Year 283 AC. Off the coast of Gulltown.
The sea lay iron-grey beneath the clouds, broken only by the pale scars of foam where the carracks cut through the waves. Below, the water churned dark and cold, and beyond it lay Gulltown, 'thetown of Shits' as merchants oft named it.
Today its harbor teemed not only with the gulls that wheeled above, but with the stout galleys and cogs of House Grafton, standing beneath. They sat heavy at their moorings, hulls painted bright and new, more a merchant's fleet than one of war, yet today they would serve as a shield for the crown's leal servants.
Donnel stood near the rail, his cloak snapping behind him, salt stiff on the leather of his gloves. His sickness with the sea finally came to an end this morning. The sailors had enjoyed seeing his suffering as did Ser William
The meager light of the sky offered no comfort. It might have been noon or near evenfall but he could not tell. The clouds had swallowed the sun whole, turning time itself uncertain, or mayhaps it was the winds of Spring that did.
The very wind filled their sails and drove them onward all the same, sharp and biting, as though there was no warmth left in the air, as if winter had not yet loosened its grip. Still, it was Spring, they said.
Donnel had never expected to see Gulltown like this. When he had imagined it before, on quiet nights in White Harbor, listening to sailors boast of the Vale. It had been a place of trade and color, markets full of foreign goods, songs drifting from dockside inns. Not the sight of walls to be taken, ships to be burned, men to be killed.
Yet here they were, sails full, soldiers packed tight from deck to hold, sharpening blades around him murmuring half-heard prayers, iron and leather creaking with every roll of the waves. The weight of war sat uneasily in Donnel's chest, heavier than the mail he wore. He was still a squire, after all.
A green boy, as most of them would say. Even seven-and-ten namedays did not make a man to them, not truly. Still, Donnel had trained for this all his life, and if the gods were kind, he would bring honor to his family, to the North, and to House Manderly besides.
One of the grizzled men-at-arms passed him, grinning wide despite the cold. "First fight, lad?" he asked.
Donnel felt his throat tighten as he tried to offer a curt, soldierly reply. So instead of saying anything, he only nodded his head.
A scarred soldier from his left barked a laugh. "Gods, look at him. Pale as fresh milk."
Several nearby men chuckled. Someone replied, "And here we thought old Ondrew bred stronger Lockes."
"Must have run out of iron with this one," The scarred soldier replied.
The nearby soldiers burst out laughing. Donnel felt his ears redden beneath the cold.
The grizzled man-at-arms let out a belly-deep laugh and clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, boy, bash their skulls in before they do yours, and you'll be fine."
The scarred man stepped closer and said, "Don't listen to this old sack, half the time he can't even remember his own name."
"Really? Mayhaps your mother can remind me," The grizzled man replied, grinning, "She seemed to remember this old sack's name very well as my cock was pressed against her face,"
They all laughed again. To his surprise, even the scarred man had laughed along. Donnel found himself laughing too, if only a little. He thought this was their way. The way of men making themselves forget that they might die in a few moments.
The laughter had not yet died when another voice cut through. "Quiet, you lot."
Donnel turned and saw Walton Dustin striding toward them. Bloodaxe, they called him. The old warrior's beard was streaked with grey, his face lined by weather and war, and across one cheek ran an old scar pale as milk. They said Bloodaxe had fought in a hundred battles and killed thousands of men. A veteran like no other.
Bloodaxe rested a hand upon the pommel of his sword and swept his gaze across the gathered soldiers. "Those of you here who are only green pissant boys coming out from your mother's teats, listen to my words and listen well."
A few men laughed but all of them listened. Donnel stiffened hearing the words of Walton, it felt as though it were aimed straight at him.
Bloodaxe continued, his voice carrying above the wind, "Stick close and stand firm. Always remember to keep your shields up. If the gods are good you'll see your families again, if not, then we'll have a drink for you."
One man shouted, "A poor bargain that."
Another called back. "Make certain it's good ale then."
The older soldiers laughed. Donnel managed a smile, though his stomach remained tight. He thought of his family, and then of Winterfell. Of Benjen and Lyanna wherever she was now. Would he ever see them again?
Donnel prayed she stayed alive, and prayed that he did the same.
The old warrior pointed a thick finger at several squires and younger men. Upon Donnel too. "When the fighting starts, stay close. Do what your commander tells you. Don't go chasing glory. Pride gets a man killed quicker than fear."
