JASON

The rain started early in the morning of their third day at sea, and continued without abatement for hours on end, a cold, unrelenting torrent accompanied by icy gusts of wind that lashed at the sails and rigging and froze his sailors' beards and whiskers to their faces. For a brief span in the late afternoon, the clouds parted, and it looked as if they might be spared further suffering, but shortly before sunset, Jason's hopes were dashed. It bore down on them from the north, a great black thunderhead stretching a league into the sky, its inner depths aglow with distant cracks of lightning that gradually grew in volume until they were practically overhead.

Faced with heavy losses if they stayed their original course, Jason gave the signal to turn the fleet southward before it broke, swinging down along the coast instead of out into the heart of the bay, but there was no outrunning the gods' fury, and after all he had staked on this mission, after all the trust his king had placed in him, there was no turning back now. The long, dark curtain of rain was well within sight to the north as the Lord Deputy stood atop the Silver Hammer's aftcastle, watching and waiting, his gut twisted in knots at the sight of the looming storm.

"It looks worse than before," Patrek remarked in a hollow and uneasy tone, stepping up beside his father to look out over the already choppy water. Jason felt his anxious gaze upon him, but he couldn't bring himself to look his son in the eyes as he replied.

"Aye. So it does." His voice was grim yet determined, and he drew silent for a moment, glancing down to the waterline in anticipation as the war galley's prow bit into a tall, dark swell bearing down on them from the front. The impact sent a sudden, harsh jolt through the flagship's frame, but they stayed their course, and the oars followed suit. Dipping into the waves in unison like the hundred legs of some great unwieldy beast, they kicked up a mess of foam and froth behind them as the galley crested the rise and slid down the other side.

A soft sigh of relief escaped Jason's lips once they were level again, and he felt his gaze drifting back to the other twenty-odd ships sailing behind them. The two prongs of their attack had been forced by the weather to split off a day ahead of schedule, in the hope that Lord Flint's half of the fleet might be able to skirt around the storm's northern edge rather than being forced even further off course to the south. It had been a difficult decision, and a risky one, given the careful timing that the operation required, but Jason had little choice but to trust his gut; the alternative was to scrap the existing battle plan entirely. The lords of House Mallister had a long and proud history as naval tacticians, and his childhood tutelage had hardly lacked for old tomes and treatises on his forefathers' strategies, formations, and most famous engagements. Together with Patrek, he'd spent the past two weeks poring tirelessly over each and every cobwebbed record Maester Haris could find in the old library, with a particular focus on his ancestors' numerous battles with the Greyjoys.

Despite their ancient enmity with the Ironborn, the Mallisters had only gone so far as to invade the Iron Islands themselves as he sought to do now twice in recorded history: once during the First Blackfyre Rebellion and again ten years ago, as part of the combined royal fleet that put down Balon Greyjoy's uprising. The first invasion, carried out by the renowned warrior Lord Harys Mallister- better known as Harys Hardskull on account of his famously stubborn temperament- with assistance from his allies in the Westerlands, was undertaken at the behest of King Daeron at the height of the conflict. In the opening months of the war, the Lord of the Iron Islands had declared for Daemon Blackfyre, but only as a pretense to allow his subjects to raid and pillage as they pleased, from Cape Kraken to the Arbor, with little regard for the allegiances of the ships they captured and harbors they burned.

Harys and his allies took Harlaw, Saltcliffe, and Orkmont before a proper defense could be mounted, but they were beaten back from Pyke by the combined fleets of the remaining Ironmen, and Lord Harys died of his wounds shortly afterward. The Battle of Redgrass Field ended the war before a second assault on Pyke could be planned, and despite Harys' sons' entreaties to King Daeron that they be allowed to keep the islands they captured as spoils of war, they were forced to abandon their prizes in order to ensure the Ironborn remained allies of the crown in the rebellion's aftermath.

After lengthy consultation with Patrek and the other lords in his council who had seafaring experience, Jason had decided to model the fleet's formation after the one Harys Hardskull had used in his initial attack, though he had only half as many ships to work with. Large, heavy ships such as the Hammer and the Wulls' salvaged Hoare and Greyjoy galleysformed the spine of the fleet, with the lighter and more maneuverable vessels at the outside edges. They had been forced to break formation during their flight from the storm, however, an unanticipated detour that would likely add a day to their travel time at the very least. And now, the gods seem determined to delay our progress even further, he reflected, glancing back to the thunderhead, which seemed to grow more larger and more menacing with each passing minute.

"Father…" Beside him, Patrek frowned and shook his head. "Perhaps it would be best to find a safe cove to drop anchor and wait out the worst of it."

"There's no telling how long that would delay us," Jason replied, his brows furrowed in thought. "Trust me, I've considered it. If we pick the wrong spot, or the waves are too fierce, half our ships could end up washed ashore. Lord Flint's forces are relying on us to take the pressure off of them once they sack Blacktyde, elsewise the Iron Fleet might well catch up to them before they have a chance to make it to the open sea. I will not risk sacrificing them because we were too fearful to brave rough weather. We do not trade lives for petty comfort, Patrek. The invasion will collapse if we don't keep the plan. I promised our king the Iron Islands, and I must needs fulfill my duty."

"Comfort? What about our lives? With all due respect, father, it won't make a bloody difference how tightly we stuck to the plan if all two thousand men in the southern fleet end up dashed to pieces on rocks or drowned at the bottom of the bay, you and me included. You're worried about keeping your word to Robb, I understand. But I know him better than you do, I rode at his side for near on two years. He'll understand if we need to call off the campaign, pull back our forces and try again when the chances of success are better. He wouldn't want his Lord Deputy throwing away his life needlessly."

"That's just the problem, though. We can't pull back our forces if we can't get in contact with them. On land, it would be as simple as sending a raven or a rider, but the sea is a different beast entirely, son." Jason let out a deep sigh and started off towards the ship's prow, nodding for Patrek to follow behind him. Legend held that the Mallisters of old had tamed and trained sea eagles to carry messages between moving ships like the maesters' ravens did between castles, but even if the stories were true, his ancestors' secrets had been lost to time. What I wouldn't give to have one of those bloody eagles, Jason mused, a hint of a grin on his lips. Gods damn the cunt of a Mallister who decided to stop training them.

