Illusiveone
patreon
104: The Son of Ice and Fire, The North Remembers
🕑 Added 2025-02-03 00:45:38 +0000 UTCMonford Velaryon was having a grand time.
The salty sea wind hit his face as he stood on the deck of his new flagship, the Seadragon. It was her maiden voyage, but more than that—it was the first of a new breed of ships, the galleon, designed by none other than His Grace, King Maekar II himself. Built for war but also for exploration of the open seas, it could easily traverse the harshest waters.
The North had been the first to see these new ships in action during the Greyjoy Rebellion, using them to crush the Ironborn at sea. Now, Monford and the royal navy had been granted the designs, ensuring they stayed ahead in naval warfare.
Of course, this advantage wouldn’t last forever—sooner or later, others in Essos and beyond would copy the design—but for now, House Velaryon, House Redwyne, and the Crown controlled the future of seafaring.
“Monford!”
A familiar voice called from behind him. Monford turned to see Lord Paxter Redwyne, his good friend, making his way across the deck.
They had left Bloodstone half a day ago, and from there set sail toward Grey Gallows, the last true stronghold of the pirates that had long plagued the Narrow Sea.
Monford grinned at the old lord. “What do you think?” he asked, gesturing to the impressive galleons cutting through the waves beside them.
Paxter stroked his well-groomed beard, his eyes gleaming with approval. “I think, my friend, that we are going to rule the ten seas.”
Monford let out a booming laugh.
He had left the capital shortly after the king himself had departed on his quick and strange quest to the North. While the king ventured beyond the Wall for reasons still unknown to most, Monford had been commanded to assist Lord Paxter in stabilizing the Stepstones. If they could conquer the last major pirate stronghold, it would bring that troublesome chain of islands under the control of the Seven Kingdoms once and for all.
He had expected the galleons to take more time to complete, but to his surprise, the five galleons—and their new weapons—were ready sooner than anticipated. Now, here they were, sailing toward Grey Gallows to finish what they had started.
“Do you think the Free Cities will interfere?” Paxter asked.
Monford smirked. “They’re terrified of our king’s dragon. They won’t do shit.”
Paxter chuckled. “I must admit, I’m eager to see this frostfire in action.”
Monford nodded, his excitement barely contained. “It is glorious, Paxter. I saw it tested, and by the gods, no wonder the Northmen destroyed the Iron Fleet during the Greyjoy Rebellion.”
The old lord’s eyes gleamed. “More controlled wildfire at sea? It will make us unbeatable.”
Monford grinned. “Of course, Paxter. Our king has so many grand plans—if all goes well, I’m sure I’ll surpass my great ancestor, the Sea Snake himself.”
Paxter raised an eyebrow. “Those are bold claims, Velaryon. I assume His Grace plans to increase trade with the East as well?”
Monford nodded. “Yes, he does. And you, Paxter—I believe you have a role to play in that, too.”
Paxter nodded, his expression calm but thoughtful. “I answer directly to the Crown now, as part of the Heartlands.”
Monford tilted his head. “Has His Grace told you what your role is in his grand plans? Other than helping me govern the Stepstones, of course?”
Paxter’s eyes narrowed slightly. “We rule as equals, my lord. Do not forget that.”
Monford raised a hand. “I apologize. I misspoke.”
Paxter studied him for a moment before continuing. “His Grace has commanded me to explore the Summer Sea.”
Monford’s brow lifted. “The Summer Isles?”
Paxter nodded. “Yes. We’re to open trade routes with them first, then sail even farther south in search of new lands.”
Monford let out a low whistle. “I remember reading about a Dragonlord who tried to explore that far south once. It was written that he flew for three years over Sothoryos, and still he couldn’t find the end of it. All endless green, endless jungle.”
Paxter smirked. “Good thing we’re going by sea, then, eh?”
Monford laughed. It was rare to see a king so invested in naval matters—Monford planned to use it to his advantage as much as he could.
Paxter’s gaze drifted to the armored soldiers on the deck, standing with disciplined ease, their weapons secured but ready at a moment’s notice. “And how good are these new ‘marines’ of yours?”
