77 AC
The Bite
Third Person Pov
The salt-laced winds of the eastern coast carried the scent of impending doom. The Whispering Sound, a stretch of water known for its treacherous currents and hidden reefs, was about to become a graveyard. Two fleets, vastly different in design and philosophy, converged upon its turbulent surface, their encounter poised to reshape the naval landscape of Westeros.
Leading the Northern armada was Lord Wylis Manderly, a man of quiet determination and strategic acumen. His flagship, the Merman's Pride, a marvel of Northern craftsmanship, sliced through the waves with an almost unnatural grace. Behind him, a hundred and fifty ships, each a testament to Northern ingenuity, followed in disciplined formation. These were not the oar-driven longships of old. They were vessels of a new age, powered by coal-fed engines that churned the water with relentless force, their decks bristling with cannons, iron behemoths capable of unleashing a storm of death.
Against them sailed the southern fleet, a majestic but antiquated force of two hundred and fifty longships, commanded by Lord Manfryd Redwyne, a seasoned admiral renowned for his mastery of traditional naval warfare. His flagship, the Arbor Queen, led the charge, its sails emblazoned with the grapevines of House Redwyne, a symbol of the South's naval might. The southern fleet was a sight to behold, a vast armada of oared vessels, their crews a disciplined force honed by years of training. They were confident in their numbers, in their experience, in the traditions that had served them well for centuries.
Lord Redwyne, from the high deck of the Arbor Queen, surveyed his fleet with a practiced eye. He saw the rhythmic dip of oars, the disciplined ranks of his marines, the proud banners of the great houses of the South fluttering in the wind. He saw the Northern ships in the distance, their silhouettes strange and unfamiliar, and dismissed them as a minor threat. He had numbers, he had experience, and he had the weight of tradition on his side. He did not fear the unknown.
As the two fleets drew closer, the disparity between them became starkly apparent. The Northern ships moved with a speed and agility that the southern longships could not match. They maneuvered with a precision that bordered on the uncanny, their engines propelling them through the water with a relentless power that left the southern oarsmen struggling to keep pace.
Lord Manderly, from the bridge of the Merman's Pride, observed the unfolding scene with a cold, calculating eye. He had drilled his captains for this moment, drilled his crews in the art of this new kind of warfare. He knew that their speed and firepower were their greatest advantages, and he intended to use them to their fullest.
The battle began not with the clash of ships, but with the thunderous roar of cannons. The Northern fleet, maintaining a safe distance, unleashed a devastating barrage upon the unsuspecting southern ships. Cannonballs tore through wooden hulls, splintering oars and masts, sending men flying into the air. The southern fleet, caught completely off guard, was thrown into chaos.
Lord Redwyne, his flagship the Arbor Queen shuddering under the impact of the Northern fire, watched in horror as his carefully ordered formations dissolved into a chaotic mess. His longships, designed for ramming and boarding, were sitting ducks against the Northern cannons, their crews slaughtered before they could even come within striking distance.
"Ram them!" he roared, his voice barely audible above the din of battle. "Close the distance! Board their ships!"
But his orders were futile. The Northern ships, with their superior speed, danced around the lumbering longships, continuing their relentless barrage. They circled the southern fleet like wolves around a wounded stag, tearing them apart with impunity.
The Tide Dancer, a sleek and swift Velaryon longship adorned with the Seahorse flag, attempted a daring maneuver to break through the Northern encirclement. Captained by the skilled and audacious Vaemon Velaryon, brother of Lord Corwyn Velaryon, the Tide Dancer surged forward, its oarsmen pulling with desperate strength. Vaemon, his eyes blazing with courage, hoped to close the distance and grapple with a Northern vessel, hoping to turn the tide with a desperate boarding action.
