2 Days before the winterfell war council…
Dunstan Drumm gripped Red Rain's hilt as he watched the horizon from the Ironborn Pride's helm. The Valyrian steel sword hummed with ancient power, a reminder of glory taken through strength. A hundred longships carved through the calm waters behind him, their black sails stark against the grey northern sky. Beyond them stretched the massive Volantene fleet - four hundred vessels packed with unsullied slave and slaver soldiers and siege weapons.
"Seas are kind today, my lord." Hamond's weathered boots creaked across the deck. "We'll make Ice Crest before sundown at this pace."
Dunstan grunted, his bone hand clicking against the ship's wheel. The waters were too calm, unnaturally so for the northern coast. No whitecaps, no swells, just an eerie stillness that made his skin crawl.
"The men are restless." Hamond lowered his voice. "We were supposed to wait for word from White Harbor. Two days now, and nothing."
"The slavers grew impatient." Dunstan's eyes narrowed at the distant shoreline. "Their commander insisted we proceed regardless."
"Some of their captains approached me with concerns." Hamond shifted uncomfortably. "They expected to rendezvous with their fleet from White Harbor by now. The silence troubles them."
Dunstan shared their unease, though he'd die before admitting it. White Harbor should have fallen quickly under the combined assault of fifty ironborn ships and three hundred slave galleys. Their absence spoke volumes.
"The Volantenes are fools." Dunstan spat over the rail. "More concerned with their timetables than proper strategy. But we're committed now."
"Aye, that we are." Hamond gazed at the massive fleet stretching behind them. "Though I can't help wondering why we haven't spotted a single northern patrol. These waters should be better guarded, especially with all the tales we've heard."
Dunstan had wondered the same. The rumors of Ice Crest's power seemed fantastical - a castle made in a week, mechanical soldiers, magical weapons, walls that could withstand any siege. Yet here they sailed, unopposed, toward what should be the North's strongest western fortress.
"Perhaps the tales were just that - tales." But Dunstan didn't believe his own words. Something felt wrong about this raid, had from the start. But pride and greed had won out over caution.
Dunstan watched the horizon, his weathered hands steady on the wheel despite his growing unease.
"Could be the tales are just northern bluster like you said." Hamond scratched his grey beard. "Though only three ships dared test those waters these past four years."
"Three?" Dunstan's scarred face twisted. "Which captains were fool enough?"
"Red Coren tried first, then Black Hallen." Hamond counted on calloused fingers. "Even Dagmar Cleftjaw sent one of his best ships to probe their defenses for a raid."
The mention of Dagmar made Dunstan's grip tighten on Red Rain's hilt. "And?"
"None returned." Hamond's voice dropped lower. "Save one man from Dagmar's crew. Washed up half-dead on the Stony Shore, babbling about weapons that turned ships to splinters in a single blast apparently before he found his way back to the islands. No one's tried since."
Dunstan grunted, turning to survey the massive fleet behind them. The Volantene ships dwarfed the ironborn longships, their hulls packed with warriors from across Essos. Unsullied stood in perfect formation on the decks, their spears gleaming. Volantene soldiers in their tiger-striped armor mingled with Myrish crossbowmen testing their weapons. Ships from Lys carried their own soldiers, while red-armored troops from Astapor crowded the rails of their vessels.
"We'll know soon enough if the tales are true." Dunstan's bone hand clicked against the wheel as he adjusted their course. The northern shore grew closer with each passing moment, though that unnatural calm still gripped the seas. "One way or another."
He turned to Hamond, his scarred face twisting into a grimace. "Signal the captains. Keep our ships tight, and have the rest spread out to guard those Volantene hulks. Last thing we need is these slavers drowning themselves before we reach Ice Crest."
Hamond nodded and moved to the stern, raising colored flags in quick succession. The ironborn vessels responded swiftly, their crews well-trained in fleet movements. Black sails shifted as the longships adjusted their positions, some breaking away to flank the larger slave galleys.
Dunstan watched the maneuvers with practiced eyes. The ironborn ships moved like water snakes, sleek and deadly, while the Volantene vessels lumbered through the unnaturally still waters like pregnant whales. His bone hand clicked against the wheel as he considered their approach. The payment for escorting these slavers would be substantial, but the real prize lay ahead - Ice Crest itself.
Rumors and tales of its wealth had to many Ironborn. Essosi Merchants spoke of jewels that glowed with inner fire, weapons that could cut through steel like parchment, and coins of pure gold stamped with wolves and dragons. The thought made his blood sing with the old hunger, the craving for plunder that had driven the ironborn for thousands of years.
As Hamond returned to his side, Dunstan gazed at the distant horizon where Ice Crest waited. One more day of sailing, and they would reach their target. His fingers brushed Red Rain's hilt, feeling the ancient Valyrian steel respond to his touch. They would take what was theirs, as their ancestors had done. Not with gold, but with iron and blood.
"The drowned god watches," he muttered, tasting salt on his lips. "We'll show them the old way still lives."
Jon stood within the meeting hall of Ice Crest, marveling at Owen's architectural masterpiece. The Hall of Unity lived up to its name - its walls and floor crafted from reinforced ironwood, polished to a mirror sheen. Intricate carvings adorned the walls, depicting scenes from Northern history that seemed to come alive in the flickering light of enchanted braziers.
His boots made no sound on the smooth floor as he walked between the hundreds of ivory seats. Each chair was a work of art, inlaid with veins of ebony that contrasted beautifully with threads of silver and gold running through the pale material. Sapphires studded the armrests, catching the light and throwing blue sparkles across the room. Strange runes covered every surface of the chairs - markings that Owen claimed held deep meaning but shared with no one, not even Sansa.
What struck Jon most was the democratic arrangement of the seating. Unlike traditional great halls with their rigid hierarchies, here a common farmer could sit beside a noble lord. The runes and craftsmanship of each chair were identical, making a powerful statement about equality that Owen had insisted upon. Jon ran his fingers along one of the inscriptions, feeling the slight warmth emanating from the strange symbols.
At the far end of the hall stood three ornate thrones, clearly meant for Owen, Sansa, and their future children. While grander than the other seats, they maintained the same basic design - a subtle reminder that even the rulers of Ice Crest considered themselves part of the larger community rather than above it.
