Chapter 28: The Iron Price, The Valyrian Prize
The assembly of the royal fleet was a grand, if disparate, spectacle. Lord Stannis Baratheon, as Master of Ships and newly appointed Lord Admiral for the campaign, oversaw the gathering with his characteristic grim diligence. Ships bearing the stags of Baratheon, the roses of Tyrell (now reluctant allies), the swans of Swann (a diminished presence), the galleys of House Redwyne, and the newly built warships of the Lannisters crowded the anchorages alongside lesser vessels from a dozen coastal lords. Into this mighty flotilla sailed Lord Vorant's "Hawk's Armada" – ten powerful war dromonds of his own advanced design and twenty swift, black-sailed longships, all crewed by Stonefang men and carrying the elite of the Obsidian Guard marines and Brandon Snow's Wolf Brigade. His flagship, the Nyx's Shadow, was a vessel of unsettling grace and menace, its ebonized timbers and towering black sails making it a focal point of conjecture and unease.
The meeting between Lord Admiral Stannis Baratheon and Lord Ellys Vorant was as frigid as the windswept deck of Stannis's flagship, Fury. Stannis, his jaw perpetually clenched, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, received Vorhax with the barest minimum of formal courtesy. He acknowledged the strength and readiness of the Vorant fleet, but his questions about its independent supply lines, the unique training of the Obsidian Guard marines, and Vorhax's long-term naval ambitions were pointed and probing. Vorhax responded with outward deference to Stannis's supreme command, his answers precise, logical, and revealing nothing more than necessary. He knew Stannis saw him not as an ally, but as a dangerous, barely leashed weapon whose loyalty was suspect and whose methods were an affront to traditional notions of warfare and honor.
Even before the royal fleet set sail, Vorhax's own intelligence network, now augmented by his swift longships scouting far ahead under the cloak of night and Nyx's daring aerial reconnaissance over the western seas, was hard at work. His agents in the Red Keep's libraries had unearthed ancient texts and mariners' charts detailing the Iron Islands. One name, one prize, had quickly risen to the forefront of Vorhax's cold calculations: House Drumm of Old Wyk, and their ancestral Valyrian steel sword, Red Rain. Old Wyk, the most sacred of the Iron Islands, home to the hill of Nagga and the Grey King's Hall, was a bastion of the Ironborn's fierce, reaving traditions. Its lords, the Drumms, were infamously proud and cruel. Red Rain itself was a blade of legend, one of the few Valyrian steel swords remaining in Westeros. Such a weapon, imbued with the forgotten fire-magic of Old Valyria, would be an invaluable asset, a symbol of power, and a peerless personal instrument of death.
Vorhax's plan was audacious and brutal: during the main assault on the Iron Islands, he would lead a surgical strike against Old Wyk, his objective not merely to neutralize a troublesome Ironborn stronghold, but to utterly exterminate House Drumm, seize Red Rain, and make of their annihilation an unforgettable lesson in the price of defying the new order – his order.
The royal fleet, a vast armada, finally weighed anchor and sailed west, rounding the southern capes of Westeros into the Sunset Sea. The journey was fraught with tension. Stannis drilled the combined fleet relentlessly, attempting to forge cohesion from the disparate squadrons. Vorhax's ships, with their superior Stonefang iron fittings, well-designed rigging (another of Vorhax's improvements), and disciplined crews, consistently outperformed many others in maneuvers, further irking the Lord Admiral, who could find no fault in their execution yet clearly resented their quiet superiority. There were minor skirmishes with daring Ironborn longships, reavers who sought to harass the flanks of the great fleet. In these encounters, Vorhax's black-sailed vessels, particularly his swift longships crewed by Obsidian Guard marines, proved devastatingly effective, their grappling hooks, disciplined boarding parties, and terrifying close-quarters prowess sending more than one Ironborn crew to the Drowned God.