But the Northern ship, the Iron Wolf, a heavily armed vessel commanded by a grim-faced Northern captain, anticipated his move. It spun on a dime, its engines roaring, bringing its broadside to bear. A volley of cannon fire ripped through the Tide Dancer, tearing a gaping hole in its hull, splintering its oars, and felling dozens of its crew. Vaemon, his dreams of glory shattered, watched in horror as his ship began to list, seawater gushing into its hold. He rallied his remaining men, preparing for a desperate last stand, but another volley sealed their fate. The Tide Dancer, its scarlet sails torn and bloodied, slipped beneath the waves, taking Vaemon Velaryon and his brave crew with it.
A group of Royal ships, their hulls painted Black and their Three headed dragon proudly displayed on their sails, attempted to form a defensive square, hoping to present a unified front against the relentless Northern assault. Their captains, seasoned veterans of many a sea battle, barked orders, their voices hoarse with the din of battle, their faces grim but resolute. They knew that their only chance was to hold their formation, to weather the storm of cannon fire, and to hope for an opportunity to close and grapple.
But the Northern ships, with their ability to maneuver independently and unleash fire from any angle, made short work of this formation. They circled the square, their cannons spitting forth a relentless barrage, turning the defensive formation into a watery grave. One Westerlands captain, his arm severed by a cannonball, continued to bark orders, his face contorted in pain, until another shot tore through his chest, silencing him forever. The crimson-painted longships, once a symbol of Lannister naval power, were reduced to burning wrecks, their golden lions stained with blood and fire.
The Pride of Oldtown, a massive and heavily armed longship bearing the white tower of House Hightower, attempted a desperate escape. Captained by the proud and stubborn Hobert Hightower, brother of Lord Eustace Hightower, the Pride of Oldtown turned its prow and attempted to flee the carnage. But the Northern ships, swift and relentless, pursued with grim determination.
The Pride of Oldtown, despite its size and strength, was no match for the Northern engines of war. It was repeatedly struck by cannon fire, its thick wooden hull splintering under the relentless bombardment. Flames began to lick at its sails, then spread to its decks, engulfing the ship in a roaring inferno. Hobert Hightower, his face blackened with smoke, rallied his men, fighting bravely against the encroaching flames, but it was a losing battle. The Pride of Oldtown, once a symbol of Oldtown's maritime power, became a blazing funeral pyre, its crew leaping into the water to escape the inferno. Hobert Hightower was among those who did not survive the flames, his life extinguished in the fiery chaos of the battle.
Lord Redwyne, witnessing the utter annihilation of his fleet, his face a mask of disbelief and despair, tried desperately to rally his remaining captains. He sent frantic signals, attempting to organize a coordinated withdrawal, but his orders were lost in the chaos of battle. His flagship, the Arbor Queen, was repeatedly struck by cannon fire, its once-proud decks now littered with the dead and wounded.
Desperate and enraged, Lord Redwyne ordered a final, suicidal charge. The Arbor Queen, its sails tattered and torn, its hull leaking seawater, surged forward, its remaining oarsmen pulling with the strength of desperation. Lord Redwyne, his sword in hand, stood at the prow, a figure of defiance against the overwhelming odds. He hoped to ram a Northern vessel, to board and fight in the old way, to die a warrior's death.
But the Northern ships, with their cold efficiency, showed no mercy. The Arbor Queen was surrounded, pounded by cannon fire from all sides. Its masts splintered, its decks turned into a charnel house. Lord Redwyne, his body riddled with splinters, his face blackened with smoke, fell to the deck, his sword clattering beside him. The Arbor Queen, its proud banners torn and bloodied, finally succumbed to the waves, taking Lord Redwyne and his dreams of victory with it.
As the hours wore on, the relentless pounding of the Northern cannons took its toll. One by one, the remaining southern ships succumbed, their resistance finally broken. The water around them became a grotesque tapestry of shattered wood, torn sails, and the bloated bodies of the fallen. The air grew heavy with the acrid smell of gunpowder and the sickly sweet scent of blood.