The central space drew Jon's attention. A massive marble table dominated the area, its surface depicting the most detailed map he had ever seen. Tiny ships moved across painted oceans while miniature armies marched across continents. Cities appeared and disappeared as settlements grew or fell, the magic somehow tracking the real-world changes happening thousands of leagues away. Names floated above locations, shifting and updating themselves as Jon watched. He could see Winterfell's expanded walls, the restored castles along the Wall, and even the ships at white harbor.
Jon sat down on a comfortable marble chair next to the table, his fingers tracing the cool, smooth surface as his eyes searched the magical display before him. The moving pictures of the fleet approaching Ice Crest drew his attention like moths to flame, his grey eyes hardening with each passing moment. "Ironborn," he spat mentally in disgust, his jaw clenching as he noted the number 500 clearly written above the moving fleet on the map. The sight made his stomach churn with memories of their previous raids and destruction. Lord Manderly had sent word of their attack to Owen in Winterfell via the enchanted lockets before doing the same with Jon, warning that they would likely face more ships than what had initially attacked them. And lo and behold, the old lord's prediction had proven devastatingly accurate.
A sharp knock on the marble door depicting the twin ice crystals drew Jon's attention away from the troubling scene. He looked up to see the guard, impressive in his full ebony plate armor that gleamed in the room's light, announce that the ship captains and their mates had arrived. Jon straightened in his chair, squaring his shoulders as he nodded his assent to let them in, already preparing himself for the conversation ahead.
Jon watched as the massive marble doors swung open, their enchanted hinges silent despite their weight. The captains filed in with military precision, their uniforms a testament to Owen's craftsmanship. The gold trim caught the light from the braziers, while the deep blue fabric seemed to shift like waves on the ocean. Silver buttons and insignias marked their ranks, each piece infused with protective magic that Jon had seen turn aside crossbow bolts during training.
Their weapons drew his attention - not the gaudy ornamental blades common to southern naval officers, but practical tools of war enhanced by Owen's expertise. The cutlasses hung at their hips in polished scabbards, their hilts marked with subtle runes that Jon knew could channel destructive energy through the blades. Half swords and daggers completed their armament, each weapon potentially as deadly as a Valyrian steel blade in the right hands.
The captains moved to take their seats, and Jon noted with approval how they mixed freely regardless of birth. A fisherman's daughter who'd proven her worth at the helm sat beside a minor noble's third son, while a former smuggler traded friendly greetings with a merchant's widow. Their conversations echoed through the hall, some discussing recent patrols while others gathered around the magical map, pointing at the approaching fleet with grim expressions.
Three hundred of his best captains now filled the hall, representing just a quarter of the North's total naval strength. The rest of the fleet was scattered across the western shores, hunting straggling slaver and ironborn ships or maintaining their regular patrols. Jon had sent the recall order through the enchanted communication stones owen had provided them all, but he knew it would take time for the ships to return, not long but maybe a day or two.
Some of the captains noticed his expression and fell silent, their own faces hardening as they recognized the gravity of the situation. These were not the pampered naval officers of the south or the undisciplined raiders of the Iron Islands. These were Northern sailors, trained in naval combat at white harbors academy and armed with ships and weapons that could sink a traditional warship with a single volley. They had proven themselves against pirates, slavers, and ironborn raiders alike wherever they were found on their trading runs to Essos.
Jon scanned the faces before him, recognizing many from his time training alongside them. Owen had insisted he learn seafaring, dragging him aboard ships until the constant rocking no longer turned his stomach. Now he could spot familiar faces - there was Karla Stone, her weathered face bearing the scars from a pirate raid she'd thwarted last summer. Beside her sat Torrhen Frost, whose quick thinking had saved three merchant vessels from ironborn raiders off the Stony Shore.
But one face was missing. Jon stood, his chair scraping against the marble floor. "Where's Naval Commander Bartimus?"
Black Hair Rodrik, a burly man with a thick beard and arms like tree trunks, spoke up from two rows back. "Commander's escorting four galleons to Braavos, Lord Snow. Left about a week past before all this shit started. He woulda been back by now but if he was still there then in must have been a large shipment he had to oversee."
Jon's brow furrowed. They'd received reports of potential attacks on Braavos as well. "Will he be safe? With all this-" he gestured at the magical map showing the approaching fleet as well as the various slaver ships filling the seas.
"He'll be fine," Captain Jane Silver Eyes cut in, her distinctive pale irises glinting in the brazier light. She leaned forward, her voice carrying clear confidence. "Commander Bartimus took the Northern Rage - a ship of the line. Has the Dread North, Winter Wonder, and Wolf Bride with him too - all frigate, all armed with cannons as is standard."
She smiled, a predatory expression that Jon had seen before battles. "Those galleons aren't exactly helpless either. Any slavers try their luck against that escort, they won't live to regret it."
Jon nodded, his expression grim. "We'll have to proceed without Commander Bartimus." He turned to Jane Silver Eyes, whose pale irises seemed to glow in the enchanted light. "Captain Silver Eyes, you'll assume naval command until his return."
Jane stood, her uniform crisp despite the late hour. "Aye, Lord Snow. I accept the responsibility." Her voice carried the weight of authority earned through years of service.
Jon directed everyone's attention to the magical map where the fleet of ships crawled across the painted waves. "This is our current situation. Five hundred vessels approaching Ice Crest - a mix of ironborn longships and Volantene slave galleys."
The reaction was immediate. Scowls darkened faces around the table as captains leaned forward to study the threat. Some muttered curses in the Old Tongue, while others spat on the floor in disgust.
"Slaver scum," growled Black Hair Rodrik, his massive fist clenching on the table. "Coming to our shores like rats to grain."
"Ironborn dogs leading them right to us," added Captain Karla Stone, her scarred face twisted in contempt. "So much for their precious 'old way' - playing escort to slavers now."
More voices joined the chorus of disgust. Jon recognized the anger in their eyes - these were men and women who'd spent years protecting northern waters from raiders and slavers. The sight of such a massive hostile fleet approaching their shores struck deep at their pride.
"Five hundred ships." Torrhen Frost's quiet voice cut through the angry murmurs. "That's more than what hit White Harbor from what i hear."
