BOOM! BOOM!
The explosions were loud. Uncomfortably loud to those who heard them for the first time.
Lord Jorah Mormont had heard enough of them that the noise did not bother him as they once had. In any case, he was more interested in what the source of the explosion accomplished than the sound it made.
A small handful of three certain minerals, mixed together and stored in a pouch. With a single flame, they are capable of demolishing wood and stone alike. When he first heard of black powder and its capabilities, Jorah had doubted it. Then he witnessed a demonstration, and his doubt vanished.
Only the leaders of the Royal Army had been aware of the existence of black powder before the King announced that the Army would be divided into three companies. The first would sail for Seagard to defend House Mallister's seat from an impending Ironborn assault. The second would sail for Fair Isle and protect House Farman in the same fashion. The third would sail for Pyke immediately after the first two triumphed.
Jorah had been assigned to the first company. That one would be led by Lord Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone. Jorah would have preferred to be in the third company. That wish was fueled by a personal yearning for retribution.
Jorah was old enough to remember the days before Quellon Greyjoy's rule. As a lad, he had fended off Bear Island from Ironborn raiders on more than a few occasions. Loyal retainers of House Mormont had died pushing back the invaders. Now he would have a chance to bring the fight to them. But only a chance.
He took some comfort in the knowledge that the first and second company were supposed to rendezvous with the third once their preliminary tasks were accomplished.
If the gods are good, the King will not land his units on the shores of Pyke until after they are joined with his brother's.
Of course, that would depend on how quickly the Ironborn were repelled at Seagard and Fair Isle. Jorah had some control over that, at the very least. That he knew for a fact, due to a new tactic of warfare that had been introduced by Gregor Clegane.
The King and the leaders of the Royal Army had spent a whole day determining which units would compose each of the three companies. The day after, each unit of the Army was informed where he or she would be going.
After the soldiers received their assignments, King Robert had ordered their leaders to determine who among them were both strong of arm and sharp of eye. Over a quarter of their forces – including Jorah – met that description. Nevertheless, every one of them was ordered to report to the camp of the Legion without Banners.
At the head of that camp, Lord Gregor Clegane – The Mountain That Rides, Robert's Master of Order, Lord of Moat Cailin, Commanding Officer of the Legion without Banners, and the husband of Jorah's first cousin – had addressed those units. Once he secured their attention, he claimed to have created a weapon that would all but ensure their victory against the Ironborn.
Jorah – and many, many others – had been intrigued by that declaration. Lord Gregor had then proceeded to tell them of his black powder and its destructive uses. Some had been unsettled by the analogy he made of it to wildfire, but their anxiety had been alleviated when he assured them that black powder was far easier to manage than wildfire.
The Mountain then took a pouch with a piece of string hanging out of the opening. After lighting the piece of string and waiting for the flame to slink into the pouch, Lord Gregor had chucked it at a block of marble that had been placed in an empty clearing. There was a powerful noise and a cloud of smoke. When the smoke evaporated, Jorah saw that the block had been reduced to rubble.
What sorcery is this?
He soon learned that no sorcery was at work; only science.
Gregor Clegane revealed that he intended for the Royal Army to use more of these black powder pouches against the Ironborn fleet. He explained that he would select certain individuals to brandish the pouches in the upcoming battles. Whoever wielded the pouches would need to possess superb aim and a great throwing arm. That was why he called for all those in the Royal Army who were both strong of arm and sharp of eye.
Before anyone there was given authorization to carry black powder, Lord Gregor Clegane had insisted that each of them go through a "screening process," whatever that was.
The screening process was designed to test how well they handled black powder.
For the test, the candidates were given small pouches that weighed the same as a pouch of black powder. In actuality, these pouches were filled with dirt, but they still had makeshift wicks sticking out of them. Gregor had the candidates practice lighting the wicks and throwing the pouches as certain targets in a wide-open field. He judged and eliminated the contenders on a variety of factors.
