Dagmar Cleftjaw stood at the helm of the Fury of Iron, his twisted jaw catching the salt spray as his fleet cut through the choppy waters past the Fingers. The mangled scar that split his face pulled his mouth into its perpetual half-grin, but his eyes remained cold as steel as he watched the massive convoy of Volantene slave ships lumber through the waves.
"Three hundred ships full of fighting men, and they still need us to hold their hands." He spat over the railings. The gold had been good - better than good. The Volantenes had paid each ironborn captain enough to buy a new longship, with plenty left over for crew shares.
The morning sun glinted off the gaudy decorations of the Volantene vessels - all purple sails and golden trim. Dagmar's own fleet of fifty ironborn ships flanked them like dark shadows, their black sails and weathered hulls a stark contrast to the slavers' ostentation.
"Captain." His first mate Derrick pointed toward the horizon. "Storm clouds gathering."
"Let them come. Our boys know these waters better than those silk-wearing cunts." Dagmar's mangled jaw worked as he considered the Volantenes' plan. "Though I'd rather face a thousand storms than what waits for us in the North."
He'd heard the tales and rumors - everyone had. Metal men that never tired, weapons that could cut through Valyrian steel, fortresses that appeared and disappeared like morning mist. And behind it all, the witch-smith of Winterfell who'd married Stark's daughter.
"You really believe those stories about the North?" Derrick asked, voicing Dagmar's thoughts.
"Saw it myself last raid. Tried to hit a village near Sea Dragon Point. Lost three ships to... something. Never even saw what hit us. Just fire and lightning from clear skies." The memory made his twisted jaw ache. "These Volantenes are mad to think they can take the North."
A signal flag rose from the lead Volantene vessel - adjust course northeast. Dagmar barked orders to his crew, and the Fury of Iron shifted its heading. The rest of his ironborn fleet followed in perfect formation, decades of experience evident in their synchronized movements.
"The Volantenes think their numbers will overwhelm whatever defenses the North has," Derrick said. "Three hundred ships, each carrying two hundred soldiers. That's sixty thousand men."
"Aye, and how many will make it to shore?" Dagmar's permanent half-grin took on a bitter cast. "The North has changed. This isn't like raiding their fishing villages anymore. But gold is gold, and the Greyjoys gave their word."
The storm clouds crept closer, and the seas grew rougher. The massive Volantene ships started to wallow in the swells, while the ironborn vessels danced through the waves with practiced ease. Dagmar watched a particularly ornate galley struggle to maintain course.
"Signal the fleet to tighten formation," he ordered. "These summer sailors will start losing ships if we don't shepherd them properly."
As his crew raised the flags, Dagmar reflected on the strange alliance that had brought him here. The Volantenes, with their dreams of empire. The other Free Cities, eager to restore slavery's reach. And the ironborn, playing sellsails for more gold than most of them had seen in their lives.
"What do you make of their plan to hit Braavos first?" Derrick asked.
"Smart enough. Cut off the North's biggest trading partner any help that fat king could call on, control the narrow sea." Dagmar's twisted features contorted further as he frowned. "But Braavos has its own tricks. Iron Bank's got their fingers in everything. And their Arsenal can build ships faster than any port in the world."
The first drops of rain began to fall, and thunder rolled in the distance. Dagmar barked more orders, his experienced crew moving to secure rigging and adjust sails before the storm hit in earnest. The Volantene ships were already showing signs of disorder, their formations starting to drift.
"Going to be a long voyage if they can't handle a little weather," he muttered, watching the slavers' ships flounder in the building waves. But the gold weighed heavy in his coffers, and orders were orders. They would escort these perfumed lords to their war, whether it proved to be triumph or folly.
Dagmar's thoughts drifted to the weeks leading up to this moment as the rain pelted his scarred face. The midnight seas had been their constant companion, moonlight and stars their only illumination as they guided the massive armada through treacherous waters.
The meeting with Balon played through his mind. The Greyjoy lord had stood in his salt-stained hall at Pyke, reading the Volantene proposal with those cold eyes of his. The gold they'd offered had been enough to rebuild the Iron Fleet twice over.
"Fifty of our best ships and captains," Balon had said, his voice carrying across the stone chamber. "To guide their fleet through the Narrow Sea without detection." His eyes had settled on Dagmar's twisted face. "You'll lead them."
The journey to Lys had been simple enough - the ironborn knew these waters like they knew their own ships. In the harbor city's perfumed docks, they'd rendezvoused with the massive Volantene fleet. Three hundred vessels packed with soldiers, siege weapons, and enough supplies to sustain an invasion force through the coming winter.
Dagmar's lip curled at the memory of the Volantene admiral's pompous speech about destiny and empire. The man wore more jewelry than the whores in Lys, his fingers barely able to grip his sword hilt through all his rings.
