ARC II: THE ERA OF EXPANSION AND THE ANNIHILATION OF THE GREYJOYS
Chapter 14: The Ice Cannons
POV: Lord Eddard Stark (289 AC - The Greyjoy Rebellion)
I was in a terrible mood, and each icy wave that crashed against the dark wooden hull of my ship seemed to set the rhythm of my irritation. The north wind blew hard, bringing the smell of sea spray and the biting cold that once used to comfort me, but today, not even the embrace of Winter was capable of placating the silent fury growing in my chest.
The news of the Iron Islands' folly had reached Moat Cailin like a bucket of freezing water. Balon Greyjoy, in his blind hubris and adoration of barbaric, bankrupt customs, had crowned himself King of the Iron Islands and declared war on the Iron Throne. Initially, when the first ravens crossed the skies reporting the massive attacks of the Ironborn on the rich lands of the Westerlands and the Reach, I presumed the stupid mollusk would keep his filthy tentacles confined to the South. After all, southern waters were historically easier to plunder, devoid of mystical defenses, and inhabited by lords who preferred linen to chainmail. But human stupidity, as my nephew and King Arawyn always liked to remind me, was the most unpredictable force in Westeros. The Greyjobs decided to march against the North as well.
What enraged me the most was not the prospect of war—for war I had been trained and molded—but rather the timing chosen by those cursed born-in-iron. My ill mood stemmed from the purely biological and domestic fact that I, in all probability, would miss the birth of my new son or daughter. Cersei Stark was in the final days of her pregnancy in the newly completed towers of Moat Cailin, gentle, attached, and begging for my presence. I should have been by my wives' side, savoring the peace of our new fortress, and not hunting squids on the high seas just because a fool in Pyke could not contain his own greed.
Thanks to Arawyn's advance warnings, who had foreseen the naval movements of the Ironborn through his enigmatic arts, Lord Tywin Lannister had not lost the entirety of his fleet at Lannisport, as the Greyjoys had planned in their surprise attack. Even so, the old lion of Casterly Rock had gravely underestimated the suicidal madness of the Ironborn. According to the reports transmitted by Arawyn's Greensight—whose animal eyes were strategically scattered across all Seven Kingdoms—the battle at the docks of Lannisport had been a horrific bloodbath. Many good men bled and died in the waters of the West. Tywin Lannister had managed to repel the worst of the attack, but the material and human toll for the West was still monumental. The pride of the Rock was wounded.
I walked along the deck of my personal vessel, the Quiet Wolf. The ship was a masterpiece of runic naval engineering, a monumental gift I received on the occasion of my second marriage, symbolizing the unity and strength of House Stark. The dark wooden hull seemed to absorb the sunlight, and the icy steel plates on the sides gleamed like sharp blades ready to slice through the ocean. We were sailing at supernatural speed, leading a small runic test flotilla to intercept the invading fleet sailing up toward the northern coast.
— Prepare the cannons! — I ordered, my voice echoing firm and without hesitation over the crash of the waves. — Review the runic matrices and ready the black stone spheres. I want no failures when the squids appear.
Beside me, the monumental figure of Lord Wyman Manderly moved with a surprising agility for a man of his size, helping me dictate the positioning orders to the crew. When King Arawyn tasked me with leading the naval interception, the Lord of White Harbor was the first to volunteer to board with me. According to him, his family possessed a thousand-year tradition of seafaring and understanding the moods of the sea, which I gladly accepted, since my military expertise had always been focused on land combat. However, I knew Wyman well enough to know the real reason for his enthusiasm.
— You are not fooling me, Lord Manderly — I commented, keeping my eyes fixed on the gray horizon, though a corner of my lips sketched a restrained smile. — I know perfectly well that you only volunteered for this hunt because of my nephew's new runic toys.
Wyman let out a thunderous laugh that shook his immense belly beneath his heavy blue velvet cloak.
