ARC III: THE AWAKENING OF THE DRAGONS AND THE WAR OF THE EMPIRE
Chapter 45: The Relentless Advance
POV: Lord Rodrik Harlaw (302 AC)
Thirteen years can, at the same time, seem like an eternity or a mere blink of an eye. It is enough time for a clumsy boy to transform into a seasoned warrior, but terribly short for a mature man to change his own deep nature. Fortunately, for the survival of my people, the Iron Islands were forced to break their old traditions within the span of that sigh.
Without the nefarious and paranoid presence of House Greyjoy, and with the overwhelming majority of those old captains who thought like Balon having been turned into macabre and eternal statues of pure ice, the Old Way collapsed. I myself made a point of visiting that freezing mausoleum erected by the sorcery of the Winter Throne, and I made it a mandatory tradition that every new lord or captain of the Iron Islands accompany me there before assuming their titles. Seeing the expressions of eternal dread frozen in the flesh of those who dared to defy the Crown of Winter was the perfect cure against any seed of rebellion. As the new Lord of the Iron Islands, I had already sworn my absolute fealty to Arawyn Stark long ago in the darkness; this war in the South served only to make our pact public and definitive.
Under my rule, the ironborn finally learned to survive like normal men, focusing their energies on honest trade and the mercantile dominance of the sea. To soothe the intrinsic bloodlust pulsing in the veins of the younger ones, we transformed our ancient urge for plundering into a lucrative business of naval protection. The great merchants of Essos and the West hired our fleets to escort their precious cargo, earning money legitimately while we hunted down and slaughtered the pirates of the Narrow Sea who dared to try their luck against our patrols.
Currently, I found myself aboard *The Reader*—a wonderful irony by the shipbuilders of the North, who decided to name the most imposing runic warship delivered to the Iron Islands after my own childhood nickname. That fortress of enchanted wood and metal plates was one of the three monumental warships the Emperor had gifted us as a reward for ten years of peace and integrated productivity. We had just set sail and unified our forces with the Redwyne Fleet, sailing in perfect battle formation with the surgical goal of intercepting the southern Royal Fleet near the Dornish coast.
It did not take long for our lookouts at the top of the masts to spot the silhouette of enemy sails cutting across the horizon. To the left of my ship, my niece Asha commanded the second imperial vessel. Although she still remained unmarried, she had completely abandoned the cursed name of the Greyjoys, adopting the Harlaw sigil with the pride of a true captain. Our tactical strategy, drawn up together, was of a mathematical simplicity: drastically reduce the enemy's numbers and confidence before they could even dream of drawing close for boarding combat, and then surround them and destroy whatever remained in the water.
And so it happened, exactly as the calculations predicted.
The most profoundly terrifying and magnificent thing about the runic cannons installed on the prow and flanks of those Northern ships did not lie merely in their power of biological and material destruction, but in the absurd and unbelievable distance over which they could project that annihilation. The conventional ships of the South operated in a short visual reality; we, however, were capable of dictating death far beyond the reach of their arrows and rope scorpions.
*BOOM!*
The first runic cannon on the prow of *The Reader* fired with a deafening roar that made the entire structure of the vessel vibrate beneath my feet. The immense enchanted stone ball traveled through the air at an astonishing speed, drawing a perfect arc against the blue sky before colliding directly with the center of one of the largest galleys of the Royal Fleet.
The impact was devastating. In a few seconds, the immense enemy vessel was already sinking vertically, its wooden hull completely shattered. The runic stone balls pierced conventional naval structures with the same ease as a hot knife cuts through melted butter. The secret of that destructive efficiency lay in the piercing and explosive enchantments carved into the rock; at the exact moment of impact, the ball detonated, fragmenting into thousands of smaller stones that also carried the same runic energy, generating a secondary chain reaction that disintegrated the interior of the decks. A single well-aimed shot of that sorcery was enough to send any wooden ship of the mortal world straight to the bottom of the ocean.