They'd split into smaller groups for the journey north, hugging the Essosi coastline to avoid the royal fleet's regular patrols. Dagmar had personally plotted their course - keeping to deeper waters where Stannis Baratheon's warships couldn't follow, using the cover of storms and waiting for dark when they had to cross open water.
As they'd approached where Dragonstone's would be on the map directly towards Essos, the fleet had divided. Half the Volantene ships peeled away toward Braavos, led by some of his more experienced captains. The rest followed Dagmar's Fury of Iron as they began the final push toward White Harbor.
The rain grew heavier, drawing Dagmar back to the present. His crew moved about their tasks with practiced efficiency, while the Volantene ships wallowed in the growing swells like pregnant sows.
Derrick leaned against the ship's railing, his weathered face creased with concern. "This plan of theirs is bloody idiotic. Why waste time with White Harbor? During the rebellion, we hit Lannisport hard and fast - burned their fleet right in their own harbor while they slept."
Dagmar's twisted jaw worked as he considered his first mate's words. The man wasn't wrong - the ironborn way was swift and brutal, striking where the enemy least expected it. But the Volantenes had other ideas.
"Kings Landing would've made more sense too," Derrick continued. "Hit the capital first, throw the whole realm into chaos. Instead we're sailing straight into the teeth of whatever dark sorcery the North's been cooking up for four years."
"These three hundred ships?" Dagmar gestured at the wallowing vessels around them. "They're just the first wave. Volantenes have another two hundred warships waiting in the Stepstones. Once we take White Harbor, they'll get the signal to sail for Kings Landing and put every port on the eastern coast to the torch."
Rain pelted the deck as Derrick digested this information. "How many men total?"
"Hundred thousand, maybe more. Plus whatever sellswords they've bought with their gold." Dagmar spat over the side. "They've been planning this for months. Building ships, training armies, gathering allies. These slavers mean to take everything from the Neck to Dorne."
"And what do we get out of it besides gold?" Derrick asked.
"Free reign to raid any coast we please, once they've won. No more kneeling to Greenlander kings." Dagmar's permanent half-grin twisted further. "If they win."
The Volantene flagship raised another signal flag - reduce sail for the growing storm. Dagmar barked orders to his crew, watching as his fleet smoothly executed the command while the foreign ships struggled with the basic maneuver.
Derrick snorted as he watched another Volantene ship struggle to reef its sails, the expensive purple fabric tangling in the wind. "Seven hells, it's like watching children play at sailing." His amusement died when he spotted the rigid formations on the deck of the nearest vessel - ranks of Unsullied standing motionless despite the pitching waves.
Dagmar noted his first mate's change in expression. The Unsullied's discipline was unnerving even to seasoned raiders. While the regular crews stumbled and retched over the railings, the eunuch soldiers remained as still as statues, their spears perfectly aligned regardless of the storm's fury.
"What about Ice Crest and Winterfell?" Derrick asked, tearing his eyes away from the unsettling sight. "Heard that new castle of Longshore's is built right into the cliffs, built in a week or so the rumors say, not that i'd believe it…. And Winterfell..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
Dagmar spat a glob of phlegm into the churning sea. The salt spray stung his twisted scar, making his permanent grin look more like a grimace. "Winterfell?" He barked out a harsh laugh. "We'll be lucky if we even get that far inland. But Ice Crest..." He paused, checking that no Volantene officers were within earshot. "Balon's got Dunstan Drumm waiting with another hundred ironborn ships. Four hundred more from the slaver alliance too."
"That many?"
"Aye. Once White Harbor falls, they'll hit Ice Crest hard. Day or two after at most." Dagmar's mangled jaw worked as he considered the massive force being assembled. "Drumm's been skulking around the Stepstones for weeks now, gathering ships quiet-like. The slavers want every port in the North hit at once - no chance for warnings to spread."
Derrick let out a low whistle, followed by a string of curses that would make a Lysene whore blush. "Seven hells, that's almost every ship we've got. Balon's betting everything we rebuilt after Robert crushed us." He gripped the railing tighter as another wave rocked the ship. "Hope he knows what he's doing."
Dagmar's twisted jaw worked as he considered his first mate's words. The rebellion against Robert had cost them dearly - their fleet burned, their pride shattered, and Balon's sons dead. It had taken years to rebuild what they'd lost, and now they were risking it all again.
"The slavers are foaming at the mouth to get their hands on Ice Crest," Dagmar said, his permanent half-grin looking more like a snarl. "Every tale of the North's rise starts there. Those massive ships of theirs too - bigger than anything the royal fleet's got, from what the merchants say."
Rain streamed down his scarred face as he watched the Volantene ships struggle through the growing storm. "Balon's got it all planned out. Dunstan helps the slavers take the castle, then the ironborn claim all that gold they've heard is stored in its vaults. Enough to build ten fleets, they say."
The Fury of Iron crested another wave, sending spray across the deck. The nearby Volantene ships wallowed in the swells, their crews clearly struggling with the rough seas. But Dagmar barely noticed their difficulties, his thoughts focused on the massive gamble they were taking with the Iron Islands' future.