"We've set things in motion that cannot be halted," he continued, raising his voice above the sound of wind whipping against the eagle-emblazoned sails overhead and the dull roar of the oars slicing through the waves beneath them. A spray of salt water and foam buffeted his side, but he continued on without so much as a moment's pause, and nodded to the galley's crewmen as he passed them. It's important that they see me remaining calm, now more than ever. "And we owe it to the men who have placed their lives in our hands to see it through. So damn the storm- we press on, we do our duty. At the very least, we owe it to them to try."

They had reached the Hammer's forecastle, and Jason turned and placed a firm hand on his son's shoulder, his mane of dark brown hair and silver-purple cloak billowing in the wind as he searched the boy's troubled expression.

"Do you understand, Patrek?"

"I... I understand, father."

"Good. Now signal the other ships to follow our lead, we must needs swing away from the shore and into the swells, else the lot of us would be capsized in an instant."

All the doubt and worry on Patrek's face vanished in an instant, replaced by steely resolve, and he set out at his task without a moment's hesitation, rushing to the main mast. Jason, meanwhile, leaned out over the railing to face the rest of the crewmen on the deck, and let his voice boom out over the sound of the gale and oars.

"Men of Seagard! Make peace with the gods, for we might all be meeting them soon, if they choose to scorn us! Our king is counting on us to make it to Pyke, and all our comrades' lives depend on our resolve- thousands of men who'll die at the Greyjoys' hands unless we push through in time to save them. But it's not just them we're saving. Think of your families, of your wives, and sons, and daughters. Think of the fate that awaits them if we fail, and the Iron Fleet turns its gaze to your homes. Rape. Slaughter. Carnage. Think of your fathers, and their fathers before them, of all of the anguished dead who have fallen defending our home from the Ironborn for generations beyond count, yearning to be avenged! Tell me, lads, will you give your hearts for them, and for the unborn generations to come?! Will you sail with me into the maw of hell?!"

"AYE!" The sailors answered as one, their bellowed response momentarily drowning out the crash of the waves and the whistling of the wind in their sails. In spite of the growing pit in his gut, Jason felt a slight grin spread across his lips as he watched them cheer and rage against the storm. Though his voice was nearly hoarse from shouting, he forced himself to continue.

"Shipmaster, hard to starboard! Bosun, close all hatches, and secure anything that isn't nailed down! Prepare to stow oars at my command!"

Making back for the aftcastle, Jason watched as the Hammer's shipmaster, a seasoned veteran of the naval campaign of Robert's Rebellion, took hold of the wheel and spun it deftly in hand; timed in perfect sequence, the galley's starboard bank of oars all dipped into the water in unison. Every sailor and soldier on deck, Jason and Patrek included, grabbed onto the nearest available patch of spare hempen rigging or wooden railing out of instinct as the ship began to turn beneath their feet, an action so thoroughly drilled into them from childhood that it was practically second nature by now. It was considered shameful and embarrassing, after all, for any Mallister to lose his footing at sea, though a storm as fierce as this might provide an exception to the rule soon enough.

Above him on the the mast, Patrek had already hoisted a bolt of blue canvas which whipped and twisted in the wind, starkly visible against the sails and sky. Jason had made sure to brief all of the other captains and commanders on the Mallisters' tried and true method of communicating between ships by means of signal banners: Blue meant follow, yellow meant halt, red meant prepare for combat, and green meant keep formation. There was also a system of multicolored banners to denote more complex situations, but thus far they had thankfully only seen need to use the basics. Sure enough, the rest of the fleet followed dutifully behind the Hammer in short order, though Jason couldn't help but note that the other Mallister and Mormont captains leaned into the turn more readily than their less seaworthy Ryswell counterparts, who briefly lagged behind in hesitation before fully committing: the Wulls were even less experienced on the open ocean than the horselords of the Rills, so Jason had appointed several of his own sailors to pilot their galleys and man the sails and rigging.

It's too bad that I can't give them all the same speech, Jason mused, momentarily weighing the benefits of writing it down for distribution before another glance to the approaching wave of rain dulled his enthusiasm for the concept. Struck by a sudden pang of urgency, he called for the oars to be withdrawn, then rushed to aid Patrek and several other men in fastening down one of the war galley's two deck-mounted catapults with heavy iron chains, lest either of them break free of their moorings amid the storm. Their stone and pitch ammunition had already been stored below decks, as had the detachable scorpions which formed the vessel's secondary armaments, a deterrent against enemy boarding parties. The Silver Hammer was an artillery ship first and foremost, able to rain down standard or flaming projectiles harder and faster than almost any other craft this side of the Narrow Sea if it was manned and armed to its full capacity, as it was for this mission. Thick and durable, its hull was designed to take a level of punishment that would sink most ships, a change made after his fleet's disastrous defeat during the opening battles of the Greyjoy Rebellion, a smear on Jason's pride as a Mallister and as a commander.

None of that will matter if she sinks before she sees her first true battle, Jason knew, but it was too late to reconsider now. The catapults' chains secure, he scarcely had time to throw his hood over his head before they plunged headlong into the curtain of rain and wind and thunder. Leaving behind a skeleton crew of seasoned veterans to man the wheel and sails, many of whom were lashed to their positions with lengths of thick hempen rope, he led most most of the sailors in a hasty retreat belowdecks when a brilliant bolt of purple lightning struck the mast of a Mormont ship to their right with a resounding crack. The impact left the sail intact, but reduced the top few meters of wood to a hail of jagged, forearm-sized splinters, some of which clattered to the Hammer's deck in the moments before Jason closed the hatch behind him and watched the bosun bar it shut with two heavy planks of iron-plated timber.

"What now?" Piped up one sailor, the tinge of fear clear in his voice as the floor heaved back and forth beneath them; the whale-oil lanterns illuminating the hold swung back and forth forebodingly with each jolt. Easily a hundred sailors and soldiers were visible in the first chamber alone amid the piles of arms and supplies, with many and more sheltered deeper in the vessel's bowels along with the oarmen.

"This your first real storm at sea, son?" The bosun's mouth set in a hard line- Jace the Stalwart was no man for petty platitudes, old and grizzled now after serving the Mallister fleet since before the time of Lord Janos. His short, scraggly beard was more salt than pepper now, and his back had a noticeable crook where he'd taken a stray yardarm to the back during a maelstrom some thirty years prior. His sun-browned skin was wrinkled and leathery and and his greying hair was wiry and salt-stained, but his one remaining good eye was a deep blue, and it glowed with passion yet, a stubborn fierceness that had seen him through the worst the sea had to offer when lesser men faltered and failed. "Now, we wait. That's all we can do. Try your best not to shit yourself, gods know someone will."

