Dark Ness
Rises Where Silence Dies
- Location
- The Primordial Soup
This plan is a good idea.
Oh God, am I the Mannis now? - GoT/SI
- Thread starter Sir Rabby
- Start date
Vorpal
Neither a dandy nor a clown
- Location
- 76 Totter's Lane, Shoreditch, London, EC1 5EG
The best part is that the commissioned overview books will not only be themselves valuable contributions by experts, but some years down the line they'll could essentially be the initial textbooks for the proto-university.
Meanwhile, the Citadel can't be too blatantly uncooperative because then Stabby can easily paint himself as the aggrieved party. If the Citadel stonewalls the Maesters he hires (or worse, expels them), then it would look like they're targeting Stabby, and with their preoccupation with the appearance of being apolitical, they just can't afford to do that. If they're crazy enough to go that route, few lords will support them, because no matter how crazy they think Stabby is, some grey rats undermining a Lord Paramount will not do. If there's one thing that can unify the nobility, it's keeping everyone else down in their proper place.
At that point, Stabby might even have the excuse to seize their library legally. But the Citadel would know that too, so it'll probably not come to that.
Meanwhile, the Citadel can't be too blatantly uncooperative because then Stabby can easily paint himself as the aggrieved party. If the Citadel stonewalls the Maesters he hires (or worse, expels them), then it would look like they're targeting Stabby, and with their preoccupation with the appearance of being apolitical, they just can't afford to do that. If they're crazy enough to go that route, few lords will support them, because no matter how crazy they think Stabby is, some grey rats undermining a Lord Paramount will not do. If there's one thing that can unify the nobility, it's keeping everyone else down in their proper place.
At that point, Stabby might even have the excuse to seize their library legally. But the Citadel would know that too, so it'll probably not come to that.
zecorezecron
Verified Asshole
- Location
- Washington
Here's what I'm wondering. Why doesn't Stabby just ask to copy the books? Seems like it would be a lot easier and with fewer burned bridges. Heck, I'm sure if he promised the Maesters a few copies of every book they let him copy for free then he might get all the book plus the ones that are hidden away somewhere.
- Location
- Some park.
I think the main reason is that the masters would not want to give up their monopoly on knowledge and secondly that would alert them that he is in fact interested in their books, possibly leading to them taking safeguards to prevent him from taking them by force.
Oh I am slain!
Wynaut?
- Location
- Tatooine
I like Vorpal's idea.
On a broader note, for some reason, I feel like Sir Rabby has sometimes been quite arbitrary in picking which organizations/characters to piss off and which ones to co-opt. And after Stabby does piss off an organization/character, his response on whether or not to let the situation fester feels arbitrary too.
However, I might be identifying a pattern that doesn't exist, since I'm not sure I can justify these feelings.
On a broader note, for some reason, I feel like Sir Rabby has sometimes been quite arbitrary in picking which organizations/characters to piss off and which ones to co-opt. And after Stabby does piss off an organization/character, his response on whether or not to let the situation fester feels arbitrary too.
However, I might be identifying a pattern that doesn't exist, since I'm not sure I can justify these feelings.
zecorezecron
Verified Asshole
- Location
- Washington
Except the Maesters would be creaming their pants at getting access to a printing press and whatever books the Maesters might want to keep out of the public eye (like ones on magic) are the ones that Stabby is probably not after. Stabby seems to be after practical knowlege that could be developed into something useful (like plant/animal husbanry and information on refining/mining metals), not stuff about magic or conspiracies, which the Maesters probably already have hidden away somewhere. Basically he's pissing off a bunch of people who know a lot about poisons for basically no reason. And unlike the other organizations he's worked with so far, he's not able to completely destroy them and he hasn't tried working with them yet. He asked the dyers before he declared war on them, and it seems odd that he hasn't at least asked the maesters before deciding to burn every bridge ever with them. Heck, if he did it right, he'd have one of the most powerful organizations actually like him.
If you look at similar organizations historically (like monasteries) they did advance/preserve technology significantly and helped spread that technology. But those orgainizations were expensive to maintain and thus required wealthy patrons to support them. It's also why universities weren't a thing way back when. They are expensive and also required you to pay your way in them and/or rich supporters. Usually both.
Stabby can give the Maesters three things. one is royal support since he's the kings brother. The second is his own, not insignificant wealth. Third is his knowledge. You'd be surprised at how advanced a high school education in math is. Not to mention his ideas like steam engines, farming equipment, electricity and so on. Heck, if he did it right, he could have gotten the maesters to do most of the hard work for him in building the university or whatever he's planning.
But instead he's decided to fuck over the organization in once of the most crippling manner possible. Earlier I likened stealing a horse to stealing a person's livelihood. Well those books are the masters livelihood. Without their library, there are no maesters. imagine trying to work through a college class without a textbook and your teacher doesn't have note, homework assignments or any of those other learning tools. You'd be pretty hosed.
And these people are apparently the only ones who know how to stitch you up.
I'll note that he intends to give the books back. He just wants to copy them. To the extent they want to sell their "expertise" it's available. They just won't be able to sell exclusivity to the knowledge.
Still working on the next chapter but here's a map 
Stormlands
The black lines are the mobile semaphore lines.
Stormlands
The black lines are the mobile semaphore lines.
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Dark Ness
Rises Where Silence Dies
- Location
- The Primordial Soup
What is with the lines on Eastermont?Still working on the next chapter but here's a map
Stormlands
The black lines are the mobile semaphore lines.
- Location
- Belgium
My hypothesis, pending word of author: If a southern fleet sails from Essos, the east coast of Estermont would spot this fleet first. This message might then be relayed via semaphore to the other side of the island from where a message might be sent to Rain House/Weeping Tower.
All in the interest of efficiency and time of course.