Anyone who dropped a pouch or failed to throw it soon enough after lighting its wick was disqualified. All those who threw too far or too close were dismissed, as well. So was anyone who did not wait until the flame went beneath the mouth of the pouch. Gregor explained that that was especially critical. If the flame was still visible when it was thrown, it was likely to go out whilst in midair. And even if it did not, when the pouch landed on the deck of an Ironborn ship, one of the crew might have had time enough to scoop the pouch up off the ground and toss it back at its point of origin.
After hours upon hours of systematic tryouts, Lord Gregor had finally narrowed down thousands of hopeful prospects to a choice fifty. To his satisfaction, Lord Jorah was among those fifty.
I will show those Ironmen rapists that when they play with the bear, they also play with fire.
A number of his compatriots would be making a similar point, except theirs would involve the animal or object that represented their own houses. Regardless of who made that point, a great percentage of the Iron Fleet would soon sink or burn.
Apart from the leaders of the Royal Army, those fifty people were the only ones to whom Gregor disclosed what black powder was made of. However, all he told them was that it was composed of coal, sulfur, and saltpeter. He did not reveal the powder's chemical composition. In other words, the ratio of coal to sulfur to saltpeter was still a mystery. Only Lord Gregor himself knew that.
The Mountain claimed to have brought enough black powder for eleven hundred pouches. That claim turned out to be true; he supplied just that many to the fifty throwers. He had actually taken the time to mix and prepare each and every one of them alone.
Each of the fifty was given twenty-two pouches. Gregor gave them thorough instructions on how to properly transport the pouches. The throwers were advised not to keep the pouches in damp or open areas. Moreover, the pouches should not be kept in any room with a lit torch or brazier, or any other open flame. Furthermore, in the event that any of the pouches did come in contact with fire, to minimize the fallout, Gregor recommended that each of the pouches be stored in a separate compartment. Otherwise, they would start a chain reaction that could severely damage their surroundings.
Seventeen of the throwers had been assigned to the company that would sail for Seagard, and another seventeen were among those who would make for Fair Isle. The remaining sixteen would remain in the king's reserve forces.
Gregor told the throwers that if any of the pouches remained unused after the war, he would need all the leftover ones returned to him. To ensure that that happened, he had arranged for each of the throwers to be accompanied by one of his Legionnaires at all times. That way, they could consistently monitor how many pouches of black powder were in their collective inventory.
The Mountain trusts us to give the powder to the Ironborn… yet he does not trust us to give it back to him. How queer.
Jorah might have felt insulted for this notable lack of trust, but he could not fault Lord Gregor for being wary. The bear lord was actually inclined to believe that Gregor had only given him and the other throwers those Legionnaire escorts as a precaution. Some of the throwers had been longtime allies of the Mountain. A few were even Legionnaires themselves. All the same, no one was exempt from having a "chaperone." At least with that arrangement, no one would wonder if Gregor favored any of the throwers in particular. Additionally, the escorts would not be there simply to watch the throwers. They would also be there to protect and guard them, just in case anyone (Ironborn or otherwise) attempted to forcibly seize any of the black powder.
Be that as it may, Jorah noticed something peculiar. The status of each Legionnaire supervisor appeared to coincide with that of the thrower he or she was assigned to. Most of the throwers were men-at-arms or soldiers; their watchers held such ranks. There were some knights and heirs of highborn lords; their respective guides had been anointed and entitled to inherit their father's lands, too.
Jorah was the highest-ranking out of all fifty of the throwers. As such, he was given the highest-ranking supervisor, as well. That turned out to be the Mountain's foremost lieutenant, Prince Oberyn Martell.
Jorah had spoken with the prince at his cousin Dacey's wedding, but their meeting had not lasted for more than a few minutes. That had hardly been enough time to get to know the Red Viper on any personal level. He supposed Oberyn had thought him dull or uninteresting. If so, he was not the first.
From what Jorah could surmise, Oberyn had no intention of ignoring or disregarding the bear lord during this encounter. From the moment the Mountain had tasked his Dornish captain with shadowing Jorah, Oberyn seemed to develop a keen interest in him. At first, Jorah assumed the Red Viper was merely carrying out his orders. In actuality, it was more than that. He quickly realized that Oberyn Martell was genuinely interested in becoming better acquainted with the Lord of Bear Island.
