Chapter 11: Bows and Hulls - 105 AC

Several fortnights had elapsed since Clement's father convened a council meeting within the majestic confines of the castle, and the affairs of the realm proceeded with customary regularity. The bustling harbor bore witness to a constant influx of ships and fishing boats, their hulls laden with coveted cargo. Across the shimmering waters lay a diminutive islet, now enveloped by a fleet of vessels, each laden with logs hewn from distant forests. Stalwart men tirelessly labored, hauling the timber up the craggy heights of the rocky sanctuary. A symphony of saws and hammers resonated as skilled carpenters deftly shaped and sculpted the planks, transforming them into intricate components. Gradually, a rudimentary crane took shape, poised precariously at the precipice, poised to bring heavier building materials above. Passing ships that navigated the narrow strait between Claw Isle and the formidable Crackclaw Point bore witness to an ongoing construction endeavor of the seawall and wavebreaker. Haphazard piles of stone, sand, gravel, and rugged boulders adorned the site, gradually accumulating along the adjacent shores.

Even the most perceptive children discerned the metamorphosis unfolding within the town, as the mighty edifice of infrastructure gradually materialized. Walls commenced their ascent, extending their protective embrace. The harbor, a vital gateway to the realm, underwent expansion, accommodating the swelling tide of maritime commerce. Sprouting from the heart of the town, new structures emerged, their foundations firmly planted amidst the labyrinthine network of stone and earthen pathways. The smallfolk, their countenances smudged with the dust of toil, traversed these thoroughfares with unflagging determination.

Meanwhile, Clement, the part-architect of this grand transformation, perched atop his noble steed, flanked by his unwavering steward, Selwyn. The procession meandered along the cobbled thoroughfare of the bustling port, their destination set upon the fringes of the old harbor. The fruits of their labor unfurled before their eyes, a testament to their devotion spanning three arduous years. The thriving tapestry of activity that enveloped the area attested to their resounding success. The townsfolk reveled in robust vitality, their hunger appeased, and gainful employment bestowed upon all able-bodied souls.

At long last, as their journey drew to an end, they reached the hallowed destination they sought with fervent anticipation—the shipyard, a sanctuary for artisans nestled amidst the sprawling port. Their noble steeds gracefully came to a halt, their reins deftly secured, tethered adjacent to the edifice that stood before them.

Upon Clement's arrival, a breathtaking sight unfolded before him. A stretch of shoreline adorned with the symphony of unfinished ships, diligently crafted by skilled hands, graced his vision. Nearby, docked vessels patiently awaited their turn for maintenance and repair, while the mighty Iron Claw underwent a magnificent transformation, shedding its worn-out trappings and embracing renewal. The air buzzed with purpose as scores of apprentices scurried to and fro, their nimble steps carrying nails, saws, and sections of timber. Amidst this bustling scene, a select group of veterans, the masters of their craft, commanded authority with resounding voices and unfathomable wisdom. Theirs was a well-defined hierarchy, where the apprentices shouldered the burden of toil while the masters and veterans orchestrated the grand symphony of planning, design, and structure.

In due time, one of the masters caught sight of Clement's presence, prompting an immediate halt to their laborious endeavors. It was none other than Master Dario, among the pioneers welcomed onto this illustrious island. With graceful poise, he approached Clement, extending a courteous greeting that bore the weight of deference.

"Greetings, milord." he said. "I trust your journey here went well."

"The port is busy as always, Master Dario." Clement nodded, his gaze still on the unfinished ships. "Are these going to be my fleet?"

"They are the very embodiment of the ship designs you have requested of me, milord," Dario affirmed, his voice tinged with a touch of admiration. "A smaller, more compact rendition of the Dromond, as you so desired. Through our combined efforts, we have breathed life into your vision, somehow."

"Somehow?" questioned Clement, raising an inquisitive eyebrow, intrigued by the master's choice of words.

"Ah, my lord," Dario responded, guiding the two men toward his meticulously arranged workspace, which hummed with the presence of his seasoned apprentices. Unfurling a parchment bearing the intricate design, the master traced his finger along the ship's blueprint, focusing their attention on the inner deck. "You see, traditionally, Dromonds boast a generous expanse within their hulls, providing ample room for the rowers. However, adhering to your specifications, we were compelled to forsake this characteristic. In its stead, we devised a design that places the rowers upon a stair-like structure, optimizing the precious space allotted to them. Early tests have yielded promising results, but, I must confess, the rowers may harbor some discontent."

"It's just a temporary solution, master, in a few years I will need you to make more complex ship designs." Clement hummed. "How long will it take till all of these are finished?"

"There are currently ten in construction at the same time milord." answered Dario. "Usually, Dromonds will take around two years or so at least, but because of the design, it will take a year. By next year, you'll have ten more ships in your fleet. Though I must warn you that these ships are not to be sailed across the narrow sea, lest you want to suffer a terrible loss."

"I see." Clement nodded. "How about the Stepstones?"

"The Stepstones?" Dario went into deep thinking. "While storms do rage there and the seas are rough, it should be safe for short-term voyages if navigated correctly."