Merely in the mechanical process of trying to shorten the distance to initiate close combat, the Royal Fleet lost more than half of its vessels to our long-range shots. If the foolish southern admirals presumed that firing from up close would become a more complex or inaccurate task for our gunners, they proved to be redondamente mistaken. In fact, at close range, the slaughter became infinitely faster and more efficient, since adjusting the aiming angle of the runic cannons became a task of childish simplicity.
When the few surviving ships of the Crown finally managed to bring their prows against our sides, the subsequent boarding combat was nothing more than a mere coup de grâce. Our superiority in terms of enchanted weaponry, contingent of rested men, and battle morale was so overwhelming that the enemy soldiers surrendered their swords or jumped to their deaths in the salty waters in pure despair. The victory at sea belonged entirely to Winter.
After the complete clearing of the Dornish waters, we maneuvered the unified fleet northward, strictly following the tactical directives sent by Emperor Arawyn's ravens. Before establishing the definitive blockade in the Blackwater Bay, imperial orders required us to make a strategic stop before High Tide, the immense and historic castle of House Velaryon located on the adjacent islands.
Upon anchoring before the coastal walls of the rebel fortress, I ordered all the runic ships to align their cannons in unison. We executed a single, massive, and coordinated round of shots against the stone structure of the castle. We did not intend to turn the entire fortress to dust, as it was only a warning volley ordered by the Winter Throne, but the material damage caused by the explosive stones to the main towers and defenses was of such a violent magnitude that the Velaryons would not be able to recover their former architectural glory for at least a decade. The message was given: supporting Catelyn Tully's faction claimed its price in ruins.
Next, we advanced without hesitation against the island fortress of Dragonstone. The ancestral castle of the Targaryens was virtually defenseless by land, since Lord Stannis Baratheon had marched with all the warriors of the Stormlands to fight on the land front of the river.
We took absolute control of the dark fortress in a matter of a few hours, capturing without resistance Stannis's wife, Selyse Florent, and his young daughter, Shireen Baratheon. Along with them in the royal quarters, we encountered the uncomfortable presence of the Red Woman—a priestess from Essos who donned bizarre crimson robes and simply would not stop spouting meaningless prophecies about shadows, the Lord of Light, and the destiny of the world, until I ordered Asha to put a rustic leather gag in her mouth so I could read my books in peace in the castle library.
Now, the reality before my eyes was the imposing outline of King's Landing. Through the bronze spyglass of my private cabin aboard *The Reader*, I could observe with absolute clarity the great stone walls and the red walls of the Red Keep itself. Our massive presence in the bay had instilled a widespread and visible chaos through the streets of the capital; I could see the desperation of the city watch and the disorderly movement of the civilian population. It was almost comical to realize how all of them had been caught completely by surprise by our naval blockade. Did those foolish southerners truly feed the imbecilic fantasy that the Royal Fleet would last more than a few hours against the power of the North's runic steel?
I pulled the spyglass away from my face and turned toward the interior of the cabin, where Lord Paxter Redwyne, my niece Asha, and the captain of our third imperial vessel sat around a mahogany table. We were sharing a light feast while listening to the latest tactical reports brought by land messengers.
Lord Redwyne poured himself another cup of his own golden Arbor wine—after all, his house was undisputedly the producer of the best and finest wine in all the Seven Kingdoms—and displayed a satisfied smile.
"— The news coming from the land fronts is absolutely perfect, Lord Harlaw, —" Paxter commented, savoring the drink. "— Lord Randyll Tarly guaranteed definitive victory and total control over the plains of the Reach. The royalist advance of that region was completely crushed thanks to the providential and lethal support sent from the South. The reports confirm that the legendary Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Jaime Lannister fought brilliantly side by side in the vanguard, coordinating their forces with such a spectacular harmony that the bards of the West are already composing dozens of rhyming songs about the triumph of the two lions in the arena of blood. But there is an extremely strange and peculiar curiosity being whispered around the camps on that front."