Jon nodded. "Aye. Lord Manderly's warning proved accurate. They mean to take Ice Crest while their other ships hit other targets along the coast. Lannisport and Kings landing were hit as well. Most of the souths ships are at the bottom of the sea and their docks destroyed."
Jon watched as derision spread through the hall at the mention of the southern losses.
"Great royal navy my ass," snorted a grizzled captain from the back. "Southern lords can't even defend themselves."
Jeers and laughs echoed through the hall as other captains nodded in agreement. Jon kept his face neutral, though he mentally agreed with the sentiment. Still, he understood the overwhelming odds the southern forces had faced.
"They were hit by hundreds of ships simultaneously," Jon said, trying to maintain some diplomatic perspective. "Even the best defenses can be overwhelmed by sheer numbers." Though his words were measured, Jon couldn't help but think how different the outcome might have been if the South had invested in training proper naval forces and building more ships instead of relying on pageantry and tradition.
He traced the moving fleet on the map. "They're coming for three things - plunder, slaves, and likely our ships. Tales of Ice Crest's wealth are well-known even if most southerners think it a rumor, not that that will be the same now that king robert and his visiting party has likely seen how prosperous the north is, even if most tales are exaggerated. But more than gold, they want our people for their slave markets and our vessels for their fleets."
"Why not let them come close then?" called out Captain Marston, a stocky man with salt-streaked hair. "Let them sail right up to Ice Crest's shores. Our cannons would tear them apart, and what's left our ships can finish off." His meaty hand slapped the table for emphasis. "Be like shooting fish in a barrel."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the gathered captains. Several nodded eagerly at the prospect of such a decisive victory. The northern ships' superior firepower was well-known among their crews - they'd seen enough demonstrations of their cannons reducing traditional vessels to splinters.
Jon agreed mentally with Captain Marston's suggestion, but something deeper stirred within him. His hand unconsciously gripped the hilt of his sword - a masterwork blade Owen had crafted specially for him, its surface etched with protective runes that glowed faintly at his touch.
Owen had changed everything for him. Where others saw a stark bastard, Owen had seen potential. He'd taken Jon into his household when jons thoughts had been on taking the black, made him captain of his guard, and even appointed him steward of Ice Crest. The position came with respect, authority, and more gold than Jon had ever dreamed of possessing as a bastard of Winterfell.
But it wasn't just the material benefits. Owen had promised to build him a castle by the sea - a real castle, not some minor holdfast. A place where Jon could establish his own noble house, take a highborn wife, and raise children who would never know the shame of bastardy. Owen had been teaching him the basics of magic, letting jon perform feats with his blade and will he never thought possible but in fantasy.
The thought of these raiders and slavers - these parasites - daring to threaten Owen's lands made Jon's blood boil. His grip tightened on his sword until his knuckles turned white. These vermin thought they could sail up to Ice Crest's shores and take what Owen had built? Try to enslave the people Owen had sworn to protect?
Rage coursed through Jon's veins as he stared at the approaching fleet on the magical map. How dare they? Owen had given him everything - respect, purpose, a future. He'd treated Jon like family when most nobles wouldn't even acknowledge a bastard's existence.
The thought of Ironborn boots touching Owen's docks or slaver hands grabbing at Owen's people filled Jon with a cold fury he'd rarely experienced. No. He would not allow these filth to taint what Owen had created. They would pay dearly for their presumption.
Jon's grey eyes suddenly blazed with cold fury as he looked across the gathered captains. "I don't know about you," he said, his voice carrying the chill of a northern winter, "but I'll be damned if even one slaver or ironborn ship dares move an inch closer to Ice Crest's waters than they already have."
He stood straighter, his hand gripping the ebony sword at his hip. "Aye, we could wait here. Let them come to our shores and have our cannons tear them apart." His lips curled into a wolfish snarl. "But that's not enough."
Jon's voice rose, filling the great hall with the power of his conviction. "No! No slaver or ironborn should ever see Ice Crest, let alone walk its shores!" He swept his gaze across the assembled captains, seeing the fire of battle ignite in their eyes. "We'll take two hundred ships and meet them on the sea. We'll destroy them there, send them screaming to their precious Drowned God!"
He drew his ebony blade, the enchanted metal gleaming in the light of the braziers as he held it high. "We are of the North! Children of the Old Gods!" The sword seemed to pulse with an inner light as Jon's voice thundered through the hall. "The Stark words are 'Winter is Coming.' Well, it's time winter came for slaver and ironborn scum!"
The captains leapt to their feet as one, their own weapons raised in answer to Jon's call. The hall erupted with their battle cries, voices joining in a thunderous chorus.
"For the Wolf!"
"The North!"
"House Longshore!"
Their roars shook the very foundations of Ice Crest, a promise of the storm about to be unleashed upon their enemies.
The dawn painted the horizon in muted grays and pale pinks as Jon stood on the deck of the Hammer of the Old Gods. The massive ship of the line cut through the waves with an eerie silence, its enchanted Dwemer metal and Ironwood hull barely disturbing the water. His ebony armor gleamed dully in the early light, each piece a masterwork of Owen's craft. The helm tucked under his arm bore the snarling visage of a direwolf, its eyes inlaid with pale moonstone that seemed to catch what little light filtered through the morning mist.
Behind them, spread across the sea like a forest of masts and sails, two hundred Northern vessels moved in perfect formation. The sight filled Jon with fierce pride - these weren't the gaudy pleasure barges of southern lords or the crude longships of ironborn raiders. These were proper warships, built with Owen's innovations and crewed by experienced sailors. Galleons bristling with cannon ports flanked by swift frigates, each vessel enchanted for speed, durability and silence.
Captain Jane Silver Eyes stood at the wheel, her flowing and pale irises reflecting the growing light as she peered through her far-eye. The brass instrument, another of Owen's creations, could spot a fishing boat leagues away through fog or darkness. Her uniform was immaculate despite the early hour, every button and badge gleaming.
"There," she said suddenly, lowering the far-eye and extending it to Jon. "Just at the edge of sight. The bastards don't even have proper lookouts posted."
Jon took the offered instrument and raised it to his eye. Through the enhanced lens, he could make out the enemy fleet - a sprawling mass of vessels that seemed to stretch across the horizon. Ironborn longships mingled with the larger Volantene galleys, their black sails and slave banners an affront to everything the North stood for.