Derrick shifted uneasily, his weathered hands gripping the ship's railing. "Numbers won't mean shit if half what they say about the North is true. Those metal men, weapons that can cut through anything..." He lowered his voice. "Maybe we should slip away quiet-like when they make their push for White Harbor. Let these silk-wearing bastards learn the hard way."
Dagmar's twisted jaw worked as he considered his first mate's words. The man had sailed with him for fifteen years, through storm and battle. His counsel wasn't to be dismissed lightly.
"Can't do it," Dagmar said finally, his permanent half-grin looking more like a grimace. "We took their gold. Gave our word. The ironborn are many things, but we keep to bargains once struck." He spat over the side. "Besides, they're counting on us to lead the assault. We know these waters, know the castles, know how these Greenlander lords think."
Rain pelted the deck as Derrick digested this. "Aye, but-"
"But," Dagmar cut him off, lowering his voice further, "if things go bad, if these Volantene cunts start losing..." His mangled face split into a genuine grin. "Well, their own ships would fetch a fine price in their home port, wouldn't they? And their gold would spend just as well in Volantis as it does here."
Understanding dawned on Derrick's face. "Turn their own fleet against them?"
"The ironborn way." Dagmar nodded. "We're reavers, not stupid. If the North and Iron Throne proves too strong, we'll do what we've always done - take what we can and leave the losers to their fate."
Derrick's scarred face split into a fierce grin as he turned to address the crew gathered on the rain-slicked deck. "Ready your axes, boys! Sharpen those blades!" His voice carried over the howling wind. "In a few days, we'll be splitting greenlander skulls!"
The ironborn crew roared their approval, raising weapons skyward. The storm's fury couldn't dampen their bloodlust - if anything, the wild weather only fueled their savage joy. These were men born to the sea, raised on salt and iron. While the Volantene ships struggled with the basic task of staying afloat, the ironborn reveled in nature's violence.
Dagmar watched his men with his twisted half-smile. They were reavers, raiders, killers - but they were also the finest sailors in the known world. Each man knew his role perfectly, moving about their tasks with efficiency despite the pitching deck and stinging rain.
The storm raged through the night, but by dawn's first light the clouds began to break. Sunlight pierced the grey skies as the massive fleet left the rocky shores of the Fingers behind them. The Volantene ships looked somewhat worse for wear, their ornate decorations battered by the tempest. But they'd lost none of their number - thanks largely to the ironborn shepherding them through the worst of it.
Their course took them northeast, the Three Sisters visible as dark shapes on the horizon. Beyond those isolated islands lay the Bite, and past that, their target - White Harbor. The Volantene admiral raised signal flags ordering increased speed now that the weather had cleared.
Dagmar barked orders to his crew, and the Fury of Iron's black sails caught the freshening wind. Around them, the other ironborn ships moved in perfect formation, their sleek hulls cutting through the waves like knife blades. The bulkier Volantene vessels followed in their wake, still wallowing somewhat in the lingering swells.
Dagmar stood at the helm of Fury of Iron, watching White Harbor's distant lights glimmer in the pre-dawn darkness. Two weeks of careful sailing had brought them here, creeping through the night like thieves while the moon hid behind clouds.
His twisted jaw worked as he remembered the fishermen they'd encountered. Quick, clean kills - necessary to keep their presence secret. The bodies weighted and sunk deep where currents would carry them far from prying eyes. Still, each encounter had made his stomach clench, wondering if one boat might slip away and raise the alarm.
"Ships ready?" he asked Derrick.
"Aye. Scorpions loaded, crews at their posts. The men are eager for blood." Derrick's voice carried an edge of anticipation. "Been too long since we've had a proper fight."
Around them, the ironborn fleet moved with precision through the waters. Their black sails caught what little wind stirred, while muffled oars dipped silently into the waves. The larger Volantene ships followed in their wake, their crews finally showing some competence after weeks of instruction.
Dagmar's permanent half-grin twisted as he watched his men prepare for battle. They moved like shadows across the deck, checking weapons and armor with quiet efficiency. The massive scorpions mounted on their decks gleamed dully in the faint starlight, their steel bolts thick as a man's arm and twice as long.
"Keep the men quiet," Dagmar ordered. "No war cries until we're in range. Want to be close enough to see the whites of their eyes before they know we're here."
The excitement among the ironborn was palpable. Hands gripped axe handles, fingers tested sword edges, and teeth gleamed in fierce grins as they drew closer to their prey. These were men born to raid and reave, raised on tales of glory won through blood and iron.
Dagmar watched as one of his younger crewmen, Harrick, hurried across the deck toward Derrick. The boy's feet moved silently despite his haste - proper ironborn training showing through even in his excitement.
"First Mate," Harrick whispered urgently. "The Volantene flagship's signaling. Their commander wants to come aboard for a war council."