Jorah was at a loss as to what could have triggered the prince's newfound fascination with him. He had not changed much since their first meeting. The biggest difference was that he was a widower now. Still, that meant little and less in the grand scheme of things. In his mind, at any rate. He had heard of Oberyn's… eccentricities. But he was certain that was not why Oberyn wished for them to become more familiar with each other.
On the voyage to Seagard, Jorah learned of Oberyn's true motivations.
The two of them had been posted on the war galley Lord Steffon, named in honor of the King's late lord father. The vessel had disembarked at the same moment as Lord Stannis Baratheon's flagship Fury, and it continued to sail directly alongside the flagship. The two vessels were at the very front of the small armada destined for the western shore of the Riverlands.
Jorah spent much of that maritime journey on the bridge. Oberyn did, as well. Often as not, his daughter Nymeria was in his company. Jorah was fairly certain they were not there merely because he happened to be there, as well. They simply seemed to prefer being on deck, just as he did. Nevertheless, their constantly close proximity to his position was hard to overlook. Strangely enough, Jorah did not even have any black powder with him.
Finally, on the third night of their voyage, Oberyn confessed his reasons for spending so much time with or near Lord Jorah. His elucidation was concise yet comprehensible: "You and I will soon be family."
"How so, my prince?" a perplexed Jorah Mormont queried.
"My eldest daughter is to wed the heir to Clegane's Keep," Oberyn pointed out, "As it happens, her betrothed is the younger brother of your first cousin's husband. Through House Clegane, you and I will be related."
"Distantly, but yes," Jorah noted, "I believe you and I would be… second cousins twice-removed."
"Or first, depending on how one examines the family tree," the Red Viper contended, "No matter how remote the relation may be, there will be some connection between my house and yours."
In some way or other, all of Westeros may be related eventually. I would not be surprised if that becomes the case.
"And that's why you are so engrossed in my affairs?" Jorah presumed, "You wish to know more of me and my house before we become part of your family?"
"Yes, my lord," Oberyn affirmed, "Let me assure you; it is not that I am wary of you or any other Mormont. It is more for my curiosity's sake that I wish to learn about you and yours. Dacey is the only member of your family that I can sincerely call my friend, and in these days, she is as much a Clegane as she is a Bear Islander."
"You met my aunt, Lady Maege, did you not?" Jorah recounted.
"Yes, I did…" Oberyn muttered bluntly, "I mean no offense when I tell you this, but I hope she is not a definitive indication of what all Bear Islanders are like."
Jorah Mormont chuckled at that and stated "She is not, I promise you. I understand what you are entailing, however. On occasion, my aunt can be a difficult woman. My father once japed that his sister was the true reason he left Bear Island to join the Night's Watch. But I know he loves her."
"Of course he does," Oberyn conceded with a smirk, "Siblings are expected to tease each other all their lives, even when they're well into adulthood. As it happens, my sister and I still make friendly quips about each other."
That must be amusing.
Jorah had no brothers or sisters of his own. He had never minded growing up an only child, but he had often wondered what it would be like to have a younger (or older) sibling.
"I can appreciate and respect a man who holds family in such high regard," Jorah proclaimed, folding his arms, "If there is anything in particular you'd wish to know, you can ask of me, my prince."
Lord Jorah and Prince Oberyn spent much of the evening talking about various matters. Some of their topics were private in nature; others were more casual or more professional.
For instance, both men knew how to read a map. Oberyn suggested that they get one to determine the exact distance between Bear Island and Sunspear, and Jorah decided to humor him.
They made an interesting discovery. House Mormont was located at the most northwestern point of the Seven Kingdoms, and House Martell was located at the most southeastern point. Because of that, they were literally farther apart than any two other houses in all of Westeros. There was the possible exceptions of House Redwyne of the Arbor and Houses Crowl, Magnar, and Stane on the isle of Skagos, which were found at the most southwestern and most northeastern points respectively. But there were some who debated that the Skagosi did not count, given how seldom they came to the mainland.
