They were sailing into the last storm of summer.
Wind howled across the narrow sea like some angry god loosed from his chains. Its waters moved black and wrathful beneath a sky of iron. Every swell lifted the fleet toward the heavens before casting it back into valleys of foaming darkness.
The deck of the Mermaid's Tears groaned beneath Arthur's boots as the ship climbed another towering wave. Her hull groaned, oak beams ached beneath the strain, ropes shrieked through the blocks, and the great mast bent so far he wondered if it would snap before the storm was through with them.
Rain came not as drops but as sheets, cold enough to numb a man's face. It stung the eyes and stole the breath from Arthur's lungs. Even the most veteran of sailors seemed to cry out beneath the sea's punishment. Every few moments another wave crashed over the bow, sending sailors sprawling as barrels and coils of rope broke loose despite being lashed down.
Most of the sails had been struck down hours ago. Only a single reefed foresail remained, stretched taut against the gale like a soldier refusing to yield. Any more canvas and the wind would have torn the masts clean from the hull.
Arthur stood beside Commodore Hothor, at the helm, with one hand braced against the rain-slick rail. Water rushed across the deck around his boots. The storm had found them off the eastern coast of Tarth, last night, all of a sudden. Since then they were sailing blindly making their way down south.
Somewhere beyond the grey curtain of rain lay the south western coast of Tarth and the isle of Morne, where the pirate king's fleet had last been sighted. The outlaws of the Stepstones had gathered in strength once word of Arthur's coming spread across their islands. Instead of scattering as lesser raiders might have done, they had crowned a king of their own to meet the invasion.
Pirates with a crown. The thought might have been amusing back in winterfell,
A ship from the Manderly harbor of Tarth had reached them as Arthur was sailing to dock there. Aurane Waters had sent it bearing word of the pirate fleet. They had learned of the enemies while feasting at Evenfall Hall. Aurane being the cunning sailor as always sent a messenger with his plans.
The commodore intended to sail around the eastern coast of Tarth, using the island itself to hide his approach. While Arthur and King Robert would continue south along the western coast. If wind, tide, and fortune remained with them, both fleets would arrive together. The pirates would see the king's banners closing from either side, like the pincers of a crab. The plan would only work if they have the favor of gods.
Arthur spat rainwater from his lips and glanced at the black sky. Above them the clouds churned like smoke from some giant forge, Thunder burst overhead. The sound rolled across the sea like the hammer of the Smith striking the world itself. He thought, but today the gods seemed to favor no man.
The Mermaid's Tears shuddered beneath another crashing wave, when a voice answered the storm.
"GODS I FEEL ALIVE!"
The roar carried across the deck as if the wind itself had spoken.
Arthur turned.
King Robert Baratheon came striding up from below through the hatch, ducking beneath the lintel with a curse as the ship lurched beneath him. He had not bothered with a crown.
Only a heavy black cloak clasped across broad shoulders, already plastered against him by the rain. His beard streamed with water, his dark hair hung loose around his face, and his blue eyes shone with the same fierce delight they always held before battle.
The storm seemed unable to diminish him. If anything, it made him larger. He laughed as another wave crashed over the bow, soaking him from head to heel."Ha! That's better than wine!" Several sailors nearby grinned despite themselves.
Robert clambered across the slick deck with surprising balance for so large a man. A younger sailor slipped while hauling a line. The king caught him by the collar with one hand before the sea could drag him away.
"Easy there, lad." Robert shoved the man back toward the mast. "I've no wish to explain to your mother how you drowned before seeing a single pirate."
The sailor bowed and stammered his thanks but Robert had already forgotten him. His eyes found Donnel standing amidships, barely clinging on to the deck and cursing the storm.
"There you are!" The king strode over. Without warning he drove a great hand into Donnel's shoulder.
The blow rang against steel. Donnel lurched a full pace before catching himself against the rail. Water sloshed beneath his boots as he found his footing once more.