The first major naval engagement, as Vorhax had anticipated, came near Fair Isle, where Stannis Baratheon, with tactical brilliance, trapped and smashed the bulk of Victarion Greyjoy's Iron Fleet. Vorhax's squadron played its assigned role in Stannis's battle plan with cold precision, sealing off an escape route and destroying several fleeing Ironborn galleys. Though Stannis himself was the architect of the victory, the Hawk's Armada earned further renown for its ruthless efficiency.
With the Iron Fleet broken, the path to the Iron Islands themselves lay open. The main targets for the invasion were Great Wyk and Pyke, Balon Greyjoy's seat of power. In the council of war aboard Stannis's flagship, as Robert Baratheon (who had joined the fleet with his own royal squadron) eagerly planned the invasions, Vorhax saw his opportunity.
"My lords," Vorhax stated, his voice calm amidst the boisterous victory celebrations, "while our main thrust is directed at Pyke and Great Wyk, we must not neglect Old Wyk. It is the spiritual heart of the Ironborn, a nest of their most recalcitrant priests and die-hard reavers. Lord Drumm is a formidable foe. If left unchecked, Old Wyk could serve as a rallying point for continued resistance, a dagger in our back as we commit our forces elsewhere. I propose to lead my own contingent in a swift, decisive strike against Old Wyk, to neutralize Castle Drumm and pacify the island, securing our flank and demoralizing the enemy before the main assaults."
Robert, flushed with the victory at Fair Isle and eager to see more Ironborn crushed, slammed his fist on the table. "By the gods, Vorant, that's the kind of talk I like! A hawk striking at their black heart! Do it! Take your devils and burn out that nest of squids!"
Stannis looked deeply suspicious. "Old Wyk is heavily defended, Lord Vorant. And your forces, while formidable, would be operating far from the main fleet's support. It is a significant risk."
"All war is risk, Lord Admiral," Vorhax replied smoothly. "But my marines are trained for such assaults. My ships are swift. And the potential reward – the crippling of Ironborn morale and the securing of a key island – far outweighs the peril. With your permission, of course." He offered a slight, almost imperceptible nod of deference to Stannis's command.
Stannis, though clearly loathing the idea of Vorhax operating independently, could not easily refuse a plan so boldly presented and endorsed by the King, especially one that promised a strategic advantage. Reluctantly, he gave his assent, ordering Vorhax to rejoin the main fleet within a sennight.
Under the cover of a moonless night, Vorhax's black fleet detached from the main armada and sailed hard for Old Wyk. Nyx, flying far ahead, relayed precise details of Castle Drumm's coastal defenses – sea stacks, hidden coves, and the formidable, wave-lashed cliffs upon which the ancient fortress stood. Vorhax chose a narrow, treacherous inlet, dismissed by Ironborn defenders as impassable, for his primary landing.
The assault began just before dawn. Obsidian Guard marines, their black armor making them near-invisible against the dark cliffs, scaled the treacherous rock faces with ropes and grapnels, their movements silent and sure-footed, aided by Vorhax's subtle Force manipulation of wind and hold. They overwhelmed the surprised sentries, secured a beachhead, and signaled for the main landing.
The Ironborn of House Drumm, roused by alarm horns, rushed to defend their ancestral seat. They were fierce, axe-wielding warriors, fighting with the berserker fury of their kind. But they were met by a force unlike any they had ever encountered. The Obsidian Guard advanced in implacable, disciplined shield-walls, their Stonefang iron swords and axes hewing through Ironborn leather and mail. Brandon Snow's Wolf Brigade, landing alongside them, roared their Northman battle cries and plunged into the fray, their greatsworts meeting Ironborn axes in a brutal, bloody contest.
Vorhax himself led the final assault on the keep of Castle Drumm. He moved through the battle like a dark specter, his yet-unnamed future Valyrian blade (for now, he wielded his best Stonefang sword) a blur of deadly precision, the Force a shield around him, turning aside wild blows, guiding his strikes to fatal effect. He sought Lord Drumm, the holder of Red Rain.
He found Dunstan Drumm, Lord of Old Wyk, a grizzled, formidable warrior with a wild grey beard and eyes like chips of flint, standing defiantly in his great hall, Red Rain already in his hand, its distinctive crimson ripples gleaming in the torchlight. His remaining sons and household guard stood with him, ready to die for their keep.
