Arvid took a steady breath, locking eyes with Varek and the rest. He gave a firm nod. It was time.
A single whistle cut through the air.
In an instant, chaos erupted.
Tyr was the first to move, his broadsword slicing clean through the throat of the nearest Velaryon guard before the man could even draw his weapon. Blood sprayed across the wooden dock as the guard collapsed, gurgling. The others barely had time to react before Stannon's loyalists rushed forward as one.
Birna was a storm of destruction, her twin axes cutting through the surprised soldiers. One guard raised his spear, but she twisted, dodging the attack, and buried an axe deep into his ribs. He fell with a strangled cry, clutching the weapon stuck in his side.
Yrsa, perched on a stack of crates near the ship, let arrow after arrow fly. Each shot hit its mark—throats, eyes, hearts. Guards who tried to take cover dropped before they could even shout a warning. Her hatred for the Velaryons burned hot, and she found grim satisfaction in every kill.
But the enemy wasn't completely unprepared. More Velaryon guards rushed out of the fortress, drawn by the sudden sounds of battle. Shouts of alarm rang across the docks. Within moments, at least twenty more men charged forward, their swords gleaming in the morning sun.
Arvid blocked a heavy strike from a captain, their blades locking at the same time giving signal to Varek to start the fire.
Varek didn't hesitate. He had already soaked parts of the dock with oil during the night. Now, with a flick of his wrist, he hurled a torch into the nearest pile. Flames roared to life, climbing up the mooring ropes and wooden posts. The fire spread quickly, turning the docks into an inferno.
Sailors from Stannon's crew, disguised among the Wildlings, began spilling more barrels of oil onto the enemy ships docked nearby. Another torch was thrown, and thick black smoke filled the sky. The Velaryon flagship caught fire, its sails burning, sending dark plumes toward Driftmark.
The plan worked. As flames engulfed the ships, panic spread among the Velaryon soldiers. Some broke ranks, rushing to put out the fire, giving Arvid and the others a chance to push forward.
Tyr smashed through another guard's skull with a brutal strike, blood splattering across the deck. "We need to go! Now!" he shouted.
Arvid spun, driving his dagger into a soldier's gut before kicking the dying man off his blade. He turned toward their escape ship, the Storm's Wrath, its sails already catching the wind.
"Everyone on board!" Arvid roared.
The crew ran for the ship, cutting down any guards in their way. Yrsa was the last to move, her arrows covering their retreat before she slung her bow across her back and leapt onto the deck.
Distant horns blared.
From Driftmark's docks, banners flapped in the wind—but not those of House Lannister. The ships emerging from the mist bore no lion sigils, their sails plain, their hulls unmarked. They had come in disguise, waiting for this exact moment.
Arvid's stomach twisted at that.
More ships surged forward from hidden coves, sleek war galleys cutting through the waves, their unmarked sails hiding their allegiance as they started surrounding the ship from all sides. Only the sharp discipline of their formations and the glint of polished armor on deck betrayed the truth. These were Lannister ships, no matter how they disguised themselves.
"There's no outrunning them," Tyr muttered.
Arvid gritted his teeth. Their only choice was to fight and provide enough time for his leader to get away from here.
"Prepare for battle!" he bellowed.
Sailors scrambled, gripping weapons, manning the ship's ballistae, readying bows. If they were to fall, they would drag as many of their enemies down with them as possible.
The first war galley closed in fast, its ramming prow slicing through the water, aiming for a crippling blow. The captain twisted the Storm's Wrath hard, barely avoiding a direct collision, but the enemy vessel scraped along their side, sending splinters flying.
Grappling hooks lashed out.
With a roar, soldiers swarmed aboard.
Arvid met the first attacker head-on, steel clashing against steel. He parried a strike and drove his dagger into the man's ribs, wrenching it free as the soldier crumpled.
Birna cut down two men at once, her axes biting deep through armor and bone.
Tyr, a brute force of nature, grabbed an enemy by the throat and hurled him overboard.
Varek fought with precise, deadly movements, his curved blade cutting through flesh with ease.
But they were outnumbered. More ships closed in.
Arrows rained down, slipping through gaps in armor. Yrsa took a bolt to the shoulder but gritted her teeth and kept fighting. Birna had a deep cut down her leg but didn't slow.
Another ship crashed into their side. More soldiers flooded the deck.
Arvid fought like a man possessed, cutting down enemy soldiers with expert swordplay, but even he knew the battle was slipping away.
The fight dragged on.