"They're within range," Captain Jane said quietly, her voice carrying the calm authority that had earned her this command. "A few long strides more across the waters and we'll be close enough for the first volley. They still haven't spotted us."
Jon nodded, his expression grim as he watched Captain Jane signal to the fleet. Her pale eyes reflected the growing dawn light as she raised the signal flags, their enchanted fabric glowing briefly to ensure visibility through the morning mist.
"Five galleons, five frigates - follow our lead," she commanded through the magical communication stone at her throat. "The rest hold position until my signal."
The selected vessels broke from the main formation with practiced precision. Jon observed their movement from the quarterdeck of the Hammer of the Old Gods, admiring how the massive ships seemed to glide through the water. Owen's enchantments on their hulls proved their worth yet again, allowing the warships to move without the usual creaking and splashing that would betray their approach.
The ten ships fell into a perfect arrow formation behind the Hammer of the Old Gods, their dark hulls cutting through the waves like shadows. Through his far-eye, Jon could see the enemy fleet more clearly now. The massive collection of vessels lay spread across the horizon, their crews still mostly asleep after what had likely been a night of celebrating their anticipated victory and plunder.
As they closed half the distance to the enemy fleet, Jon observed the first signs of movement aboard the hostile ships. Deck hands emerged from below, stretching and beginning their morning routines. Some moved to adjust sails, preparing for what they thought would be the final leg of their journey to Ice Crest.
In the crow's nest of one of the larger Volantene galleys, a lookout finally roused himself from his slumber. Jon watched through the far-eye with a smirk as the man lazily raised his own viewing instrument, then witnessed the exact moment when realization struck. The lookout's body went rigid with shock, his hands trembling so violently he nearly dropped his far-eye.
The warning bell rang out across the water, its frantic pealing cutting through the morning mist. The sound sparked immediate chaos across the enemy fleet as ironborn raiders and Volantene slavers scrambled to battle stations, their shouts and curses carrying clearly across the water in the still morning air.
Jon watched as Captain Silver Eyes barked orders through her communication stone, the northern ships pivoting with practiced efficiency to present their broadsides to the panicking enemy fleet. The movement was smooth, almost graceful - a show of countless hours of drilling and the enchantments worked into each vessel's hull.
Across the water, chaos erupted as the ironborn and Volantene crews scrambled to respond. Their shouts carried clearly across the morning air, a cacophony of different languages united by the common thread of fear. Some captains tried to organize their ships into battle formations while others attempted to turn and flee, resulting in several collisions that only added to the confusion.
Jon observed the crew of the Hammer of the Old Gods loading the standard cannon balls - heavy iron spheres from the factory enhanced with Owen's runic engravings for greater penetrating power. The gun crews worked with mechanical precision, their movements sure and practiced as they prepared for what should have been a devastating first volley.
But something tickled at the back of Jon's mind. He remembered Owen showing him the special weapons being installed on certain ships, particularly the flagship. The memory made him reach out and catch Jane's arm just as she was about to give the fire order.
"Wait," Jon said, his grey eyes glinting. "This ship - it's one of the ones Owen fitted with his special cannons, isn't it?"
Jane's pale eyes widened slightly in recognition. "Aye, it is. Though we've never used them - stuck to the ordinary cannons in drills and patrols. Seemed excessive to test them when regular shot works well enough."
A predatory smile spread across Jon's face as he remembered Owen's detailed explanation of those particular weapons. "Tell the crew to bring the special cannons to the gun ports instead."
Jane raised an eyebrow but didn't hesitate, relaying the order through her communication stone. Below decks, they could hear the sounds of the crew rushing to comply, the heavy thud of different cannon being moved into position.
Jon would make sure not one of those ironborn and slaver bastards forgot this day….
Dunstan Drumm stood at the helm of his vessel, his weathered hands gripping the worn wood as he bellowed orders across the deck. The bone hand that gave him his nickname gleamed dully in the early morning light as he gestured frantically at his crew.
"Get those sails trimmed, you lazy bastards! Move those oars into position!" His voice carried over the chaos erupting across the massive combined fleet. Being positioned at the rear of the formation had seemed advantageous last night during the planning - a position of honor for an experienced captain. Now it felt like a death sentence.
All around him, the Volantene and Ironborn ships churned in confusion. The massive northern vessels had appeared like ghosts through the morning mist, their dark hulls showing no lights, making no sound until they were already in position. It defied everything Dunstan knew about naval warfare.
"How in the Drowned God's name did they sneak up on us?" he muttered, watching through his far-eye as the enemy ships maintained their position just within scorpion range. Their broadsides faced the fleet, gun ports open like rows of dark eyes staring death across the waters.
A Volantene captain from a nearby galley shouted across the water in heavily accented Common Tongue. "Why do they not close to ram? Where are their boarding parties?"
Dunstan shared the man's confusion. Naval battles were supposed to be about ramming, boarding, and close combat. These northern ships just sat there, presenting their sides like floating fortresses. Behind them, through the lifting morning haze, he could make out at least a hundred more vessels holding position further back.
His confusion would not last long. A deep, resonant hum carried across the water from the largest northern vessel - the one flying what he assumed was House Longshore's banner. The sound reminded him of a whale's song he'd once heard while sailing far out to sea, but deeper, more mechanical. It started low, barely perceptible, then built steadily until it seemed to vibrate through his very bones.
The Ironborn captain's weathered hands gripped his ship's rail as the strange sensation intensified. The air itself seemed to thrum with energy, making his teeth ache and his stomach churn. Around him, his crew stumbled and grabbed at their heads, clearly experiencing the same disorienting effects.
Then the world changed.
The peaceful orange glow of dawn shifted, as if someone had drawn a veil across the sun. Blues began to seep into the morning light, first pale like a summer sky, then deeper, more intense. Dunstan watched in horrified fascination as the color continued to deepen until it matched the dark waters below.
His eyes were drawn inexorably to the northern flagship. The holes along its side began to glow with an otherworldly blue light that seemed to pulse in time with the humming that still filled the air.
