77 AC
Blazewater bay
Tytos Lannister
Two days. Two days since that terse exchange with Maron Greyjoy on the deck of the Black Wind. His iron arrogance had been as thick as the sea mist, dismissing my concerns about the North with a wave of his calloused hand. "What can measly fifty do against two hundred and fifty?" he'd scoffed, his eyes gleaming with a bloodlust that seemed to blind him to any potential danger.
Now, here I was, standing on the deck of the Red Lion, the Lannister banner snapping proudly in the wind above me. A hundred of our finest ships followed in my wake, a crimson shadow mirroring the black tide of the ironborn ahead. Maron Greyjoy, true to his word, was leading the charge, the Black Wind a dark spearhead cutting through the grey waters towards Blaze Water Bay.
Foolish. Utterly foolish to charge headlong into an enemy's territory without so much as a whisper of true knowledge. Missing spies, a land that swallowed secrets whole – these were not signs of weakness, but of a cunning opponent. Yet, Greyjoy, consumed by the ironborn's ingrained recklessness, saw only an easy victory, a chance to plunder and prove their outdated ways.
Let him. Let the kraken test the waters. If there were hidden reefs, if the North possessed more teeth than we suspected, let Greyjoy's arrogance be the first to break upon them. My orders to my captains were clear: maintain formation, observe, and be ready to react. We would follow the ironborn, yes, but with a measured caution. Let Greyjoy's fleet draw out any hidden defenses, any unexpected strengths. If the North had a surprise waiting, it would be the ironborn who stumbled into it first. The lion might follow the kraken, but it would not blindly walk into the jaws of the unknown. Let Greyjoy's bloodlust paint the first strokes of this battle. We Lannisters would learn from his mistakes, and then, we would strike with the calculated precision that was our House's true strength.
The bay was wider than I had anticipated, the green shores stretching out on either side, a deceptive tranquility masking whatever lay hidden within. The air was thick with the cries of gulls and the rhythmic splash of oars, a symphony of impending violence. Ahead, the Black Wind and the vanguard of the ironborn fleet surged forward, their black sails billowing like the wings of some monstrous predator.
Then, it happened.
The sound was like a crack of thunder, but not the natural fury of a storm. It echoed from behind us, from the rear of our combined fleet, a sharp, violent report that sent a shiver of unease down my spine. Before I could even process the sound, a collective shout rose from the ships closest to the Red Lion. My blood ran cold as I turned to see the source of the commotion.
One of our ships, a sturdy vessel bearing the crimson and gold of Lannister, shuddered violently. Its mainmast, a proud spar that had carried our banner across countless leagues, splintered and crashed down, rigging snapping like brittle bones, the sail collapsing into a tangled mess. A collective gasp rippled through our ranks. This was no accident. This was an attack.
And then, the thunder came again. And again. And again. The rear of our fleet, both Lannister and ironborn vessels, was suddenly engulfed in a maelstrom of destruction. Ships erupted in splinters, their hulls torn open, sending plumes of water and debris skyward. Black smoke billowed from the stricken vessels, mingling with the cries of the dying and the terrified.
"Move away from the shore!" I roared, my voice barely audible above the growing cacophony of battle. "All ships, turn! Fall back to the open sea!"
But it was too late. The trap had been sprung, and we were caught in its jaws. Fifteen ships, Lannister and ironborn, were already lost, reduced to burning wrecks or sinking hulks. The thunderous reports continued, each one a death knell for another vessel.
Panic began to spread among our crews. Men scrambled to obey my orders, but the narrow confines of the bay, the chaos of the attack, and the sheer speed of our destruction made any organized retreat a desperate struggle. Ships collided, oars snapped, and the screams of the wounded mingled with the roar of the unseen enemy.
I watched in horror as the rear of our fleet was systematically decimated. The cannons, for that was what they had to be, were hidden somewhere along the shore, masked by the treeline or concealed within hidden fortifications. The Northmen had lured us into a kill zone, and we had sailed blindly into their trap.
The Greyjoy fleet, further ahead, seemed momentarily untouched by the carnage behind us. They were clearly alarmed by the sudden attack, their captains shouting orders, their longships milling about in confusion. They couldn't see what was happening to the rear, their attention fixed on the open waters ahead, on the promise of plunder and glory. They were oblivious to the slaughter unfolding behind them, to the iron rain that was tearing our fleet apart.
Then, just as I began to grasp the true extent of our peril, I saw them.
From the far end of the bay, a new threat emerged. A fleet of ships, unlike any I had ever seen, surged forward with terrifying speed. They were not the graceful galleys of the South, nor the oared longships of the ironborn. These vessels were sleek and low in the water, their hulls cutting through the waves with an unnatural ferocity. Smoke billowed from their stacks, a dark contrast to the wind-filled sails of our ships.
Their sigils were stark and unmistakable: the direwolf of Stark, black against a white field. These were Northern ships, and they were moving with a speed that defied belief. They were engines of war, propelled by some dark sorcery or some unholy pact with the sea itself.
And they were not silent.