Arthur watched with quiet surprise. Few men alive could move Donnel by sheer strength. His sworn shield was a massive fellow, broad through the shoulders and thick as an old oak. Yet Robert had struck him as a father cuffed an unruly son. They had not named him the Demon of the Trident for naught.
"Doesn't this remind you of Dragonstone, eh, Donny boy?" Robert bellowed over the wind, laughter booming from his chest. "Gods, that was a fight."
Donnel wiped rain from his beard with the back of a mailed glove. "Aye, Your Grace," he answered with a grin. "A bloody good fight."
"A bloody good fight?" Robert barked another laugh. "That's all you've to say?"
He planted both hands upon the rail and stared into the raging sea. "I thought the gods themselves meant to drown us before we reached those cursed rocks."
Donnel laughed, "Aye, that's why we could only leave with half of their fleet."
Robert laughed again. "Willaim was not pleased."
Robert's Kingsguard clustered near him, the white cloaks plastered to their armor by the rain. Arthur almost smiled. They watched Robert more closely than they watched the sea as if the storm itself might try to drag him overboard.
But Arthur knew no tempest born of wind and water seemed capable of mastering Robert Baratheon. The greater danger was that the king himself would leap overboard should he spy an enemy sail.
Even thickened by years, wine, and too many feasts, Robert remained a formidable sight.
The rain flattened his black hair against his brow, his beard glistened with seawater, and his cloak snapped behind him like the wings of some great bird. His belly had grown broad, yet his shoulders still seemed too wide for any cloak a tailor could fashion. There remained something immense about him that no softness had managed to bury. Standing upon the quarterdeck amidst thunder and crashing seas, he looked less like a king grown idle than a man who belonged to the storm itself.
Arthur had seen him fight once during the Greyjoy rebellion, he knew the warrior that still lived beneath the flesh. Age had dulled neither the strength in his arms nor the fury that was within him.
Three of the Kingsguard had come with the king.
Lord Commander Barristan Selmy stood nearest, one hand resting lightly upon the pommel of his sword despite the pitching deck beneath his feet. The old knight seemed unmoved by wind or water alike, as his pale blue eyes never ceased their watch, drifting from the sea to the king and back again.
Beside him were Ser Arys Oakheart, broad-shouldered and brown-haired. Though younger than Selmy by many years, the young knight held himself well. Along with them stood Ser Mandon Moore, a knight of vale, whose pale face looked carved from ice. His cold eyes swept over the black sea with the detachment of an executioner awaiting the command to strike.
Arthur regarded them for a moment. Three of the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms. Men who could stand against any swordsman living and protect the king. They could guard him from poisons and bolts. But he knew none of them could guard the king against his own heart.
For them, keeping Robert Baratheon from battle was a task that would prove harder than facing the pirates. Once blood was in the air the old stag would charge as he always had, head first into the battle with the fury of a storm. Arthur had seen enough of Robert to know that truth.
Yet Arthur still had to try and save his king. That is why he had tasked poor Donnel with that impossible duty. Keep the king alive.
No grand command had ever sounded so simple. None had ever been harder. Donnel had been ordered to remain at Robert's side no matter the king's temper, no matter his curses. Fill his cup. Remind him of old victories. Keep him laughing. Do anything short of striking him unconscious if it kept him from throwing himself into the thickest fighting.
Arthur almost pitied his sworn shield. But he knew if there was anyone who could stand between Robert and certain death it would have been Donnel, for he had done it once before.
Another bolt of lightning split the sky.
"My lord, the storm is getting worse," Hothor shouted over the wind. The commodore braced himself against the rail as the ship lurched beneath them. "By my reckoning we ought to be nearing Tarth by now."
"But the gods have stolen every sign from us." He glanced into the endless curtain of rain."We've no sight of the coast. No stars or cliffs. What do we do?"
