48

Chapter 48: Ch 39 A GOD

Chapter Text

The crimson Sun had slipped below the horizon a few hours earlier, and the moon was already hanging halfway through the sky. The full moon was still days away, and thick clouds obscured much of its light. Even with the feeble torches on each ship, visibility extended only a few meters.

The fleet of thirty Ironborn ships had been divided into three groups when they set off so as to ease the difficulty in navigation. However, they maintained close proximity, ensuring visibility during the day and the ability to react swiftly to any disturbances during the night and gather together in case of an attack.

On the rightmost vessel of the rightmost group, things were very peaceful. The mild breeze carried soft, lulling waves across the calm sea.

It was calm here...

In fact, it was too calm, almost... eerie.

Most of the sailors had already succumbed to sleep a few hours ago after a night of drinking and revelry. But it was somewhat of a general rule of Ironborn to have at least a few people on board awake and for them to stay sober, whenever they were out at sea so that they could act as scouts in case of an attack.

Unfortunately, the Ironborn were as averse to rules as a Dornish Woman was to modest clothes.

"Oi! You, stop it! Don't drain it all," a scout cursed, snatching a pouch of ale from a friend who guzzled it down as if it were water. "It was the only one I managed to pilfer, and we need it for the entire night."

"Who cares," replied the friend gruffly, wiping his mouth. "Those fools are passed out and won't wake until morning."

"Hmm, you're right—"

Thud.

A muffled, piercing sound abruptly shattered the scout's words and when he looked up, he was horrified to find his friend's slowly falling corpse an arrow lodged in his eye. And before he could even open his mouth another arrow punctured his throat, "Ugh!!" killing his scream in his mouth and cutting his life short.

Following the swift succession of two arrows, shadowy figures silently boarded the ship, moving like phantoms in the night. Each was armed with an array of sharp weapons, including daggers and short swords. And after the last one had climbed abroad, all of them calmly divided themselves without any communication between them and then... they went to work.

Some of them entered the cabin while the others headed straight for the sleeping quarters, and for a few minutes, the night echoed with the faint sounds of blades piercing flesh, stifled screams, and soft thuds that disappeared with the sea wind.

Soon, all was silent again.

The shadows slipped out of the vessel one after the other each carrying an additional smell of blood with them. They swiftly lowered themselves out of the ship, exiting as quietly as they had infiltrated it, leaving behind nothing but a lonely ship freely sailing on the sea with no one alive to crew it, a ghost ship.

Their work had only just started as the shadows repeated their method, moving from ship to ship like silent reapers. They were so experienced and adept at their job that even if someone from the infamous The House of Black and White was here, he would be astonished by their skills and clap in admiration.

Sadly the shadows weren't lucky for long...

A man stumbled out of the door of a nearby ship, desperately seeking a spot to relieve his full bladder. As his bleary eyes fell upon the corpses of the scouts, his face drained of colour, and he tumbled backwards, shrieking, "A-Attack! Attack! We are under attack—"

An arrow sliced through the night sky, silencing him and cutting his warning short, but the damage was already done as the alarm had been raised all across the fleet.

"The scouts are dead!!"

"Under Attack! We are under attack!"

"Fuck! WAKE Everyone Up!"

"Shit! AXE!!! Where the fuck's my Axe!"

Screams echoed everywhere, as one after another the Ironborn sailors woke up, after seeing corpses everyone immediately ran to get their weapons and wear any kind of protection they could their hands on. It was pure chaos and pandemonium.

But they were given no respite. Within moments of the alarm, each ship in the Ironborn fleet was beset by attackers from an enemy ship simultaneously. These ships seemed to have materialized out of nowhere as if they had been lying in wait for just this moment.

The attackers didn't care that the Ironborn were half-naked or half-asleep and immediately launched their assault without mercy. The Ironborn responded in kind with a ferocious roar and simultaneously charged toward their attackers, some without even the benefit of a weapon. A chaotic and brutal battle erupted on all fronts.

"Ahh!!! KILL!!"

"Kill those Fuckers!!!"

"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER—"

...

"Ah! Looks like that'll be it for sneaking around,"

The shadows had just transformed another vessel into a ghost ship when the alarm sounded, and the battle erupted. Rather than feeling disappointed about not eliminating all their targets silently, a gleam of excitement shone in the eyes of nearly every shadow. After all, as much as stealthy killings might be strategic, the warrior's blood coursing through their veins craved nothing more than an all-out, bloody confrontation.