Then again, I might be wrong entirely, so I guess we'll have to wait for Sir Rabby to clarify
- Location
- Some park.
My hypothesis, pending word of author: If a southern fleet sails from Essos, the east coast of Estermont would spot this fleet first. This message might then be relayed via semaphore to the other side of the island from where a message might be sent to Rain House/Weeping Tower.
All in the interest of efficiency and time of course.
Then again, I might be wrong entirely, so I guess we'll have to wait for Sir Rabby to clarify
OR alternately it is some sort of magical super weapon that once activated will channel all the magic trough semaphore lines into a replica of the tower of Sauron located in the middle of the island!
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Alright people, I'm mostly back now. I've been kept away - not literally away, just too mentally exhausted to write- by a sordid tale of corruption and avarice. Long story short; people at the docks kept intercepting essential medical supplies. Now we pay the people that 'own' the docks a 'loss prevention consultancy fee' and my job has become a thousand times easier. The difficult part was part was finding who was actually in charge. I must have been fleeced like three times before I caught on ><
About the story though; I've decided to put the fight on Driftmark and Dragonstone in a 'missed moments' chapter as well as the wedding. Next chapter will be Jon Arryn's PoV as he walks us through a few months of timeskip.
The difficult part was part was finding who was actually in charge. I must have been fleeced like three times before I caught on ><About the story though; I've decided to put the fight on Driftmark and Dragonstone in a 'missed moments' chapter as well as the wedding. Next chapter will be Jon Arryn's PoV as he walks us through a few months of timeskip.
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Glad to see you are back and that you are alive.Alright people, I'm mostly back now. I've been kept away - not literally away, just too mentally exhausted to write- by a sordid tale of corruption and avarice. Long story short; people at the docks kept intercepting essential medical supplies. Now we pay the people that 'own' the docks a 'loss prevention consultancy fee' and my job has become a thousand times easier.
About the story though; I've decided to put the fight on Driftmark and Dragonstone in a 'missed moments' chapter as well as the wedding. Next chapter will be Jon Arryn's PoV as he walks us through a few months of timeskip.
Silveraith
Argent Phantasm
- Location
- Terra Atlantus
Ah damn, I lost the bet.
I could have sworn ROB had transported your mind to Westeros to live out the rest of your days as Stannis Baratheon.
That would be a fairly horrific end. And would make a terrible story. =P 'Real Me' would play things a million times more conservative and probably end up stewing on Dragonstone.
The rule of law is more an absent minded suggestion here. This is both good and bad. ;|
Interlude: Blackwater Battles
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Davos the Smuggler
It was dark, wet and tiring work.
What am I doing?
I'm supposed to be getting rudely woken by my wife. I'm supposed to be drowsily stumbling to my children's room to rudely wake them up, in turn. In these early moments just before sunrise I should not be paddling this rickety old vessel up past the rocky ways toward Spice Town. The cold water of the Blackwater Bay splashes over me, but at least it doesn't hit the covered cage with the embers. As long as they stayed burning to ignite the ships everything would be fine.
I'd left the Royal Fleet behind far enough that I could no longer see them. The imposing shore of Driftmark was approaching fast and it seemed my prayers were answered.
Not all of them.
Just the most pressing one.
There currently were no patrols out and the remnants of the Loyalist fleet was moored within the docks of Spice Town. That did not mean the walls were unmanned. Or that a patrol couldn't come rushing out at any moment. But it was good enough.
I'm an old hand at this. Sneaking up, unseen and unheard, is simply what I do best. I've heard it said that there are bold smugglers...and old smugglers. Rarely will you ever hear of an old, bold smuggler. And yet, here I am. Paddling away towards Spicetown in the wet and cold with a cargo that's almost as likely to kill me as the enemy. Of course I don't do this for coin. Not for that. That isn't something a sane man should do, but for the opportunity. For all the hopes and dreams I have remaining.
Each and every one of them for my family. Despite whatever nebulous ambitions I sense that Lord Stannis has for me. All I want, I've already been provided. A little voice in the back of my mind nearly screams out, 'Stop your senseless worrying! Just get in and out. In and out. Remember the out.'
I wholeheartedly agreed with it.
Get in and out.
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Lord Paxter Redwyne
I never quite know what to do with myself in the moments just before a battle. When all the orders have been given. When every task has been seen to. When there is only the long wait left. Fortunately, as it almost always does, the unease passed when the signal flared up. A frightening display of green seemingly engulfed the distant island of Driftmark. Perhaps the trust Lord Stannis puts into his pet smuggler wasn't entirely misplaced.
The flames of bright wildfire served the dual purpose of drawing men away from the walls to deal with the destruction as well as ensuring the remaining men would be too worried to hinder our naval assault. Beaching our fleet on the stoney shores of Driftmark would prove troublesome enough. Having to beach the fleet without such a distraction was almost inconceivable.
From the depths of my chest I bellow out, "Forward! Double speed!"
Almost before I finish speaking I could feel my ship responding rapidly. The oarsmen were trained, and trained well, and the orders were relayed to them quickly. From my own deck, to beneath it, to all the other ships by the loud ringing of the gongs. My ship lurched forward, the sails were all dropped and secured, and the attack was now well on its way.
We had a excellent opportunity here to take Spicetown before its defenders rouse themselves from the shock of their docks burning. The marines on deck were eager to get to their business and it was my duty to enable them theirs. Once I get them safely on Driftmark their own leaders would take over. As much as it burned me to defer to these half-smallfolk, I knew I shouldn't push matters. Acquiring the further goodwill of the Baratheons was paramount. I could bear almost any insult to avert their furious gaze.