Arthur lifted his gaze to the churning clouds above. Thunder rolled again, long and deep. There was nothing beyond the rain. The storm had stripped every certainty from them. One mistake now… An entire fleet might founder without ever seeing an enemy sail.
Arthur lifted his face into the rain. "The wind still blows from the east."
Hothor nodded. "Aye."
"Then our heading remains true." Arthur shouted back. "We keep sailing, Commodore."
The first mate frowned, "My lord, shouldn't we try to find the coast?"
"No," Arthur replied firmly, "We head for the winds. If we turn now, we will be swept straight into the cliffs."
Arthur turned towards Hothor and ordered, "The sea is safer for now. Keep the fleet away from the coastline. Once the storm breaks, we'll take our bearings anew."
Arthur looked at the storm and said, "If the gods meant to drown us, they would've done so already."
Hothor gave a sharp nod, "Aye, my lord." He turned at once, roaring fresh orders to the crew. Sailors scrambled through the rain, hauling lines, tightening knots, cursing the wind as the Mermaid's Tears fought the sea.
When the storm came, Arthur had ordered the fleet to try and outrun it. The oarsmen on the galleys had pulled until their shoulders burned, the sailors at the carracks had chased every favorable gust, and Commodore Hothor had altered course twice in hopes the black clouds would drift north.
But the wind had shifted and the storm swallowed them whole. So, Arthur had chosen the only course left. Meet the storm head-on and cut through it instead. Better to wrestle wind and sea than be driven blindly upon the reefs that guarded Tarth's coast.
Arthur turned and made his way down the stairs leading down to the main deck. Nightfall rested against his hip, and his hand touched its hilt. For some reason the Valyrian blade seemed strangely comforting to him amidst the storm.
The moment Robert caught sight of him, the king's broad face split into a grin. "Arthur, my boy!"
He spread both arms wide as though welcoming an old companion into a warm alehouse rather than greeting him aboard a vessel pitching through towering seas. "How much longer must I wait before I get to crush some pirate scum's skull?"
Several nearby sailors laughed despite the weather.
Arthur stopped a few paces away, rain dripping from his hair and cloak. "Soon, your grace," he answered evenly, "but first we must survive the storm."
He glanced toward the darkness beyond the bow. "The pirates have likely sought shelter near Morne or some cove upon Tarth by now. If we keep to our course and pass the storm, we shall find them. I've little doubt of that."
The old stag laughed heartily, "By the gods, I cannot wait for it to start." He looked toward the dark sea as if he might already see the battle waiting there. "I've grown sick of councils and parchments. Sick of lords arguing over lands by claiming whose grandfather pissed farther into a river."
He spat into the waves. "Steel speaks more honestly."
Arthur smiled faintly. "It also leaves fewer men alive to argue."
"Aye!" Robert slapped the rail. "And that's another blessing borne of war."
"Land ho!"
The cry rang from the masthead, sudden and sharp enough to cut through the groaning timbers of the fleet.
Every man upon the Mermaid's Tears turned toward the bow. The wind slackened as if some unseen hand had drawn a curtain aside. The rain thinned to scattered drops and the black clouds broke apart overhead. Sunlight spilled across the sea in pale gold.
Arthur stepped toward the rail and felt the flagship steady beneath him as they sailed out of the storm's shadow. Around them the rest of his fleet emerged from the departing storm one vessel after another, grey ghosts becoming ships once more.
Men cheered and laughed. They crossed themselves, thanking the Seven for delivering them alive.
"I'll thank the gods after we're ashore." Donnel muttered.
Robert barked a laugh.
Ahead, land rose from the sea. Morne. Arthur knew.
At first it appeared little more than a dark swell upon the horizon, but with every passing moment the island revealed itself. Steep green slopes climbed from narrow beaches of pale stone, while dense forests cloaked much of its lower reaches.