"Aye!" someone shouted.
Bloodaxe laughed and said, "We're all rebels anyway, might as well kill some southern sons of whores before we go."
The deck erupted in laughter. These were hard men who surrounded him today, old wolves of winter. They were men who fought for more winters than Donnel had seen, and most of them did not long to see another. Near four thousand strong had boarded the ships at white harbor, only gods know how many will return.
Aerys Targaryen had named them rebels. The word still tasted strange. Rebellion sounded willful, chosen.
This war had not been chosen, not by the North, nor the Vale, nor the Stormlands. It had been thrust upon them with fire and rope and a madman's justice. Aerys may call it what he wishes, rebellion or treason, the truth would still be the same. While their steel would answer either name the same.
BloodFor Blood, as Ser William would say.
Donnel shifted his gaze from the harbor towards that very man who stood near the prow. He stood tall, cutting a stark figure against the grey sky. Brown hair whipped about his face, his blue-grey eyes fixed upon Gulltown's walls.
Ser William Manderly wore mail and blue steel plate chased with silver. The merman of White Harbor worked upon his breast. He did not look like a man who had come to break a city, yet Donnel knew that was precisely what he would do.
The memory of that night returned when the ravens came. Their lord burned alive, and their future lord strangled to death trying to save his father. Donnel had been there inside Lord Manderly's study, watching Ser William's face as he read the message. He had never seen a man go so still.
The Targaryens had gone too far, since it started with Lyanna. Their beautiful, bright, and fierce Lyanna, the maiden of winter, who had been dishonored and abducted by the dragon prince. It was there where it all had started, leaving only destruction and fury behind.
"We will not forget," Ser William had said that night, his voice low and hoarse. "Nor forgive. The North remembers."
The bastards will pay the price, Donnel told himself like a promise.
As Gulltown loomed closer, its walls rising sharp and sure against the grey. Donnel straightened, adjusting the strap of his shield, knowing whatever boyhood he had left would be washed away before the day was done.
"Donnel," Ser William said, his voice carrying easily over wind, "tell Captain Beron to sound the horns."
"Yes, ser." Donnel did not hesitate and immediately moved at a trot along the deck, boots slipping once on the damp planks before he caught himself. The ship was alive beneath him, ropes creaking, timbers groaning.
At the helm stood Captain Beron Harstark, broad as an ox and twice as steady, his hands resting easy on the tiller.
"It is time, Captain," Donnel said.
Beron gave a single nod and raised his hand. All at once, the horns were lifted.
The sound came low and deep, a rolling call that leapt from ship to ship, echoed, and swelled until it filled the air. Donnel felt it in his chest more than his ears, a vibration that set his heart beating faster. The fleet answered as one, the call carrying across the grey water.
Donnel turned and ran back, breath sharp in his lungs, taking his place beside Ser William once more.
"Can you hear them?" Ser William asked, his eyes never leaving the shore.
Donnel listened. Beneath the horns and the wind, there it was, faint but unmistakable. The distant clash of steel and drums. Cries of men and siege weapons, carried thin and broken across the water.
"Aye, ser," Donnel said quietly. "It seems like the fighting's begun already."
Ser William nodded, as if he had expected no less. "Lord Arryn's outriders," he said proudly. "They'll have seen our sails before Grafton's men did. After that, Jon must have waited for the perfect time and then began to strike while the city's eyes were split in two places."
The royalists of the Vale had gathered in force at Gulltown, six thousand strong or more. That Lord Grafton meant to prove his loyalty to the crown by handing Lord Stark and Lord Baratheon over to the Mad King, and claim the Vale for himself besides. They stated their oaths to the King were greater than those to their liege lord. Yet it was only treachery piled upon treachery wrapped in the name of vows.
"If the gods are good," Ser William went on, "We'll fall upon them while they're busy holding down Lord Arryn's men."
Ser William turned from the rail and faced the men crowded upon the deck. The wind tugged at his cloak, snapping it hard behind him, yet he stood unmoving, planted like a mast himself. The soldiers fell quiet without being told. Donnel noticed that before, the way men stopped speaking when Ser William chose to speak.
"Today marks the beginning of a new story," Ser William said, his voice strong, "A story of justice, of vengeance!"