After we land on the beaches the marines must form up before the defenders of Driftmark sally forth from their positions. Our ships will be stuck, there will be no retreat possible, and it will be a most dreadful moment of weakness that must not be exploited by the enemy. The notion that they were allies mere months ago meant very little to me. If the Dragons wanted to keep my strength for themselves they should have kept theirs.
Besides, the Baratheons were generous and seemed more than willing to share the designs of their new ships. With that in mind, suddenly the possible hardship of losing significant portions of my fleet became bearable. Especially considering the discounts they would engender for me at the Godsgrief Shipyard.
As the beach grew closer and closer, I knew this was the moment I had to earn my proverbial keep. The moment that called for an instinctive knowledge of the sea, resolve of steel and a willingness to brave the margins. Any old dolt could order his oarsmen to slow down and glide to a comfortable landing on a beach. All the while giving away the advantage of surprise and more often than not fail horribly as the defenders come rushing to the beaches. Precious few could order them to do the same without wasting their precious time coasting to the beachhead.
I sucked in deeply before I made myself be heard over the wind, "Oars! Half speed!"
Again, the ship lurched. Its speed noticeably slowing down, even as the beach grew imposingly close. Orders where shouted, relayed and obeyed. Men scurried all around the deck, all focused on their tasks.
Another few moments passed.
The anticipation grew.
I smiled.
"Backward! Double speed!"
Another lurch.
A slight tilting of the vessel.
"Oars, release a third!"
Quickly corrected.
A tremendous roar of wood creaking, but not failing.
Beached.
My smile only grew wider.
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant Duncan the Small
The massive wargalleys shook, rose high and low, and moved in entirely unnatural ways over the familiar waters of the Bay. People say that Stormlanders are supposed to be sailors, but I couldn't fathom it. Gods, this is all terrible.
I hate the fucking sea.
Hate. Hate. Hate it.
So, when the ship crashed into the beach with a final lurch I was the first cohort leader out of it. Impatience to get land under my feet doesn't describe half of what I was feeling. I took hold of the knotted rope, precisely in the middle, and then merrily threw myself overboard. The plan was to catch myself against the side of the ship, kick off, and roll down to the ground. It...didn't quite go that way. Still, I recovered quickly from the collision and managed to get to my feet without delaying anyone else.
Nobody saw that, right?
Squire Sergeant Fairfields fucking grin told me otherwise.
Shite.
While the rest of my cohorts were flinging themselves down the ropes I couldn't help but scream, "Are you waiting for an engraved fucking invitation? Get your fucking boots on the beach, NOW!"
It, strictly, wasn't necessary. At this point though, they've rather become accustomed to my abuse. It wouldn't do to deprive of it. Not when they need all the help they can get. Or, perhaps that's just what I tell myself. Either way, I'm the sergeant. They aren't. That's leadership, yes?
Again I bellow out at the top of my lungs, "Form up! Six man deep! Crossbowmen on flanks, stiffened with a tenth!"
Off in the distance I could hear Hector bellowing, "Skirmis---! Screen the fuc-- g- g- go!"
It was a small miracle I could even hear that much, but the orders were clear. My cohort holds the approach to the beach, Hector's will take our flanks, and Betsy's will impede any foolish cunt getting in the way of her.
The next few moments passed with only intermittent commentary from myself.
Heh, intermittent. Look at how fancy I talk.
One of the men, Emery the millers boy – now known as Emerys the Stoneheaded -, made himself known, "Nobody is coming out for us, sir."
Oh, gods. Are any of us dying? Bleeding from sudden arrow holes?
No?
I squint at the boy, only partially because of the rising sun. "Thank you, for that fascinating fucking insight Stonehead! Eyes ahead, and don't lose the fucking pace!"
There, suitably chastised. I speed up down to the front, all the way shaking my head at Stonehead's foolishness, and keep an eye out on the cohesion of the cohort. All these fancy new words and all they mean is keeping the men moving together.
"Derrick, keep your fucking sword in your scabbard. Don't go tiring your arms before the battle, you sorry fool."
What is he afraid of? That the enemy will cross the hundreds of yards between us before he gets a chance to pull out his fucking sword?
Sheepishly the lad replied, "Aye, sir!"
How am I supposed to keep these fools alive?
Just before I move on again I snarl out incredulously, "Hendricks, where is your fucking helmet?"
By the Seven! Have I sinned so truly I deserve this?
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant Betsy the Hawk-eye
Thank the gods I don't have to deal with the Crownlander detachment. Or even with some of the other Stormlords. No, my only job is to bring the Stormbringers' crossbowmen to bear at anyone stupid enough to face us. Any other troops would balk at taking orders from the wench with the crossbow. At least the Stormbringers know better. Much...much better.
It gets weary, occasionally.
Having to nick overly frisky men-at-arms. Leaving my mark on their...cheeks.
Don't get me wrong. It's not the violence I object to. The more lessons I can teach these fools, the better I say. No, it's that inevitable moment where I have to explain myself to Lord Stannis. But none of that is important right now. I've marched these men up and down the entire Crownlands by now. They know to simply obey.
Right now, our mission was to clear and take the hills. So far they all appeared to be completely undefended. Which obviously meant that something was about to go horrifically wrong.
I bit out to the man on my flank, "Two-Times, split off every third man and sit your ass on that ridge!"
"Aye aye, ma'am!"
I turned to the next, "Grinder, likewise! Take the treeline. Don't you dare move for even the fucking Warrior, understood?"
The asshole had the gall to smirk when he replied, "Aye, ma'am!"
Someday soon he's going to cross the line. All I need is one thing. One thing I can lay at his feet that would satisfy Lord Stannis, and he'll be decidedly less pretty.
As pleasant as those thoughts were...now was not the time.
I screamed at the others, "The rest of you! Just try to keep up with me!"
And right then all hell broke loose.