"Good." Clement sighed. "And what of the rowers? How many do we need on each ship?"

"Fifty oarsmen should do it, milord."

"That is a lot of rowers…" Clement murmured, before turning to his steward. "Selwyn?"

Selwyn nodded. "I will try to find those rowers, my lord. We could always train men too."

Clement contemplated their current manpower shortage and weighed the options wisely. "Given our limited human resources, it would be best to recruit professional foreign sailors right now," he advised, glancing once again at Dario. "Is that all, Master?"

Dario respectfully acknowledged his lord's query. "Indeed, for now, these are the tidings I bring before you," he replied. "Would you care to inspect the ships, milord?"

Clement nonchalantly shrugged, his curiosity piqued. "Why not?" he responded casually.

"Then follow me," Dario beckoned, guiding the two men along the sandy shore. They passed by a bustling scene of apprentices and shipwright laborers. Drawing nearer, the intricate details of the ships being crafted became clearer. As instructed, they resembled a smaller version of Dromonds, their imposing rams jutting forward, their sturdy hulls emanating strength, and their appearance hinting at exceptional agility. Two masts adorned the decks, each adorned with its own set of sails. Although not primarily designed for traversing treacherous waters, the ship boasted commendable speed.

Dario provided further insight, relaying his knowledge to his lord. "There shall be three banks of oars on either side, milord," he informed. "These three banks will be supported by a stepped structure, ensuring each bank has three seating levels."

Curiosity overtaking him, Clement inquired about the ship's height. "Tell me, Master, how tall is this vessel?"

Dario paused momentarily, recalling the specifications. "From keel to deck, it stands seven feet tall," he replied. "Its length will span approximately one hundred and twenty feet, with a width of sixteen feet."

Then, as if struck by a sudden recollection, Dario interjected, "Ah, I nearly forgot to inquire, milord. What shall be the ship's color?"

"Black, in its entirety," declared Clement, his voice carrying an air of authority. "As for the sails... we shall discuss that matter at a later time."

Dario acknowledged the directive with a respectful nod. "Very well, milord. Your wishes shall be fulfilled."

Suddenly, a thunderous roar reverberated across the island, instilling fear in all who heard it. The calm waters that are in the isle such as drinking water or a keg full of alcohol shook, and the small number of animals ran towards the safety of their homes. All eyes turned skyward, initially perceiving nothing but a dense shroud of clouds. However, amidst the ethereal veil, a colossal shadow emerged, casting an imposing presence that seemed to rival the town itself. It was a dragon—a majestic creature soaring through the skies of the isle, though without halting, its trajectory set southward, toward the distant shores of Driftmark.

At the sight before him, Clement's countenance betrayed no hint of apprehension. Rather, he released a low chuckle, the sound echoing softly in the salty sea breeze. A smile played at the corners of his lips as he shook his head in wry amusement, his gaze momentarily lingering on the distant ships before turning away from the view. "Thank you for the time today, master," he remarked, addressing the master with a formal tone. "But now, let us return to the day's activities, Selwyn."

"R-Right away, my lord."

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Approaching the shores of the isle, Clement found himself standing at the threshold of a sprawling military encampment. Before him stretched a resolute formation of warriors running on the beach, wearing old heavy steel armor. Among them, a spectrum of weary countenances bore witness to the toll of relentless training, while a few appeared undeterred by the arduous exertion. Ser Phineas, positioned nearby, observed with attentive eyes the relentless drills these men engaged in day after day.

"Good day, my lord." Ser Phineas greeted. "Welcome to the military camp."

"I must say, ser, you seem to have pushed them to the very brink of existence," Clement remarked, his amusement apparent.

"Ah, my lord, it is not as dire as it appears," Ser Phineas shrugged nonchalantly. "You would be astounded at the number of souls willing to endure such trials for the promise of a hearty meal at its culmination."

"Indeed," Clement mused, ambling leisurely through the encampment. His perceptive gaze beheld an array of practice targets, the resonant clash of weapons engaged in sparring, and gallant knights honing their skills, their favored axes spinning through the air. Turning to Ser Phineas, he inquired, "Tell me, ser, what has unfolded within these grounds?"

"Allow me to regale you, my lord," Ser Phineas replied, a touch of pride coloring his voice. "As I mentioned earlier, we have mustered a force numbering seven hundred volunteers, each subjected to the very rigors that meet your eyes. For a fortnight, we tested their mettle, separating the wheat from the chaff."

"Elucidate, if you will," Clement interjected, curiosity twinkling in his eyes.

"In essence, my lord, we have scrutinized their endurance," Ser Phineas elucidated. "A discernible disparity resides among these men. Some men that are deemed strong enough are transferred to the men we will train more rigorously. Meanwhile, the others are transferred to longbows and infantry training, and shall play their part as archers and foot soldiers."

"And how will you train these 'strong men'?"

Ser Phineas shrugged. "Like you said my lord. You want men who can swim from Claw Isle to Dragonstone tirelessly, and you shall get just that."

The knight then pointed towards a small boat, docked near the beach. It's unused now, but Ser Phineas seems to insinuate something, that it is used to make men swim from the sea to the beach.