Derrick's weathered face creased with annoyance as he made his way to where Dagmar stood at the helm. "Captain. The peacock wants to strut over here and give orders."
Dagmar's twisted jaw worked as he considered the request. Through the pre-dawn gloom, he could make out the Volantene flagship's ornate shape - all carved decorations and gilded railings that would've been stripped for salvage on any proper ironborn vessel.
"Seven hells," Dagmar spat over the side. "Suppose we can't refuse without causing a scene." His permanent half-grin looked more like a snarl. "Tell them they can send over one small boat. Commander and two guards only. Any more and we'll assume they're hostile."
Derrick nodded and moved to relay the message through signal flags. The elaborate response from the Volantene ship made Dagmar's mangled face twist further - all those unnecessary flourishes just to say "Acknowledged."
"Harrick," Dagmar called softly to the young crewman. "Tell the men to keep their weapons close but hidden. Don't want to spook our 'allies'." His tone made it clear exactly what he thought of their temporary partnership.
Minutes later, a small boat pulled alongside the Fury of Iron. The Volantene commander, Admiral Parquello, stood in its bow like some sort of conquering hero, his purple cape billowing dramatically despite the light breeze. Gold rings glinted on every finger as he gripped the climbing rope, his two Unsullied guards moving with mechanical precision to follow him aboard.
Dagmar rolled his eyes at the display but nodded in greeting as the man approached. Time to endure another speech about destiny and empire from someone who'd probably never killed a man face to face.
Dagmar braced himself for it, but to his surprise, Parquello got straight to business. The Volantene admiral's rings clinked against the ship's railing as he leaned in close.
"There has been a change of plans," Parquello said, his accent thick but words clear. "Our ships will lead the assault on White Harbor."
Dagmar's twisted jaw worked as he processed this information. His permanent half-grin looked more like a sneer. "Your two hundred ships? Against White Harbor's defenses?"
"Yes." Parquello waved his hand dismissively. "I have seen this White Harbor through my far-eye. A pleasant enough port city for northern barbarians, but hardly defensible. White Stone walls, a few towers - nothing our forces cannot handle easily. The city should fall in a hour or two."
The casual arrogance in the man's tone made Dagmar's scarred face twitch. He opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. Let these silk-wearing fools throw themselves at whatever defenses the North had built. Better their blood than ironborn.
"As you say," Dagmar replied, nodding slowly. "Your ships will lead the attack."
Parquello seemed pleased by this easy acquiescence, clearly mistaking Dagmar's restraint for agreement. The Volantene's rings flashed in the pre-dawn light as he gestured toward the distant harbor lights.
The two Unsullied guards remained motionless throughout the exchange, their spears perfectly vertical despite the gentle rolling of the deck. Their presence made Dagmar's skin crawl - there was something unnatural about such rigid discipline.
"Very well then," Dagmar said, keeping his voice neutral. If these slavers wanted to die first, that was their choice. He had no intention of arguing with them about it.
Dagmar watched Parquello's small boat return to the Volantene flagship, his twisted jaw working as he considered the admiral's orders. Something about the man's casual dismissal of White Harbor's defenses set his teeth on edge.
"Signal the other captains," he told Harrick. "Ironborn to hold position while the slavers advance."
The young crewman's hands moved quickly, raising and lowering flags in the pre-dawn gloom. Across the dark water, answering signals flickered from the other fifty ironborn ships - acknowledgments of the order to wait and watch.
Derrick stood at the rail, far-eye pressed to his face as he tracked the Volantene fleet's movement. The massive warships began forming into attack columns, their oars dipping into the water with mechanical precision as they moved toward White Harbor's lights.
"Something's not right," Derrick muttered, adjusting the far-eye's focus. "Harbor seems too quiet. No patrol boats, no warning bells..." He lowered the device, frowning. "Even at this hour, there should be more activity."
Dagmar nodded, his permanent half-grin looking more like a grimace. The same unease had been gnawing at his gut since Parquello's visit. The Volantene's confidence felt wrong - like a man walking into an obvious trap, too arrogant to see the danger.
"Aye," Dagmar agreed quietly. "Something's not right at all."
Dagmar watched the Volantene ships advance through the pre-dawn gloom, their oars cutting through the dark water with mechanical precision. Behind him, his crew muttered amongst themselves, their unease growing with each passing moment.
"Where are those massive northern ships we heard about?" Harrick asked, peering through the darkness. "Merchants swore they'd seen vessels bigger than anything in the royal fleet."
"Aye, and where are the harbor patrols?" another crewman added. "Even at this hour, there should be fishing boats heading out."
Derrick lowered his far-eye, his weathered face creased with concern. "No movement on the walls either. City's silent as a tomb."
Dagmar's twisted jaw worked as he processed these observations. Each question heightened the tension coiling in his gut. Twenty years of raiding had taught him to trust his instincts, and right now every fiber of his being screamed that something was terribly wrong.