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant James Fairfields
Don't think of the bodies. Don't think of the smell. Don't think of home.
"Keep pushing! For Storm's End!"
For just a brief moment the screams of Storm's End overpowered those made by the dying. The cavalry had come out of nowhere. Where were the fucking skirmishers?
Where was the main detachment of crossbowmen?
Oh gods, they almost broke through. A particularly driven knight crashed through the first three ranks by ruthlessly sacrificing his horse. The opening left by the furious knight was slow to be filled and other knights came rushing in through them. My lads can't stand up to knights. Not for long.
Not when the ranks already broke.
Now he's made it to me.
I screamed incoherent and bashed him with my shield. And again. And again.I'm not going to chance crossing blades with a fucking knight. Not when I don't have to. Another shove, the heavy reinforced shields weathered the equally heavy blows of the knight. My kick to his knees, however, tilted the balance to me. Even over the screams of men and horses all around me I could hear the sickening pop of bone. A strangled sound tried to escape the knights throat and I helpfully tried to assist him.
It turns out the strangled sound was blood.
I know.
I tire myself too.
"Bash the fucking knights! And PUSH BACK!"
Another knight appeared before me. And another.
And then they were through the ranks. Quickly followed by a sword through me.
Where were the crossbowmen?
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant Betsy the Hawk-eye
Aim. Loose.
Windup.
You quickly fall into a rhythm, gutting the approaching forces. We'd only spotted them at the last moment. The half cohort that went with Two-Times was decimated before they even reached their destination. The very ridge they were supposed to take erupted with hundreds of men. In their eagerness they did not wait for the rest of us to join Two-Times on the ridge.
That may be all that will save us.
"Rank one, then two!"
Two volleys should have utterly wrecked the approaching men. Their thick shields took the bolts. A few men collapsed, but were quickly replaced with others. The chilling thought that we were facing a detachment of knights on foot nearly froze the blood in my veins.
I could have stood my ground. I could have whittled down the knights as they slowly approached, trust in our own shiny armor, and met them head on. It could have worked. With knights you only need to get lucky once. Gut their leaders and they collapse. Except then the thundering footsteps of cavalry came crashing around. Either of them could be dealt with.
Combined...
Where did they get all these knights?
"Rank two, then four."
While they loosed I continued, "Fall back, to the tree line! Drop caltrops!"
It was our only chance.
Please, gods. Let them follow us into the trees.
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant Duncan the Small
Fairfields is down. I swear I saw his cohorts banner dip.
Shit.
"Pike, move back! Half step! To the hill!"
Retreating.
Gods, be damned.
We're retreating before the fight even properly started. Half the men are yet to fully form up. We're it. We must hold the fucking beach. With every passing moment the hills leading to the beach head came closer. Ever closer. I could sense the troops did not like this. Fairfields' men were only half a mile ahead of us. Why did he have to show off?
Why did he have to push to fucking far?
We might have been able to support them, but the cavalry already bit right through them. Even if we rushed ahead double step, all we would have accomplished was to give the cavalry new targets. Their grumbling meant very little to me.
"Embed stakes! Double layer caltrops!"
I stared off into the distance, where I could still see the cavalry making short work of Fairfields' men.
Fucking Dragons.
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Ser Balon Swann
What was the fool thinking? I shook my head clear of the frustration and turned to my men.
"We have one hundred sixty horses between us, and we'll be facing at least double. They already clashed with our own vanguard. All that means is that they will be disoriented and disorganized. We strike as one and they'll fold like mummers Dragons! For Storm's End!"
From a hundred different throats I could hear their response,"Storm's End!"
Once the men fell silent, the footfall of the horses was almost an echo of itself. My chest surged with pride at the cohesion of my men. Ten men in a row, every row four men deep. Four such groups all working together as one. At a moments notice any single one of them can peel off. Long months of training finally showed it value as my mass of troops stayed coherent.
"Merryn! Round the hill!"
"Aye, ser!"
And Buckler's detachment split it self off without any fuss. They would double time their way around the hill, and hopefully arrive on time to catch our prey in their flanks. We already had them in sight. A veritable host of horsemen bearing down on us, waving the Targaryen three headed Dragon around.
I stood as high as I could and screamed once again, "Storm's End!"
And promptly sat back down, firmly settled myself, and with the loud screams of 'Storm's End' behind me I was the first to clash with enemy cavalry. With a final adjustment I swerved just past the first challenger, crushed my lance against the second, and the cut the head off of a third.
This is my day!
If I had any time to think about it I would have congratulated myself. And probably promptly died. Fortunately, training and instinct took our. All this was merely a massive melee. Only cooperation wasn't frowned upon here. Nor was there anything like cheating.
So it was much like a melee.
The next few moments were a blur. At times we pushed on, at other times we stubbornly resisted their counter charge, but always we kept their attention firmly on us. Every so often, after particularly resisting knights refused to simply die and had to slowly dismantled, I looked around for Merryn.
Where was his flying detachment? He was supposed fall into the rear of our opposition.
No matter. We were winning, I think. It's difficult to get a clear picture of things, especially when pesky Loyalists try to unhorse you. Just as I dispatched the latest challenger, I yelled out, "Storm's End and Stonehelm!"
I couldn't help it.
I'm still a Swann.
I must have laughed like a deranged lunatic when my men took up both my chants.
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant Duncan the Small
Gods be damned. Don't make me do this.
"Swiftblade! Fall the fuck back into line!"
"I-."
"Shut the fuck up and turn back!"
Gods! Damn all of them! Just obey, you cunt. Just do it!
"They're throwing oil-."
I think I might have found something I hate more than the sea.
This time I interrupted him with a dagger to the throat.
As his sword and shield clattered to the ground I bellowed out, "Charge you sorry sons of whores! Charge!"