Despite the vast distance between their ancestral homes, Jorah Mormont and Oberyn Martell got along very well. They passed several hours in pleasant conversation. At several points, Nymeria participated in their discussion. By the end of it, they felt as though they had known each other for years.
Around midnight, Oberyn decided to get some rest. He bade the bear lord a good night and retired below deck to his cabin.
Jorah stayed up a while longer. So did Nymeria. Other than the on-duty sentries and the ship's navigator, the bridge was deserted. But the sentries were preoccupied with guard duty, and the navigator was stationed at the wheel. So in every other sense, Jorah Mormont and Nymeria Martell were alone.
They passed a few minutes standing at the bough of the ship in total silence. Finally, Jorah broke the quiet atmosphere with "Lovely night, is it not?"
"Depends on what you call 'lovely,' my lord," Nymeria commented bluntly.
"It is quite calm and peaceful," Jorah clarified, "And all this water… some may find it immense and empty. I find it a wondrous sight. There is just something about seafaring that has always struck my fancy."
"Well, your home is on an island," Nymeria pointed out, "You would be no stranger to seafaring."
"Are you, my princess?" Jorah asked curiously.
Nymeria glared at him in mild annoyance, and she mumbled "Please do not call me that, my lord."
Jorah was stunned at her reaction to being addressed that way.
Most women would embrace that title. She rejects it…
"Your father is a prince," Jorah remarked, not unkindly.
"And I'm his daughter; I know," Nymeria stated, "That does not mean I have to equal him in status. I find the whole concept a little demeaning."
Jorah could understand her sentiment. He offered "If you insist, I shall only call you 'my lady.'"
"Thank you, my lord," Nymeria said gratefully, "Now, to answer your earlier question… this is my first time on a ship."
Jorah was somewhat intrigued. "Really?"
"Yes, indeed," she affirmed, "You see, Dorne has no fleet of its own to speak of."
"Neither does the North," he added in, "Brandon the Burner put his fleet to the torch after his father, Brandon the Shipwright, was lost at sea."
"I see," Nymeria avowed, "My ancestor, Nymeria Martell, burnt her fleet to ensure that it would never be used against her people."
Jorah nodded in acknowledgment and asked "Which of them would you say had the truer reason?"
"Neither," Nymeria debated, "I believe both had just cause."
"I am not certain of that," Jorah professed, "Brandon Stark's actions were fueled by grief; Nymeria Martell's by the desire to uphold the security of her land."
"Is grief any less a legitimate justification than security?" Nymeria contended.
"Perhaps not… in certain conditions," Jorah murmured, "But they are two very different facets. The wish for security is present in all of us. It preserves us, even in extreme cases. Whereas grief… grief can incite us to behave selfishly or irrationally. In extreme cases… it can undo us."
"I did not take you for a philosopher, my lord," Nymeria Martell said wryly with a small grin.
"I do not think myself one," Jorah proclaimed, "I am merely saying what I personally believe."
"If I may ask, what experiences with grief have you had?" Nymeria enquired curiously.
Where do I begin?
Jorah apprised her "In my youth, I lost friends and retainers to Ironborn raiders. When I was a man grown, I lost more to the wildlings. My mother died when I was in the midst of boyhood. My father left to join the Night's Watch before my thirtieth name day. Most recently… sickness claimed my wife."
At that, Nymeria placed a soft hand on the bear lord's shoulder and commented softly "Yes, I remember hearing word of that. I do not believe I had the chance to offer my condolences. So please know I am very sorry for your loss."
"I appreciate your words, my lady," Jorah asserted, "Seventeen turns of the moon have elapsed since my wife died. I do miss her, but my period of mourning for her has passed. I should not be wallowing in sorrow."
"I admire your strength," Nymeria claimed, "And I agree; your foremost concern should be finding a new bride."
"I have been searching for one," Jorah apprised her, "I have corresponded with several ladies from the other Northern houses. Alas, my endeavors have proven most unsuccessful."
"Was no one you found appealing to you?" Nymeria conjectured.
"No, I am not that particular," Jorah confessed, "It was they who were disinterested."