The temperature around them rose dramatically. Despite the early morning chill, sweat began to bead on Dunstan's forehead. The very air seemed to shimmer with heat, like the waves rising from sun-baked stone on a summer's day.
All across the combined fleet, Ironborn reavers and Volantene sailors stood transfixed. Hardened warriors who had faced storms and sea battles without flinching now stood rooted in place, weapons forgotten in their hands as they stared at the beautiful yet terrifying display before them.
The blue light from the northern ship's guns grew brighter and brighter, casting eerie shadows across the water. The heat continued to build until Dunstan could feel it burning his face even from this distance. Still, neither he nor anyone else could look away from the mesmerizing sight.
They stood there, frozen in that eternal moment, not knowing what was about to come but understanding on some primal level that they were witnessing something beyond their comprehension.
Dunstan's eyes widened as multiple flashes erupted from the northern ships, accompanied by deep, resonant pulses that seemed to vibrate through his very bones. The sound was unlike anything he'd ever heard - not the sharp crack of thunder or the boom of waves against rocks, but something deeper, more primal.
Brilliant beams of blue-white light lanced out from the ships' sides with terrifying precision. The Pride of Pyke, sailing just ahead of Dunstan's vessel, lurched as one of the beams passed mere feet from its stern. The heat from the near miss was intense enough to blister paint and crack wooden planks.
What happened to the ships that weren't so fortunate defied comprehension. Dunstan watched in horror as the beams struck their targets. There was no explosion, no splintering of wood or shattering of hulls. The ships simply... separated. Clean cuts divided them as if some giant hot knife had sliced through steel and wood alike. The severed halves didn't even have time to fall apart before secondary beams struck, reducing them to nothing.
The crews suffered an even more terrifying fate. Those caught in the direct path of the beams simply ceased to exist. One moment, Dunstan could see dozens of men scrambling across the decks - the next, nothing remained but smoking scraps of clothing drifting on the wind. Not even ashes marked where they had stood. Others on the periphery of the beams were reduced to unrecognizable chunks of flesh, scattered across the blood-slicked decks of the few ships that remained partially intact.
For a heartbeat, absolute silence fell over the water. The morning breeze carried the acrid smell of ozone and burned metal. Dunstan's hands trembled on the ship's rail as his mind struggled to process what he'd witnessed. Around him, his crew stood frozen, faces pale with shock and terror.
Then someone screamed. The sound shattered the silence like breaking glass, and chaos erupted across the surviving ships. Men who had sailed into countless battles, who had faced storms and sea monsters without flinching, now ran in blind panic. Orders were shouted in multiple languages, each captain desperately trying to turn their vessel away from the northern fleet.
"Hard to starboard!" Dunstan heard himself shouting, his voice cracking. "Get us out of here! Row, damn you all, row!"
Ships collided in their desperate attempt to flee, crews no longer caring about formation or dignity. The proud Volantene war galleys and swift Ironborn longships alike transformed into nothing more than vessels of panic, their only goal to escape the reach of those terrible blue beams.
Through it all, the northern ships maintained their perfect formation, silent and terrible in the morning light, like executioners waiting patiently for their next victims.
Dunstan watched in horror as the northern ships maintained their perfect formation, the morning light once again shifting to that otherworldly blue hue. The temperature began to rise just as before, making his skin prickle with sweat despite the morning chill. All around him, the surviving crews of the combined fleet descended into panic.
"Please, no more!" A Volantene captain screamed from a nearby galley, his proud demeanor shattered. His crew abandoned any pretense of discipline, some throwing themselves overboard while others fell to their knees in desperate prayer.
The humming started again, deeper this time, resonating through the wooden planks beneath Dunstan's feet. He gripped the ship's rail, his bone hand gleaming dully as his knuckles whitened. The air shimmered with heat, distorting his view of the northern vessels that loomed like dark specters through the haze.
Across the water, Dunstan could see the gun ports of the northern flagship glowing that terrible blue-white once more. The heat continued to build until it felt like standing too close to a forge. Several of his crew members dropped to their knees, some calling out to the Drowned God while others begged for mercy from the Old Gods of the North.
"What have we done?" Dunstan whispered, his weathered face pale with terror. "What power have we challenged?"
The answer came in searing streams of blue light that lanced out from the northern ships once again. The beams cut through the fleeing vessels with terrible precision, turning proud warships into floating pyres. Men vanished mid-scream, their bodies simply ceasing to exist where the light touched them. Those lucky enough to be missed by the direct beams still suffered as the heat alone caused wood to ignite and metal to warp.
A nearby Volantene galley split cleanly in two, its halves briefly hanging in the air before secondary beams reduced them to nothing but floating debris and scattered body parts. The screams of the dying mixed with prayers in a dozen languages, creating a hellish chorus across the water.
Dunstan could only watch, rooted in place by a terror beyond anything he'd experienced in his long years at sea. This wasn't warfare - this was divine punishment, the wrath of the norths old gods made manifest through northern ingenuity. They had sailed north thinking to raid and plunder, but instead had awakened something beyond their comprehension.
Jon watched in awe as the second volley of blue-white beams lanced across the water. The destructive power of Owen's special cannons exceeded anything he or anyone had imagined during those long conversations in the forge. Where proud warships had stood moments before, only floating debris and scattered remnants remained.
Complete silence fell over the crew of the Hammer of the Old Gods. Men who had seen countless battles stood slack-jawed at their posts, eyes wide as they tried to comprehend the devastation they had just unleashed. Even the most hardened veterans among them seemed shaken by the display of raw power.
"Seven hells," whispered one of the gunners to his companion. "Remind me never to get on Lord Owen's bad side. Man's got the power to make weapons of the gods themselves." Several nearby crew members nodded vigorously in agreement, their faces still pale from witnessing the carnage.
"Cease fire!" Jon called out, his voice cutting through the stunned silence. He turned to Captain Silver Eyes, who stood rigid at his side. "How many enemy ships would you estimate we've destroyed?"
Jane blinked several times, then raised her far-eye to survey the wreckage. Her hands trembled slightly as she scanned the waters. "Two... maybe three hundred vessels," she finally managed, her voice thick with amazement. "Just... gone."
