doubt Cersei cared all that much what the Seven thought about the trial – realistically, the Sunset Islanders would scoff at the idea of combat decided by the gods – but all Cersei expected was for Will to kill Tyrion or anyone fool enough to champion him. If not for Jaime, he'd have done that easily enough. Not that Tyrion would have demanded a Trial by Combat if Jaime hadn't already taken Oberyn's canon role in visiting him and promising to be his champion.
246vili: I've a whole fan-theory regarding the state of the Stoney Shore that we'll explore more later, but effectively: Brandon the Burner burnt House Farstark's fleet along the shore – dooming the cadet branch – but also further weakening the North's naval strength that allowed for increased Ironborn raids. In essence, thanks to the Burners grief/foolishness, the North was left in no fit state to defend the Stoney Shore and most of the villages/towns were abandoned with their people fleeing inland, putting further strain on the North's supplies. The Shipwright's son (Brandon the Burner) effectively ruled the North into a Dark Age for the Starks that hurt them a whole lot.
Moat Cailin being a ruin STILL after all these years is – to My view at least – a product of circumstance. The North has been beset by raids, wildlings and generally struggling for many generations by the time Ned inherits Winterfell. Historically there's few Stark's that didn't have to contend with wars or raids or in-fighting or the odd succession crisis. As a result of this long history the Stark's gained one hell of a respected reputation for holding the North together… but it has also led to a lot of stagnation…
The Sunset Islands by comparison? Aside from the odd unruly banner, they've lived in comparative peace; not counting foreign conflicts. Plus, not to mention, their ties with what is effectively Imperial China. They've had it pretty damn good on the Islands, harsh Winters aside at least, they've flourished away from the North.