Asha, who was already showing visible irritation with the aristocratic prolixity of the Lord of the Arbor, slammed her empty cup against the wood of the table, her patience running out. She had only refrained from stepping forward to punch Paxter in the face due to the indisputable quality of the wine the man brought in his supply ships.
"— Cut the pleasantries and tedious courtesies, Lord Redwyne, —" Asha shot back, narrowing her eyes. "— What the hell happened that was so strange and bizarre in that battle of the Reach to leave the soldiers whispering in the corners?"
Lord Redwyne let out a short laugh, adjusting his silk tunic.
"— The messengers claim that one of the most lethal and prominent warriors who fought in the vanguard alongside Ser Arthur and Ser Jaime was actually a woman disguised beneath the iron. It seems to be the rightful heiress to the Isle of Tarth. The campfire tales say the lady possesses the monumental stature of a grown man and a technical skill with the longsword that rivals the greatest champions of the realm."
I saw Asha raise one of her thick eyebrows, a malicious and genuinely interested smile appearing on her rustic features.
"— Well, well... who would have thought, —" my niece ironized, crossing her arms over her chest. "— I had no idea that you, the green and soft men of the South, also had the decency to allow your women to take up arms to resolve dynastic problems with steel. It seems the world is evolving after all."
Before my niece could initiate a new geopolitical discussion or cause an unnecessary scene with the Lord of the Arbor, I took the floor and tapped my fingers on the tactical map, directing the focus of the meeting to the northern front.
"— And what of the imperial army that marched to intercept the knights of the Vale of Arryn on the High Road? —" I asked, staring intently at Paxter. "— How did that confrontation end?"
The lord of the Arbor wiped his lips with a handkerchief, his expression becoming considerably more serious and respectful upon mentioning the main forces of the North.
"— The heavy cavalry of the Vale did try to execute a traditional speed charge to break the enemy lines, Lord Rodrik... but they were simply unable to even scratch or move a single inch of the runic shield wall assembled by the formation of the standing army of the North. They collided against a mountain of ice and iron. The result was an absolute and humiliating defeat for the men of Arryn. The young King Robb Stark, the Emperor's cousin, captured an immense number of high-born nobles from the Vale during the rout and, most crucially, managed to capture the legendary Blackfish, Brynden Tully. This crushing victory, combined with the complete extermination of the land forces of the Stormlands on the southern front, clearly indicates that all external pieces have been removed from the board. The absolute siege against King's Landing has formally begun."
I adjusted my reading glasses on the bridge of my nose, processing the entirety of that geopolitical information with the usual calm of someone who spent his life studying history books.
"— And the supreme commander of the Stormlands forces? Was Lord Stannis Baratheon captured in the field by the Dornish or the Lannisters? —" I questioned.
"— No... Stannis proved to be a tough nut to crack and managed to escape the military disaster on land, —" Paxter Redwyne replied, shaking his head negatively. "— From what the latest scout reports indicate, he managed to ride in haste with a small escort and took refuge within the walls of King's Landing before our land lines could close the loop. He is locked inside with the rest of the rebels."
I retrieved the bronze spyglass from the table and walked toward the cabin window, contemplating once more the immense and once-imposing silhouette of the capital of the Seven Kingdoms. The evening sun covered the towers of King's Landing with a reddish hue that seemed to anticipate the blood and fire that would soon wash those stone streets.
"— Let him lock himself inside with his crown paranoias, —" I declared with a calm, gélid voice, a sly smile shaping my weathered features. "— In the end, the presence of Stannis Baratheon or the integrity of those ancient stone walls and rustic iron gates matters absolutely nothing at all. Those old defenses of the South will not be able to hold back the advance of technology and the power of the army of the North for very long anyway. The fate of King's Landing has already been written by the Emperor's runes, and we are here merely to turn the final page of the book."