Nymeria appeared flabbergasted. "I find that very difficult to believe, my lord. My father and I have been speaking with you for hours, and we've both come to enjoy your company. How could your own countrywomen not?"
"They did not know me as you do now," Jorah explained, "I believe they think of Bear Island as nothing more than a huge rock in the center of the Bay of Ice. For that reason, they think little of the man who serves as its lord."
"I'd have thought Northwomen were less shallow than that," Nymeria uttered.
"Some are; some are not," Jorah revealed, "I have not given up my search yet. I am determined to find a new bride before the year's end."
"Maybe you should consider looking outside the North," Nymeria advised him, "There are plenty of open-minded women south of the Neck. And after this rebellion… you will be one of the most eligible bachelors in Westeros."
Jorah could not help but smile at the young Dornishwoman. "I thank you for your vote of confidence, my lady. I shall reflect on your counsel."
Nymeria smiled back and muttered "Please do. I am certain you will find a bride who can accept you for who and what you are. However she is, I hope she makes you happy."
Jorah continued grinning and lightly nodded at that. Then he murmured "Tell me, my lady; all this talk of marriage, yet we've spoken only of me. I'd like to know your thoughts on the matter."
Nymeria looked a little bewildered. "Why do you ask, my lord?"
"I am simply curious," Jorah declared, "I imagine marriage was far from one of your worries during your childhood. But not as much today."
"You are correct," Nymeria confirmed, "After the King legitimized me, I suddenly became a fair deal more interesting to the men of Westeros. In fact, at the Twins, Ser Ryman Frey tried to proposition his son to me. He was not even sober when he presented that option."
Jorah scowled at that and mumbled crossly "That sounds just like the Freys. Discretion and courtesy are foreign to them, they care little for kinship and loyalty, they have no bravery, integrity, or compassion to speak of… and they still wonder why the whole world hates them."
"Not all Freys are like that, my lord," Nymeria contended, "Lord Walder's heir, Ser Stevron, is at least a decent man. But I would have to agree with you that most Freys are not very different from Ser Ryman, who happens to be Stevron Frey's eldest son."
"I assume you refused him?" Jorah theorized.
"No, my father did that for me," Nymeria humorously recounted.
Jorah scoffed. Then he queried "Is there any man you actually have considered swearing your life to?"
"Not yet," Nymeria revealed, "I am still young, my lord. My father says I am still a girl. Then again, I'll always be a girl to him. So far, I have no given much thought to marriage itself. It could be possible that I may never wed."
"Well, if you ever do, I hope you find a man who will treat you kindly fairly," Jorah muttered.
Nymeria grinned and said appreciatively "Thank you, Lord Jorah."
She then raised herself up and kissed the bear lord on his cheek. At that, he smiled back at her friendly. Before long, the two of them turned in for the night.
A couple days later, the armada came within sight of Seagard. Lord Jason Mallister used a beacon to signal the royalist ships. He informed them that he was prepared to defend his holdfast. He also notified them that he would send them reinforcements (if they were needed).
When the royalist fleet was two hundred meters from Seagard, Lord Stannis had the ships for a blockade along the length of Ironman's Bay. The ships were far enough from each other that they could veer hard to left and right without fear of collision, but close enough that the Ironborn would be unable to break through their ranks.
Then they waited. That was the worst part, the waiting. They all knew that the Ironborn were coming.
They must not be in a hurry to get here.
But they were coming. There was no question of that. Seagard was the Riverlands' sole line of defense along the west coast. If it fell, the whole of the Riverlands would be at the Ironborn's mercy. After their failure to burn the Westerlands' fleet, they would focus their attention on either the North or the Riverlands next, and the Riverlands were closer.
Not that close, apparently. Where could the Ironborn be?
Finally, after half a day of inactivity, a warhorn was blown. Everyone snapped to full attention then.
In the distance, a silhouette of a single vessel. Then another appeared. Then two more. Then three, five, eight, eleven, fifteen, twenty… fifty more.