The soft knickering of horses became audible nearby, when Jason turned away from the sailors, and as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he caught sight of several dozen in a series of makeshift pens on the other end of the room, part of the modest force of cavalry that would assist in their invasion once they made landfall. His own destrier, Longbough, was visible among them, pawing nervously at the thin layer of hay that coated the wooden floor. While Patrek sought to ease the tense mood by starting a game of dice on a barrel in the center of the hold, Jason found himself alone at the pens, stroking his horse's head with one hand and whispering quiet words of comfort. Rowdy though they had grown, the noises of the crew were muffled by a tall row of supply crates that rose up between them, fastened in place by chains and hemp, and amid the quiet a sense of sudden calm and peace had washed over him in place of the worry that had beset his mind for days on end.

"Easy, boy. There's nothing to be afraid of. I'm right here."

His eyelids suddenly heavy, Jason placed his back to the wall and slid gently to the ground, holding a carrot out for Longbough to gnaw on with one hand as he reached down to his belt with the other and pulled out a silver flask stamped with the Mallister eagle. For the nerves, he told himself as he gulped down a swig of brandy, only vaguely aware that sleep was finally closing in on him after two restless nights of listlessly turning on his mattress before rising to burn the midnight oil and inspect his plans anew. I shouldn't sleep, he knew, struggling to muster the resolve to stand again, but his body seemed to have other plans, and his eyelids were too heavy to lift. A lord must always be visible to his subjects. But I suppose it wouldn't hurt to put my trust in Patrek, just for a while. The sounds of the raging ocean and the heaving of the ship might have have kept any other man wide awake and frightful, but to Jason, they were nothing more than the sound of a gentle lullaby and the soothing sensation of a rocking cradle.

When he awoke with a start to the sound of swearing men and crashing wood, Jason bolted to his feet in an instant, his eyes wide and his hand shooting to the hook where he'd hung his sword belt. His vision was blurry at first, but he felt the chill of water on his face, and the icy hand of fear was quick to take grasp of his heart once more. Gods forgive me, we should've sought safe harbor. Have the Seven abandoned us this soon? But it only took a moment for him to discern the commotion's source. At a glance, it seemed that one of the more temperamental of the crewmen had responded to a loss at dice by overturning the entire barrel and plank that were serving as the table, a reaction that had hardly endeared him to his comrades, given their loud bellowing of various profanities. He slunk back towards the horses before any of them could glimpse their lord's brief panic, and nearly started again when he came across old Jace the Stalwart sitting cross-legged on a crate across from where he'd been sleeping, a wistful grin on the man's face as he chewed absentmindedly on a wad of sourleaf. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light again, Jason spotted a ragged old wisp of a patchwork blanket lying discarded on the floor where he'd risen, and realized that though Jace's clothes looked to be damp, the wetness on his cheek and forehead were not seawater as he'd feared, but a strand of spittle that had dripped down from Longbough's mouth as the destrier slumbered above his master.

"Someone needed to watch you beside that beast," the old bosun offered with a shrug. "I seen my fair share of you Mallisters come and go from Seagard, and after watching so many of 'em die on me, I figure it's best to keep an eye on you noble folk when I can." Here he tapped wryly at what remained of his milky left eye, still sporting a scarred-over gash where a Greyjoy arrow had taken it from him during the rebellion. Reddish-pink juice dribbled out of his mouth and into his beard as he spoke, tracing the line of another old wound visible along his jaw, a faded gash scarcely visible through the stubble that he'd received in his earliest days as sailor. Depending on the day and his mood, the wound was from either the blade of Tyroshi pirate captain who'd boarded Jace's galley during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, when he had been but a humble oarsman serving in the Targaryen navy, or a rampaging kraken that had dragged under his ship in the distant reaches of Blazewater Bay, on his first voyage as a quartermaster for an enterprising merchant. Regardless of his storied past, he had served the Silver Hammer well as bosun these past ten years, and it was in large part due to his presence and that of the other seasoned veterans among the crew that Jason still felt cautiously optimistic that they'd make it to through yet.

"Seven blessings on you for that," Jason offered with a chuckle as he took a rag and used it to wipe the horse's spittle from his cheeks. "And how have we fared against the storm?"

"Worse than we hoped, better than we feared. One great hoary bitch of a wave managed to take a Ryswell galley and a hundred of old Lord Roddy's soldiers to the bottom, and two ships took a bad beating, one of ours and one of the Mormonts'. So far as I could tell when last I went abovedecks, that's the extent of it. It's still pouring water, but I'd say the worst of it is like to be past."

No sooner had he glanced back over toward his son and the rudely interrupted game of dice, though, than the by now unbarred door slammed open, and Patrek burst through amid a gust of wind and rain, with water dripping from his brow and fear plain on his face. He locked eyes with Jason the moment he saw him.

"Father, we need you above. We've sighted the enemy."

"The Iron Fleet?!" Jason shot back incredulously, his knuckles white about the hilt of Reaver's End as the Valyrian steel blade slid from its sheath. All around the hold, men were following his example, drawing their own weapons as they stood and gathered around their lord. Even old Jace the Stalwart joined them, brandishing a rusted dirk with a hilt wrapped in well-worn leather. How could they have fallen upon us so quickly?! He found his mind racing, and started toward the door with a dozen sailors behind him even before Patrek could catch his breath long enough to reply. It must be a spy or a turncloak's doing. Was Ser Jerym's betrayal just the beginning of it?

"No, not the Ironborn," Patrek called after him, pressing a Myrish lens into his father's hands as they emerged onto the deck and a fierce, frigid gale set Jason's cloak whipping and twisting behind him. "Worse."

Sure enough, the distant lights of another fleet of ships was visible through the rain, barely a league away; had it not been for the storm, they would never have been able to make it so close to them undetected. Even at four and fourty, the Lord of Seagard was still sharp of eye- in spite of the torrent of rain, it only took a moment's glance for him to make out the Lannister lion sewn into the bright crimson sails of the enemy flagship, a hulking dromond that could only be the Brightroar, the pride of Lannisport.