"The harbor's empty," Derrick continued, raising the far-eye again. "No merchant ships, no fishing boats, not even-"
A thunderous explosion cut off his words. The sound rolled across the water like physical force, drowning out all other noise. Through the dawn, Dagmar watched in horror as two massive round objects - each larger than a war galley's ram - struck the lead Volantene ship with devastating force.
The proud warship literally split apart, its ornate hull shattering like a child's toy. Wood, metal, and men flew in all directions as the vessel disappeared in a massive explosion of splintered timber and sea spray.
Dagmar's permanent half-grin vanished completely as he watched the destruction unfold. In all his years of naval warfare, he'd never seen anything like it. The speed and power of those projectiles... it was like the gods themselves had reached down and crushed the ship in their fists.
"Seven hells," Derrick breathed, his far-eye forgotten in his slack grip. "What in the name of the Drowned God was that?"
Before anyone could respond, more explosions lit up the pre-dawn darkness. The water around the Volantene fleet began to churn as more of the mysterious projectiles found their targets.
Dagmar yanked the signal horn from his belt and blew three sharp blasts. His mangled jaw clenched as he bellowed orders across the deck, voice carrying over the chaos of battle.
"Form defensive line! Ships to positions! Keep distance from those Volantene fools!"
The ironborn crews responded quickly, their ships wheeling away from the doomed Volantene fleet. Black sails caught the wind as they moved into a curved formation, maintaining space between vessels to avoid presenting clustered targets.
Another thunderous explosion rocked the pre-dawn air. Through the smoke, Dagmar watched a Volantene warship's stern disintegrate under the impact of whatever ungodly weapons the North had mounted on White Harbor's walls. The screams of dying slavers carried across the water, mixing with the panicked shouts of their commanders trying to maintain order.
"By the Drowned God," Derrick muttered, gripping the rail as another blast shook the air. "Those aren't normal catapults. The force behind those shots..."
Dagmar's permanent half-grin looked more like a snarl as he watched the slaughter unfold. The Volantene ships were being systematically destroyed, their formations broken as they tried desperately to either advance or retreat. But the mysterious weapons from White Harbor's walls showed no mercy, methodically targeting ship after ship with terrifying accuracy.
"Signal the fleet," Dagmar ordered, his voice cutting through the din of battle. "Fall back to open water. Maintain formation, but get clear of this killing field."
Harrick's hands moved quickly with the signal flags, relaying orders to the other ironborn vessels through sign and loud voice. Their ships responded smoothly, crews working with the precision born of lifetimes at sea. Unlike the panicking Volantenes, the ironborn maintained discipline even as destruction rained around them.
More explosions lit up the morning sky, accompanied by new sounds - sharp cracks like thunder, but more focused and deliberate. Smoke rose from White Harbor's walls in controlled bursts, each followed by devastating impacts among the Volantene fleet.
"What manner of weapons are these?" a crewman shouted, ducking instinctively as another blast shook the air.
Dagmar didn't answer, his attention fixed on getting his people clear of the massacre. The screams of dying slavers filled the air as ship after ship succumbed to the North's devastating firepower. Through his far-eye, he could see the Volantene admiral's flagship burning, its ornate decorations turned to kindling by whatever hellish devices defended White Harbor.
"Keep moving!" Dagmar roared as another explosion lit up the dawn. "Get clear of their range! Follow formation!"
The ironborn fleet continued its disciplined withdrawal, black sails billowing as they escaped the killing zone. Behind them, the proud Volantene armada was being reduced to floating wreckage and burning hulks.
Dagmar kept his far-eye trained on the carnage, watching the methodical destruction of the Volantene fleet. His twisted jaw clenched as burning debris rained down across the water.
"Captain!" Derrick's shout cut through the chaos. "Look there - some of the bastards made it through!"
Dagmar swung his far-eye toward where Derrick pointed. Through the smoke and pre-dawn haze, he could make out perhaps twenty Volantene ships that had somehow slipped past the killing field. Their ornate hulls were heavily scarred but intact as they pressed forward toward White Harbor's harbor mouth.
"Seven hells," Dagmar muttered, adjusting the far-eye's focus. "That's the admiral's flagship among them." Sure enough, he could see Parquello's distinctive purple cape as the man gestured wildly, directing his Unsullied guards to maintain order among the surviving crews.
But something felt wrong about it. Dagmar's permanent half-grin twisted into a frown as he studied the scene. The precision of the North's strange weapons had been devastating - yet these ships had somehow passed unscathed through that storm of destruction?
"Derrick," he called, voice low despite the din of battle. "Did you notice how those ships got through?"
His first mate shook his head, still watching through his own far-eye. "Smoke was too thick. But you're right - seems odd they'd miss so many at once, given how accurate they've been."
Dagmar's mangled jaw worked as he considered the implications. The North had demonstrated weapons capable of splitting warships in half with single hits. Their accuracy had been terrifying, methodically destroying ship after ship. Yet these twenty vessels had somehow slipped through?