— Hahaha! Well, General Stark, I cannot deny that the sight of those iron beasts working on the open sea is a spectacle I wouldn't miss for all the gold in Lannisport! — he admitted, his stout eyes gleaming with the anticipation of a boy about to receive a name-day gift. — But the Manderly naval tradition also counts, I assure you!
Our conversation was interrupted when the quick steps of a young sailor broke the rhythm of the deck. The lad wore a gray tunic with a deep hood, but the detail that drew attention was his eyes, which for a brief moment exhibited a milky haze before returning to their natural gray. He was part of a new and highly secret military group created by Arawyn. Men and women with the gift of skinchanging, trained specifically to use birds and winged predators as spies for the kingdom, gathering information in real-time long before any ordinary scout could return.
— General Stark — the youth greeted, bowing his head respectfully, though his breathing was slightly rushed from the recent disconnection from the animal. — The squids' ships are approaching at the twelve o'clock line. My seagull spotted them rounding the rocky cliffs. Within a few minutes, they will be visible to the naked eye on the horizon.
— Excellent work. Return to your post and continue monitoring the flanks — I ordered.
I walked over to the bow railing and pulled out a cylindrical object of bronze and polished glass lenses that I carried attached to my belt. It was a spyglass, a curious name and an invention entirely conceived by the brilliant mind of my young King. I adjusted the focus of the instrument against my eyes and aimed at the horizon.
Through the lenses enriched by runes of sharpness, the fleet of the Ironborn emerged with impressive clarity. There were dozens of traditional longships, their sails painted with the golden kraken of House Greyjoy. Focusing on the flagship leading the vanguard formation, I could distinguish the features of the warriors on board. Their faces displayed fierce expressions, with an outrageous arrogance that simply made no practical sense. They sailed toward the North genuinely believing they would find the same defenseless land from centuries past. They thought the sea belonged to them by right of cruelty. Poor fools.
I retracted the spyglass and looked at the Lord of White Harbor, who was watching me with almost childish anticipation.
— Lord Manderly — I called out, stepping away from the bow. — Would you care to do the honors, my lord?
Wyman's eyes widened in pure delight, and he puffed out his large chest with renewed energy.
— It will be an absolute pleasure, General! — he exclaimed, turning immediately to the decks of mystical artillery where the sailors stood waiting.
Wyman raised his thunderous voice, overpowering the clamor of the wind and the sea with imperial authority:
— Prepare the runic cannons! — the weapon crews moved in perfect synchronicity, unlocking the bronze levers and aligning the muzzles of icy steel. — Aim at the squids' vanguard!
The tense silence that followed was broken only by the azure glow of the geometric inscriptions that began to pulse along the metal of the iron cylinders, feeding on the mystical energy channeled from the ship itself.
— FIRE! — Manderly bellowed, bringing his arm down hard.
What followed was no ordinary naval battle; it was a summary execution carried out by the forces of Winter.
An apocalyptic crash, so violent it seemed to rip the very fabric of the world in half, echoed across the Sunset Sea. A flash of bluish energy and a thick curtain of static vapor jumped from the muzzles of the runic cannons installed on the side of the Quiet Wolf and the ships accompanying us. The black stone spheres, imbued with macro-runes of linear propulsion, crossed the distance between the fleets at a speed that defied any nautical logic. No catapult or scorpion of the South could ever dream of such projecting power.
The Ironborn sailing in the front line did not even have time to understand how or why they were dying. The kinetic explosions were massive and devastating. When the runic balls struck the oak longships, the runes of amplified piercing ensured that they tore through the hulls as if they were made of wet parchment. A fraction of a second later, inside the holds, the detonation energy was released from the inside out.
Entire ships were simply disintegrated into violent storms of incandescent wood splinters and metal fragments. Men wearing heavy chainmail were launched into the air before sinking like stones into the icy waters. The sea was dyed by the red of blood and by the flames consuming what remained of the Greyjoy vanguard.