Monford followed his gaze, pride gleaming in his eyes. The Royal Marines—part of the new army the king was building—were trained to fight both at sea and on land, experts in boarding, repelling attacks, and naval skirmishes.
“They’re freshly trained. Only a hundred have completed their training so far, but they’re the finest men I’ve ever had,” Monford said confidently. “They fight better at sea than any soldier in the Seven Kingdoms.”
Paxter studied them, then nodded approvingly. “We’ll see how well they do soon enough. The pirates won’t die easily.”
He paused and sighed, shaking his head. “While I admire the king’s interest in naval matters, one thing I cannot abide is allowing Ironborn into the Royal Navy—or ours, for that matter.”
Monford nodded, arms crossed over his chest. “I was like you at first. But I’ve seen how much knowledge they bring to the fleet.” He turned, watching as a few Ironborn sailors worked among his crew, their sea-worn hands deftly handling the rigging. “Think about it, Paxter. If the Ironborn are away from their hellhole of an island and serve us, we end the threat in the western sea forever.”
Paxter frowned, his gaze lingering on the Ironborn. “I still don’t trust them.”
Suddenly, a voice rang out from the crow’s nest.
“Lord Captain! Enemy fleet spotted!”
Monford spun around, his hand instinctively gripping the hilt of his sword. Paxter’s face hardened as they both strode to the edge of the deck, gazing out over the churning waves.
And there they were—the pirate fleet.
A great mass of black sails and patched hulls stretched across the horizon. Ships of all sizes—longships, galleys, and carracks—were packed so tightly they seemed to form a floating city upon the sea. Crude, mismatched banners flapped in the salty wind.
Monford’s eyes scanned them, assessing the situation.
Paxter cursed under his breath. “That must be over a hundred ships,” he said. “We have only forty. We should have waited for my fleet.”
Monford didn’t take his eyes off the enemy. “This is all we need.”
Paxter gave him a wary look. “I hope this frostfire of yours works.”
Monford grinned, the wind whipping through his silver hair. “Oh, it will.”
====
Monford watched as the pirate fleet surged forward, their war cries echoing over the water—a deafening roar carried by the salt-laden winds. Oars dipped and rose in perfect unison, their sleek, fast raiding ships slicing through the waves with terrifying speed. They were coming at them like a storm, a relentless tide of death and steel.
But they had never faced ships like these before.
Monford turned sharply, his lavender eyes scanning the formation of his fleet as he barked commands to his quartermaster. “Signal the other galleons! Prepare scorpions! Load the Frostfire bolts!”
A series of colored flags were hoisted up the masts of the Seadragon, and from the other four galleons in the fleet, the signal was repeated. On the deck of each ship, large ballistae mounted on the sides were cranked into position, their metal bolts tipped with glass bulbs filled with Frostfire.
Monford had arranged the Fleet in a deadly trap. The five galleons formed a wall at the center, their bulk and heavy firepower serving as the anchor of the formation. Behind them, dromonds were positioned—faster and more maneuverable than the galleons. They carried smaller scorpions, ready to fire flaming payloads into the heart of the enemy ranks.
Flanking the formation on either side were war galleys, their decks packed with men from the one hundred Royal Marines—armed with crossbows and boarding pikes—as well as Ironborn warriors.
Monford studied the oncoming fleet, his fingers tightening on the railing. His ships were outnumbered nearly three to one, but that mattered little. They had better ships, better weapons, and better men.
“They plan to smash through our center, like a hammer,” Paxter said, his voice measured but betraying a hint of concern.
Monford grinned. “Then that will be their undoing. It makes it easier for us to burn them all together.”
The pirates rowed harder, their ships surging forward like a black tide, confident in their numbers.
Monford waited. The scorpions were ready, the crews tense, fingers gripping the trigger mechanisms of the massive ballistae. He narrowed his eyes, watching the enemy fleet draw closer.
Not yet.
They drew even closer.
Not yet.