"There," William went on as he pointed it across the water, toward the painted walls and towers of Gulltown, "stand brave men fighting for a mad king. A false king." His voice hardened. "A king who murdered our lord, butchered our brothers, and stole our daughter away."
Donnel watched his face as he spoke. He had seen Ser William angry before, seen him stern, seen him disappointed, but never like this. His eyes burned, not wild or frenzied, but burning with something colder. Grief, shaped into purpose. Grief turned into a maddening thirst for revenge.
Ser William declared, "From here we begin. At King's Landing, we will end. When Aerys's, Rhaegar's and every single dragons heads sit rotting on spikes."
"For the Starks," he said. "For Winterfell!"
"Winterfell!" "Starks!" "White Harbor!"
"Death to the dragons!"
The chants rose as one, raw and rolling across the water toward the city like a challenge hurled at stone. Donnel found his own voice among them before he realized. His throat burned and his heart pounded.
Ser William turned back toward him then, the fire of his speech still in his eyes, though tempered now by something more familiar. "Stay by my side," he said, "and don't do anything foolish."
Donnel felt the corner of his mouth lift. "Me? Foolish?" he answered. "Never in a million years, ser."
Ser William snorted softly and shook his head. "There are only so many things a knight can do to keep his squire from dying."
Donnel laughed as he reached for his helm, "Do not trouble yourself, ser. I will not die so easily and certainly not to some slimy, ambitious, backstabbing bastards."
That earned him a brief smile. Ser William set his own helm upon his head and tugged it down firm. "See that you don't," he said, "else you'll earn a clout in the ear, boy."
Donnel laughed again.
Their ship surged ahead of the line, cutting the grey water like a hungry shark. Across the water, Grafton galleys broke their line in a frantic, disjointed panic as they turned to meet them. The enemies scrambled along their rails in a chaotic swarm and let the first of their arrows take flight. The air hissed with their sound.
"Shields!" Ser William bellowed.
The men moved as one. Shields locked together, wood and iron catching the storm of shafts. The volley struck as the arrows clattered and skidded across the deck. Snapping against the shields and the wood, a relentless, icy hail. Donnel had crouched behind the shield wall, his heart hammering, as the deafening sound of arrows rose loud as a storm.
But it was not merely the sound of wood against wood. There was the sickening thwack of arrow tips finding the soft flesh beneath. To his right, a man-at-arms let out a wet, bubbling choke. An arrow had punched through the gap, exiting his throat in a bright, steaming spray of red. The man folded, his knees hitting the deck with a hollow crack, his life-blood pooling into the scuppers. Donnel's heart stopped nearly as bile rose to his mouth. He could barely control himself.
Ser William shouted again, "ARCHERS! FIRE!"
The Manderly bowmen rose as one and fired a volley of their own iron. Their shafts shrieked across the water, cutting through the mist with deadly intent. Donnel risked a glance over the rim of his shield and saw their arrows find the marks.
A shaft pierced through a Grafton sailor's chest, the force hurling him back against the railing. He hung there for a heartbeat, his mouth hanging slack. Frothy blood erupted from his lips and stained the water below a bloody crimson.
Captain Beron roared from the helm, his voice hoarse and raw. "Hard to port! Brace yerselves, you bastards!"
The ship lurched fighting against the wind as it pulled them harder. The ship nearly tilted straight into the water.
"Hold fast," Ser William bellowed for his men.
When they made impact, it felt as if a giant's fist had struck the hull. Wood cracked against wood, a spray of splinters showered across the deck like daggers. Men went down in heaps, their legs buckling, their armor clanging like bells. Donnel was thrown to his knees, his hands scrambling against the deck as their prow smashed into the Grafton flagship.
"Planks!" someone shouted.
Heavy, iron-shod boards crashed down between the narrow gap, biting into the enemy railing. Without hesitation, Ser William surged forward, a morningstar in hand. Donnel followed, drawing his mace as his boots hit the foreign deck. And the fighting began.
Donnel found himself in the thick of it, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gulps. He swung his mace, the weight of it pulling his arm wide, and caught a man across the temple. The sound made against the helm of the man sent shivers across his body. The sailor went down, eyes rolling back into his head.
The enemy deck soon became a slaughterhouse. Ser William swung his morningstar with his enormous strength, the flanged iron head struck a Grafton shield, shattering the wood and the arm behind it. The man let out a scream of agony as his bones splintered away. But Ser William gave him no time as he swung again, and this time towards his face. The man flung back, clutching at the ruin where his jaw had once been. His face was a caved-in mask of pulp and shattered teeth.