No. This was deliberate. They were being allowed through, herded like sheep into what could only be another trap.
"They want them to reach the harbor," Dagmar said quietly, lowering his far-eye. "Whatever's waiting inside those walls, they want Parquello and his ships to find it firsthand."
Derrick spat over the railing, his weathered face twisted with disgust as he watched the Volantene ships pressing toward White Harbor's harbor mouth.
"Let the slavers get themselves killed," he growled, turning away from the carnage. "We should clear out before whatever ungodly weapons they've got mounted on those walls turn their attention our way."
Dagmar nodded, his permanent half-grin looking grim as he tracked the chaos unfolding across the water. The surviving Volantene ships that hadn't followed their admiral into the harbor were attempting to flee, their ornate hulls leaving trails of burning debris as they struggled to escape the killing field.
Through his far-eye, he watched ship after ship disappear in thunderous explosions. The precision and power of the North's strange weapons hadn't diminished - if anything, they seemed to be firing faster now, methodically eliminating targets with terrifying efficiency.
"Seven hells," Derrick muttered, gripping the rail as another blast shook the air. "Look at that - they're picking them off like fish in a barrel."
He wasn't wrong. In the span of what couldn't have been more than thirty minutes, nearly one hundred and eighty Volantene vessels had been sent to the bottom. The once-proud armada was now little more than floating wreckage and burning hulks, the screams of dying slavers carrying across the water as ship after ship succumbed to the devastating barrage.
The few surviving crews were abandoning their vessels, diving into the cold northern waters in desperate bids to escape. But even as Dagmar watched, more explosions lit up the pre-dawn sky, the strange weapons showing no mercy to the fleeing slavers.
Dagmar's twisted jaw clenched as he watched another Volantene ship disappear in a thunderous explosion. The screams of dying men carried across the water, mixing with the sharp cracks of those hellish weapons mounted on White Harbor's walls.
"Signal our ships and the survivors," he barked at Derrick. "Full withdrawal. Now."
His first mate's hands moved quickly with the signal flags, relaying the orders through sign and voice. The ironborn fleet responded fast, their black sails catching the wind as they moved to escort positions around the remaining hundred or so Volantene vessels that had managed to stay afloat.
The surviving slaver ships were in terrible shape - hulls scarred by near-misses, rigging torn to shreds, crews decimated. Many were taking on water, barely staying afloat as they limped away from the killing field that White Harbor had become.
"We have to get the hells out of here," Derrick said, lowering his far-eye. His weathered face was grim as he watched another explosion light up the pre-dawn sky. "And send word to those slaver bastards. They have to call off the other attacks."
Dagmar nodded, his permanent half-grin looking more like a grimace as he started shouting orders across the deck. "Turn us around! Make for Lys! Full sail!"
The crew moved with quickly, adjusting ropes and sails to catch the wind. Around them, the other ironborn vessels matched their movements, helping to shepherd the battered Volantene ships away from White Harbor's devastating reach.
Dagmar's relief at their withdrawal was short-lived as Derrick's shout cut through the pre-dawn air.
"Ships ahead!"
Dagmar's eyes widened as he spotted them - massive vessels unlike anything he'd ever seen, cutting through the waves at impossible speeds. Their hulls gleamed with an intricate bronze-colored metal he couldn't identify, seamlessly merged with dark ironwood in ways that defied shipwright tradition. The vessels moved with unnatural grace, their speed making a mockery of everything Dagmar knew about naval warfare.
"Where the fuck were they hiding?" Derrick whispered in horror, his far-eye forgotten in his trembling hands.
Dagmar felt his permanent half-grin twist into a grimace of fear. These had to be the northern ships merchants had whispered about - the ones missing from White Harbor's harbor. But their size and speed... it wasn't natural. No ship that large should be able to move so quickly.
"Drowned God preserve us," he muttered, watching the massive vessels bear down on their position. Then, steeling himself, he grabbed his signal horn and bellowed across the deck. "All hands! Prepare for battle!"
The ironborn crews responded with practiced efficiency, warriors grabbing weapons and taking positions along the rails. Battle cries echoed across the water as ship after ship readied themselves for combat. Even the battered Volantene vessels struggled to form defensive lines, their depleted crews manning what weapons remained intact.
But Dagmar's gut told him it wouldn't matter. He'd watched these northerners obliterate nearly two hundred ships with weapons he couldn't comprehend. Now they were bringing warships that shouldn't exist, moving at speeds that defied reason.
Dagmar's twisted jaw clenched as he watched death approach. The northern vessels had them caught between hammer and anvil - White Harbor's devastating weapons behind them, these impossible ships ahead. Whatever happened next, he knew this day would change Westeros and the Ironborn forever.
Wylis stood at the helm of the Merman's Victory, his considerable bulk supported by the ship's sturdy railings as he observed the ragged remains of the once-proud invasion fleet. The massive galleon, enhanced with Owen's innovations, hummed with power beneath his feet - a constant reminder of how far the North had come.