The Northern ships, their hulls scarred but intact, continued their methodical work, their cannons spitting fire and death with unwavering precision. There was a cold efficiency to their actions, a stark contrast to the desperate chaos of the southern fleet. They were not merely winning a battle; they were demonstrating the obsolescence of traditional naval warfare against the power of technology and tactical innovation.
Finally, with the last vestiges of southern resistance extinguished, a hush fell over the Whispering Sound, broken only by the lapping of waves against the wreckage and the cries of the wounded. The sun had begun its descent, painting the sky in hues of blood red and dying embers, casting long, ominous shadows across the scene of utter devastation.
Lord Manderly, his face grim but resolute, surveyed the carnage from the deck of the Merman's Pride. Around him, his ships, their black sails emblazoned with the direwolf sigil, stood silent and victorious. The battle was over. The North had won a decisive and crushing victory. The age of the longship had met its end in the fiery embrace of Northern steel.
Of the once-mighty southern fleet of two hundred and fifty longships, only sixty remained afloat, and those were crippled, battered, and surrounded. The Northern fleet, on the other hand, had not lost a single vessel. Their ships, with their powerful engines and devastating cannons, had proven utterly invincible. The Whispering Sound ran red, a testament to the devastating power of the North when roused to war.
The silence that descended upon the Whispering Sound after the final cannon shot was heavy, laden with the scent of salt, smoke, and death. The victorious Northern fleet, their black sails stark against the bruised twilight sky, moved amongst the wreckage, their crews grimly assessing the devastation. The cries of the wounded, both Northern and Southern, echoed across the water, a somber counterpoint to the earlier thunder of battle.
Amidst the floating debris and the charred remains of once-proud warships, the grim task of collecting survivors and taking prisoners began. Northern sailors, their faces hardened by the day's brutal efficiency, rowed small boats amongst the wreckage, pulling the living and the dead from the blood-stained water.
Many of the southern lords, their arrogance drowned in the reality of their crushing defeat, were taken captive. Stripped of their arms and their pride, they were hauled aboard the Northern ships, their faces etched with shock and despair. Lord Manfryd Redwyne, the once-proud admiral of the southern fleet, was among them. His once-crisp uniform was torn and stained, his usually jovial face now a mask of utter defeat. He stared blankly at the carnage around him, the weight of his catastrophic loss a palpable burden.
The captured southern lords, a grim collection of highborn names and shattered ambitions, were held under heavy guard on the Northern ships. There were no taunts or jeers from their captors, only a cold, professional efficiency. The Northmen understood the significance of their victory, but their demeanor remained somber, the cost of war evident in their eyes.
As the immediate aftermath of the battle began to settle, the logistical task of moving the prisoners to Moat Cailin commenced. The ancient fortress, guarding the narrow neck of the North, was deemed the most secure location to hold such high-ranking captives. Northern ships, their holds now filled with defeated southern lords, began the journey north, leaving behind the ravaged waters of the Whispering Sound.
Lord Manfryd Redwyne, along with the other captured southern commanders, was transferred to a larger Northern vessel for the journey to Moat Cailin. The journey was a silent one, the weight of their defeat hanging heavy in the air. They were prisoners in a strange and formidable land, their futures uncertain, their once-powerful fleet reduced to a memory of fire and destruction.
The victory on the eastern coast, following the earlier annihilation of the ironborn fleet in Blaze Water Bay, sent shockwaves throughout the Seven Kingdoms. The North, long considered a backward and isolated land, had demonstrated a naval power and tactical innovation that no one in the South had foreseen. The age of the traditional longship had been decisively ended, replaced by the terrifying efficiency of Northern iron and fire. The balance of power had irrevocably shifted, and the consequences of these devastating defeats would ripple across Westeros, shaping the political landscape for years to come. The captured southern lords, now prisoners within the formidable walls of Moat Cailin, were a stark reminder of the North's newfound strength and the devastating price of underestimating the Wolf.