"So, the mainland hawk comes to peck at the krakens in their own lair," Lord Drumm roared, his voice like the crashing of waves. "You'll find our shells harder than you think, greenlander!"
"Your shell is already cracked, Drumm," Vorhax replied, his voice amplified by his helm, cold and devoid of inflection. "And your house dies today."
The fight was brief and brutal. The Obsidian Guard systematically cut down Drumm's retainers. Vorhax faced Lord Drumm himself. The old Ironborn was strong and surprisingly quick, Red Rain a deadly crimson blur. But Vorhax, his reflexes and strength augmented by the Dark Side, was his master. He parried Drumm's desperate attacks, his Stonefang blade holding against the Valyrian steel, then, with a precise feint and a blindingly fast riposte, he disarmed the old lord, sending Red Rain clattering across the stone floor. Before Drumm could react, Vorhax's sword plunged through his heart.
As Lord Drumm fell, Vorhax calmly retrieved Red Rain. The Valyrian steel felt impossibly light, perfectly balanced, humming with a faint, ancient power that resonated with his own Force sensitivity. Its crimson ripples seemed to drink the torchlight. This was a weapon fit for a Sith.
"Secure the keep," Vorhax commanded Ser Gareth. "Take no prisoners from the Drumm bloodline. Let this island remember the price of rebellion."
The extermination was carried out with chilling efficiency. House Drumm of Old Wyk, save for a few distant cousins on other islands, ceased to exist. Their castle was sacked, its treasures claimed, its defenses slighted. Vorhax ordered the bodies of Lord Drumm and his sons hung from the battlements, a grim warning to any other Ironborn who might contemplate resistance.
When Vorhax and his fleet rejoined the royal armada a few days later, leaving a garrison of his own men to hold a fortified section of Old Wyk, the news of his brutal conquest sent a fresh wave of shock and fear through both allies and the remaining Ironborn. He presented himself to King Robert and Lord Admiral Stannis.
"Old Wyk is pacified, Your Grace, Lord Admiral," Vorhax reported, his voice betraying no emotion. "House Drumm will trouble the Iron Islands no more. Their ancestral blade," he gestured to Red Rain, now sheathed at his hip, "is presented as a trophy of this victory, a symbol of the fate that awaits all who defy our rightful King." (He had no intention of actually surrendering the blade, but the offer was a necessary political gesture).
Robert Baratheon roared with laughter and approval. "By the gods, Vorant, you don't do things by halves! Good! Let the squids learn what happens when they raise their tentacles against the Stag! Keep the damn sword, Hawk! You earned it! A fine prize for a fine kill!"
Stannis Baratheon, however, was visibly horrified. His face was pale, his jaw rigid with suppressed fury. "Lord Vorant," he said, his voice tight, "you were tasked with neutralizing a threat, not exterminating an entire noble house, however rebellious. Your methods are… unsanctioned and contrary to the laws of war and chivalry."
Vorhax met Stannis's gaze, his own eyes like chips of obsidian. "The Ironborn understand only one price, Lord Stannis – the iron price. I paid it in full, in their own coin. They will not soon forget the lesson taught on Old Wyk. And with fewer die-hards to resist us, the King's path to ultimate victory will be swifter, and less costly in the lives of loyal men."
Before Stannis could reply, Robert clapped Vorhax on the back again. "Damn right! Stannis, leave the Hawk to his ways! He gets results! Now, to Pyke! Let's finish these saltwater bastards!"
Stannis fell silent, but his eyes promised a reckoning. Vorhax, now armed with a Valyrian steel sword and a reputation for terrifying ruthlessness that eclipsed even that of Tywin Lannister in its sheer, brutal totality, knew he had made himself an even more indispensable asset to Robert, and an even more profound threat in the eyes of men like Stannis. The Iron Price had been paid. The Valyrian Prize was his. And the game for the Seven Kingdoms had just taken another dark, bloody turn under his unseen Sith hand.
(Word Count: Approx. 4450 words)