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The council chamber at Riverrun smelled faintly of smoke and damp stone, the echo of distant river cries still lingering in the rafters. Hoster Tully sat at the head of the table, Brynden at his shoulder, as his bannermen filed in one by one, faces lined with awe, exhaustion, or barely concealed fear.
Lord Vance broke the silence first. "By my count, the Ironborn lost at least seventy men, their bodies recognizable, though many others were… unrecognizable, as if cleanly dissected. Our own losses were minimal—only a dozen, by my reckoning. Still, the villages…" His voice faltered as he gestured toward the smoke-stained walls beyond.
"They speak of a ghost," Lord Piper said, leaning forward. "A shadow on the river, cutting them down before our men could even strike. Some claim… magic. Sorcery. Assahi, perhaps." His words drew a sharp glance from Brynden.
"Assahi or not," Brynden said carefully, "we cannot rely on the miraculous. Psychological advantage is one thing, superstition another. But fear of this shadow will weigh on the Ironborn—useful, if we manage it wisely."
Hoster's fingers tapped against the table. "We must be honest with our allies, but measured. Ravens will fly to Mallister, to the northern lords, and to King's Landing. We report Ironborn casualties, our own losses, and the fact that the villages survived. How much of… the shadow, we leave unsaid."
Lord Bracken scowled. "And what of the dead? The villagers counted nearly a hundred Ironborn, bodies floating in the river or burned aboard their ships. If we make this sound too fantastic, some will dismiss it. Too mundane, and the Crown will see only what they see—numbers."
Brynden nodded. "We report the facts—numbers, locations, outcomes—but leave the tale of the shadow to the whispers. Let the Ironborn fear it. Let the Riverlords believe it."
A scribe scuttled forward with parchment. "Ravens can be ready by dawn, my lord. Messages to Maidenpool, the Lords of the North, and King's Landing itself."
Hoster exhaled. "Then do it. Include casualty figures, the Ironborn losses, and the survival of the villages. Nothing more. And reinforce our own defenses—the Riverlands cannot be left exposed while we wait for the Crown."
Vance muttered, half to himself, half to the room. "A shadow, yes… or a god walking among us."
"Call it what you will," Brynden said, voice low. "It is our favour, if we can keep the men from expecting miracles at every turn."
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Far to the west, the remnants of the Ironborn fleet were scattered along the Red Fork. Three longships had been lost—burning, sinking, their crews either dead or floundering in the river. Only one vessel remained seaworthy, its captain nowhere to be seen.
Hours later, a lone survivor staggered into the encampment of the remaining Ironborn forces, soaked, charred, and trembling. His armor hung in tatters, hair matted with soot and blood. The men recoiled as he collapsed before their commanding officer.
"I… I saw it… the shadow…" he gasped, eyes wide. "Death itself walked the decks… faster than men… faster than fear… every man—gone before I could strike! The ships… the flames… the river—our men drowned before they knew what struck them!"
The captain grasped him by the shoulders. "Speak clearly! What do you mean, man?"
"They… they were no men!" he shrieked, shaking. "A shadow! A ghost! A demon! It moved like the wind, faster than swords, faster than eyes could follow! I… I watched friends—my brothers—cut down before my blade even reached them! I… I survived… only to tell! Only to tell y...you!"
The Ironborn around him whispered prayers and curses, wide-eyed and shaken.
The captain listened in grim silence, jaw tight with fury and disbelief. When the survivor finally quieted, he rose. "Enough. You survived, and that is all that matters now. Gather what men remain, tally the dead, and prepare a report. Every ship lost, every man felled—we must account for them. And send word to Dagon himself. Let him know the fleet suffered grievously."
He turned to the survivor. "Your words will be noted, but not repeated beyond this room. The higher authorities need facts, not hysteria."
The men worked quickly, estimating losses. Three longships were destroyed, each with crews numbering roughly thirty to forty men. Nearly a hundred Ironborn lay dead—drowned, burned, or cut down. The surviving captain penned the report with grim efficiency, detailing the ships lost, approximate dead, and remaining forces. Only then did he seal the message, ready to dispatch it via raven to Dagon and other command posts overseeing the fleet.
As the raven winged its way north, carrying the grim report, the survivor muttered under his breath, eyes still wide. "The shadow… death itself… it waits…"
The captain scowled, but even he felt the chill of the memory, knowing the fleet's defeat had been more than mere misfortune.