For a long, excruciatingly long, moment the men seemed frozen. My heart was busily beating its way through my chest, sweat dripped out of every part of me and I could barely keep my breath steady. Only when I sucked in deeply once more to chew the men out did they lurch forward.
Through the breached gates.
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant Betsy the Hawk-eye
My cohort had managed to retreat in good order to the treeline. In fairly good order. I still had the majority of my men, even dispersed as they were, with me. This forsaken island wasn't heavily forested, but those woods that were present were impenetrable for cavalry.
Even my own men had difficulty with the undergrowth.
Fortunately, that didn't stop the knights pursuing us from wasting their time. As the Dragon loyalists were bearing down on us, slowly making their way towards us, we hit from every direction.
We shot at their horses.
We shot at their eyes.
And yet they kept coming.
Most discarded their horses. Others rode around looking for a more forgiving entrance into the woods, but all of it was disheartening. We weren't killing them fast enough. They would reach us, and when they did we would surely collapse.
So when I noticed Lord Merryn Buckler coming in, charging just around the treeline, I nearly fell down to my knees to thank the gods. Or at least offer up my firstborn to the man himself.
That was a concern for another day, though.
Now I screamed, "Forward!"
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Davos the Smuggler
Who volunteers twice?
Truly. Who?
And yet, here I found myself.
I yelled out to the sailors behind me, "This isn't our duty. We've done our duty." I waited a few long moments as my words were absorbed by the men, "This is our pleasure!"
I barely believed the words myself, but they seemed to sufficient to the task. The men were roused, they fell in behind me, and together we made it through the breached gates. The Stormbringers, together with the other Stormlander and Crownlander detachments, had led the assault on High Tide. Once through the gates they were supposed to hold the walls, the outer keeps and the main passageways leading to the inner keep.
But long moments passed and no word came from the men inside the keep.
And so, here I found myself.
A ravaged sight unfolded before us. Bodies, burnt or otherwise, littered the ground. Ungodly stenches accompanied them, but crucially there was no sight of our men. Or any of the defenders.
I turned back to my men, "Jonas, take a third of the troops and-."
An arrow brushed past me, close enough to warrant a less than manly gasp. At least I had my answers now, even if they came at the cost of poor Jonas taking the arrowshot meant for me.
"Spread out and clear the alleys!"
And the men did just that. A mad dash followed as they ran from building to building, crossed behind them to get to the cramped alleys, and settled in to the long process of clearing out the enemy troops that managed to surround our men already in the overlarge castle. Almost every corner cleared cost another life, but my men were sailors. Death was ever present in the life of a sailor.
Occasionally, we would run into larger groups of defenders.
Then more people died.
For long hours, or at least what felt like it, this process repeated it self.
We take a few hallways.
We lose a few men.
We take a few hallways.
We lose a few men.
Until we came to the inner keep that bristled with Targaryen troops. Behind them we could make out the Stormbringer's standard still standing proudly, but the relief I felt was short lived.
Now we needed to cut through these final men.
And we'd lose a few more men.
After which then there still is Driftmark Castle, and not to mention Dragonstone.
We'd certainly lose a few more men.
AN: Alright. It's been a while and while I'm not entirely pleased about this, I'm just throwing it out there. Maybe this will spark better chapters in the future.
It was dark, wet and tiring work.
What am I doing?
I'm supposed to be getting rudely woken by my wife. I'm supposed to be drowsily stumbling to my children's room to rudely wake them up, in turn. In these early moments just before sunrise I should not be paddling this rickety old vessel up past the rocky ways toward Spice Town. The cold water of the Blackwater Bay splashes over me, but at least it doesn't hit the covered cage with the embers. As long as they stayed burning to ignite the ships everything would be fine.
I'd left the Royal Fleet behind far enough that I could no longer see them. The imposing shore of Driftmark was approaching fast and it seemed my prayers were answered.
Not all of them.
Just the most pressing one.
There currently were no patrols out and the remnants of the Loyalist fleet was moored within the docks of Spice Town. That did not mean the walls were unmanned. Or that a patrol couldn't come rushing out at any moment. But it was good enough.
I'm an old hand at this. Sneaking up, unseen and unheard, is simply what I do best. I've heard it said that there are bold smugglers...and old smugglers. Rarely will you ever hear of an old, bold smuggler. And yet, here I am. Paddling away towards Spicetown in the wet and cold with a cargo that's almost as likely to kill me as the enemy. Of course I don't do this for coin. Not for that. That isn't something a sane man should do, but for the opportunity. For all the hopes and dreams I have remaining.
Each and every one of them for my family. Despite whatever nebulous ambitions I sense that Lord Stannis has for me. All I want, I've already been provided. A little voice in the back of my mind nearly screams out, 'Stop your senseless worrying! Just get in and out. In and out. Remember the out.'
I wholeheartedly agreed with it.
Get in and out.
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Lord Paxter Redwyne
I never quite know what to do with myself in the moments just before a battle. When all the orders have been given. When every task has been seen to. When there is only the long wait left. Fortunately, as it almost always does, the unease passed when the signal flared up. A frightening display of green seemingly engulfed the distant island of Driftmark. Perhaps the trust Lord Stannis puts into his pet smuggler wasn't entirely misplaced.
The flames of bright wildfire served the dual purpose of drawing men away from the walls to deal with the destruction as well as ensuring the remaining men would be too worried to hinder our naval assault. Beaching our fleet on the stoney shores of Driftmark would prove troublesome enough. Having to beach the fleet without such a distraction was almost inconceivable.
From the depths of my chest I bellow out, "Forward! Double speed!"
Almost before I finish speaking I could feel my ship responding rapidly. The oarsmen were trained, and trained well, and the orders were relayed to them quickly. From my own deck, to beneath it, to all the other ships by the loud ringing of the gongs. My ship lurched forward, the sails were all dropped and secured, and the attack was now well on its way.