Jon nodded grimly. "Signal the ten ships on our flanks. I want a full barrage for five minutes - standard cannon fire this time. Whatever survives, we'll board and capture." He caught the eye of a nearby deck hand. "You - get below and tell the Dreadguard to don their armor. All three hundred of them. Time they got some real combat practice."
The deck hand saluted and rushed below, while Jane began relaying orders through her communication stone. Around them, the crew shook off their shock and returned to their duties, though many still cast worried glances at the smoking ruins of what had been the greatest invasion fleet the North had faced in centuries.
Jon paced along the line of assembled Dreadguard on the deck, his boots clicking against the smooth planks. The last echoes of cannon fire faded across the water as smoke drifted between the remaining enemy vessels. Only ten ships remained of the once-mighty invasion fleet, their crews likely terrified after witnessing the destruction of their companions.
The three hundred members of the Dreadguard stood at perfect attention, their ebony armor gleaming despite the overcast sky. Jon felt a surge of pride as he observed their disciplined stance. Each warrior wore the lightweight yet incredibly strong armor Owen had specifically designed for them - protective enough to stop most weapons while allowing for quick movement and extended wear without fatigue.
He paused occasionally to adjust a shield grip here or correct a sword stance there. These men and women had trained relentlessly under his guidance for two years, patrolling the wild coastlines of Sea Dragon Point. They'd handled their share of bandits and tracked down murderers, but those encounters had been small affairs - nothing like the naval battle they were about to join.
"Remember your training," Jon called out as he walked the line. "You've drilled these movements thousands of times. The only difference today is that your opponents won't be practice dummies, desperate bandits or that you'll be facing them on land."
He studied their faces as he passed - some showed nervousness, others excitement, but all displayed the steady resolve he'd worked to instill in them. These weren't just ordinary guards who served for coin. Each member of the Dreadguard had sworn personal oaths of loyalty to Owen and House Longshore, pledging their lives to protect the North's future.
The ebony short swords at their hips and shields on their arms were masterworks, each weapon personally crafted in owens factory forge. Jon had watched many of them being forged, seen the care and enchantments worked into every piece. The weapons were perfectly balanced, the edges supernaturally sharp.
"Today you'll face ironborn reavers and Essosi slavers," Jon continued, his voice carrying across the deck. "They're used to victims who can't fight back. Show them what happens when they face warriors who can."
The Dreadguard thumped their ebony-armored chests in unison, the sound echoing across the deck like thunder. Jon felt their energy, their readiness for battle radiating through the morning air. These weren't green boys and girls playing at war - they were professional soldiers now, trained to be the fight bravely.
Captain Silver Eyes approached, her boots clicking against the deck as she made her way to Jon's position. Her eyes, gleamed more than ever as she handed him her far-eye excitedly.
"My lord, the flagship still floats, though she's badly damaged," Jane reported, pointing toward a particularly large vessel among the wreckage. "Ten other ships remain - five slaver vessels and five ironborn. One of our frigate captains sent word through the communication stones. He recognized the flagship as the Iron Pride - Dunstan Drumm's personal vessel."
Jon raised the far-eye to his eye, studying the damaged ship. He'd heard tales of Dunstan Drumm, the fearsome ironborn captain who wielded Red Rain, a Valyrian steel sword taken as prize in some ancient raid. The man was known for his vicious fighting style and tactical mind, having led successful raids along the western coast for years before Owen's defenses made such attacks suicidal.
"Drumm's a hard fighter," Jane continued, her voice carrying a note of concern. "That Valyrian steel sword of his has taken many lives. He's not one to be underestimated."
Jon lowered the far-eye and handed it back to Jane, his expression calm and determined. The reputation of their opponent meant little now, not with the weapons and training Owen had provided them.
"It doesn't matter," Jon stated firmly, his hand resting on the pommel of his own ebony sword. "He'll die just the same."
Jon turned to Jane, his expression hardening. "Full sail, Captain. Ram those slaver ships - break them apart. Leave the ironborn vessels for us to board."
Jane's eyes widened for a moment before a fierce grin spread across her face. "Aye, my lord snow." She spun on her heel, bellowing orders to the crew. "Full sail! All hands to stations! Prepare for ramming speed!"
The massive propeller beneath the Hammer of the Old Gods roared to life, churning the water into a white froth as the vessel surged forward. The deck thrummed with power beneath Jon's feet as they bore down on the nearest slaver ship. He could see the panic on the faces of the Volantene crew as they realized what was about to happen.
"Brace!" Jane shouted as their reinforced ram struck the first vessel.
The impact sent tremors through the ship, but the strengthened hull held firm. Wood splintered and men screamed as the slaver ship broke apart like kindling. Bodies tumbled into the churning sea, their cries cut short by the icy northern waters.
Without slowing, they plowed into a second vessel, then a third. The Hammer's enhanced hull shrugged off the collisions while reducing the lighter slave ships to floating wreckage. Desperate swimmers thrashed in the water, but Jon felt no pity for slavers who would have sold northern children into bondage.
Finally, they slowed as they approached one of the ironborn vessels. The impact was more controlled this time, bringing the ships alongside each other with a grinding crash of wood on wood. Jon could see the ironborn warriors assembling on the other deck, their weapons raised and faces grim.
Jon pulled on his ebony helm, the snarling wolf design catching the morning light. He turned to address the Dreadguard one final time.
"These are just men," he called out, his voice carrying clearly through the helm. "They bleed like any other. Show them what true warriors of the North can do!"
Without waiting for a response, Jon vaulted over the rail, his ebony sword drawn as he landed on the ironborn deck. Behind him, he could hear the rhythmic thunder of armored boots as the Dreadguard followed their commander into battle.
Jon's ebony longsword gleamed darkly as he raised it high, the morning light catching its razor edge. Around him, three hundred Dreadguard drew their weapons in perfect unison, the sound of metal on metal ringing across the deck. Their ebony shields locked into defensive positions, creating an intimidating wall of black armor.
"For the North!" Jon roared, his voice carrying over the crash of waves.
"FOR THE NORTH!" the Dreadguard thundered back, their unified cry shaking the very planks beneath their feet.
Across the deck, the ironborn answered with their own battle cries for their drowned god, axes and swords raised as they charged forward. Their leather armor and steel weapons seemed pitiful compared to the advancing wall of ebony-clad warriors.