The grizzled old man-at-arms stood beside Donnel as he drove his sword into a sailor's throat, and the spray of hot blood spattered across his mail.
The Grafton sailors were brave enough, but they were not ready for this. Not for armored men-at-arms spilling onto their ship with steel and fury. They fought with the frantic, clawing terror of the doomed, their screams rising above the roar of the thundering sea.
Donnel clung to Ser William's wake, his world reduced to the erratic, desperate thrum of his own heartbeat. Every skill in arms that'd been drilled into him since Winterfell to White Harbor came out as an instinct of desperate necessity.
A sailor boy his age lunged from the shadows of the rigging and swung his sword at him. Donnel dodged and closed in on the distance. The boy's eyes went wide as he wept with terror. Donnel didn't think as he swung his mace upward, catching the boy's jaw from beneath, breaking it instantly.
It was over quicker than he would have believed. The enemy broke as their spirits were shattered. Most were cut down while the others threw down their arms. Some of them even leapt into the water, driven so into fear by the sheer, unbridled savagery of the Northerners that they chose the cold embrace of the ocean.
The deck ran slick beneath their feet. One by one, the remaining galleys fled or were taken. Smoke drifted low across the water as the Manderly ships reformed. No time was wasted.
"Men forward," Ser William commanded. "Boats to the harbor. Archers, cover our landing."
At once, the men moved. Planks were thrown aside. Ropes were cast down. Small boats were lowered in haste into the churning water while archers crowded the rails above, loosing shafts toward the harbor defenses.
"Move, move!" shouted a serjeant as the first boat slapped against the hull.
Ser William stepped into the boat without hesitation. His armor was splashed red with blood from the fighting. The great Morningstar rested across his knees as though it weighed no more than a twig.
Donnel followed, and he almost stumbled climbing down the rope ladder. His hands still felt weak as they kept on shaking, no matter how hard he tried to stop them. The fighting aboard the enemy ship had ended quickly, yet his heart had not stopped hammering since. He dropped into the boat beside his knight and seized an oar bench for balance.
The boat rocked beneath them. Around him, men piled aboard, shields raised overhead against the arrows still falling from the harbor walls.
"Push off!" someone shouted.
Donnel forced himself to breathe. He could still smell blood. The smell clung to his mail and gloves. When he looked down, there were flecks of flesh on his sleeves. His stomach twisted.
A short while ago, Donnel had killed his first man. Now he could scarcely remember the fellow's face. Only the sound remained. The sound of a man dying.
Their boat surged forward. Donnel glanced back over his shoulder. More boats had followed behind them. Scores of them. The Northmen crowded together shoulder to shoulder. Some were laughing. Some were praying. Some just sat in silence. But all of them were covered with blood.
Walton the Bloodaxe screamed like a madman near the bow of another boat, his beard red with blood and seawater alike. He swung his axe overhead and roared something Donnel could not make out. The men around him answered with cheers.
Bloodaxe looked less like a man and more like the beasts from old nan's tales.
Donnel stared and thought, Was this what war was?
They didn't say this in the songs. Nor in the tales told beside hearth fires. He was among the squires who were dreaming of glory in war. Donnel fought among those with wooden swords in a pretend war in the castle yards. They hadn't imagined this.
Men dying in fear, screaming their lungs out for mercy, shitting themselves while their bellies were cut open. They were crying for their mothers while clutching at those spilled entrails.
While some others seemed to welcome death, they laughed as they fought. Cursed and charged forward through blood with mad anger and bloodlust, butchering anything that moves.
Donnel understood neither sort yet and asked himself, Would he be among the first or the latter?
Yet no answer came from his mind. The shoreline loomed closer. Arrows hissed overhead, theirs and the enemies. No one stopped rowing. No one even looked.
Neither did He. For Donnel could only hear his own heartbeat beneath the crash of waves and the cries of men. His mouth had gone dry, and his hands still kept shaking.
Donnel tightened his grip on his mace. This was no war of the songs, and he was no hero from a tale, he told himself. This was a real war, and he was in it, to the hilt. And whatever fate waited for him in this war, he meant to see it through. For better or for worse, he would do his duty.