Beyond it loomed the greater mass of Tarth, the Evenstar's island. Its chalk-white cliffs caught the sun until they gleamed almost golden, standing proud above the blue waters that washed their feet. Between the two stretched a narrow strip of sea, calm and serene. The water there shone a clear blue, bright as polished glass.
Arthur's gaze drifted upward toward Morne's heights. The mountains there rose jagged against the clearing sky, their slopes wrapped in pine and oak. Somewhere beyond those wooded ridges lay the ancient ruins of a city. A place that had stood abandoned longer, perhaps, than the coming of the Andals.
Arthur remembered reading Kin of the Stag beneath the quiet halls of White Harbor. Maester Hubert had dismissed the old tales as no more than singers' fancies. There had been no city of the First Men, Hubert insisted. Instead, he claimed Morne had once been the seat of the ancient Andal kings who ruled Tarth before Evenfall Hall rose to prominence.
The runes that were found later carvings, the maester claimed. Arthur had never been convinced. Maesters preferred certainty. But true history rarely obliged them.
Arthur had never been to the isle before, never seen the ruins. Never walked beneath its shattered arches. Never placed his hand upon stones older than the Seven Kingdoms themselves. Part of him wished this expedition had been one of peace. He would have gladly spent days amongst those broken halls, measuring walls, reading weathered carvings, proving or disproving Hubert's claims for himself.
Instead… his war had brought him here.
Commodore Hothor's voice cut across the deck. "All hands on deck! Make sail you lousy dogs!"
The brief stillness vanished at once. Sailors sprang into motion, swarming the rigging like ants upon an oak. Men hauled sodden canvas from where it had been lashed down through the storm, their hands red and raw from rope-burn. Blocks squealed as the yards swung into place, while fresh wind caught the sails one by one. The flagship leaned gently to larboard.
Then another cry rang from above. "Look alive! Black sails!"
Arthur moved quickly to the broadside. Drawing the brass far-eye from his belt, he rested it against the rail and peered across the narrowing waters. The world leapt closer and he noticed the enemy ships. The pirate fleet hugged the narrow waters between the two isles, their long war galleys drawn up in loose formation.
Black sails and patched canvas fluttered above with every hue imaginable. These vessels were so often repaired that little of their original timber remained. Many bore grotesque devices painted in tar. A grinning skull. A blood-red kraken. A chained mermaid. A green serpent swallowing a crown and so on.
His gaze swept slowly across the enemy line. Men crowded every deck. He glimpsed mail glinting in the sun, spearpoints catching the light, archers already stringing bows. Axes were being sharpened. Shields stacked. Helmets buckled. These were no scattered raiders surprised in their coves. They had come ready for war.
Arthur counted as best he could through the glass and muttered, "Near fifty of them."
"Seven hells," Donnel muttered as he joined him at the rail. Water still dripped from his beard as he followed Arthur's gaze across the strait. "That's a proper fleet, what's the plan Arthur?"
Before Arthur could answer, Robert Baratheon laughed, "The plan?" he said grinning, "The plan is we charge and crush these pirate scums!"
The king sounded pleased, as though the sight of fifty enemy ships had done nothing but improve his morning.
Several nearby knights grinned despite themselves.
Robert continued. "Look at them. They've even done us the courtesy of gathering in one place and saved us hunting every miserable pirate bastard from here to Bloodstone."
Arthur remained silent as his mind turned. The pirates had chosen their ground well. The strait between Morne and Tarth was narrow enough to rob larger ships of freedom, yet broad enough for scores of oared galleys to maneuver. The water there was almost tranquil. Perfect water for war galleys. Death for deep-bellied carracks.
Arthur counted his own strength in silence. His fleet numbered ten carracks, six galleys, and eight caravels. A strong force in open waters where wind filled their sails and their height ruled the fight. But here... they would be slow, clumsy beasts surrounded by wolves.
Yet if they stay in the open ocean, this too would be their death. As the wind was dying, the storm had moved its path. Without strong winds his carracks would wallow like fat merchants while the galleys darted between them, swarming them from every side by their sheer numbers.