The two forces crashed together like storm waves meeting a cliff. Jon's blade moved with deadly precision, each stroke finding gaps in leather armor and vulnerable flesh. An ironborn warrior swung a heavy axe at his head, but Jon simply stepped inside the man's guard and drove his ebony sword through his chest. The blade cut through leather, flesh, and bone as if they were parchment.
Around him, the Dreadguard proved their worth. Their ebony shields deflected desperate strikes from iron weapons while their short swords darted out like black vipers, ending lives with each thrust. Ironborn axes bounced harmlessly off their armor, unable to even scratch the enchanted metal's surface.
Blood sprayed across the deck as Jon's blade severed an attacker's arm at the shoulder. The man hadn't even finished screaming before Jon's backswing took his head. Another reaver lunged with a spear, but Jon knocked it aside with contemptuous ease and split the man from collar to hip.
The deck became slick with blood as more ironborn fell. Their screams of pain and desperation mixed with the clash of weapons and the triumphant shouts of the Dreadguard. Where regular soldiers might have hesitated at such carnage, Owen's soldiers pressed forward relentlessly, their ebony blades reaping a terrible harvest.
Jon moved through the chaos like a deadly shadow, his sword never still. Three ironborn rushed him together, perhaps hoping to overwhelm him with numbers. His blade caught the first man's sword and sheared through it, continuing into the warrior's neck. The second man's axe glanced off Jon's pauldron while Jon's counter-strike opened his belly. The third died trying to retreat, Jon's sword punching through his back.
The Dreadguard's disciplined advance pushed the surviving ironborn back step by bloody step. Their superior weapons and armor made the battle less a fight and more a slaughter. Severed limbs littered the deck while the dying clutched at mortal wounds, their blood mixing with the sea spray that washed across the planks.
Jon moved across the blood-slicked deck, his blade singing through the air. Around him, the Dreadguard continued their relentless advance, their perfect formation never wavering despite the chaos of battle. The ironborn's initial bravado had given way to growing terror as they witnessed their weapons prove useless against the black armor.
"Our axes can't bite!" an ironborn screamed in frustration as his weapon shattered against a Dreadguard's shield. The warrior's ebony sword punched through the reaver's throat before he could say more.
Another raider swung a steel sword at Jon's head with all his might. The blade skittered off Jon's pauldron without leaving so much as a scratch. Jon's counter-stroke opened the man from hip to shoulder, spilling his entrails across the deck.
"Sorcery!" came the terrified cry from the remaining ironborn. "Northern witchcraft!"
The raiders began to fall back, their confidence shattered by the sight of their dead companions and useless weapons. Some threw down their arms, dropping to their knees to beg for mercy. Others continued fighting with desperate, wild swings that the Dreadguard easily deflected.
Jon felt the power Owen had taught him stirring in his blood. He let it flow through his arm and into his sword, remembering the careful instruction in focusing his will. The ebony blade burst into brilliant blue flames, casting an eerie light across the blood-stained deck.
"Please, spare-" an ironborn's plea cut short as Jon spun in a perfect circle, his burning blade describing a precise arc through the air. Five raiders who had been trying to surround him screamed as the flaming sword cut through leather, flesh, and bone with equal ease. Their bodies fell in halves to the deck, cauterized wounds smoking in the morning air.
The remaining ironborn stared in horror at their bisected companions, their weapons lowering as the last of their courage fled. Some began to pray, either to their Drowned God or to the Old Gods of the North, while others simply stood frozen in terror at the demon-like warrior with his burning sword.
Jon's was about to move forward and continue the slaughter when a thunderous cry split the air.
"STARK!"
The shout echoed across the blood-soaked deck as heavy boots pounded up from below. Dunstan Drumm emerged from the hold, his weathered face twisted in a snarl of rage. Six battle-scarred veterans flanked him, their weapons at the ready, while his second in command - a particularly nasty-looking ironborn with a face full of scars - stood at his right shoulder.
Several Dreadguard moved to intercept, their ebony blades gleaming with reflected firelight from Jon's sword, but Jon raised his hand to halt them. With deliberate calm, he extinguished the flames wreathing his blade and planted it point-first into the deck. The metal sank into the wood as easily as a knife through butter.
Jon removed his helmet, letting the morning breeze cool his face as he met Drumm's fierce gaze. His dark hair was damp with sweat, but his grey eyes remained steady and cold.
"Not Stark," Jon corrected, his voice carrying clearly across the deck. "Snow. Jon Snow, son of Eddard and steward of Ice Crest." His lips curled slightly as he continued, "Brother by marriage to Lord Owen Longshore and by blood to Sansa Longshore, his wife and lady."
Jon's eyes swept over the ironborn captain's battle-worn appearance, taking in the Valyrian steel sword at his hip and the proud set of his shoulders. When he spoke again, his voice dripped with unconcealed contempt.
"And you must be Dunstan Drumm."
Dunstan spat a glob of phlegm into the churning sea, his weathered face twisting with rage at Jon. Red Rain whispered from its scabbard, the Valyrian steel blade catching the morning light with an ominous gleam. Jon didn't even blink at the legendary weapon, his expression remaining coldly contemptuous.
"I've heard tales of you, Drumm," Jon said, his voice carrying across the blood-slicked deck. "They say you're a terror on the seas, that your blade has drunk the blood of countless victims." He gestured at the corpses of ironborn raiders scattered across five different ship decks, their blood still seeping between the planks. "Yet here we are, after my men and I have cut through your entire crew to reach you. Only now, when your numbers have dwindled to nothing, do you show your face."
Jon's lip curled in disgust as he gripped his ebony sword's hilt, pulling it free from the deck with a smooth motion. "You're like all ironborn - nothing but a coward hiding behind other men's shields."
Dunstan's weathered face twisted into an ugly snarl at Jon's words. His knuckles whitened around Red Rain's hilt as rage burned in his eyes at being lectured about courage by a bastard.
"You dare speak to me of cowardice, wolf pup?" Dunstan spat, taking a threatening step forward. "I've been reaving these coasts since before your father spilled his seed to make you. You're just another Greenlander who's forgotten his place."