Bodies littered the deck, friend and foe alike. Blood soaked the wood, mixing with the salty spray of the sea. The loyalists fought desperately, but sheer numbers overwhelmed them.
Arvid's sword was wrenched from his grasp. A heavy blow sent him to his knees. He tried to rise, but a mailed boot slammed down on his back, pinning him to the deck.
Tyr was the last to fall. It took six men to bring him down, and even as he was struck from all sides, he fought until the end.
Silence fell over the blood-soaked deck.
The enemy had won.
Arvid, Varek, Birna, Yrsa, and Tyr were dragged to their knees, their hands bound in heavy chains. Their bodies ached, covered in cuts and bruises, but their eyes still burned with defiance.
A man in fine but practical armor stepped forward, his expression smug. "You put up a good fight," he said, kneeling before Arvid. "But it was foolish to think you could escape."
Arvid spat blood onto the deck and cursed at him.
The knight chuckled and walked away from them.
With that, the prisoners were hauled to their feet and led onto the enemy warship. The Storm's Wrath, now in enemy hands, was being secured. The fires on the docks had died down, but the damage was done.
As they were taken below deck, Arvid's thoughts drifted to Stormblade. What suprised him most was that how the Lannisters were not bothered by how Stannon was not on the ship.
Arvid couldn't help but sigh as he couldn't understand what the aim of these cowardly bast*rds was. Whatever it might be, he and the rest had done the task assigned to them by their leader.
They had bought him time. That was enough.
----
A short while later, in a dimly lit chamber inside the fortress of Driftmark, Petyr Baelish sat in a tall chair, his fingers pressed together as he thought deeply.
Suddenly the heavy wooden door to his chambers creaked open, and a large man stepped inside. It was Ser Garth Clegane, the brother of Gregor Clegane. Garth was a strong and rough-looking man, broad-shouldered and thick-necked, sharing the same cruel nature as his infamous brother. However, unlike Gregor, Garth was smarter and more calculating.
He sighed, looking annoyed. "What is it?"
Petyr looked at him, frowning at his lack of manners, but said nothing. Garth was useful, but he needed careful handling.
Garth walked across the room in a few steps and spoke in his usual rough voice. "The ship was captured, but Stannon Baratheon wasn't on it. He must have escaped, using his men as a distraction. We captured his guards, though. They'll be questioned soon."
Petyr's face remained calm, but a hint of amusement appeared in his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers lightly on the wooden table.
"So, he got away," Petyr said slowly, slightly surprised at that. "Even with the poison, the guards at Hightide, and the extra ships, he still managed to slip through. That means one of two things—either he is extremely lucky, or he is smarter than I first thought."
A slow smile spread across Petyr's face. "And I believe it's the second one."
Garth grunted. "So, what now?"
Petyr's smile didn't fade. He gestured toward a map spread on the table, running his fingers over the lands of Westeros and beyond. "Stannon Baratheon? Hm. Catching him... killing him... that was never truly the aim."
He looked up, eyes glinting.
"He is but a piece. The game was always the board."
Garth frowned. "So we're just letting him go?"
Petyr let out a quiet chuckle. "Not exactly. He doesn't have many choices left. If he's as smart as I think, he won't go to allied houses or King's Landing—both are too risky for him now. His best option is Pentos, where he has the most supporters."
Petyr tapped the map over Pentos. "But the problem is… the Faceless Men have already dealt with his allies there."
Garth's brows furrowed. "So he's walking into a deadly trap."
Petyr nodded, looking pleased. "Exactly. When he arrives, he'll find that the people he trusted are gone. Instead, there will be only silence. And soon after that, death."
Garth crossed his arms. "And if he doesn't go to Pentos?"
Petyr shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. "Then he'll be running. And a man on the run is weak. He'll need food, shelter, and people to follow him. He'll try to make new allies, find safe places. But I have already made sure that every door he knocks on will be shut in his face."
Garth tilted his head slightly. "So, he's dead either way?"
Petyr nodded. "It might take days, weeks, or even months. But in the end, yes—he will die. The only question is how long he wants to delay the inevitable."
The room was quiet for a moment before Garth spoke again. "What about the prisoners from the Storm's Wrath?"
Petyr's smirk grew wider. "They still have their uses. But in the end, they don't matter. A little suffering, a little false hope. If they break and turn against Stannon, that would be useful. If not…" He waved a hand casually. "They'll serve as an example for others."
Garth grunted in approval. "Understood. I'll make sure the interrogators don't waste time."
Petyr nodded slightly, already thinking about the next steps. Stannon Baratheon may have escaped tonight, but he was running out of options. And Petyr was always patient.
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