"Ser, I did not mean to be taken literally," Clement remarked, arching an eyebrow inquisitively. "What I desire are formidable naval warriors, honed in the art of maritime combat and adept in navigating rugged terrains. It avails us naught to forge an army on these shores if they lack the skill to navigate the waters."

Ser Phineas chuckled softly, his mirth echoing like a gentle breeze. "My lord, we did not actually send them to Dragonstone with the expectation of swimming back to us. Rather, we sent them a mere half-mile from the coastline, and should they falter, we shall retrieve them with due haste, ferrying them safely aboard the awaiting vessel." His joviality danced in his eyes. "I spoke in jest, to lighten the mood."

"Even so, is it not a touch arduous?" Clement queried, his voice tinged with concern. "The waters of the Narrow Sea are rough and cold, after all."

"They volunteered, my lord, and willingly embraced the rigors of their training," Ser Phineas replied with an air of respect. "You may not be aware, for your noble obligations have kept you preoccupied. However, the young boys and men idolize you fervently ever since your triumphant victory at the Maidenpool tourney. They yearn to transform into stalwart defenders, safeguarding their newfound prosperity—a life bestowed upon them through your benevolence. Gone are the days of winter's cruel hunger, for now they savor bountiful feasts. Employment opportunities for their families abound, transforming Claw Isle into an idyllic haven compared to the desolation it once endured. And this is but a glimpse of the prosperity that awaits in the days to come."

Clement rolled his eyes, a flicker of skepticism dancing in his gaze. "You paint a rather dismal portrayal of my father's lordship, Ser."

"But it is an unvarnished truth, my lord, one that your father himself acknowledges," Ser Phineas interjected solemnly. "Now then, shall we proceed?"

Clement emitted a contemplative hum, and the knight proceeded to guide them through the encampments. As they strolled, Clement's keen eyes discerned the telltale signs of training etched upon the bodies of young men and boys—bruises promptly attended to within the confines of the medical tent. Nearby, men huddled before crackling campfires, swathed in warm blankets, seeking respite from the biting chill. In another corner, young boys diligently honed their skills, laboriously drawing bowstrings to acclimate themselves to the task.

Finally, their procession halted at the archery range, where a cohort of aspiring warriors practiced the art of archery under the watchful eye of their instructors.

"My lord," exclaimed Ser Phineas, his voice tinged with deference as he pulled a longbow from one of the barrels. "As per your request, we have trained our men to wield these bows, but I must say, they are not without challenge. The draw power is incredibly strong, such that even grown men struggle to pull it. It takes an enormous amount of effort to prepare these soldiers to handle such a weapon. However, the expense of these longbows is warranted, for they have exceptional range and penetration power."

Clement listened attentively, inspecting the bows himself. He attempted to pull the string, but found it difficult to draw it fully. "And how long until our soldiers are battle-ready with these weapons?" he inquired calmly.

"At the very least, two years," sighed Ser Phineas, looking somewhat exhausted at the thought of such a lengthy process. "But even then, they may only be proficient enough for short-term skirmishes, lest their arms might fall off."

Clement pondered for a moment, considering his options. "That is acceptable," he finally replied. "We shall proceed with your training plans as usual, ser. Your efforts are most appreciated."

"Very well, my lord," responded Ser Phineas, his tone respectful as he bowed his head. Finally, Ser Phineas guided the two men again inside a tent. There, stacks of armor were visible, mostly leather. Though, all of them seem to set aside however, as only three were placed on an armor stand.

"What is the meaning of this, good ser?" Clement inquired with an air of curiosity tinged with intrigue.

"We were engaged in a discourse concerning the appropriate armor for the soldiers," Ser Phineas elucidated. "I ventured to seek counsel from your esteemed self, my lord. Ultimately, we decided on leather attire for the naval soldiers and the longbowmen, though their designs differed. As for the foot soldiers, traditional plate armor was deemed most suitable."

"Well it fits perfectly for their roles, what can I say?" Clement shrugged. "You've done a good job in that department."

A sigh escaped Ser Phineas' lips. "I humbly thank you, my lord. However, there is a slight quandary regarding the weaponry for our naval soldiers."

"Quandary how?" Clement raised his brow.

"Some advocate for the employment of a standard sword, while others champion the merits of a one-handed axe," Ser Phineas disclosed. "Personally, I find myself inclined toward the practicality of the one-handed axe. It occupies less space and proves more wieldy amidst the confines of a ship. Moreover, it can serve multiple purposes."

"I agree, it's cheaper too. So let's go with that."

Ser Phineas nodded solemnly. "Very well, my lord. With that resolved, I believe I have exhausted the extent of what I can present. If perchance you desire to witness the men engaging in rigorous training, I extend a warm invitation."

Clement glanced at Selwyn, who gestured that they no longer had pressing matters to attend to. Observing this, Clement nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders. "Why not?"

Needless to say, on that eventful night, Clement found himself inebriated among the ranks of his valiant soldiers, regaled by their captivating tales as they gathered around the enchanting campfire.