Arthur's eyes drifted once more across the water, as he watched with the far-eye raised, studying and searching the coastline of Tarth instead. Then he saw it. A narrow reef reached outward from Tarth's shore like a crooked finger pointing into the sea. Grey stone disappeared beneath pale water.
Even from this distance he could see the current breaking strangely there. Foam curled over hidden rocks. Jagged teeth lurked just beneath the surface, waiting for the careless. One misplaced stroke of the helm. One frightened oarsman pulling too hard. A hull ripped open from keel to waterline.
He studied the reef carefully. It curved outward. Shielding one flank completely. No galley captain in his right mind would dare row too close to it. Too shallow, too treacherous. A natural wall.
Arthur's fleet was smaller but it was balanced. Heavy hulls for strength, lighter ships for speed. With the right ground beneath them, they could hold. They could steal the pirates' advantage.
A faint smile touched his face as he called out, "Commodore!"
Hothor wasted no time. The old sailor bounded down from the quarterdeck, boots hammering across the wet planks. "What is your command my lord?"
Arthur did not waste words. "Look there." He pointed toward the crooked reef. "We will build the crescent moon inside that. Raise the flag."
Hothor followed his finger and his expression shifted as the meaning dawned. For an instant the commodore merely stared. Then understanding lit his weathered features. A slow grin creased his scarred face. "Aye..." He chuckled. "...that'll bloody sting them."
Without another word Hothor wheeled about. His voice exploded across the flagship. "Hard to starboard! Raise the blue flag! Signal the whole fleet! Move, you lazy bastards!"
Arthur's naval commanders had been trained in such tactics, his academy of knowledge was not just meant for science, it was also for war. Signal flags climbed the mast as sailors scrambled through the rigging. The fleet began to turn.
Donnel stood beside Arthur watching the maneuver. When he saw where the ships were heading, a grin spread across his face. "Ah," he said with a low laugh. "I see what you are planning."
Ser Arys Oakheart stepped closer, "Pardon my ignorance, my lord, for I have spent most my life ashore than afloat," the knight said, glancing at the pirate fleet gathering in the strait. "What is this plan?"
Arthur welcomed the question. He turned toward Oakheart. "The Crescent Moon," He said, his voice calm despite the haste surrounding them, "is a defensive battle line. The ships form a broad arc, much like its namesake. We anchor the ends upon the sea itself."
He pointed with a gloved hand toward the reef. "Our galleys will take the shallows where their lighter draft can ride safely over the sandbars. The carracks will hold the deeper water beyond, where the jagged reef guards their flanks from encirclement. Between them we place the caravels. They are swift enough to answer wherever the line begins to bend."
Oakheart followed his gesture, his brow furrowed.
"So the reef becomes akin to a motte." Barristan Selmy answered as understanding flickered across his lined face. "You are doing this so you can control where they attack."
Arthur inclined his head slightly. "Precisely, ser. Every battle begins before swords cross. If a commander allows his foe to decide where he fights, he has yielded half the victory already."
The Lord Commander looked again toward the reef, measuring the distances with a soldier's eye. "So the reef and the coast becomes our castle."
"They will have only two roads of attack left to them due to this formation." Arthur replied
"I know this one." Robert Baratheon laughed loud enough for half the fleet to hear. "The bastards must either smash themselves against those floating castles of yours or rush the galleys."
Aye, Your Grace," Arthur replied. "If they charge at the carracks which would be placed on a tilted angle with the heavier and higher broadsides faced for impact. Their angled hulls and bows would be enough to turn the force of any ram. And those who wish to board will find themselves climbing into a storm of quarrels, arrows, rocks, boiling sand, and steel. Meanwhile our galleys can ram against them from their position."
Hothor had returned from the helm, a crooked grin spread beneath his moustache. "And if they charge the galleys, our carracks will stay in position until they commit," the commodore said proudly, "Once they do, they'll find themselves inside the leviathan's jaws."
