Sorry, I thought it was just a common cold, but it's gotten worse these past two days, and I can't write many words. Please bear with me. I will try to catch up by the end of the month. Thank you.
Drums beat the rhythm of battle, and the Invincible Ironborn surged forward, its bow splitting the churning green water. The smaller ship ahead was turning, its oars slapping the ocean, the Rose flag fluttering in the wind: a white rose within a red shield sigil on the bow and stern, and a golden rose at the masthead, set against a grass-green background. The Invincible Ironborn slammed into her side with such force that half the crew preparing for boarding fell over. Oars snapped and splintered, a beautiful symphony in the captain's ears.
So he was the first to leap over the rail onto the deck below, his golden cloak streaming behind him. The White Roses recoiled from Victarion Greyjoy, fully armored and wearing a kraken helmet. It was always like this. They clutched longswords, spears, and axes, but nine out of ten wore no armor, and the remaining one wore only stitched scale armor. They were not Ironborn, Victarion thought scornfully, they feared drowning.
"Kill him!" someone shouted, "He's only one man!"
"Come on!" he roared back. "Come and kill me if you dare."
Rose warriors surrounded him from all sides, cold iron in hand, but their eyes were panicked. Victarion could taste their intense fear. He lunged and parried, lopping off the arm of the tenth man, cleaving the shoulder of the twentieth, and the thirtieth man buried his axe in Victarion's soft pine shield, and he backhanded the shield into the fool's face, knocking him down, then struck a killing blow as he tried to get up. He was struggling to pull his axe from between the dead man's ribs when a spear jabbed between his shoulder blades, feeling like a slap on the back. Victarion turned and swung at the spearman's head, steel splitting helmet, hair, and skull, a tingling sensation running up his arm. The man swayed for a moment, and when the Iron Captain pulled back his axe, the corpse sprawled on the deck, looking more drunk than dead.
By now, the Ironborn had followed him onto the attacked vessel. He heard "One-Ear" Worfe let out a howl, and glimpsed Ragnor Pyke entering the fray in rusty armor, while "Barber" Newt threw a spinning throwing axe that struck an enemy in the chest. Victarion killed two more in quick succession; he had meant to kill the thirtieth, but Ragnor got there first. "Well done!" Victarion shouted to him.
He turned to find the next victim for his axe and saw the enemy captain on the other side of the deck. The man's white coat was splattered with blood, but Victarion could make out the sigil on his chest: a white rose within a red shield sigil. The man's shield bore the same emblem, set against a red background, surrounded by a circle of white battlements. "You!" the Iron Captain roared amidst the slaughter, "The one with the rose! Are you the Lord of Southshield?"
The man lifted his visor, revealing a beardless face: "I am his heir, Ser Talbot Serry. And you, kraken?"
"Your death," Victarion charged at him.
Serry leaped up and met him. His steel sword was a fine piece forged in a castle, and the young knight wielded it with a whistling sound. His tenth strike aimed low, and Victarion deflected it with his axe, but before he could raise his shield, he was struck on the helmet by the twentieth blow. Victarion's axe retaliated from the side, and Serry blocked it with his shield, wood chips flying, and with a sweet, sharp crack, the white rose broke in two. Then, the young knight's sword repeatedly hammered his thigh, scraping against his iron armor. The boy was fast, the Iron Captain realized, so he rammed his shield into Serry's face, staggering him back towards the rail, then raised his axe high, putting his weight into it, intending to cleave the young man in two, but Serry twisted away. The axe slammed into the railing, sending splinters flying, and he tried to pull it out to strike again, but it was stuck. The deck swayed beneath him, and he lost his footing, dropping to one knee.
Ser Talbot threw away his broken shield and slashed down with his longsword. Victarion's shield had twisted to the other side when he fell, so he had to grab Serry's sword with his steel-armored fist. The joints of his iron gauntlet creaked, and a sharp pain made him grunt, but Victarion endured. "I'm fast too, boy," he said, snatching the sword from the knight's hand and throwing it into the sea.
Ser Talbot's eyes widened: "My sword..."
Victarion grabbed the young man's throat with his bloody fist. "Go find it!" He shoved him hard over the ship's edge into the blood-stained ocean.
This bought him time to pull out his axe. The White Roses retreated before the iron tide, some trying to escape below deck, others crying for mercy. Victarion felt hot blood flowing under his chainmail, leather armor, and iron gauntlets, down his fingers, but it was nothing. A large group of enemies gathered by the mast, continuing to fight, shoulder to shoulder in a circle. At least they were men, choosing death over surrender. Victarion intended to personally grant some of them their wish. So he struck his shield with his axe and charged.
The Drowned God had made Victarion Greyjoy not for arguing at a Kingsmoot, nor for fighting hidden foes in endless swamps. He was born to wear iron armor, wield a bloody long axe, and bring death with every swing.
They attacked from front and back, but their swords were like willow branches, unable to harm him. Nothing could cut through Victarion Greyjoy's heavy plate armor, and he would not give the enemy a chance to find weak points in his joints—there was only the protection of chainmail and leather armor there. It didn't matter if three, four, or five men attacked him; he killed them one by one, confident that his steel armor would withstand the remaining attacks. As each enemy fell, he transferred his rage to the next.
The last man must have been a smith: bull-like shoulders, one much thicker than the other. The man wore studded chainmail and a boiled leather cap. His only successful blow finally completely destroyed Victarion's shield, but the Iron Captain swung back with his axe and split his head in two. If only dealing with Crow's Eye were so simple. He pulled out his axe, and the smith's head seemed to explode, bone, blood, and brains splattering everywhere, the corpse falling forward to rest against his leg. It was too late to beg for mercy now, Victarion thought, shaking off the dead body.
By now, the deck beneath him was slick, littered with piles of dead and dying men. He threw away his shield and took a deep breath. "Commander," "Barber" was beside him, "Today's victory is ours."
The sea was covered with ships, some burning, some sinking, some shattered. The water between the hulls was like a stew, dotted with countless corpses, broken oars, and people clinging to wreckage. In the distance, a dozen longships belonging to the southerners were speeding away into the Mander River. Let them flee, Victarion thought, let them spread the story. Men don't run away with their tails between their legs.
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