The old ironborn captain's voice grew darker as he continued, "When I'm done here, I'll send your pretty head back to Ice Crest as a gift. Then I'll gut that witch-lord longshore and take his woman for my salt wife. I'll teach your sister what it means to please a real ironborn man."
Several of the Dreadguard cursed violently at the threat, their ebony blades rising as they moved to cut Dunstan down where he stood. The sound of steel sliding from sheaths filled the air as hands tightened on sword hilts. Jon could feel their fury at hearing their lady threatened so crudely.
Jon raised his hand again, halting his men's advance. His grey eyes had gone cold as winter frost at Dunstan's words, but his voice remained steady and controlled when he spoke.
"For those words alone, you die today," Jon stated with quiet certainty. "Your guards die with you." His gaze shifted briefly to Dunstan's scarred second-in-command before returning to the captain. "Except one. I'll need someone to question about your allies."
The wind gusted across the blood-soaked deck as Jon's words hung in the air, carrying the metallic scent of death and the promise of more to come.
"I'll Kill you bastard!" Dunstan roared as he finally charged forward.
The Valyrian steel sword whistled through the air as Dunstan attacked with surprising speed for his age. Jon met the strike with his own blade, and the clash of metal on metal rang across the deck. The impact sent shockwaves up both men's arms.
Dunstan's eyes widened as he saw a hairline crack appear in Red Rain's legendary blade where it had struck the ebony sword. He disengaged quickly, unable to hide his concern at seeing the supposedly unbreakable Valyrian steel damaged.
Holding back his worry, the ironborn lord pressed his attack with renewed fury, his weathered face twisted in rage. His strikes came fast and vicious, forcing Jon to give ground. Red Rain sliced through the air in deadly arcs, each blow meant to end the fight quickly.
But Jon moved like water, his body flowing around the attacks with practiced grace. When he couldn't dodge, his ebony blade was there to meet Red Rain with perfect timing. Each clash of their swords sent more tiny cracks spreading through the Valyrian steel.
"Stand still and die, you northern whelp!" Dunstan snarled, his strikes becoming wilder as frustration mounted. Sweat began to bead on his forehead while Jon remained fresh, showing no signs of tiring.
Jon deflected another powerful swing, letting the force slide past him. His movements were efficient and controlled, conserving energy while letting Dunstan wear himself out. The older man's breathing grew heavier with each passing moment.
"Damn you!" Dunstan cursed as another strike missed its mark, Jon slipping away like smoke. The bastard's calm expression only fueled the ironborn's rage. "Fight me properly!"
But Jon continued his defensive dance, his grey eyes cold and focused as he waited for his opponent to tire. Each clash of their blades added new cracks to Red Rain's surface while his own ebony sword remained pristine.
He watched patiently as Dunstan's movements grew increasingly labored. The ironborn captain's strikes, while still powerful, came slower and with less precision. Sweat dripped from his weathered face while his chest heaved with each ragged breath.
The moment had come. Jon recalled Owen's careful instructions about reinforcement magic during their training sessions. He focused his will inward, channeling power through the magical circuits that now lined his body. Bright green lines blazed to life across his skin beneath the armor, suffusing his muscles with supernatural strength and speed.
Jon exploded forward, his enhanced body moving faster than any normal human could track. Dunstan's eyes widened in shock as he barely managed to get Red Rain up in time to deflect Jon's first strike. The second blow came just as quickly, forcing another desperate parry that sent the ironborn staggering backward.
Then Jon truly unleashed his enhanced capabilities. His ebony sword became a blur of motion, raining strikes down on Dunstan from every angle. The older warrior's legendary skill proved inadequate against Jon's magically augmented speed and strength. Blood sprayed as Jon's blade found flesh again and again.
One cut opened Dunstan's shoulder. Two more sliced across his chest. A fourth strike tore through his thigh. Jon's sword seemed to be everywhere at once, systematically dismantling the ironborn captain's defenses. Dunstan's leather armor offered no protection, shredding beneath the razor-sharp ebony blade.
Within seconds, Dunstan's body was covered in bloody wounds. His once-proud stance had deteriorated into a hunched defensive posture as he struggled simply to stay on his feet. Red Rain trembled in his weakening grip while blood pooled on the deck beneath him.
The veteran guards and remaining ironborn watched in horrified silence as their captain was cut to pieces. Their faces showed naked fear at witnessing power beyond their understanding.
Dunstan swayed on his feet, barely able to lift his sword as blood ran freely from dozens of wounds. Before the ironborn captain could speak or attempt a final attack, Jon struck with lethal precision. His first slash separated Dunstan's head from his shoulders in a spray of crimson. The second cut cleaved diagonally through torso and hip, bisecting the body before it could hit the deck.
The three pieces of what had once been Dunstan Drumm collapsed to the blood-soaked planks with wet thuds. Red Rain clattered from lifeless fingers as the legendary captain's remains settled into a spreading pool of gore.
Jon slashed the ebony longsword in a quick, practiced motion, sending droplets of Dunstan's blood spattering across the already crimson-stained deck. The blade made a soft whisper as it slid back into its sheath, the sound nearly lost beneath the morning wind and creaking timbers of the ruined ship.
His grey eyes found Dunstan's second in command - the scarred ironborn who had stood so proudly beside his captain moments ago. Now the man trembled visibly, his weather-beaten face pale with terror. A dark stain spread across the front of his breeches as his bladder released in fear. The acrid smell mixed with the metallic scent of blood that already permeated the air.
Jon's voice carried across the deck, cold and commanding. "Keep him alive." He pointed at the shaking man before his hand swept to indicate the remaining ironborn. "Kill the rest."
The Dreadguard surged forward with a roar, The remaining ironborn barely had time to lift their weapons before the slaughter began anew.
Some tried to fight, raising axes and swords in trembling hands. Others attempted to flee or surrender. It made no difference. The Dreadguard cut them down with brutal speed, their ebony blades ending lives with each stroke. Blood sprayed across deck and sail as they executed their orders without mercy.
The scarred second-in-command turned to flee, making a desperate lunge for the ship's rail. He never made it. A Dreadguard's armored fist caught him in the temple, dropping him unconscious to the deck before he could throw himself into the sea's cold embrace.
Just like that, the planned invasion of Ice Crest ended. Jon glanced at the position of the sun - not even midday.
Time enough to return home for lunch.