The first pirate ships entered range. Monford’s grip on the railing tightened.
“FIRE!”
The first volley of scorpion bolts was unleashed, soaring through the air and streaking toward the enemy fleet with a whistle of death. The bolts struck hulls, tearing through wooden planks, and then—
WHOOOOSH!
Pale blue-green flames erupted violently, consuming the ships from bow to stern. The pirates screamed as the unnatural fire clung to their flesh, burning them even as they leapt into the water—only for the flames to spread across the waves, igniting them where they swam.
Paxter took a step back, his eyes wide with shock and awe. “Gods… it works. It actually works.”
Monford laughed, his voice filled with exhilaration. “Like you said, my friend—we are going to rule the ten seas!”
After the initial bombardment, the pirates recovered from the shock. Though momentarily stunned, they quickly regained their nerve. Their warships adjusted course, oars dipping furiously as they tried to close the distance. Boarding was their greatest strength, and they knew it. Despite the flames consuming many of their vessels, the pirates pressed on, their battered ships zigzagging between burning hulks in a desperate attempt to reach the Royal Fleet.
Monford’s sharp eyes swept across the battlefield. He saw them coming—fast and reckless. He turned to his quartermaster.
“Bring the dromonds and galleys forward! Unleash the Frostfire throwers!” he commanded, his voice booming over the raging battle.
The orders were relayed instantly.
The dromonds and war galleys surged ahead, their sleek hulls slicing through the dark waters. They were outfitted with smaller versions of the scorpions, but now they revealed their true weapon.
From their bow-mounted flame cannons, pressurized Frostfire spewed forth in a continuous, searing blast.
Enemy ships ignited like kindling. Men screamed, their bodies engulfed in the eerie blue flames. Pirate vessels veered wildly, many colliding with one another as their decks were consumed by relentless fire.
One of the pirate flagships—a massive, three-masted war galley—charged forward, its reinforced hull pushing through the chaos. It aimed directly for one of the Royal galleons, intending to ram it, but before it could close the distance, a torrent of Frostfire erupted from a nearby dromond.
The galley’s deck was instantly engulfed in the unnatural fire. Pirates shrieked, desperately trying to douse the flames, but it was useless—the Frostfire clung to wood, sail, and flesh alike, consuming everything it touched. The ship veered wildly, engulfed in flame, before slamming into one of its own vessels, setting another pirate ship ablaze.
Monford’s jaw clenched at the cascading destruction. He turned to his signal officer. “Pull the fleet back! We don’t want to get caught in that blaze!”
The Fleet adjusted course, pulling away from the burning hellscape—but not without losses. Two of the dromonds had been too close to the firestorm, their hulls catching flame before they could escape. Despite their crews’ desperate efforts, both vessels were lost to the inferno.
Even so, Monford could see the pirates beginning to panic. Some ships fled, their captains realizing they could not hope to fight this unnatural fire. Others, blinded by rage, pressed on, desperate to grapple and board—but the Royal Marines were ready.
One pirate ship managed to latch onto a galleon, its boarding hooks clanking against the hull as raiders swarmed forward, swords raised high. But the Royal Marines were waiting.
As the pirates leapt onto the deck, the marines met them with steel and discipline. Blades flashed in the firelight as the trained warriors cut through the undisciplined raiders with cold efficiency. A pirate swung wildly, only for a marine to parry and drive his blade through the man’s chest. Another lunged with a dagger—only to be grabbed by the shoulder and hurled overboard.
Within moments, the pirates’ numbers dwindled, their morale shattered. The marines seized the enemy ship, cutting free the grappling lines and shoving the last raiders into the sea. The galleon broke away, the battered pirate vessel drifting aimlessly before another burst of Frostfire set it ablaze.
Paxter watched in awe, his eyes scanning the burning sea, the pirate fleet little more than wreckage and fire. He turned to Monford, a grin spreading across his face.
“We won… we fucking won. The Stepstones are ours!”
Monford exhaled, his blood still racing from the battle. He glanced at the burning horizon, then back at Paxter.