We had a excellent opportunity here to take Spicetown before its defenders rouse themselves from the shock of their docks burning. The marines on deck were eager to get to their business and it was my duty to enable them theirs. Once I get them safely on Driftmark their own leaders would take over. As much as it burned me to defer to these half-smallfolk, I knew I shouldn't push matters. Acquiring the further goodwill of the Baratheons was paramount. I could bear almost any insult to avert their furious gaze.
After we land on the beaches the marines must form up before the defenders of Driftmark sally forth from their positions. Our ships will be stuck, there will be no retreat possible, and it will be a most dreadful moment of weakness that must not be exploited by the enemy. The notion that they were allies mere months ago meant very little to me. If the Dragons wanted to keep my strength for themselves they should have kept theirs.
Besides, the Baratheons were generous and seemed more than willing to share the designs of their new ships. With that in mind, suddenly the possible hardship of losing significant portions of my fleet became bearable. Especially considering the discounts they would engender for me at the Godsgrief Shipyard.
As the beach grew closer and closer, I knew this was the moment I had to earn my proverbial keep. The moment that called for an instinctive knowledge of the sea, resolve of steel and a willingness to brave the margins. Any old dolt could order his oarsmen to slow down and glide to a comfortable landing on a beach. All the while giving away the advantage of surprise and more often than not fail horribly as the defenders come rushing to the beaches. Precious few could order them to do the same without wasting their precious time coasting to the beachhead.
I sucked in deeply before I made myself be heard over the wind, "Oars! Half speed!"
Again, the ship lurched. Its speed noticeably slowing down, even as the beach grew imposingly close. Orders where shouted, relayed and obeyed. Men scurried all around the deck, all focused on their tasks.
Another few moments passed.
The anticipation grew.
I smiled.
"Backward! Double speed!"
Another lurch.
A slight tilting of the vessel.
"Oars, release a third!"
Quickly corrected.
A tremendous roar of wood creaking, but not failing.
Beached.
My smile only grew wider.
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant Duncan the Small
The massive wargalleys shook, rose high and low, and moved in entirely unnatural ways over the familiar waters of the Bay. People say that Stormlanders are supposed to be sailors, but I couldn't fathom it. Gods, this is all terrible.
I hate the fucking sea.
Hate. Hate. Hate it.
So, when the ship crashed into the beach with a final lurch I was the first cohort leader out of it. Impatience to get land under my feet doesn't describe half of what I was feeling. I took hold of the knotted rope, precisely in the middle, and then merrily threw myself overboard. The plan was to catch myself against the side of the ship, kick off, and roll down to the ground. It...didn't quite go that way. Still, I recovered quickly from the collision and managed to get to my feet without delaying anyone else.
Nobody saw that, right?
Squire Sergeant Fairfields fucking grin told me otherwise.
Shite.
While the rest of my cohorts were flinging themselves down the ropes I couldn't help but scream, "Are you waiting for an engraved fucking invitation? Get your fucking boots on the beach, NOW!"
It, strictly, wasn't necessary. At this point though, they've rather become accustomed to my abuse. It wouldn't do to deprive of it. Not when they need all the help they can get. Or, perhaps that's just what I tell myself. Either way, I'm the sergeant. They aren't. That's leadership, yes?
Again I bellow out at the top of my lungs, "Form up! Six man deep! Crossbowmen on flanks, stiffened with a tenth!"
Off in the distance I could hear Hector bellowing, "Skirmis---! Screen the fuc-- g- g- go!"
It was a small miracle I could even hear that much, but the orders were clear. My cohort holds the approach to the beach, Hector's will take our flanks, and Betsy's will impede any foolish cunt getting in the way of her.
The next few moments passed with only intermittent commentary from myself.
Heh, intermittent. Look at how fancy I talk.
One of the men, Emery the millers boy – now known as Emerys the Stoneheaded -, made himself known, "Nobody is coming out for us, sir."
Oh, gods. Are any of us dying? Bleeding from sudden arrow holes?
No?
I squint at the boy, only partially because of the rising sun. "Thank you, for that fascinating fucking insight Stonehead! Eyes ahead, and don't lose the fucking pace!"
There, suitably chastised. I speed up down to the front, all the way shaking my head at Stonehead's foolishness, and keep an eye out on the cohesion of the cohort. All these fancy new words and all they mean is keeping the men moving together.
"Derrick, keep your fucking sword in your scabbard. Don't go tiring your arms before the battle, you sorry fool."
What is he afraid of? That the enemy will cross the hundreds of yards between us before he gets a chance to pull out his fucking sword?
Sheepishly the lad replied, "Aye, sir!"
How am I supposed to keep these fools alive?
Just before I move on again I snarl out incredulously, "Hendricks, where is your fucking helmet?"
By the Seven! Have I sinned so truly I deserve this?
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant Betsy the Hawk-eye
Thank the gods I don't have to deal with the Crownlander detachment. Or even with some of the other Stormlords. No, my only job is to bring the Stormbringers' crossbowmen to bear at anyone stupid enough to face us. Any other troops would balk at taking orders from the wench with the crossbow. At least the Stormbringers know better. Much...much better.
It gets weary, occasionally.
Having to nick overly frisky men-at-arms. Leaving my mark on their...cheeks.
Don't get me wrong. It's not the violence I object to. The more lessons I can teach these fools, the better I say. No, it's that inevitable moment where I have to explain myself to Lord Stannis. But none of that is important right now. I've marched these men up and down the entire Crownlands by now. They know to simply obey.
Right now, our mission was to clear and take the hills. So far they all appeared to be completely undefended. Which obviously meant that something was about to go horrifically wrong.