Five years past when he sailed south to take part in a tourney at Lannisport, Jason had marveled at the ship in all its glory as he pulled into the harbor, heartened by the knowledge that he would be able to count on such a formidable vessel for aid should the Ironmen rise up once more. Now, a decade later, the sight of its lion-head prow and nigh two hundred oars struck a chord of fear in his heart that even Victarion Greyjoy aboard his Iron Victory would have failed to inspire. For he knew full well that Brightroar was easily half again as large as Silver Hammer; while the Mallisters had a prouder legacy at sea, they could never hope to match the endless coffers of Casterly Rock, and when it came to ships, size and firepower were both easily bought.

It was impossible to tell precisely how many other vessels were following behind the dromond, but a brief, hasty count put their numbers at around fifteen; the sigils were faint from this distance, but as far as he could tell, the rows of Lannister sails were bolstered by numerous banners from House Banefort, along with a few from House Farman of Fair Isle and House Kenning of Kayce. The Lannister ships the Keath boy warned us about, he realized, as the sinking feeling began to return to the pit of his stomach. With their full complement of twenty-two, the odds would be in favor of Jason's fleet, but he quickly recalled Jace's report of their casualties. They had only nineteen vessels worthy for combat at their disposal, and though the storm was likely close to breaking, it still remained an unpredictable factor.

"Can we still evade them?" Asked Patrek, voicing his lord father's first thought at the sight of the fleet. "We could use the storm as cover to escape."

"Aye, we could," Jason replied grimly, his mouth set in a hard line, one eye still peering through the lens. "It would be easy to give them the slip in this weather, and I doubt they'd pursue us- I don't think they expected to come across us here in the first place. They have fifteen ships, maybe twenty if there are more lagging behind. Even if someone betrayed our plans to them, they couldn't have known that we would divide our forces early- only a madman would go after nearly forty ships with fifteen. I'd wager they're just as surprised as we are right now."

"All the more reason to blow past them and keep on towards Pyke," Patrek declared. "It's as you said, we can't afford any delays."

"And where do you think they'll go, if we do manage to evade them?" Jason handed the device back to one of his crewmen and turned to face Patrek, blinking the rainwater from his eyes. "If they weren't looking for us, what was their mission in the first place? Think, boy."

"Their course looks to be due east…" Patrek replied haltingly, his brows knitted in contemplation before they lifted in sudden revelation. "Seven hells, do you think they were making for Seagard?!"

"I'd say it's almost certain. Whether it was treason or idle gossip in the wrong company matters not- they knew of our fleet's departure, and now they like as not mean to burn the harbor and sack the castle while we're away."

"...Which is why we have to stop them here," finished Patrek, prompting a stern nod from his father.

"The gods have gifted us this chance, and I don't intend to waste it. We have no choice but to engage them, whether they have fifteen ships or fifty. If Seagard falls, it won't matter if we take Pyke- allowing the enemy to establish a foothold that far north would be a disaster for the campaign. They Lannisters would be able to flank Lord Blackwood's army from two sides, and they'd cut him off from reinforcements from Winterfell and the Neck."

"Shall I raise the red flag?" Offered the Stalwart, hobbling up to their sides with his crooked gait.

"Aye, but the others will be hard-pressed to see it in this weather." Jason only had to think for half a heartbeat before the solution became clear, and he turned his gaze once more to his son.

"Run and fetch Galebreaker from my quarters. You know where it is?"

"Aye!" Cried Patrek, though by then he was already halfway to the aftcastle. While he went about his errand, Jason pushed a waterlogged strand of hair from his eyes and peered out over the railing at the rest of his forces. Jace had spoken true, for the great, angry waves had died down for the nonce, leaving only choppy swells in their wake. Though their original formation was far from intact, there was some semblance of order to the lines of ships that followed behind the Hammer; the swift Mallister galleys first, followed by the heavy Mormont longships and Ryswell cogs, with the Dustins and Wulls bringing up the rear. The two damaged ships limped along behind the back lines, scarcely visible due to the haze of rain, but far enough away that they wouldn't be caught up in the battle that was soon to come. All for the better, Jason knew. We have to hit them hard and fast with our strongest ships, or we could lose half the fleet in the chaos.

Moments later, Patrek returned with Galebreaker, the ancestral warhorn of House Mallister, cradled in his arms. Legend held it had been fashioned from the tusk of a mammoth by the Mallisters' distant First Men ancestors when the beasts still roamed south of the Wall, but with access to the libraries of Seagard, Jason knew that the truth was somewhat less grand. The horn was mammoth ivory through and through, but it had been made just four hundred years ago, not four thousand, when a Mallister serving as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch sent the skull of a mammoth he slew beyond the Wall back to Seagard as a gift to his family. It had served them well on land and sea alike since the days of their campaigns against Harren the Black and his forebears, and it was with due reverence that Jason took it into his own hands and stroked the ornate silver banding before lifting it to his lips.

AHOOOoooooooooooooooooooooooooo. Over the dull roar of the rain and the deep heaving of the swells, the horn's guttural cry echoed out across the sea, slicing through the air like a knife. Ahhooooooooo. Close at hand but not half as long or loud, another horn sounded from Iceglider, the stout, green-sailed longship of Alysane Mormont the Young She-Bear just moments later. Ahhooooooooo. Then, a beat after that, a third, from Rodrik Ryswell's proud cog Sea Stallion. Both blasts were inquisitive in tone- if the exchange was to be taken as a conversation, Alysane and Rodrik were both asking whether Jason was truly mad enough to engage the fleet that just emerged from the heart of the storm. AHOOOoooooooooooooooooooooooooo, Jason replied, then nodded to the shipmaster so that there was no room for ambiguity.

"Thirty degrees to port, Ben. Let the others take care of the Banefort and Farman ships, I want Brightroar."

"You'll have her, my lord," replied Benjicot Keath, his gaunt, bearded face set in determination as he turned the wheel and a sudden gust of favorable wind filled their sails. Cousin to the current Lord of Tidereach, it had been his nephew who delivered the news of the western fleet to Seagard two weeks past, a grim irony that Jason was all too aware of. Then Jason turned to Jace the Stalwart and Red Ronnel Rivers, the war galley's notoriously sour-tempered oarmaster.

