77 AC
Flints Fingers
Two days before southern fleet entered Balzewater Bay
Bryne Mormont's Perspective - Flint's Finger War Room
The air within the cramped war room at Flint's Finger hung heavy with anticipation. Maps with their intricate lines charting the jagged contours of the Northern coastline, each inlet and headland a silent witness to the impending clash. Lords are gathered around the table, their faces etched with a grim determination that mirrors the unforgiving landscape they swore to protect.
Robett Glover, the Lord of Deepwood Motte, stood with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the depiction of Blaze Water Bay. A man of quiet resolve, his loyalty to House Stark and the North ran deeper than the roots of the ancient trees in his wolfswood. Beside him, Ragnar Lothbrok, a seasoned warrior, leaned forward, his keen blue eyes, sharp and assessing, tracing the enemy's likely approach. To my right, Donnel Flint, the Lord of Breakstone hill, pointed out potential ambush points with a calloused finger.
One hundred and fifty. The stark reality of our naval strength compared to the looming threat etched itself in the silence of the room. Against the two hundred and fifty longships reported bearing the kraken sigil, our numbers seemed meager. Yet, within the depths of our Northern hearts, a fierce conviction burned. Numbers alone did not dictate victory. We possessed weapons and strategies that the arrogant Southrons, blinded by their self-proclaimed superiority, could never anticipate.
A ghost of a smile, cold and sharp as winter ice, flickered across my lips as my gaze drifted towards the hidden schematics tucked beneath the primary map. Cannons. Our own Northern ingenuity made manifest – crude iron beasts capable of raining thunder on the enemy. And our ships… they were not the graceful galleys that plied the warm southern waters, nor the solely oar-driven longships favored by the ironborn. Our vessels were built for this land, for the unpredictable currents and the treacherous shallows of our coastline, powered by the relentless churn of coal-fed engines, capable of a speed that would leave any sail-driven vessel floundering in our wake. They would sail into our trap oblivious, never comprehending the storm that awaited them.
"Once they round the tip of Cape Kraken," I murmured, my voice low and steady, tracing the familiar outline of the land with a calloused finger, "the maw of Blaze Water Bay will open before them, a siren's call promising easy plunder. It is there, in our waters, that their arrogance will be their undoing."
Ragnar Lothbrok nodded, a predatory gleam intensifying in his blue eyes. "Let them taste the bite of the North, Bryne Mormont. Let their iron pride shatter against the unyielding will of the wolf."
"The cannons first," I reiterated, my voice hardening with the weight of command. "Concealed along the cliffs that guard the bay, shrouded by pines. When their black sails fill the expanse of our waters, we unleash hell. A coordinated volley that will rip through their vaunted formations, sowing chaos and fear in their iron hearts. They will anticipate grappling hooks and boarding axes, the brutal dance of ship-to-ship combat. They will never fathom the iron rain that descends from the land itself."
Donnel Flint, his hand instinctively resting on the pommel of his ancestral flint blade, his gaze as sharp and unforgiving as the rocks of his namesake, finally spoke, his voice a low growl that resonated with the land itself. "And when their neat little kraken's dance is broken, Lord Mormont?"
"Then," I declared, my fist clenching on the worn wood of the table, the force of my conviction echoing in the tense silence, "we unleash the hounds. Our ships, swift and relentless, will tear through their panicked ranks, striking like wolves. We target their flagships, the vessels bearing their arrogant lords. We will capture them, every high lord who dares to set foot on our shores. Let the ironborn taste the bitter tang of defeat on Northern steel, let the South witness the unyielding strength of the North when it is finally roused from its slumber. This will not be a mere defense of our homes; it will be a crippling blow to their invasion, a lesson etched in blood and fire upon the very waves they claim as their own. By the time the long shadows of dusk stretch across Blaze Water Bay, the kraken's arrogance will be drowned in the cold, unforgiving waters of the North."
"Ragnar," I asked, my gaze sharp and unwavering, turning to the seasoned warrior whose connection to the old ways ran deep. "Have your wargs located the southern fleet yet? Do we have confirmation of their approach?"
Ragnar nodded, his blue eyes, clear and piercing, meeting mine. "Aye, Bryne. They have been tracking them since they left the shores of the Iron Islands. They are arrogant in their numbers, unaware of the welcome we have prepared."
He paused, a hint of a wolfish grin playing on his lips. "Two days. They will reach Blaze Water Bay in two days. They sail blindly into our jaws."
I nodded slowly, a grim satisfaction settling in my chest. The pieces were falling into place. "Ragnar, I want updates on their position every four hours. No deviation. We need to know their exact location and speed. Their arrogance might make them careless, but we cannot afford to be caught unawares."
Then, I turned to Donnel Flint, my gaze locking with his. "Donnel, the cannons along the bay are your responsibility. They are our first strike, the teeth that will break the Southerns' assault. You will hold your fire until their entire fleet – all two hundred and fifty ships – is fully committed within Blaze Water Bay. Only then, when retreat becomes a desperate gamble, will you target the last ships in their line. Cripple their rear guard, sow confusion and panic in their ranks."