Through his far-eye, he watched the ironborn and Volantene ships scrambling to form battle lines. Their black and purple sails fluttered chaotically as crews rushed to man what weapons remained intact. The sight drew an amused snort from Wylis. These fools still thought they were facing a traditional naval battle.
"Look at them," Wendel called from nearby, his walrus mustache twitching with barely contained mirth. "Lining up like it's the old days. As if we're going to trade broadside scorpions and board them."
Wylis shared a knowing look with his brother. The Manderly siblings had grown up learning traditional naval warfare - the clash of rams, the thunder of catapults, the brutal dance of boarding parties. But Owen Longshore had changed everything. The North's ships now carried weapons that made such tactics obsolete.
"Remember when father first saw the new cannons?" Wendel chuckled, patting one of the gleaming bronze devices mounted on the deck. "Thought they were some kind of elaborate decoration until Owen demonstrated one."
"Aye," Wylis replied, his own lips curving in amusement. "Called them 'fancy ship "spitoons" if I recall correctly."
The brothers shared another laugh, watching the enemy fleet's futile preparations. The Merman's Victory alone carried enough firepower to sink half their remaining ships. And she was just one of twelve such vessels in the northern battle line.
Wylis lowered his far-eye, shaking his head at the enemy's ignorance. They still clung to old ways, old tactics, unable to comprehend how thoroughly the North had surpassed them. In times past, this might have been an even fight - steel against steel, man against man. But those days were gone.
"Poor bastards," Wendel mused, echoing his brother's thoughts. "They have no idea what they're facing, do they?"
Wylis chuckled deeply, his considerable bulk shaking with mirth. "If those cannons atop White Harbor's walls haven't taught them anything, I suppose it falls to us to deliver the lesson more personally."
Around him, the veteran northern sailors and soldiers joined in with grim laughter. Many of them had suffered from ironborn raids over the years, watching helplessly as the reavers pillaged their shores and took what they wanted in the name of their precious "iron price." That they'd now taken Volantene gold…slaver gold to attack Westeros - it was the final insult.
"Look at them scrambling about," Wendel said, gesturing toward the enemy fleet with his far-eye. "They must think we're working some manner of sorcery. I doubt they even know what cannons are, let alone how to defend against them."
The northern crews manning the weapon stations exchanged knowing looks. They'd trained extensively with Owen's innovations, learning the intricacies of powder charges and targeting mechanisms. The Dwemer metal cannons that lined the Merman's Victory's gunwales were far more sophisticated than anything the ironborn or Volantenes had ever encountered.
"Remember what the Greyjoys did to Oakridge last summer?" growled one of the gunners, a grizzled veteran who'd lost family in that raid. "Time to show them what real power looks like."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crew. The North had endured centuries of ironborn depredation, forced to accept their "old way" of theft and murder. But Owen Longshore's innovations had changed everything. Now the predators would learn what it meant to be prey.
"They've always been fond of taking things," Wendel mused, his walrus mustache twitching. "Let's give them something they won't soon forget."
Wylis nodded to Orken, his first mate's weathered face already anticipating the command. "Signal the Northern Fury, Ascended Northman, War Wolf, and Old Gods Dread. Bring us broadside with the enemy fleet. The rest fall back to supporting positions."
Through his far-eye, Wylis watched as the designated ships responded with trained precision. The Northern Fury, sleek and fast despite its Dwemer-enhanced hull, led the maneuver. Its frigate design allowed it to cut through the waves with unnatural speed, the strange metal gleaming in the early morning light.
Behind it, the Ascended Northman and War Wolf moved in perfect synchronization, their galleon bulk somehow graceful thanks to Owen's modifications. The massive form of the Old Gods Dread followed, its three gun decks bristling with cannons that could reduce entire ships to splinters with a single volley.
"Steady now," Wylis called as the Merman's Victory turned to match their movements. The deck thrummed beneath his feet as the ship's enhanced systems engaged, maintaining their position with impossible precision. "Keep distance. Let them see what's coming."
The remaining twenty ships of the northern fleet fell back in perfect formation, creating space for the five designated vessels to work. Their crews had drilled extensively for this type of engagement, understanding the devastating power of their new weapons required careful coordination.
Through his far-eye, Wylis could see confusion rippling through the enemy fleet as the northern ships assumed their positions. The ironborn and Volantene crews were clearly baffled by these tactics, unused to seeing warships deliberately creating such distance between forces.
"They still think this is going to be a boarding action," Wendel chuckled from nearby, his own far-eye trained on the enemy. "Look at them clustering together. Perfect target formation."
Wylis grinned and bellowed across the deck, "Ready all cannons!" His powerful voice carried over the wind, setting off a chain reaction across the northern battle line.
The sound of gun ports opening in unison was like thunder rolling across the water. Row after row of gleaming Dwemer metal emerged from the ships' sides, the strange bronze-colored alloy catching the early morning light. The Merman's Victory's gun crews moved with practiced precision, each team of six men working in perfect coordination as they prepared their weapons.