"Make ready for battle," the lord declared, and both sailors nodded in turn before setting about to their own tasks. The bosun hobbled along the upper deck, bellowing commands as the skeleton crew who had endured the storm untied themselves and were relieved by a dozen fresh sailors emerging from the hold- though still strong enough to drive them forward, the winds had died down dramatically, and the sea itself had grown calm enough for the order of business abovedecks to return to normal. Red Ronnel wrenched open a narrow hatch that led straight down to the galley's bottom deck, designed specifically to facilitate communication between the different levels, and bellowed down the command.

"BREAK SEALS, FULL SPEED AHEAD!"

A rare hint of satisfaction crept across Rivers' red-bearded face as the tight-fitting wooden blocks that sealed the hull to prevent flooding during heavy storms were pulled out in unison, and in their place slid out near one hundred and eighty long oaken oars, ninety for each side of the flagship. With a curt nod to his liege lord, the oarmaster retreated back belowdecks by means of a knotted hempen rope that ran the length of the shaft. From there he was better able to take charge of the rowers' pace and rhythm, though he left the hatch open in the event that Jason or Ben had need to give additional orders. All at once the oars dipped into the waves, the Hammer lurched forward at a noticeably improved pace as the quicker Mallister longships pulled alongside her in battle formation.

At the main mast, the Stalwart had already raised a flag quartered with black and red, the signal for the ships of the fleet to choose their targets at will. All the shipmasters in the fleet had been instructed to watch for the signals, but whether the Ryswells and Mormonts saw them amid the train mattered not- the Mallister captains knew what to do, and the others would follow their lead. Without another moment's hesitation, Jason strode out to the middle of the main deck, nodded for two sailors to assist him, and with their help, slid back the heavy wooden cover that protected the main hold from the elements. Visible through the wide metal grate were two hundred picked Mallister soldiers and fifteen Silver Eagles, all veterans of the battle at the Twins. Patrek was next in command below his lord father, and stepped up to Jason's side as he drew in a deep breath and began to address his men over the sound of crashing oars.

"Men of Seagard! You heard Galebreaker's cry, so you know what awaits us- battle, and beyond that, victory!"

They yelled out their enthusiasm at that, but Jason soon silenced them with a raised hand.

"It will be some days yet before we taste the blood of Ironmen, though. We face the Lannisters of Casterly Rock- the lions of the Wests seem to think they can match us at sea. Shall we teach them who truly rules the waves?!"

"Aye!" Shouted the men of House Mallister.

"Shall we repay them for their raids on our lands, and their vile scheme to murder our king?!"

"AYE!" They bellowed, and the timbers of the deck seemed to shake with their volume.

"ABOVE THE REST!" He called down to them, the words of their house, raising Reaver's End above his head.

"ABOVE THE REST!" They answered, their swords held high to match him.

"The sea is still treacherous," he cried, lowering his volume so as not to waste his voice entirely before the battle was joined, "so leave your heaviest armor behind, unless you want to take a stroll along the bottom of the bay. You won't lack for company, though- I hear the fish can clean pick a body clean in minutes, and we'll be sending plenty of lions down to feed them today. Fetch your helms and mail, join me up above, and we'll send Tywin's little kittens back home with their tails between their legs!"

Within minutes the deck was teeming with soldiers, and Jason had donned his eagle-winged helm and silver boots and gauntlets to match them. As for the rest of his outfit, he wore an eagle-emblazoned surcoat and light silver mail over a thick gambeson. It was still heavy when all taken together, but he'd trained to swim in mail during his youth, and even underwater, he could strip half of it away in mere seconds- such was the design of Mallister armor. The enemy fleet was much closer now, near enough to see the men rushing about on their decks in a panic, but just outside the range of his bowmen. They had a better count of their opponents as well- there were seventeen western ships in total- seven from House Lannister, four from House Banefort, four from House Farman, and two from House Kenning. Of their number, at least three looked to be badly damaged by the storm. If the pride of Lannisport had sustained any wounds, though, she certainly didn't show it, trumpeting out a cry of her own to match Galebreaker's. Up until now the western fleet had stayed their course, but now at last the great dromond and her ilk began to turn to face her foe, her golden lion prow looming fierce and large as the ship began to bear down on them.

"Here she comes," murmured Ben Keath, his eyes narrowed as he tightened his grip about the wheel. "Looks to me like they mean to face us head on, maybe even try to ram us."

"Let them try," chuckled Jason. "Ask not the lion how the eagle soars. Let's take them on a merry chase."

"With pleasure, my lord."

As the rest of the fleet continued ahead towards the enemy, Silver Hammer cut hard to starboard- presenting her vulnerable side to Brightroar's waiting ram. The hulking Lannister flagship was too slow to catch the opening- the wind was against her- but she took the bait as planned, and broke off hard to port to pursue.

"Got you, you daft golden bastards." A wide smile on his face, Ben waited until the dromond was practically alongside them, then turned and nodded to Jason, who leaned down and bellowed into the hatch that led to the rowers' deck.

"RAISE ALL STARBOARD OARS, HARD TO PORT!"

"AYE, MILORD!" Echoed the cry from Red Ronnel Rivers, and on cue all ninety oars on the ship's starboard side lifted out of the water at once, while the ninety to port bit deep into the side of a swell. The Hammer was large and heavy to be sure, but as soon as the turn began, the northward-blowing wind filled her sails again, and did most of the work for them. In the span of fifteen seconds, they executed a turn that would ordinarily have taken them three times as long, and they were bearing down on Brightroar's vulnerable side with their heavy steel ram. The Lannister flagship's captain was no fool- he had begun to turn away from the Mallister war galley the moment she began the maneuver- but even with the wind the dromond's speed was no match. They were gaining rapidly on the enemy, and the moment they came within a hundred yards, Jason raised his hand and let it fall.

"Archers, loose arrows!"

With a satisfying thrum, fifty bows let fly, and a hail of arrows descended on the Brightroar's main deck. Two hundred shields lifted into the air as they took cover in the face of the return volley, though none reached so far towards the aftcastle as to threaten Jason himself. As the archers prepared a second volley, he turned to the captain the ship's artillery crew, and gave a curt nod before bellowing out the command he'd been awaiting.

"Forward catapult, loose!"