When the whole of the invasion force was visible, Jorah realized the Ironborn outnumbered them by at least two-to-one. Every one of those vessels was headed directly towards the blockade.
But he was not afraid. He would not let fear take ahold of him.
Slowly, very slowly, the Ironmen came further closer. They were headed due east. They did not deviate from their course in the slightest amount. Before too long, Jorah could see the crew on the bridges of the lead ships.
"Steady," Oberyn muttered softly, "Hold it steady."
He was speaking to the tense crew, not to Jorah or his daughter. Jorah knew why; the prince knew that neither he nor Nymeria would buckle or panic.
A small table had been moved onto the bridge. Jorah was standing next to it. His twenty-two pouches of black powder had been placed on the surface of the table.
When the Ironborn were five hundred feet away, he heard Lord Stannis announce "Throwers, at the ready!"
Along the length of the blockade, callers repeated his command: "Throwers, at the ready!"
At that, Nymeria brought Jorah a torch. He took it from her, but he did not light any of the pouches yet. The Ironborn were still too far away. He and the other throwers remained on standby.
Soon the Ironborn were four hundred feet away. Then three hundred, two hundred, one hundred…
Finally, when they were fifty feet away, Lord Stannis shouted "Pouches!"
Jorah and the other sixteen throwers each picked up one pouch of black powder.
A few seconds later, Stannis yelled "Ignite!"
Jorah promptly moved the wick of his first pouch to the flame of his torch. The oil-soaked string caught fire almost straightaway.
Very soon after, Stannis bellowed "Unleash!"
It took a moment for the flame to spread to the pouch's interior. Once it did that, Jorah focused on the nearest Ironman ship, drew back his arm, and flung the pouch at it.
The pouch landed on the port side of the bridge of the ship he had aimed at. Upon impact, the pouch detonated.
The damage it inflicted was minor, but lasting. One crewman had a leg blown off. Three more were thrown off their feet. A large hole was blasted into the ship's upper hull.
Sixteen more explosions were heard from all along the Iron Fleet's ranks. All of them were followed by the sounds of men screaming and wood splitting. Those sounds livened Jorah's spirits.
There is plenty more where that came from.
Stannis then announced "Release at your own will!"
Jorah picked up a second pouch, lit it, and tossed it at the same ship. This one landed near the mast, causing serious damage to the bough of the ship and setting it afire. Because of that, the vessel was unable to continue sailing in a straight line.
Jorah's third pouch landed at the base of the main sail. He managed to hit the rigging, which was demolished in the next explosion. As a result, the huge pole was in danger of collapsing, and the vessel was thrown off course.
Three more pouches, and the ship was scuttled. Jorah watched as the surviving crew struggled to abandon ship before it sank. He smiled in immense satisfaction.
Jorah and the other throwers managed to hinder the Ironborn's advance. However, they were unable to prevent it altogether. After each of the thrower had dispatched an average of nine pouches apiece, a number of enemy vessels finally reached Lord Stannis'.
Several of those vessels already had boarding parties assembled on deck. When they were close enough, they leapt aboard the ships of the royal army. Swords were drawn, and hostiles were engaged.
Soon, the air was filled with the clash of steel on steel and the battlecries of hundreds of soldiers. The black powder explosions became progressively more infrequent and fewer in number. Most of the throwers decided to abandon scientific warfare in favor of traditional combat tactics.
For a while, no Ironborn boarded the Lord Steffon. Jorah was free to continue using his pouches of black powder. He selected a target, took a pouch, set fire to the wick, chucked it at his target, and repeated the process many times.
Thirty minutes into the battle, Jorah noticed a certain warship twenty-five yards away. It was going awfully fast, nearly at ramming speed. He studied his surroundings, and he discovered that the warship was on a collision course with the Fury.
Jorah felt a surge of nervousness run through him. At this moment, the Fury had already been boarded by three other Ironborn vessels. So far, Lord Stannis, Ser Davos Seaworth, and the rest of the crew had successfully avoided being overwhelmed by the invading parties. However, they were all too preoccupied with the foe to notice the warship coming right towards them.