But the most terrifying and wondrous detail of King Arawyn's engineering came next. Normally, weapons of great impact would require long, grueling minutes of reloading and cooling. However, the auxiliary runic cooling inscriptions carved into the icy steel instantly absorbed all the heat generated by the magical combustion. In less than ten seconds, the muzzles of the cannons were already cold and ready again.
— Second round! Fire! — Manderly commanded, laughing in pure military ecstasy.
Another volley of blue thunder streaked across the sky, followed quickly by a relentless third round. Three times winter roared through iron and stone, and three times the invading fleet was slaughtered without having the slightest chance to deliver a single counterattack. The sea was filled with floating debris and thick smoke.
Despite the overwhelming destruction, the surviving fleet of the Ironborn kept advancing, driven by desperation and the few sails they had left. After all, King Arawyn had sent only a small test flotilla of a few ships for this interception, wishing to analyze the behavior of the weapons in a real combat situation. The distance between us closed significantly.
Through the smoke, I spotted the main ship leading the remainder of the survivors. On the bow of that gray vessel, a young man with brutal features and ornate armor screamed desperate orders, wielding a battle axe. From the descriptions and the sigil he flaunted, I knew immediately who he was: Rodrik Greyjoy, the firstborn son and heir of Balon.
The distance was still comfortable for the runic cannons to obliterate that final resistance, but I made a gesture with my hand to the artificers.
— Spare that flagship — I ordered the men, my voice cutting through the agitation of the deck. — I want the heir of Pyke alive... for now. Prepare for boarding.
I approached the opposite railing of the Quiet Wolf, where Rodrik Greyjoy's ship would crash against ours in a desperate attempt at traditional boarding combat. I brought my right hand to my shoulder and drew the ancestral sword of my house. Ice. The colossal greatsword, forged from authentic Valyrian steel and now reinforced with thin blue runic lines along its dark edge, slid from its scabbard with a deadly whisper.
When the hull of the enemy longship collided against the protective icy steel of my ship with a dull thud, the world around me seemed to slow down drastically.
A familiar, thick, and overwhelming sensation began to take hold of every fiber of my being. A cold, focused, and absolute fury rose up my spine. It was not a blind or wild savagery like that of the mountain clansmen or the barbarians of the South; it was a mystical fury, gentle on the surface, but lethal in its essence. The famous Wolf Blood. According to Arawyn's scientific and mystical explanations, this state was a form of Controlled Berserk that the ancient bloodlines of the Kings of Winter possessed, a natural runic mutation that drastically increased the physical capacities, regeneration, and sensory acuity of the user, transforming the man into a perfect killing machine.
My senses sharpened to the extreme. I could hear the flapping of a bird's wings in the distance, the dripping of blood on wood, and the exact movement of the enemies' muscles.
I advanced. With just three firm steps, I leapt from the railing and cleared the distance of a few yards separating the two ships. Falling heavily onto the enemy deck, there was no hesitation. I spun my body, utilizing the momentum of the fall, and delivered a horizontal slash with Ice.
Due to the colossal size of the Valyrian blade and the superhuman strength the Wolf Blood granted me, the dark steel sliced through the air with a hissing sound. Three Ironborn, who watched my arrival paralyzed by the shock of seeing a man of my size move with such swiftness, were literally cleaved in half at the waist. Blood and viscera spilled across the planks of the longship before their bodies even hit the floor.
The massacre that followed was swift and surgical. My body practically acted on its own, driven by the controlled killer instinct of my lineage. I ducked and wove past enemy axes with millimeter precision, counterattacking with strikes that severed heads, split wooden shields in two, and pierced iron armor as if it were made of thin wool. Terror took hold of the Ironborn. They, who considered themselves the predators of the seas, realized too late that they had stepped into the den of a starving wolf.