My voice hardened, the steel of command ringing through the room. "Once those stragglers reach the shore, those who manage to limp away from the cannon fire, your men will be waiting. Capture every single one of them. But let there be no mercy for those who resist. If they refuse to yield, if they raise a weapon against a Northern man, they are to be cut down. Leave their bodies as a warning to those who follow."
I addressed the remaining lords, my gaze shifting to Ragnar and Robett. "Our men will be positioned along the coast of the blazewater bay. Once the cannons have done their work and the ironborn begin to flounder, we will set sail unleash a volley of cannons. Target their Ships. Make them pay for every inch of our water they dare to tread."
Robett Glover nodded, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "They will find no welcome here but steel and fire, Lord Mormont."
The waiting was the hardest part, a tense silence that stretched like the long Northern nights. We poured over the maps again, each of us tracing the enemy's anticipated path, visualizing the chaos we intended to unleash. The thought of the ironborn, those raiders who had plagued our coasts for centuries, finally within our grasp, fueled a cold, burning anticipation within me.
Two days crawled by, each hour marked by Ragnar's grim reports conveyed by his skinchangers. The southern fleet advanced relentlessly, their black sails a growing stain on the horizon. The tension in Flint's Finger grew palpable, the air thick with the unspoken anticipation of battle. My hand never strayed far from the hilt of my own sword, the cold steel a familiar comfort in the face of the unknown.
Finally, the message arrived: the first of the ironborn longships were rounding Cape Kraken, their dark hulls cutting through the grey waters of Blaze Water Bay. A hush fell over the war room. This was it.
"Donnel," I said, my voice low but carrying a weight of command that brooked no hesitation. "The time is upon us. Let them taste the fury of the North."
A grim smile spread across Donnel Flint's weathered face. He nodded sharply and strode from the war room, his boots echoing on the stone floor. We could almost feel the anticipation radiating from the cliffs overlooking the bay, the silent readiness of the men poised beside the hidden cannons.
With Donnel Flint gone to oversee the unleashing of our coastal batteries, a renewed urgency filled the war room. The maps and charts suddenly seemed less important than the feel of solid deck beneath our feet, the tang of the sea air in our lungs.
"Ragnar," I said, my eyes already turning towards the docks. "To the ships. Make sure every vessel is ready to sail. Engines hot, cannons loaded, men at their stations. The Ironborn have entered our waters. It is time for the wolves to meet the kraken."
Ragnar nodded, his usual quiet intensity now sharpened with the thrill of impending battle. He moved with a swift, purposeful stride, his commands, though few, carrying the weight of absolute authority among his men.
Robett Glover, his face set in a grim line, followed without a word, the rustle of his leathers the only sound he made. His loyalty was a silent, unshakeable force, and his men would follow him into the jaws of hell if need be.
I brought up the rear, my hand resting on the pommel of Longclaw. The weight of the ancestral blade felt reassuring, a connection to generations of Mormonts who had defended this harsh land. As we emerged from the stone confines of Flint's Finger, the sounds of the approaching battle were becoming clearer – the distant, muffled thuds of the shore cannons, the faint, panicked cries carried on the wind.
The docks were a scene of controlled chaos. Our Northern ships, lean and purposeful, their black smoke already pluming into the grey sky, were alive with activity. Men scurried across the decks, securing lines, checking weapons, their faces a mixture of apprehension and fierce determination. The rhythmic churn of the engines filled the air, a mechanical heartbeat signaling our readiness.
"All ships, prepare to weigh anchor!" I bellowed, my voice cutting through the din. "Helm to the bay! Let us give these ironborn the welcome they so richly deserve!"
With a coordinated effort born of long preparation, the mooring lines were cast off. One by one, our Northern ships began to move, sleek predators sliding into the choppy waters of Blaze Water Bay. The scent of coal smoke mingled with the salt air, a stark declaration that this was a new kind of sea battle, one the ironborn had never encountered. We were sailing towards the sound of the guns, towards the heart of the unfolding chaos, ready to unleash our own brand of Northern fury.
The instant the deep, guttural roar of the first shore cannon reached our ears, a primal surge of adrenaline coursed through me. This was the signal, the unleashing of the trap we had so meticulously prepared.
"Now!" I bellowed, my voice cutting through the tense anticipation that had gripped the docks. "All ships, cast off! Helm to the bay! They have tasted our iron from the land; now let them taste it on the water!"
The controlled chaos that had simmered on the docks erupted into decisive action. Ropes were cast off with practiced efficiency, the rhythmic churn of the coal-fired engines growing louder as the helmsmen steered their courses towards the widening expanse of Blaze Water Bay. Our sleek Northern ships, low and swift in the water, began to glide away from the shore, leaving trails of black smoke in their wake.
The distant thunder of the shore cannons continued, each booming report a testament to Donnel Flint's grim work. Even from here, we could imagine the chaos erupting within the tightly packed ranks of the ironborn fleet. Now it was our turn to join the fray, to add our own iron to the storm. The anticipation of battle, the cold fury that had been simmering within me for generations of ironborn raids, finally found its release in the roar of our engines and the determined faces of the men around me. The kraken had entered our lair; now the wolves would hunt.