The vanguard of the Seven Kingdoms fleet, Lord Redwyne's flagship.
Paxter Redwyne's bald head stung under the icy rain, a few strands of sodden auburn hair plastered limply to his scalp. Wiping the water from his face, he shouted to the ever-smiling "Laughing" Baelor beside him.
"Damn this weather, Baelor! We must take the fortress on Bloodstone Isle before this storm goes completely mad—give His Grace a place where he can eat a hot meal."
Baelor Hightower, heir to House Hightower, kept his trademark smile even in the raging storm.
He nodded, his voice carrying clearly over the wind and waves.
"The Hand reminded us again and again: His Grace's safety comes first. Our vanguard's duty is to clear the way, roll out the red carpet, and have the wine ready. May the so-called Valyria treasures on that island prove real—just one or two would be enough to amuse His Grace."
His tone was light, as if speaking of a feast.
"Treasures? Hmph!"
A slightly aged but vigorous voice cut through.
Moryn Tyrell, former commander of the Oldtown garrison and uncle to Lord Mace, wore open skepticism on his face.
"How much faith can we put in Jorah Mormont's words? He claims there are Valyrian steel swords on the island? I say he exaggerated whatever's inside Bloodstone to save his own skin."
For the first time, Baelor's smile faded. He sighed, his voice tinged with pity for his brother-in-law.
"My poor sister Lynesse—she is dearest to Ser Jorah's heart. But his intelligence on the island's defenses cannot be false. A mere five hundred rabble are nothing to fear."
"Look—the Westerlands!"
From the gunwale, Garlan Tyrell, Lord Mace's second son, shouted and pointed.
The Westerlands fleet, flying the golden lion banners, had abandoned formation. Their oars churned wildly as the ships raced past, surging at full speed toward the faint outline of the island through the rain.
Paxter's face darkened as grim as the storm clouds above.
The Lannisters dared to openly defy command!
And worse followed.
On the other flank, longships of the Iron Islands, flying the golden Kraken, shot forward like arrows loosed from a bow, charging through the storm at near-suicidal speed.
"Those damned bastards!!"
Paxter's roar was shredded by the gale, his whole body trembling with fury.
"Do they even know what they're doing?!"
Moryn Tyrell let out a cold, derisive snort.
"Seems someone took Ser Jorah's 'treasure talk' too seriously. Can't wait to ransack the island—afraid they'll be too late and someone else will snatch it all first."
A flash of memory struck Paxter: Kevan Lannister's pointed questions about Valyrian steel back on Dragonstone.
And then he understood.
So much for the coalition. So much for the kingdom's cause.
From the very moment these bastards set foot on their ships, all they had in their heads was Valyrian steel. They'd never seen him as their commander at all!
As if to prove him right, the Dornish ships suddenly picked up speed, joining the mad dash.
In the space of moments, the entire vanguard formation of the Seven Kingdoms collapsed.
Every ship, large or small, no matter its banner, rowed like crazed gamblers with bloodshot eyes, throwing themselves into a ridiculous race across the sea.
Their goal was the same: to be the first ashore on Bloodstone.
"Worthless fools! Row, damn you! Full speed ahead!!"
Paxter bellowed at his oarsmen, veins bulging at his temples. His warship from the Reach surged forward under his furious command.
"Bastards! A pack of ungrateful curs! Sailing in my ships, and they still dare play their tricks!"
He ground his teeth as he watched the ships scrambling ahead.
Baelor Hightower looked at the chaos born of greed and let out a heavy sigh.
"Whether there's treasure on the island hardly matters anymore. What matters is that every man here is convinced someone else will steal 'his' treasure."
Moryn Tyrell shrugged.
"Who can argue with that?"
...
Aft of the fleet, aboard the King's flagship.
Robert sat in the captain's cabin, clad in gleaming plate. He snatched a golden goblet of deep red wine from his squire's hand and drained it in a single gulp. The thick liquid ran down his black beard and dripped onto his breastplate.
Eddard Stark's brow tightened. "Your Grace, with the landing so close, you ought not—"
"Ought not what? Ought not drink?"
Robert bellowed with laughter, his breath heavy with wine as he slammed the empty goblet down on the table. "Only drunk do I have the strength to swing my hammer! Only then can I smash those pirate bastards' skulls—like rotten pumpkins!"
A savage, clouded light gleamed in his eyes.
At that moment, Renly entered, resplendent in enameled armor. He pulled Eddard aside, lowering his voice so the king could not hear.
"Lord Eddard, the vanguard's fallen into chaos. Redwyne and the others are charging toward Bloodstone like flies to blood, paying no heed to formation."
Eddard's face hardened. He strode out onto the storm-lashed deck.
The sight before him made his heart sink.
Ahead, the fleet scattered like a flock of broken sheep, stretching away from the main force amidst wind and waves. Banners whipped wildly; no order remained.
"What are they thinking?" Eddard snapped. "Why doesn't Lord Paxter rein them in?"
"A pack of fools," Renly sneered. "They just want to land before the storm breaks."
Eddard's gray eyes swept the tumultuous sea, then rose to the heavy clouds rolling at the horizon. A chill foreboding coiled around his heart like a serpent.
"I fear… it's not so simple," he said, his voice nearly drowned by wind and rain. "Still, if they take the fortress first, it may not harm His Grace's safety. The Hand commanded us to guard the king above all. If they seize Bloodstone first, all the better."
Jon's warning echoed in his mind.
"Lord Stark, did you leave your courage in Winterfell? Or are wolf pups born afraid of water?"
The lazy, mocking voice came from behind.
Jaime Lannister stood cloaked and armored in white, golden hair whipping in the gale, his handsome face twisted in that loathsome smirk.
Eddard turned, his expression hard as winter itself. "Ser Jaime, I don't believe you have the right to speak to me so. If I left my courage in the North, where is yours? Did you leave it behind when you betrayed your sacred vows? Kingslayer."
The grin froze on Jaime's face. His hand shot to the gilded hilt at his waist, fury blazing through the shame. "Stark! If you've any guts, let your sword speak!"
Great Lord Eddard answered coldly. "My Ice punishes only the guilty. The blood on your blade would only stain its name."
"You—" Jaime began, but his words were cut short.
CRACK!!!
A bolt of lightning split the black sky, flooding the sea in blinding white.
The flash carved every detail clear: the heaving storm clouds, the raging waves, the fleet in chaos, and the faces twisted with shock and fury.
Then came thunder, rolling and deafening, shaking the very air.
Rain lashed down in sheets, the gale drenching deck and men alike, quenching the fire of drawn swords.
Eddard stared at the sky as the light vanished, then turned to Renly. "Lord Renly, we may need to hasten as well..."
"Look! The sky—look!!"
A soldier's voice, shrill with terror, pierced wind and thunder.
All eyes followed his trembling finger upward, toward the lightning-lit depths of the storm clouds.
In that ruinous white glare, the shadow of something vast as a mountain wheeled in the sky, etched into every eye.
The light died. Darkness reclaimed the world.
Silence.
Only the storm's roar remained on deck.
The men stood frozen. What was that?
Before they could look again, the heavens were black once more.
A bead of cold sweat slid down Eddard Stark's brow. He longed to say he had seen nothing, yet his sharp eyes had caught enough—a glimpse that filled him with dread.
He spun and ran for the cabin, shouting, "Retreat! Get His Grace out of here!!!"