“Not until the island is taken.” His gaze hardened. “Signal the fleet. We move on Grey Gallows. This isn’t over yet.”
====
Grey Gallows had fallen as swiftly as the pirate fleet had burned.
Monford stood atop the fortified walls, gazing out at the endless blue expanse of the Narrow Sea. The Royal Fleet, the Velaryon fleet, and the Redwyne Fleet filled the harbors below, their sleek hulls rocking gently against the waves as sailors disembarked onto the newly conquered island. The Stepstones now fully belonged to the Iron Throne.
He had done what even the great Corlys Velaryon had failed to do.
“We did it,” Paxter Redwyne said, standing beside him, his tone filled with pride.
Monford nodded, his eyes still scanning the waters and the fleet below. “Yes, we did.”
Paxter’s gaze drifted toward the marines, watching them as they marched onto land in well-disciplined formations.
“Monford,” Paxter said, his voice quieter now.
“What is it, Paxter?” Monford responded, turning to face him.
Paxter hesitated for a moment, then said, “Do you think the Crown grows too strong?”
Monford’s brows furrowed, his expression darkening. “What are you saying, Paxter?”
Paxter shook his head. “Some of the king’s plans… I do not like them. This standing army, these marines… You and I both know what it means. Lords like us will lose power in time. The more men sworn to the throne, the fewer sworn to us.”
Monford narrowed his eyes. “You’re being paranoid. This is the beginning of a new golden age for our houses. The king has made us stronger than we ever were before.”
Paxter scoffed. “A Targaryen still rules us, Monford. And now once again with a dragon. I lived through Aerys’s reign. The moment the king stops listening to his lords… well, we both know how that ends.”
Monford’s expression hardened, insult flashing across his face. “You would speak the name of that madman in the same breath as King Maekar?” he asked, his voice laced with disdain.
Paxter sighed, rubbing his temple. “I find it strange that the king has not returned yet. It has been four months. Perhaps this is how his madness begins.”
Monford shook his head. “You’re thinking too much into it, old man.”
Suddenly, they were interrupted by hooves thundering against the dirt. A lone rider approached at speed, a knight clad in castle-forged steel armor.
Monford squinted. “Ah, see there—Ser Gawen. He must have the missives from the ship that arrived this morning.”
Ser Gawen dismounted swiftly, his boots kicking up dust as he landed. Without hesitation, he strode toward the two lords, kneeling before them with a fist over his heart.
“My lords, I bring important missives from the capital.”
Monford and Paxter exchanged a glance, then extended their hands. Ser Gawen pulled out two sealed letters, each stamped with the targaryen dragon sigil, and handed one to each of them.
Monford broke the wax seal, unfolding the parchment. His eyes scanned the words quickly, his brow furrowing in confusion.
The command was simple, yet absolute: All major lords of the realm are commanded by the king to travel to King’s Landing posthaste. Arrive within three months.
Monford looked up from the letter. “I assume it says the same?” he asked, turning to Paxter.
Paxter read his own missive, his jaw tightening. “A summons to the capital.”
Monford nodded.
Paxter exhaled sharply, tucking the letter into his belt. “Why?”
Monford glanced toward the sea, where their ships swayed in the breeze. “We’ll find out in three months,” he said.
.
.
.
Maekar watched as the lords of the North entered the Great Hall of Winterfell one by one, their faces set in courteous expressions and polite smiles—only to exit pale-faced and shaken, their steps hurried.
His uncle, Lord Brandon Stark, had already summoned the lords prior to Maekar’s arrival, intending to discuss the threat beyond the Wall. At the time, they had merely planned to speak of Mance Rayder and his gathering army of Free Folk.
Then he had arrived. And with him came something far worse.
Winterfell was overflowing with northern lords, yet nothing could have prepared them for what his men had brought. The moment the wights were revealed, the Great Hall had erupted into chaos.
Brandon had not been the same since—and neither had the other lords. Only Brandon knew the full extent of what Maekar knew, for Leaf had told him everything, and now Maekar had to explain the rest to them.