"Are you worried about your friends Rookie," one of the towering Northerners asked the young recruit. They both observed the flickering torches and heard the distant screams from the ships where the battle was already in full swing.

"Ah! No! I am not worried," the young boy replied sheepishly, waiting alongside his comrade for the rest of the team to descend into the waiting boat. "I'm more envious, actually... I heard they'd have an easier time of it..."

Jon had divided the ships among his warriors in a somewhat uneven but perfect way, with the most crucial factor being the limited poison supply, only enough for twenty ships worth of enemies.

Of those twenty vessels with poisoned crews, ten were assigned to the Merchants to deal with, as Jon wished to minimize losses for his customers on their maiden voyage.

Likewise, the other ten ships with poisoned sailors were left to the bulk of the Northern fleet, around fifteen vessels, each ship mostly being manned by fresh recruits from Bear Island. It served as a practical way for these newcomers to gain battle experience without suffering excessive casualties due to their inexperience.

Now the final ten ships, filled with fresh Ironborn sailors had been left for the experts and veterans to attack. Moreover, they only possessed five ships of their own, meaning they would face nearly twice the number of foes—steep odds for them, given that their adversaries were Ironborn and the battle took place at sea.

"HAHA... You don't need to worry about us, lad," the bearded Northerner said gruffly, patting the rookie's back as their turn finally came and they lowered themselves into the waiting boat. "Remember we already took care of five of them," he gestured towards the ghost ships aimlessly sailing behind them. The rookie nodded, having been so preoccupied with his first mission and focused on not blundering that he hadn't even noticed when they began when they moved from one ship to another, or how many of them they had emptied.

He was also from the latest recent crop of graduates handpicked from the Navy school on Bear Island this time. Due to his exceptional skills as both a sailor and a fighter, he hadn't been integrated into the regular forces like his friends; instead, he had been given special attention and had been fast-tracked into this elite team, the 'Shadows'.

"And besides, while they may have poison on their side, we've got a trump card of our own," he added, wearing a smug grin.

"Trump card? Who?" the rookie asked curiously.

The man simply motioned toward the cluster of ships they were rowing toward. Amidst the tumultuous sea battle, one figure stood out more than any other, illuminated by the flickering torchlight.

He stood on the deck of a ship nestled right in the heart of the fiercest combat. He remained as straight as a mast, wielding a bow in his hands with two brimming quivers slung over his back.

His hands moved with such speed that they blurred as he loosed arrow after arrow, not in a single direction but in all directions, as if he were a god with eyes on every aspect of the unfolding chaos. What astounded everyone, even more, was the ease with which he calmly dodged the occasional arrows aimed at him all while seamlessly returning fire.

He was akin to a God of War, unleashing his wrath upon the Ironborn, who found themselves helpless in the face of his relentless assault.

...

"Why the fuck are they not here yet," the captain bellowed, his voice echoing through the chaos of battle. He crouched behind a crate, nursing a shoulder wounded by an arrow.

"Captain, five of our ships have no lights and aren't responding!" his second mate shouted from a nearby hiding spot. "And the others are also under attack."

"Who the fuck is attacking us?" he roared, his frustration mounting. The second mate hurriedly retrieved his far-eye, attempting to get a clearer view and what he saw amidst the flickering lights drained all the colour out of his face.

"Who? Who is it?" the captain demanded as he saw another sailor fall with an arrow through his eye.

"Everyone!" the second mate stammered.

"What!" the captain barked and without waiting for his answer he snatched the far-eye, his prized possession, one he had luckily looted from an Essosi merchant. And the moment he placed it on his eye he immediately understood what the man was talking about.

"T-They've got flags from the North, the Westerlands and even the Reach," the second mate described what the Captain was already seeing in a shaking voice almost as if he was talking to himself.

The trauma of their short rebellion and the Iron Throne's swift retribution was still vivid enough in his memory that he was immediately filled with terror at the sight of so many different flags from the nearby kingdoms.

"Wait! That's—" As his second mate was slowly losing his mind, the captain noticed something even more horrifying going on at the battle on the faraway ships, "No! NO! They are going down too—

....