Not a moment later, the forecastle-mounted piece of artillery sent a massive chunk of stone hurtling through the fading curtain of rain, and Jason felt his breath hitch with anticipation as he watched its course. When the boulder smashed through Brightroar's main mast and tore ragged holes in two of her sails amid a shower or wooden splinters, his heart soared in elation for a brief moment, before his mind caught up with him, and the reality of the situation sunk in.

"ALL HANDS, PREPARE TO BOARD!"

They exchanged another three volleys of arrows before Silver Hammer pulled alongside the larger dromond, and the forward catapult fired one more deadly projectile, a spray of smaller stone chunks aimed at killing as many enemy crewmen as possible. As Patrek led a few other soldiers in loading the port scorpions with heavy steel grapnels, Jason allowed himself one last sidelong glance towards the main fray: the two lines had made contact, and one Kenning galley was already foundering beneath the heavy steel ram of the Eagle's Talon, the Hammer's sister ship. The distant orange light of flaming arrows were visible flying towards a Farman cog from the Sea Stallion, and Iceglider was already locked together in the deadly dance of boarding with a Banefort galley. I'll place my trust in them, Jason thought as he turned back to face Brightroar and brought his shield to bear against another volley of Lannister shafts. I've no other choice.

By the time the two ships' hulls came together with a resounding wooden crack and Jace's men began to bring the long wooden boarding ladders to bear, both ships' decks were already rife with carnage. For the Lannister dromond had scorpions of her own, and they made their presence known even as the Mallister archers continued to wear down their enemy's ranks, skewering soldiers by their twos and threes. It seemed that many of the enemy's archers had been maimed or killed by the rubble from the catapult, and the fallen mast had divided the ship's top deck in two; for every two Lannister soldiers that lay dead or dying, however, it seemed that two more rushed from the hold with every passing second. Such was the case when Jason led the charge across the central ladder with Patrek by his side and a war cry on his lips.

"FOR SEAGARD! FOR THE YOUNG WOLF!"

The first man who died by his sword was an archer- when the red cloak's arrow met only the wood and metal of Jason's shield, he tried to reach for his dagger, but he was too slow, and fumbled with the hilt. Reaver's End clove through bow, blade, and bone alike, splitting the man's weapons and face in two in a savage upward strike. He leapt from the ladder onto the deck after that, and saw Patrek and two others follow out of the corner of the helm's narrow vision, but no sooner had his boots touched the bloodsoaked wood than two more men rushed toward him, their swords raised high.

"COME FLY WITH ME!" The Lord of Seagard bellowed, half to the enemy and half to his own men as they poured onto the dromond behind him by the dozen. Then he charged forward to meet his foes, a smile spreading across his face as he blocked one blow, parried the second, and then delivered a third of his own, a wide, sweeping sideways slash that saw his Valyrian steel cut through the Lannister's guard and slice open the leather and mail covering his chest like so much parchment. The other started at the sight, and hesitated for a moment before closing for another attack; it was all the time Jason needed to surge forward, bash apart his defenses with his shield, and drive Reaver's End deep into the man's side, in the narrow gap between his mail. Already spattered with blood beforehand, the blade was deep crimson when he withdrew it, but it would have to wait a short while before it tasted lion-flesh once more.

His soldiers were swarming around him from all sides now, and he found himself drifting back and away from the front ranks as Patrek led fresh troops to the fore, their swords flashing silver then red as they broke against the enemy like a wave. They still have the numbers, Jason knew, but we hold the advantage all the same. We struck first when we took their mast and bombarded their deck, and they haven't forgotten that. From his vantage point, it was plain to see that the Lannisters' morale was already suffering; though red cloaks outnumbered the purple nearly two to one on the Brightroar's main deck, the westermen were clearly on the defensive, their ranks shrinking back with every passing moment in the face of the Mallister advance. Many of their number were already wounded, and as they retreated Jason watched soldiers slipping over the blood and bodies of their own comrades, or panicking as they were pinned against the fallen mast. Could victory truly be ours so soon? Despite his own instincts to the contrary, he felt hope swelling inside him, hope that with the Lannister flagship brought to heel, the rest of the western fleet would follow suit. We'll need to strike a finishing blow to the hearts of these men here, though. If I could find their commander and cut him down…

It wasn't long before Jason found himself cursing his wish. As he tried to press to the front once more under a hail of arrows, his shield held high above his head, a loud, familiar voice rang out, and his gaze drifted to the fallen mast. Atop the splintered ruin, with one hand wrapped around a strand of rigging and the other holding aloft a battleaxe, Ser Daven Lannister stood tall and proud, the picture of valor. His shaggy golden beard, kept uncut to honor his captive father, stretched down midway to his waist, and his hair, of nearly equal length, was the closest thing to a lion's mane that Jason had ever seen.

"SONS OF CASTERLY ROCK! MEN OF THE WEST! STAND WITH ME NOW, STAND FOR OUR TRUE KING, AND TOGETHER WE SHALL DRIVE THE DOGS OF THE USURPER BACK INTO THE SEA!"

At that precise moment, a shaft of golden sunlight broke through the sea of thick grey clouds above, and the attackers' momentum slowed to a creaking halt; even Jason was momentarily awed into silence by the sight. Have the gods truly abandoned me again so soon? He found himself wondering, as Ser Daven leapt down to the deck and led a charge that sank into their front ranks with bloody efficiency; when a Silver Eagle leapt into his path and tried to lead a counter-charge, the veteran only lasted a handful of moments before he was cut down by a combination of red cloaks' spears and Daven's axe.

"Keep formation!" Jason shouted, as their line began to waver, but his voice was drowned out by the westermen's cries of ferocity, and his own men's noises of panic. This was the third war that the Lord of Seagard had fought in his lifetime, and by now he had lost count of the number of battles he'd seen. Suffice to say, Jason Mallister was well-aware of the fickleness of soldiers' hearts amid the heat of the fray, and had seen all too often how quickly one man's cowardice could spiral into a rout. I have to get back to the front, he knew, but quarters were growing increasingly tight on the Brightroar's deck, as each side brought hundreds of men to bear in a battle that more resembled a clash on land than anything he'd seen at sea. Behind him, more fresh Mallisters were still pouring across from Silver Hammer, and ranks of archers still crowded his flagship's deck, doing their best to suppress any ranged attacks from the Lannister crew while avoiding their own comrades, a difficult task made only slightly simpler by the stark difference in color of the combatants' respective livery. To either side, the men who weren't equally immobilized were eagerly engaged in cutting down the operators of the dromond's remaining scorpions, and to the front, the ranks were beginning to press backwards. If only I still had Galebreaker. The horn's massive size had required him to leave it behind on the Hammer, and in its absence, he resorted once more to sheer volume.