A few minutes later, the deck of the flagship was silent, covered by lifeless bodies. The Greyjoy flotilla was, in its near entirety, resting on the muddy bottom of the ocean.
The only survivor on board was Rodrik Greyjoy himself. The young heir of Pyke was on his knees, leaning against the mainmast, bleeding heavily from a deep gash I had dealt to his thigh and another to his right shoulder. His battle axe lay a few feet away, shattered in half by the edge of Ice. He breathed with difficulty, glaring at me with a mixture of helpless hatred and a deep dread that his arrogance could no longer hide.
I approached him with slow steps, the tip of Ice dragging along the oak deck, leaving a trail of enemy blood behind. I was about to order my men to bind him so we could use him as a valuable bargaining chip in the surrender negotiations that would surely come when Robert Baratheon and the forces of the realm besieged the Iron Islands.
Before I could utter the command, a peculiar sound caught my attention. A bird of exotic plumage and vivid colors—emerald green with nuances of fiery red at the tips of its wings—descended from the gray skies and perched smoothly on the wooden railing of the enemy ship, just a few paces from where we stood.
It was a parrot, a creature native to the depths of the Summer Isles that Arawyn had brought to court through merchants. The most remarkable ability of this species was its biological capacity to perfectly mimic human speech. This singular characteristic, when allied with a Warg powerful enough to project his consciousness and voice through the animal's vocal cords, transformed these birds into the most efficient and terrifying messengers in the entire northern kingdom.
The bird turned its small head toward me, its eyes gleaming with a cold, human intelligence I would recognize anywhere in the world. It opened its curved beak and let out a characteristic sharp cry before speaking in the exact, measured, and icy voice of my nephew and King:
— We do not need him, uncle — Arawyn's voice echoed through the bird's small beak, filling the silent deck with a chilling authority. — There will be no hostages in this campaign. You may dispose of him.
Rodrik Greyjoy's eyes widened upon hearing the bird speak with the voice of the King of the North, realizing that his fate had already been sealed by a monarch who was not even present on the battlefield.
I blinked, processing the direct order. I realized immediately that Arawyn had no intention of prolonging this war with cheap diplomacy or using Balon's children as tokens to buy a temporary peace. The Winter Throne did not seek submission; it sought the complete annihilation of the threat.
I raised Ice with both hands, looking into the eyes of the young heir of the Iron Islands.
— May your gods have more mercy on your soul than your father had on your people — I declared.
With a swift and precise movement, I delivered a downward strike that separated Rodrik Greyjoy's head from his shoulders. A merciful end, I must confess, and one that I imagined the lad probably did not deserve, considering the atrocities the Ironborn were wont to commit against the innocents of the South during their historical raids. But I was Eddard Stark, and even under the influence of the Wolf Blood, I took no pleasure in torture or prolonged pain. Duty was done.
I wiped the Valyrian blood from the blade of my ancestral sword using a piece of cloth from the deceased's garments and sheathed it back onto my shoulders. I stepped away from the mast and walked back toward the railing, easily vaulting back onto the safe deck of the Quiet Wolf.
Lord Manderly approached immediately, observing the body of the Greyjoy heir with a solemn expression, though the enthusiasm for the weapons was still present in his eyes.
— What are the orders now, General? — the Lord of White Harbor asked.
— Give the orders to turn the ships around and return immediately to the northern coast — I commanded, taking control of the runic helm. — We need to rendezvous with the regular army and King Arawyn as quickly as possible.
I watched the floating wreckage of the Greyjoy fleet begin to be swallowed by the dark, icy waters of the sea. Although that invading vanguard had been completely intercepted and obliterated before touching a single inch of the sacred soil of the North, I knew that this was only the first movement of a much larger play. The initial destination of those longships was our land, and my nephew King held a very clear policy regarding insults: Winter never left an affront unanswered. Balon Greyjoy had signed the death warrant of his entire lineage, and the North would march to Pyke to ensure the execution was final.