Through his far-eye, Wylis watched similar scenes unfold across the other four ships. The Northern Fury's sleek design belied its firepower - three full gun decks bristling with the devastating weapons. The Ascended Northman and War Wolf's synchronized movements revealed their matching arrays of cannons, while the massive Old Gods Dread seemed to bristle with bronze death from stem to stern.
"By the gods," Wendel whispered beside him, lowering his own far-eye. "A thousand cannons all told. The poor bastards don't even know what they're looking at."
Wylis nodded, standing firm at the helm, his voice carrying across the deck with cold finality. "FIRE!"
A heartbeat of silence followed his command before the world erupted in thunderous chaos. The Dwemer metal cannons roared to life, each weapon discharging not single shots, but devastating volleys of five projectiles in rapid succession. The sound was unlike anything naval warfare had ever known - not the familiar single boom of traditional cannon fire, but a rolling thunder of mechanical precision.
Through his far-eye, Wylis watched the first salvos tear into the enemy fleet. The ironborn and Volantene ships, packed tightly together in their defensive formation, might as well have been practice targets. The special ammunition Owen had designed - shells that split apart mid-flight into multiple projectiles - turned the enemy formation into chaos.
"Gods be good," Wendel breathed beside him, watching as entire sections of enemy ships simply ceased to exist, torn apart by the devastating barrage.
The screams carried across the water, a cacophony of terror as the raiders and slavers realized their predicament. Ships that had survived White Harbor's shore batteries now found themselves caught in an even more devastating crossfire. The northern vessels' enhanced weapons fired with impossible speed and accuracy, their crews working with mechanical precision as they loaded and fired, loaded and fired.
Wylis observed dispassionately as a particularly large Volantene galley disappeared in a series of explosions, its ornate purple sails shredding as multiple cannon volleys struck it simultaneously. The ironborn ships tried to break formation, their crews desperately attempting to maneuver out of the killing field, but the northern ships' superior range made escape impossible.
"They're trying to scatter," one of his officers called out.
"Maintain fire," Wylis ordered, his voice steady as another thunderous barrage erupted from the Merman's Victory's gun decks. "No survivors."
The morning air filled with smoke and screams as the northern fleet's cannons continued their relentless work. Ship after ship vanished beneath the waves, torn apart by weapons that defied everything the ironborn and Volantenes knew about naval warfare. Their desperate attempts at return fire fell pathetically short, arrows and traditional catapult shots splashing harmlessly in the water far from the northern vessels.
Through the growing haze of Gunsmoke, Wylis watched the slaver fleet's formation completely collapse. Some crews were already abandoning ship, diving into the cold waters rather than face the devastating barrage. Others tried to surrender, raising white flags that were quickly shredded by the continuing storm of cannon fire.
"Please! We yield!" The desperate cry carried across the water from what appeared to be an ironborn captain.
"The North remembers," Wylis muttered, gesturing for his gun crews to maintain their fire. The cannons roared again, and the pleading voice was silenced forever.
Wylis watched as Wendel's face hardened into a grim mask. "No quarter for slaver and ironborn scum," his brother declared, the usual mirth gone from his voice. "Let them feed the crabs."
The northern cannons continued their relentless barrage, their thunder drowning out everything except the screams of dying men. Massive splinters from destroyed ships filled the air like deadly rain, the once-proud vessels reduced to kindling by the devastating weapons. The morning sky turned black with smoke and powder residue, broken only by the flash of cannon fire and the occasional explosion of ammunition stores.
"Mercy! In the name of the Drowned God, mercy!" The desperate cries echoed across the water, growing fewer and fainter with each passing minute.
"The Drowned God can have them all," Wylis heard one of his gunners mutter as he reloaded his cannon top deck.
The slaver fleet's destruction was absolute. Ship after ship vanished beneath the waves, their crews either going down with their vessels or throwing themselves into the waters. Purple and black sails burned, turning the smoke even darker as they fell into the sea.
Finally, silence descended over the battlefield of the waves. Where a proud fleet had once sailed, only floating debris and burning wreckage remained. The surface of the water was thick with splintered wood, shattered masts, and the bodies of those who had chosen the sea over the northern cannons.
Wylis raised his hand, his voice carrying across the deck. "Cease fire!"
The sudden quiet was almost deafening after the prolonged bombardment. Smoke drifted across the water as Wylis surveyed the destruction through his far-eye. Nothing larger than a rowboat remained intact of the enemy fleet.
"Send out six ships to check for survivors," he ordered, though he doubted they'd find many in the cold waters. "The rest make for White Harbor. We need to secure the city."
Wendel snorted beside him, lowering his own far-eye. "Secure the city? After what I saw those shore batteries do, I doubt there's a single slaver left breathing within bowshot of White Harbor's walls. And if they did well….seems the automatons have some knife work at hand."