“Mother has not left the sept since she saw it,” Sansa’s voice broke through Maekar’s thoughts.
He turned to see his cousin standing behind him, her face pale, her hands clasped together as if to stop a tremor.
“Did you see it?” Maekar asked, his voice quieter than he intended.
Sansa nodded, her blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
“Maekar… We will win, right?” she asked, her voice cracking. “We won last time—can we not do it again?” There was an almost pleading note in her tone.
Maekar stepped forward, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders. He met her gaze, forcing confidence into his own voice.
“We are going to win, Sansa,” he said. “Remember, I have a dragon, and I will soon hatch more. I have all the Seven Kingdoms behind me. And we have a Wall, thanks to our dear ancestor the Builder—and that thing is not falling.”
A faint smile tugged at Sansa’s lips at the certainty in his words.
“I’m scared,” she admitted. “Cregan tries to act tough, follows Father everywhere, but he has nightmares every night since seeing it.”
Maekar sighed. It was to be expected—no child should have to witness such horror.
“Uncle Brandon wants you, Cregan, and Sara to come with me,” he said, watching her reaction carefully.
Sansa immediately shook her head. “No,” she said with sudden resolve. “My place is in the North. I am a Stark, and I will defend it.”
Maekar did not argue; he respected her choice. Starks did not abandon Winterfell.
He was about to speak when Sansa’s eyes widened, her lips parting in silent shock. She dipped into a bow. Maekar turned, already suspecting what—or rather who—he would see.
Leaf.
The small, ancient figure of the Earthsinger stood behind him, golden-green eyes observing them with an unreadable expression.
“Have the others left for the south?” Maekar asked.
Leaf nodded. “Yes,” she said. “And we thank you for the extra men and transport you provided. It will make the journey safer.”
Maekar waved a hand dismissively. “Anything you wish, Leaf. I promised you and your kin safe passage, and that is what you will have.”
Leaf inclined her head slightly, then stepped closer. “We should leave as well, Son of Ice and Fire,” she said softly. “You must begin preparations.”
Maekar exhaled. There was no time to rest.
He turned back to Sansa. “Find your father. Tell him to gather all the lords in the Great Hall.”
Sansa nodded quickly and hurried off.
Maekar turned back to Leaf. “I will need your help in dealing with the lords.”
Leaf simply nodded, and together they walked toward the Great Hall of Winterfell.
====
As they entered, the first thing Maekar noticed was the wights caged near the throne on the raised dais, their decayed hands clawing at the bars, hollow screams filling the air with an unnatural, deathly wail.
The lords of the North stood rigid, their faces set in grim expressions. Some glared at the creatures in horror, others in disbelief—but none could deny what they had seen with their own eyes.
Brandon stood near the cage, his gaze fixed on the wights. Unlike the others, there was no fear in his eyes—only resolve and cold determination.
As soon as the lords saw Maekar enter, noise rose in the hall—voices clashing, men speaking over one another.
“What madness is this, my king?”
“It is trickery, yes—some sorcery!”
“Impossible!”
“The dead do not rise!”
A dozen voices echoed through the chamber, swelling into a chaotic uproar. Maekar glanced at Brandon, who stepped forward.
“SILENCE!” Brandon Stark roared, his voice booming over the din.
The hall fell quiet as all eyes turned to the Warden of the North. Only then did they notice Leaf standing beside Maekar, and murmurs returned—hushed whispers rising like a wave as lords stared at the small, ancient being.
Maekar could hear their shocked voices.
“Gods preserve us…” muttered Lord Umber, his massive frame rigid with disbelief.
“The old tales are true,” whispered Lord Karstark, his face pale.
“The Age of Heroes come again…” came a stunned voice—Lord Flint.
Others simply stood in shocked silence, their eyes darting between the wights, Leaf, and Maekar.
Maekar raised his hand. “You have seen what is coming for us,” he declared, gesturing to the caged wights, their eerie screeching still filling the air. “The Long Night is upon us once more.”
The hall erupted again.
“Lies!”
“Impossible!”