As they closed the distance, cannons mounted on their decks began to roar, spitting forth their own iron death. But instead of targeting the remnants of our shattered rear guard, they focused their fire on the Greyjoy fleet, on the unsuspecting ironborn who had led this ill-fated invasion.
The battle for Blaze Water Bay had become a three-way slaughter. We were caught in a crossfire, pounded by the unseen cannons on shore and the relentless assault of the Northern ships. The Greyjoy fleet, initially so eager for battle, was now reeling, their longships torn apart by the unexpected onslaught.
The Northern ships, with their superior speed and firepower, began to maneuver, their captains displaying a tactical acumen that belied the supposed savagery of the North. They were not merely attacking; they were herding us, forcing us closer and closer to the shore, into the waiting embrace of the hidden cannons.
I realized with a sickening certainty that this was not a battle; it was a massacre. We had sailed into a carefully crafted trap, and the Northmen were closing the jaws around us. The arrogance of the ironborn, and my own miscalculation, had led us to this slaughter. We were caught between the hammer of the shore batteries and the anvil of the Northern fleet, and there was no escape.
The chaos in Blaze Water Bay escalated into a maelstrom of fire, splintered wood, and the screams of dying men. The initial shock of the shore cannons was compounded by the relentless assault of the Northern fleet, their engines driving them through the ironborn ranks with terrifying speed. The ironborn, accustomed to the brutal simplicity of ramming and boarding, were utterly outmatched by the Northmen's superior maneuverability and long-range firepower.
My own ship, the Red Lion, was caught in the crossfire, pounded by cannon fire from both the shore and the Northern vessels. I watched in horror as longship after longship succumbed to the onslaught, their black sails collapsing in flames, their hulls ripped open by Northern iron. The once-proud ironborn fleet was reduced to a burning graveyard, their dreams of plunder and glory dissolving into the cold reality of destruction.
The Lannister ships fared little better. Though we had maintained a more cautious approach than the ironborn, the sheer volume of fire and the Northmen's relentless tactics overwhelmed us. We tried to maneuver, to form a defensive line, but the Northern ships were too fast, too agile. They danced around our lumbering galleys, unleashing volley after volley of cannon fire, tearing us apart at will.
I saw Maron Greyjoy ships exploding, their decks turned into charnels. I heard the screams of my men, the sickening crunch of wood and bone, the hiss of flames consuming everything in their path. The air was thick with smoke and the stench of burning flesh, a testament to the utter devastation unfolding around us.
The Northmen, to my astonishment, did not attempt to close and ram. They maintained their distance, their ships weaving through the chaos like wolves circling a dying beast, tearing us apart with their cannons without risking their own hulls. It was a strategy I had never seen before, a cold, calculated efficiency that spoke volumes about the Northmen's ingenuity and their willingness to abandon traditional naval warfare for a more pragmatic approach.
Maron Greyjoy, his flagship the Black Wind a burning wreck, fought with the ferocity of a cornered animal. He rallied what remained of his fleet, attempting a desperate counter-attack, but it was futile. The Northern ships surrounded him, their cannons tearing his flagship apart piece by piece. I watched through my spyglass as the Black Wind finally succumbed, its shattered remains swallowed by the waves, taking Maron Greyjoy and his dreams of conquest with it.
With Greyjoy dead and our fleet decimated, resistance crumbled. The ironborn, their morale shattered, began to surrender in droves, throwing down their weapons and begging for mercy. The Lannister captains, seeing the hopelessness of the situation, followed suit, their proud banners lowered in defeat.
The battle of Blaze Water Bay was not a battle; it was a massacre. The Northmen had achieved a complete and utter victory, their innovative tactics and superior ships proving decisive. Of the combined southern fleet that had sailed so confidently into those waters, barely fifty ships remained afloat, and those were crippled, battered, and surrounded. The Northmen, on the other hand, had not lost a single vessel. Their ships, with their powerful engines and devastating cannons, had proven utterly invincible.
My own ship, the Red Lion, was heavily damaged, its masts splintered, its hull riddled with holes. We were surrounded by Northern vessels, their black sails emblazoned with the direwolf sigil, their cannons trained on us, ready to unleash another volley at the slightest provocation. Resistance was futile. With a heavy heart, I gave the order to surrender.
I was taken captive, along with the surviving Lannister lords and captains. We were treated with a cold, almost detached professionalism. There were no taunts, no gloating, only the grim satisfaction of victory. I was informed that I would be sent to Moat Cailin, the ancient fortress that guarded the neck of the North, once the situation in the bay was settled.
As I was led away, I looked back at the carnage in Blaze Water Bay. The once-pristine waters were now a charnel house, littered with burning wreckage, floating corpses, and the debris of a shattered fleet. The stench of smoke and death hung heavy in the air, a grim reminder of the price of arrogance and the devastating power of the North when roused to war. The kraken had been utterly defeated, and the wolves of the North had proven themselves to be masters of the sea. The Seven Kingdoms would never look at the North the same way again. The balance of power had shifted, and the consequences would be felt for years to come.