I bit out to the man on my flank, "Two-Times, split off every third man and sit your ass on that ridge!"
"Aye aye, ma'am!"
I turned to the next, "Grinder, likewise! Take the treeline. Don't you dare move for even the fucking Warrior, understood?"
The asshole had the gall to smirk when he replied, "Aye, ma'am!"
Someday soon he's going to cross the line. All I need is one thing. One thing I can lay at his feet that would satisfy Lord Stannis, and he'll be decidedly less pretty.
As pleasant as those thoughts were...now was not the time.
I screamed at the others, "The rest of you! Just try to keep up with me!"
And right then all hell broke loose.
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant James Fairfields
Don't think of the bodies. Don't think of the smell. Don't think of home.
"Keep pushing! For Storm's End!"
For just a brief moment the screams of Storm's End overpowered those made by the dying. The cavalry had come out of nowhere. Where were the fucking skirmishers?
Where was the main detachment of crossbowmen?
Oh gods, they almost broke through. A particularly driven knight crashed through the first three ranks by ruthlessly sacrificing his horse. The opening left by the furious knight was slow to be filled and other knights came rushing in through them. My lads can't stand up to knights. Not for long.
Not when the ranks already broke.
Now he's made it to me.
I screamed incoherent and bashed him with my shield. And again. And again.I'm not going to chance crossing blades with a fucking knight. Not when I don't have to. Another shove, the heavy reinforced shields weathered the equally heavy blows of the knight. My kick to his knees, however, tilted the balance to me. Even over the screams of men and horses all around me I could hear the sickening pop of bone. A strangled sound tried to escape the knights throat and I helpfully tried to assist him.
It turns out the strangled sound was blood.
I know.
I tire myself too.
"Bash the fucking knights! And PUSH BACK!"
Another knight appeared before me. And another.
And then they were through the ranks. Quickly followed by a sword through me.
Where were the crossbowmen?
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant Betsy the Hawk-eye
Aim. Loose.
Windup.
You quickly fall into a rhythm, gutting the approaching forces. We'd only spotted them at the last moment. The half cohort that went with Two-Times was decimated before they even reached their destination. The very ridge they were supposed to take erupted with hundreds of men. In their eagerness they did not wait for the rest of us to join Two-Times on the ridge.
That may be all that will save us.
"Rank one, then two!"
Two volleys should have utterly wrecked the approaching men. Their thick shields took the bolts. A few men collapsed, but were quickly replaced with others. The chilling thought that we were facing a detachment of knights on foot nearly froze the blood in my veins.
I could have stood my ground. I could have whittled down the knights as they slowly approached, trust in our own shiny armor, and met them head on. It could have worked. With knights you only need to get lucky once. Gut their leaders and they collapse. Except then the thundering footsteps of cavalry came crashing around. Either of them could be dealt with.
Combined...
Where did they get all these knights?
"Rank two, then four."
While they loosed I continued, "Fall back, to the tree line! Drop caltrops!"
It was our only chance.
Please, gods. Let them follow us into the trees.
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant Duncan the Small
Fairfields is down. I swear I saw his cohorts banner dip.
Shit.
"Pike, move back! Half step! To the hill!"
Retreating.
Gods, be damned.
We're retreating before the fight even properly started. Half the men are yet to fully form up. We're it. We must hold the fucking beach. With every passing moment the hills leading to the beach head came closer. Ever closer. I could sense the troops did not like this. Fairfields' men were only half a mile ahead of us. Why did he have to show off?
Why did he have to push to fucking far?
We might have been able to support them, but the cavalry already bit right through them. Even if we rushed ahead double step, all we would have accomplished was to give the cavalry new targets. Their grumbling meant very little to me.
"Embed stakes! Double layer caltrops!"
I stared off into the distance, where I could still see the cavalry making short work of Fairfields' men.
Fucking Dragons.
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Ser Balon Swann
What was the fool thinking? I shook my head clear of the frustration and turned to my men.
"We have one hundred sixty horses between us, and we'll be facing at least double. They already clashed with our own vanguard. All that means is that they will be disoriented and disorganized. We strike as one and they'll fold like mummers Dragons! For Storm's End!"
From a hundred different throats I could hear their response,"Storm's End!"
Once the men fell silent, the footfall of the horses was almost an echo of itself. My chest surged with pride at the cohesion of my men. Ten men in a row, every row four men deep. Four such groups all working together as one. At a moments notice any single one of them can peel off. Long months of training finally showed it value as my mass of troops stayed coherent.
"Merryn! Round the hill!"
"Aye, ser!"
And Buckler's detachment split it self off without any fuss. They would double time their way around the hill, and hopefully arrive on time to catch our prey in their flanks. We already had them in sight. A veritable host of horsemen bearing down on us, waving the Targaryen three headed Dragon around.
I stood as high as I could and screamed once again, "Storm's End!"
And promptly sat back down, firmly settled myself, and with the loud screams of 'Storm's End' behind me I was the first to clash with enemy cavalry. With a final adjustment I swerved just past the first challenger, crushed my lance against the second, and the cut the head off of a third.
This is my day!
If I had any time to think about it I would have congratulated myself. And probably promptly died. Fortunately, training and instinct took our. All this was merely a massive melee. Only cooperation wasn't frowned upon here. Nor was there anything like cheating.
So it was much like a melee.
The next few moments were a blur. At times we pushed on, at other times we stubbornly resisted their counter charge, but always we kept their attention firmly on us. Every so often, after particularly resisting knights refused to simply die and had to slowly dismantled, I looked around for Merryn.
Where was his flying detachment? He was supposed fall into the rear of our opposition.
No matter. We were winning, I think. It's difficult to get a clear picture of things, especially when pesky Loyalists try to unhorse you. Just as I dispatched the latest challenger, I yelled out, "Storm's End and Stonehelm!"