Jorah decided he had to intervene somehow. Unfortunately, his supply of black powder was nearly depleted. He did not have enough to sink the warship, or even cripple it. He could have attempted to call out to Lord Stannis, but the excess ambience drowned out his shouts.
Soon, Jorah concluded that the only way to save the Fury was if another vessel cut the warship off. Since no other Royal Army vessels appeared to have noticed the accelerating warship, Jorah surmised that the Lord Steffon would have to be the interceder.
Jorah hastily sought out the captain of the Lord Steffon and pointed out the warship to him. He explained his idea to save the Fury, and to his good fortune, the captain did not seem averse to it. Other than the ships around the Fury and the ones that were half-sunk, there were no other Ironborn vessels in the immediate area. So even if the Lord Steffon broke its position, there would be no risk of the Ironborn slipping through the blockade.
When the Lord Steffon started to move, Jorah focused his attention on the warship. When it was close enough, he was able to read the name printed on its side: Iron Fist.
His eyes widened when they saw those words. That was the name of the ship captained by Rodrik Greyjoy, Lord Balon's firstborn son and heir. Jorah and everyone else in Stannis' forces had heard that Rodrik would be leading the assault on Seagard. They had been given orders to capture him alive, if possible.
When the Iron Fist was ten meters from the Fury, the Lord Steffon lurched in front of the Royal Army's flagship. The Iron Fist attempted to alter course, but it only managed to turn five degrees port before it collided with the war galley. Both ships shook uncomfortably, but the hulls of both managed to withstand the force of the impact.
It took very little time for either crew to recover from the shock. Although the crew of the Iron Fist was furious that they had slammed into the wrong vessel, they were determined to make the most of this error. Rodrik Greyjoy could be heard shouting "Let's drown these greenlanders!"
Jorah promptly drew his sword Longclaw. His family's ancestral sword, made of Valyrian steel. It produced a shrill whistle when pulled from its scabbard.
Nearby, the rest of the crew was arming themselves, as well. Almost all wielded a sword. Oberyn Martell was twirling his spear in his hands. It moved so fast and so speedily that he almost appears to be waving a large black wheel around his body.
Nymeria Martell carried her whip in her right hand, and a long knife with a thin edge and a very tall point in her left.
Soon came the first boarding party. A wave of fierce, angry Ironborn climbed aboard the bridge of the Lord Steffon on the starboard side.
One of them immediately went for Jorah. He was yelling maniacally, swinging a Morningstar in the air. Jorah hastily dodged the spiked ball, maneuvered around the Iron warrior, and slashed him along the neck. He succeeded in opening the flesh between his opponent's throat and shoulder blade. The Ironborn shrieked as his life's blood leaked out of him. He was dead before he hit the deck.
Not ten feet away, another Ironborn had just engaged Nymeria Martell in battle. He was armed with a battle-axe, which he held in both hands. He sneered and spat "You'd make a fine salt wife."
Nymeria seemed amused by his overconfidence. She cheekily rejoined with "Maybe. Not for you, though."
She cracked her whip forward. It coiled around her adversary's left forearm. She gave the whip a tug, forcing him forward. When he was close enough, she raised her dagger and plunged it into his upper chest. Within moments, he dead on the deck, too.
Oberyn Martell proved to be the deadliest person currently aboard the Lord Steffon. Moving with exceptional speed and gracefulness, he took on three Ironborn at once, and all three were dead before ten seconds had passed.
Several of the Ironborn chose to stay clear of the prince, deciding to pursue less dangerous rivals. Many of them thought of Jorah and Nymeria as such. They soon discovered they had made a serious error in judgment.
Jorah and Nymeria stood back-to-back, offering any Iron warrior who dared approach to do so. Working together, they were able to dispatch any opponent who hoped to best them. The sounds of Longclaw hacking and Nymeria's whip cracking joined the many sounds that emanated all over Ironman's Bay.
When the first boarding party from the Iron Fist was almost obliterated, the second one came. A young man led this one. He could not have been older than twenty, but he had a beard that covered his cheeks, his chin, and his neck. The image of a kraken was imprinted on the front of his breastplate.