"—down too quickly," Whett said, his voice tinged with confusion as he observed the vanishing lights in the distance.

To prevent confusion and keep track of everything during the battle, they had decided that after a ship was conquered and every enemy abroad was dead, the last person to disembark would extinguish the light as a signal that the ship had been secured.

"What in the blazes is happening down there?"

"There's no way it's this easy, is there?"

The other merchants were equally perplexed by the swift and unnatural pace at which the Ironborn ships were being vanquished. They were sure that even with this ambush where they caught the enemy with their pants down, it shouldn't be this quick.

"Dacey!" Tyrand, the Westerlands merchant, turned to the stoic Northern woman beside him. "Do you know something?"

"Hmm... Who knows," Dacey replied noncommittally. Jon had decided not to reveal the specifics of how they poisoned the Ironborn, as it would raise too many questions. Instead, they opted to keep things vague and let the merchants' imaginations run wild. "Maybe we're just lucky, and they're all inept fighters..."

"Ironborn being inept at sea? You can't be serious!" Whett retorted disbelief etched on his face as he pointed towards the ongoing battle. "Look out there! A ship is sinking almost every few minutes... Are you telling me our fighters are skilled enough to achieve that? Don't be absurd—"

"Wait! I see a boat approaching," Tyrand suddenly interrupted, pointing towards a small boat rowed by a lone man coming toward the galleon where they all stood. As the boat drew nearer, Tyrand recognized the young scout from a Reach vessel.

"Boy!" Whett didn't give the lad a moment to climb aboard before demanding answers. "Tell me! What the fuck is happening out there?" he pointed at the distant battle where another ship went down.

"T-They're dropping like flies, Master," the boy answered, his voice trembling with excitement. "We're easily taking one ship after another, and—"

"I know that, you idiot!" Whett interrupted impatiently. "I'm asking why. What's happening out there?"

"I think they ate something foul, Master," the boy replied uncertainly. "They all seem sick, vomiting, fainting, and even... even..."

"Even WHAT?"

"They're even shitting their pants while trying to fight. It's quite amusing, Master, hehe..."

"They've been poisoned," Tyrand whispered involuntarily, and immediate understanding washed over all the Merchants. They swivelled their attention to Dacey, and Tyrand stated more as a fact than a question, "You poisoned them."

"I don't know what you're talking about..." Dacey said in a nonchalant tone, but everyone could make out smugness from her expression.

"How did you do it? Did you have a spy on their ships? But... No! They'd have perished too, since you didn't instruct us to make any exceptions, and it's impossible without having a spy on every single ship... Did you have a spy in the port, then? Someone who poisoned their provisions in advance—Ah! But that seems farfetched, doesn't it? The timing of the ambush is too perfect for that to be possible," Tyrand brainstormed out loud before he scratched his head in frustration and asked "How in Seven hells did you do it," it was as if there was an irresistible itch in his mind that he couldn't scratch and that was infuriating.

"It's a trade secret. I can't tell you anything," Dacey finally said with a smile of pure satisfaction on her face, "You just need to know that as long as you're with us, no one can touch even a hair on you... We will keep you safe at sea, no matter the enemy..."

...

"Where's the Captain?" Orkwood whispered to the second mate.

As the noble overseeing a significant portion of the fleet, he had his own cabin. However, in the current turmoil, the confined space felt stifling. When the battle erupted unexpectedly, he had joined the fray with zeal, taking up his sword alongside his fellow sailors in defence of the ship. But as he witnessed people falling like leaves and the prospect of victory dwindling, he abandoned his opponent and sought refuge in the cabin, hoping for a rescue before the enemy reached them.

In the cramped cabin were Orkwood and his three guards, along with three coward sailors who hadn't bothered with the fight at all as the injured second mate, an arrow stuck perilously close to his heart. He was fortunate; the archer seemed to have narrowly missed a fatal shot, possibly due to the ship's swaying, or else the second mate might have already met the Drowned Gods.

"H-He's... dead... M'lord..." the second mate replied with a furrowed brow, his hand hovering over the arrow as if contemplating whether to remove it or leave it be. Even though Orkwood was no healer, he knew that it would be stupid for him to pull that out, but he didn't bother voicing that since there was no way the man would be able to get a healer out here anyway.