"Gods!" Robret bellowed, striking his mailed fist against the rail. "I knew there was a reason I named you my right hand man."
Arthur allowed himself a thin smile.
Arthur watched the line form. Their ships slid into place one by one along the reef, their hulls groaning as anchors were made ready.
"Drop anchor!" Arthur shouted.
Chains rattled and splashed into the sea as the anchors were cast. The Mermaid's Tears took her place at the outermost point of the formation, the tip of the crescent facing the channel where the pirate fleet advanced.
Arthur glanced toward the approaching ships. The pirates had seen what they were doing. Their galleys fanned across the water like black-winged birds, oars beating the sea in steady rhythm. They were coming.
At the prow of the flagship Robert Baratheon stepped forward.
The king looked every inch the warlord he had once been. He wore his crown again, which gleamed faintly beneath the clearing sky, rain still dripping from the thick black of his beard. At his feet he set down his great warhammer, the iron head heavy enough to split shields like twigs.
Robert rested both hands upon the haft and looked across the deck at the gathered men.
"Look at them," he began, his voice carrying over the wind with effortless strength. "Do you see their colors? Black sails, black hearts."
Lord Eddard had once said the king had been born to command armies. Standing upon the prow of the Mermaid's Tears, with the sea at his back and war before him, Arthur understood why.
His blue eyes swept over the men, "Now look at yourselves. See your colors. Blue, white, green, gold... the colors of honest men. Bold sails and bolder hearts. Every one of you."
A murmur spread through the ranks. The men began stamping their boots upon the deck. Spears struck shields, swords thudded against wood. The noise built slowly at first, like distant thunder gathering across the hills. Everyone could feel the change in the air, the tightening shoulders, the heat that rose when battle drew near.
"Those bastards have forgotten whose waters these are." Robert bellowed. "KINGS they call themselves. Pirate whoresons wearing driftwood crowns claiming to be king of the narrow sea."
Laughter burst from the men.
"They crawl from the Stepstones like lice from a beggar's beard and stand at the doorsteps of our home." Robert pointed toward Tarth's pale cliffs rising beyond the strait. "Behind us lies the Stormlands. Behind that, the Seven Kingdoms, our home. There we have our wives, our children. Our fathers' graves."
"If these reavers think they'll make their kingdom here..." His voice hardened. Robert hefted the hammer onto one shoulder. "...then today we'll teach them what sort of kingdom waits beneath the sea."
The men roared in fury.
"They say a pirate's home is the sea. Well today you and I will make that saying true." He lifted the hammer from the deck, and pointed toward the pirate fleet. "I don't want prisoners, and I don't want any show of mercy. I want the sound of their hulls cracking and the sight of their black sails burning!"
The men roared in answer. "Kill them all!"
Robert spat over the side. "The narrow sea only knows one king and it is the storm."
Lightning flickered far out upon the retreating storm.
"Today, we are that storm! The first storm and the last!" Robert raised the hammer high above his head. "OURS IS THE FURY!!"
The decks erupted with cheers. Men slammed their shields harder now, the rhythm spreading from ship to ship across the crescent line. The shout rolled across the water like a war horn.
The fleet answered as one. "HA HOO! HA HOO! HA HOO!"
Shields rang, blades clashed against armor, and the sound carried across the sea toward the approaching pirates. Arthur watched the enemy ships draw nearer, their oars cutting through the blue water as the battle crept toward them.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Throw some stones this way if you enjoyed the chapter, let's try to reach the ranks.
Enjoying the story? You can read chapters up to 7 weeks ahead of everyone else and support the story on Patreon. The story is up to chapter Seventy-Eight on Patreon.
patreon(dot)com/KSR_TBP
Replace the (Dot) with a .
Also come hang out on Discord: https://discord.gg/w3EWNyH2c
(Let me know if the discord link doesn't work)