Jorah knew the instant he saw the lad; he was Rodrik Greyjoy.
Rodrik saw him just one moment later. When that happened, he smirked wickedly and brought out his own sword. Then he raised it in the air and signaled for his crew to charge.
Having no time to recover from the first boarding party, the crew restlessly moved to defend themselves against these new aggressors.
Jorah paid them no mind. His only interest was in their captain.
Slowly, the bear lord marched towards Rodrik Greyjoy, Longclaw in both hands. The heir to the Iron Islands retained his smirk and lifted his sword up high. He taunted Jorah with "Come at me, bear."
Jorah did just that. When he was upon Rodrik, he leaned back as though he was going to hack at his side… then he made a slash at the younger man's legs.
Rodrik was caught off his guard; he had expected the first blow to come from higher. He managed to dodge the blow in time, but it was immediately following by a thrust at his shoulder. This time, Rodrik parried Jorah's sword with his own. Then the two men were locked in combat.
Jorah Mormont had at least ten years and six inches over Rodrik Greyjoy. He soon discovered he was twice the swordsman, as well. Rodrik Greyjoy was by no means an amateur with a blade, but his crude, barbarian style had nothing on Jorah's disciplined, strategic approach.
Nonetheless, Rodrik was faster than Jorah. He was also the more agile of them. He evaded more blows than he countered. That more than compensated for his inferior swordsmanship.
Jorah realized that Rodrik was trying to exhaust him. He must have believed that if he kept him on his toes, he would wear the Lord of Bear Island out. And if not that, he would still keep Jorah preoccupied long enough for them to deal with the rest of the crew of the Lord Steffon. Based on how quickly the boarding parties were coming, there was a distinct possibility of that.
For those reasons, Jorah decided that this skirmish would have to end as soon as possible.
As he sparred with Rodrik, he took note of a number of exploitable openings in the younger man's technique and posture. However, all those attacks would have been fatal, and Jorah was still determined to capture him alive.
At last, he spotted something that he could use to his advantage without killing the kraken lordling. Whenever he hacked with his sword, he held it with both hands. The fingers of his right hand were always turned towards Jorah whenever he moved in on him. With careful timing and the correct angle of attack, Jorah could incapacitate him. There would be some irreparable damage done, but the order had only been to take Rodrik alive.
Alive… but not unharmed.
Jorah waited for Rodrik to attempt to hack at him again. When the heir to Pyke got into that stance, the Bear Island lord delivered an underhand cut at his arms.
Rodrik Greyjoy yelled in anguish as Longclaw bit into the skin of his right hand. It sliced deep in his flesh, cutting through muscle and bone alike.
Rodrik's sword clattered to the ground. Three of the fingers and part of the palm of his right hand fell with it. He dropped to his knees and clutched what remained of his right hand with his left one, groaning in agony.
Jorah did not allow him an opportunity to rebound. He gripped Rodrik by his shoulder, held Longclaw to his throat, and declared "Rodrik Greyjoy, by the authority of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell and King Robert Baratheon, I arrest you for the crimes of rebelling against the crown."
Rodrik was still in tremendous pain from losing part of his hand, but all the resistance seemed to have gone out of him. He gave a labored sigh and mumbled crossly "I… I yield."
Before long, the crew of the Lord Steffon managed to overpower the crew of the Iron Fist. Most of the Ironborn were put to the sword, but a few chose to surrender with their captain.
Within an hour, the entirety of Rodrik's armada had been sunk, seized, or put to flight. A number of Lord Stannis' ships had been lost, but it was a clear victory on the part of the Royal Army. Cheers ran all along their column as the surviving Ironborn vessels hastily made their way back towards the west.
After the battle, Jorah took charge of Rodrik Greyjoy and the other prisoners. Nymeria helped him bind them and escort them to the brig. On the way there, she congratulated him with "Good work subduing the kraken's heir, my lord."
Then she smiled at him. This smile of hers stood out to Jorah. It was very unlike the other ones she had given him. He found it to be warm, affectionate… and a little sensual.
That's not so different from the way Blinda used to smile at me.