I couldn't help it.
I'm still a Swann.
I must have laughed like a deranged lunatic when my men took up both my chants.
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant Duncan the Small
Gods be damned. Don't make me do this.
"Swiftblade! Fall the fuck back into line!"
"I-."
"Shut the fuck up and turn back!"
Gods! Damn all of them! Just obey, you cunt. Just do it!
"They're throwing oil-."
I think I might have found something I hate more than the sea.
This time I interrupted him with a dagger to the throat.
As his sword and shield clattered to the ground I bellowed out, "Charge you sorry sons of whores! Charge!"
For a long, excruciatingly long, moment the men seemed frozen. My heart was busily beating its way through my chest, sweat dripped out of every part of me and I could barely keep my breath steady. Only when I sucked in deeply once more to chew the men out did they lurch forward.
Through the breached gates.
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Squire-Sergeant Betsy the Hawk-eye
My cohort had managed to retreat in good order to the treeline. In fairly good order. I still had the majority of my men, even dispersed as they were, with me. This forsaken island wasn't heavily forested, but those woods that were present were impenetrable for cavalry.
Even my own men had difficulty with the undergrowth.
Fortunately, that didn't stop the knights pursuing us from wasting their time. As the Dragon loyalists were bearing down on us, slowly making their way towards us, we hit from every direction.
We shot at their horses.
We shot at their eyes.
And yet they kept coming.
Most discarded their horses. Others rode around looking for a more forgiving entrance into the woods, but all of it was disheartening. We weren't killing them fast enough. They would reach us, and when they did we would surely collapse.
So when I noticed Lord Merryn Buckler coming in, charging just around the treeline, I nearly fell down to my knees to thank the gods. Or at least offer up my firstborn to the man himself.
That was a concern for another day, though.
Now I screamed, "Forward!"
283 AC – Blackwater Battles – Davos the Smuggler
Who volunteers twice?
Truly. Who?
And yet, here I found myself.
I yelled out to the sailors behind me, "This isn't our duty. We've done our duty." I waited a few long moments as my words were absorbed by the men, "This is our pleasure!"
I barely believed the words myself, but they seemed to sufficient to the task. The men were roused, they fell in behind me, and together we made it through the breached gates. The Stormbringers, together with the other Stormlander and Crownlander detachments, had led the assault on High Tide. Once through the gates they were supposed to hold the walls, the outer keeps and the main passageways leading to the inner keep.
But long moments passed and no word came from the men inside the keep.
And so, here I found myself.
A ravaged sight unfolded before us. Bodies, burnt or otherwise, littered the ground. Ungodly stenches accompanied them, but crucially there was no sight of our men. Or any of the defenders.
I turned back to my men, "Jonas, take a third of the troops and-."
An arrow brushed past me, close enough to warrant a less than manly gasp. At least I had my answers now, even if they came at the cost of poor Jonas taking the arrowshot meant for me.
"Spread out and clear the alleys!"
And the men did just that. A mad dash followed as they ran from building to building, crossed behind them to get to the cramped alleys, and settled in to the long process of clearing out the enemy troops that managed to surround our men already in the overlarge castle. Almost every corner cleared cost another life, but my men were sailors. Death was ever present in the life of a sailor.
Occasionally, we would run into larger groups of defenders.
Then more people died.
For long hours, or at least what felt like it, this process repeated it self.
We take a few hallways.
We lose a few men.
We take a few hallways.
We lose a few men.
Until we came to the inner keep that bristled with Targaryen troops. Behind them we could make out the Stormbringer's standard still standing proudly, but the relief I felt was short lived.
Now we needed to cut through these final men.
And we'd lose a few more men.
After which then there still is Driftmark Castle, and not to mention Dragonstone.
We'd certainly lose a few more men.
AN: Alright. It's been a while and while I'm not entirely pleased about this, I'm just throwing it out there. Maybe this will spark better chapters in the future.
Cosmoline
Sweeping Swarf Silently
Yes, you definitely captured the sheer confusion of combat, as well as a distinctly familiar flavor to some of the characters.
Was Duncan originally written as a Sixta expy, or is it just a happy coincidence?
"Your King... is hwatchin'! The Stormlands... is hwatchin'! But more important, the Seven... is hwatchin'! Make no mistake- THERE WILL BE NO FUCK UPS! Stormbringers around this kingdom would gives they left nuts tah beeeee... where you are! ANYBODY NOT WANT TO GO?"
"NO, SQUIRE-SERGEANT!"
"STOOOOORMBRINGERS! Kill on three! ONE! TWO! THREE!"
"KILL!"
Was Duncan originally written as a Sixta expy, or is it just a happy coincidence?
"Your King... is hwatchin'! The Stormlands... is hwatchin'! But more important, the Seven... is hwatchin'! Make no mistake- THERE WILL BE NO FUCK UPS! Stormbringers around this kingdom would gives they left nuts tah beeeee... where you are! ANYBODY NOT WANT TO GO?"
"NO, SQUIRE-SERGEANT!"
"STOOOOORMBRINGERS! Kill on three! ONE! TWO! THREE!"
"KILL!"
Oh I am slain!
Wynaut?
- Location
- Tatooine
Hmm, most of the spoken lines felt weirdly modern. Might just be me though. Great to see a post, regardless.
- Location
- Wherever the Beautiful Game takes me
Not just you.Hmm, most of the spoken lines felt weirdly modern. Might just be me though. Great to see a post, regardless.
Yes, more of the Mannis! Its always a good day when this updates. I think you did the battle scene quite well. You conveyed just how chaotic a battle could be, especially when its a difficult victory. Although I am now curious where so many Targ cavalry suddenly popped up from.