"HOLD FIRM, MEN! CLEAR A PATH!"

"MAKE WAY FOR YOUR LORD!" A Silver Eagle nearby echoed, though mayhaps the man simply shared his desire for some measure of relief from the press of bodies. All the same, though, Jason's soldiers hadn't lost hope yet, as he feared the might have. To their left, a group of swordsmen led by two of his household knights broke through a weak spot in the Lannister advance and began a push towards the dromond's aftcastle, where a majority of the archers were still concentrated, while on the right, Patrek and three Silver Eagles formed the vanguard of a surge towards Ser Daven's position. Finally afforded some freedom of movement, Jason grimaced as he made his way towards his son; the wooden deck was scarcely visible beneath a layer of corpses, and he was forced to step across Lannister and Mallister bodies alike to advance.

His silver steel boots were crimson by the time he was finally nearing the heart of the fray, though two charging Lannister spearmen slowed his progress before he could reach Patrek's position; frustrated, he cleaved through them even more brusquely than usual, only to find himself facing down a hulking Brax knight in full plate armor, the rearing purple unicorn on his surcoat already streaked with crimson. The sun was shining full and bright now, and the light gleamed brilliantly off the polished steel as the knight surged forward and raised his gore-spattered warhammer high in the air, his voice booming out from within his purple-plumed greathelm.

"Seven guide my hand as I strike you down in the name of Hornvale, traitor!"

"I'd remember that hammer anywhere," Jason chuckled in reply as he nimbly sidestepped the withering blow, delivered a lightning-fast slash that opened a deep, bloody cut in the mail above the knight's elbow, then slipped back out of his range. "Ser Tybold, wasn't it, Andros' nephew? You were at the Lannisport Tourney the year I won the melee!"

"SHUT IT!" Tybold bellowed, as a wild swing of his hammer brained a Mallister spearman eagerly rushing to his lord's aid. His aim was even worse with the wound on his arm, but with his raw strength, he was still dangerous enough that Jason ruled out trying immediately for a killing blow, and instead sufficed with another strike-and-retreat attack that saw Reaver's End bite quick and deep into the joint at his hip.

"You haven't changed a bit in five bloody years," Jason called mockingly, twirling his sword in hand as Ser Tybold struggled to hold up his guard. "I still remember the way you charged at me when it was down to just three men left, waving that hammer like you thought you were King Robert in the flesh."

"I SAID, QUIET!" After another sloppy attack that met only empty air and bloodsoaked wood, and Jason was nearly ready to end the brief dance. "I WOULD'VE WON IF YOU HADN'T CHEATED!"

"Come now, Ser Tybold, tripping a man is hardly cheating. Though to be fair, I don't think I would've won if Strongboar hadn't been so laughing hard at the way you fell on your bloody face with your arse in the air."

"You're going to die slow," The man growled, though no measure of venom could have wiped the nostalgic grin off Jason's face. As he searched for the ideal opening in the knight's defense, his eyes drifted momentarily back toward Daven, and his heart caught in his chest when he realized that the gold-bearded knight was currently facing down his son; the two hadn't clashed yet, but they were circling each other ominously, and the soldiers around them had parted to make way for the duel. Time to end this, before that boy does something stupid.

"Well, if you didn't learn your lesson then, it seems I need to teach you again." This time it was Jason who charged, dodging one final blow to slip close enough to Tybold that the hammer was rendered useless. To his credit, the Brax knight swiftly realized his predicament, and dropped the weapon fast enough to send one lobstered steel fist streaking toward Jason's face as the other reached for the rondel at his hip. The hasty blow impacted Jason's shield with a reverberating clang and subsequent crack that announced the summary destruction of every bone in Tybold's hand, and with his wounds he was too slow to reach his dagger before Reaver's End darted above his arms and buried itself deep in his neck, piercing through the mail and pinning his still-struggling body to the fallen mast.

"You're no Robert Baratheon," Jason growled in the knight's ear, then withdrew the blade in a fountain of crimson and continued on his way as Ser Tybold Brax slumped to the floor and died choking and sputtering on his own blood.

The duel was already well underway by the time Jason reached them, though to call it a whipping would have been just as accurate. Patrek Mallister was a good sword to be sure, with plenty of potential to grow just as skilled as his father in due time. But for all his talent he was still but twenty, scarce more than a boy, and his opponent was Ser Daven Lannister, one of the finest knights of the West. To make matters worse, like Ser Tybold, Daven was wearing full armor as opposed to Patrek's lighter leather and mail, roaring golden lions gleaming proudly on his heavy pauldrons and breastplate and halfhelm. Utterly overpowered, Seagard's heir had been forced to his knees, his helm rent on one side of his face as blood dripped down a fresh gash on his cheek. One of his arms was badly hurt as well, and with his sword knocked aside, it was all he could do to hold up his shield as defense against Ser Daven's onslaught, his teeth grit and his eyes full of despair.

"ENOUGH," Jason bellowed, leveling the tip of his sword with Daven's head as he stepped out of the ring of soldiers and toward the pair. "Let the boy be, Ser Daven. It's me you want."

"Is it now?" Asked the lion-helmed knight, halting mid-swing, still poised to deliver another blow to Patrek's already-splintered ruin of a shield. "And why would that be? This whelp came to me first."

"Father, I…" spitting blood from his mouth, Patrek tried to speak, but Jason thundered out a warning before he could manage another word.

"QUIET, BOY! Because I'm the only one standing between you and victory. Face me, man-to-man, and let the one left standing carry the day. We've both seen enough men die already."

"I see he gets his foolish streak honestly." called Daven, with a hint of a laugh. "Those were the same terms he offered me."

Patrek, you damned brave idiot…

"He did not hold the authority to offer such terms on my behalf," countered Jason, taking another step forward. His were the words of a boy- I ask that you treat them as such. You have beaten him, ser. Now leave him be, and come taste of a man's steel, if you have a trace of honor left within you yet."