“We would have known if such creatures existed!”
“The Wall has stood for thousands of years—it will hold!”
“What proof do we have that this is not some trick?!”
“Let the King speak!”
“QUIET!” Brandon Stark bellowed once more, his voice iron and fury.
Silence fell again.
Maekar’s gaze swept the room, his voice firm but measured. “You have all seen these creatures with your own eyes. You know this is no trick, no falsehood. You must have also noticed the figure that stands beside me.”
He gestured to Leaf.
The lords turned their attention to her again. Some stared in awe, others in skepticism, but none could deny the ancient presence before them.
“It is indeed one of the Children of the Forest.”
A hushed stillness settled over the chamber, the weight of those words pressing upon them.
“Gods…” someone whispered.
“Then the stories were true,” murmured another.
Maekar nodded. “I believe Leaf herself should be the one to address you first.”
Leaf stepped forward, her small form barely reaching the waists of the men towering around her.
“I am Leaf.”
The lords leaned in, captivated, as the small, ancient being spoke with quiet authority.
“I am what you men call a Child of the Forest—a name your ancestors gave us when they first crossed into these lands. You can call us Earthsingers, as your king does, but in truth, names matter little. What matters is this: doom approaches you. Doom approaches us all.”
An uneasy silence settled over the Great Hall of Winterfell. These northern lords—hardened warriors and rulers—shifted uncomfortably, their faces taut with tension.
“The ancient enemy, our ancient enemy, has awakened once more,” Leaf continued. “This time, they seek to win the war they lost eight millennia ago.”
The lords listened, their expressions shifting from awe to horror as they grasped the gravity of her words.
Then a voice broke the silence.
It was Lord Manderly who stepped forward, his large frame making the floorboards creak. His voice was heavy with concern.
“How can we fight them? We have all heard the tales of the Long Night…a winter lasting generations…countless dead…entire kingdoms consumed by the cold…” He shook his head. “How?”
Leaf turned to him, her gold-green eyes flickering under the torchlight.
“We win,” she said simply.
The hall stilled.
“This time, we do not simply endure—we end this threat once and for all.”
A few doubtful murmurs rippled through the assembled lords, but Leaf was not finished. “The champion who will lead us to victory has already been revealed.”
Her delicate hand gestured toward Maekar. “For he stands before you—your king. The Son of Ice and Fire.”
Gasps rippled through the hall. The lords’ eyes widened, some in shock, some in dawning comprehension.
Maekar saw Brandon Stark smiling, unsurprised. His uncle had known already. But the other lords—the stubborn, proud lords of the North—had needed to hear it from someone else. Someone like Leaf. Someone they could not deny.
Leaf pressed on. “Your king is chosen by all the gods in their combined fight against the Great Other. And you are to obey him—to follow him—without question.”
The fear in the room changed then, transforming into purpose and determination. Maekar felt the tension in the air dissipate.
A roar shattered the silence.
“Aye!” Greatjon Umber bellowed, stepping forward, his chest puffed with pride. “Our king from the North! The chosen of the gods! He will lead us to dawn!”
“Lead us to dawn!” Lord Dustin roared, slamming his fist against his chest.
Others took up the cry.
“King Maekar!”
“Lead us to dawn!”
“KING MAEKAR! LEAD US TO DAWN!”
Their voices rolled like thunder through the Great Hall, a resounding declaration of loyalty. Maekar smiled.
Brandon moved to stand beside him, his expression a blend of pride and unwavering resolve. He clapped a hand on Maekar’s shoulder. “A good start,” his uncle said.
Maekar watched the North rally around him, their chanting shaking the very stones of Winterfell.
“Yes,” he murmured. “A very good start.”
.
.
Comments
BEMA45
Great chapter! Awesome to see the naval power in action! Hope to se more of it. Cant wait for the reaction of the rest of westeros to wights and the approaching of the night king!
TyrantGod
Will flamethrowers and artillery be invented to assist against long night?
![Blue [K]nights from patreon](https://patrefans.com/kistorage/107130.jpg)