"Ahh! How many fucking archers are out there," he cursed as he saw another man just about to kill a Northerner, go down with an arrow straight to his heart. He peered out of a small window, with only his head visible, granting him a vantage point to observe the ongoing battle. What he saw was far from reassuring. Among the sprawled bodies on the deck, he saw only Ironborn, not a single one from the enemy.

"O-Only... one..." the second mate stammered, his voice quivering.

"One! Just one!" Orkwood repeated incredulously, eyeing the man, who nodded in pain, his eyes shut.

"You! Fetch that bow from the table," he commanded one of his guards, who promptly obeyed. "See if you can take him down."

The guard immediately strung his bow and aimed towards the battle but even after hesitating for a long while he didn't shoot and just moved it left and right.

"Just Shoot him!" the Noble barked and the archer flinched but didn't lose the arrow, "I can't get a clear shot. There's no torch out there and he's almost standing in darkness on the bow of the ship, a-and if I miss then we are dead..." the guard had already seen that Northerner take more than a few archers from the nearby ships who had at shot him in just a few minutes.

From left to right, up and down, even killing people hiding behind crates, that godly Northerner archer didn't stop for a single second, he was culling Ironborn lives in all the nearby ships at the same time, it was almost... magical.

"I don't—" the archer started, but an arrow whizzed past his ear, narrowly avoiding decapitating him and he immediately ducked. His heart beating like a drum, he shakingly touched his ear only to find crimson blood there. He breathed heavily, realizing how close he had come to death, saved only because he looked down at the last moment.

"He's found us..." the Noble muttered in fear, he knew that it was only a matter of time before the enemies breached here now that the archer had seen him, "W-We need to kill that archer,"

"H-How? He'll kill us before we can get close to him..."

"I have an idea..." Orkwood said after taking a deep breath. "Gather anything you can find to shield us from arrows," he immediately went towards the single shield placed on the wall and picked it up.

...

A few minutes later, they were all ready, some were holding wooden planks, some buckets and one man even holding the chamber pot, but all of them had some kind of a makeshift shield.

"On the count of three..." the noble directed, clutching a shield from behind. "One... Two... Three. GO!"

"AHHHH!!!!"

The first man burst through the door and sprinted toward the bow, where the archer stood. They ignored the ongoing melee, with both Ironborn and Northerners stunned by this sudden rush, parting to avoid getting trampled.

Their target, the handsome young Northerner, immediately noticed them and looked at them rushing towards him with an amused smile on his face. He calmly raised his bow and started shooting arrows at them.

One arrow after another, he shot the arrows into the most minuscule of gaps, easily taking the front runners out of their group. But the Ironborn, driven half-mad by seeing their comrades fall, pressed on.

Jon effortlessly dispatched four before they drew too close. Although he could have dealt with the remaining few if he had carried a sword, he already bore two full quivers so as to avoid becoming too heavy and lose his agility, he didn't carry any other weapon with him.

"AHHH!!! Die FUCKER!!!"

The two remaining Ironborn screamed as they lunged at the archer but they weren't given the satisfaction as they saw the young Northerner smoothly topple backwards into the sea all while maintaining a smile on his face.

Orkwood peered down at the water, sighing in relief when he saw no sign of the archer resurfacing. He turned and smiled at his lone surviving guard, the other survivor of their mad rush, and whispered, "The bastard's dead!" before he turned and hollered at the remaining Ironborn fighters, "The FUCKER'S DEAD!"

"Finally!" "Thank the Drowned God," "Haha!!"

The men rejoiced, relief washing over them, from the beginning of the battle, they had been constantly harassed by the archer who was like a sword hanging above their neck.

Orkwood immediately saw the opportunity and tried to raise the morale by shouting, "We can escape now if we—"

However, his words were abruptly interrupted by that dreaded piercing sound, and he slowly turned his head to find his last guard with an arrow in his throat looking at him with a shocked expression on his face.

Scared, Orkwoord immediately looked down towards where the arrow had come from and what he saw immediately made him soil his pants.

There he was, the Northern Archer, still alive, with the bow still in his hands and still looking at him with the same amused smile.

The most crazy unbelievable thing was that he was cruising along with the ship but there was no boat or plank supporting, there was... nothing underneath his feet. H-He was actually standing on water as if...

"As if a ...GOD..." he whispered and that was the last thing the noble saw before an arrow claimed his life.

///