"Far be it from me to refuse the Eagle of Seagard," Daven called, and the two exchanged an even nod before the Lannister knight left Patrek behind after one last dismissive kick to the cowed lordling's shield. "Your head will make a much finer prize regardless."

Then they came together in a whirl of steel, and Jason was reminded once more of the thrill of facing a worthy opponent. He was no Strongboar to be sure, and no Jaime Lannister either, but Daven struck a decent balance between his bannerman's raw strength and his cousin's sheer skill, and his battleaxe moved with enough deftness and grace that Jason was hard-pressed to find an opening. He tried bashing with his shield, but Daven was too strong for that, and responded by pushing back just as hard with his axe's hilt. He was too fast on his feet for Jason to find an opening like he had with Ser Tybold, and when he did try to slash at Daven's side, he was rebuffed with a strike to his shield that nearly cleaved the wood in two.

"I'm hurt, Ser Daven," Jason called mirthfully, backing away momentarily as he planned his next attack. "It's almost like you're trying to tell me to stay away!"

"Quite the opposite, Lord Jason" retorted his opponent, his grin visible beneath his roaring helm as he held open his arms welcomingly. "Come as close as you like."

"Perhaps I shall." Once more the Lord of Seagard lunged into the fray; this time he opened with a shield feint followed by a sweeping downward slash, designed to divide Daven's attention. No man's fool, though, the Lannister knight ignored the feint, stepped back to avoid the slash, and brought the head of his axe down to lock blades with Reaver's End and keep Jason from lifting it for another strike. The hooklike groove behind the battleaxe's head fit perfectly around the sword, and Jason allowed himself to feign a momentary expression of panic before he dropped his shield, grabbed hold of Daven's long golden beard, and yanked hard, pulling the knight into a brutal headbutt that sent him staggering backwards, his axe slipping out of his hands as Jason slammed his foot down atop the hilt and pinned it to the deck. Fighting through the pain and stars as a trickle of warm blood seeped out from beneath the brow of his helm, Jason lunged forward with both hands about his sword, a ragged yell on his lips and the taste of victory on his tongue. It turned bitter and vile when an arrow slammed into his shoulder mid-thrust; the blow was glancing and the damage minimal, but the impact was enough to throw him off-balance and turn his momentum against him, sending Jason tumbling to the deck. His helm torn from his head by the fall, he scarcely had time to glimpse the sails of a Banefort ship bearing down on them, its deck full to the brim with archers, before two strong hands yanked at the hem of his purple cloak, and he was sent staggering off-center once more as he struggled back to his feet. Finally pushing himself upright, he tried to pivot and bring his sword to bear, but then Daven's armored shoulder slammed into his own, and the world suddenly turned upside-down. By the time Jason realized that he had fallen over the rail, the ocean was already racing up to meet him; its embrace was dark and cold.

He might have lost his senses and drowned if not for the freezing bite of the water and the sting of salt in his wound, but what came next was as simple to Jason Mallister as mounting a horse was to a jouster, or scrubbing floors to a scullion. There was an order to how it was done, and he could still hear the sound of his father's voice ringing in the back of his head as he began.

First drop anything you're carrying, shields and all. Well, father, that isn't an option at the moment, unless you'd have me consign our two-thousand year old ancestral family blade to the bottom of the sea.

Struggling to keep his wits about him as the dull light of the surface began to slowly recede, Jason grabbed hold of his leather scabbard with one hand and slid Reaver's End into it with the other, going largely off of muscle memory in the distinct lack of visibility. Boots and gauntlets came next, the easiest pieces of armor to remove; he wasted no time producing a short-bladed dagger to cut the ties and straps that held them in place before tearing them off and moving on to the mail and gambeson, the heaviest components. The water around him was growing darker and colder still, and it was slowly growing painful to hold in his breath; his ears were gradually beginning to ache as well, a sign that he was past two meters down by now. With his feet freed of their weights, though, Jason was able to right himself and begin to tread water furiously with his legs as he searched for the mail's straps with one hand and summarily slashed them apart with the other.

Finally he had to let the air out with a choked gasp of bubbles that quickly drifted back up to the distant light of day, but at the same moment he sloughed off the mail like a snake shedding its skin- he could feel his downward progress slow to a crawl, but as long as the gambeson remained, he would still be too heavy to ascend. Thankfully, its straps were even easier to find, running in a row down his chest; Jason was all too aware, however that he was discarding his last protection from the biting cold as he brought the dagger downward along the seam with all his strength. The tip of the blade nicked his chest and stomach in more than one place, as the bitter sting of salt testified, but the pain helped keep him focused as his lungs burned, his vision began to blur and fade, and the tips of his fingers and toes grew increasingly numb. Have to get back. Back to Patrek. The water had begun to leak into his mouth by the time he shrugged away the gambeson, but with the thought of his son, broken and bleeding on the floor at the Lannisters' mercy- came a sudden burst of frantic energy, and suddenly Jason found himself bursting towards the surface like a bat out of the seven hells, his arms and legs moving of their own accord as he put a lifetime's worth of swimming practice to use. The closer the shimmering, shifting light grew, the harder he pushed, until before he knew it he was gasping for air at the crest of a swell, blinking away the saltwater from his eyes as he stowed the dagger between his teeth.

It took a few agonizing moments for his vision to fully return; when it did, he was treated to a vision of chaos. Though he'd made his best effort to keep the Hammer's clash with Brightroar well away from the main battle, it seemed that the fray had been determined to follow them all the same. Far from isolated, the two flagships were surrounded on all sides by vessels locked in combat. With the rain all but gone, flaming arrows were flying freely between many of the ships by now, and one of the Farman cogs was already aflame, it sails rapidly disappearing in a cloud of billowing smoke. The Eagle's Talon and her ram had claimed another victim, a Lannister galley that had been practically cleaved in two as it sank beneath the waves, and a group of Mormont and Ryswell longships were making a general advance on the remnants of the western line. The Banefort galley he'd seen before he fell had moored itself to Brightroar's other side in order to reinforce the dromond, while a Wull- formerly Hoare- war galley had done the same on the other side of Silver Hammer, forming a chain of four massive ships locked together side-by-side atop the waves.

He had only drifted a few dozen yards away from the ships over the course of his brief struggle, so it was a relatively simple matter to make his way back towards them, the distant sounds of battle echoing overhead. Practically every part of his body ached with dull, numbing pain, and to his dismay, his feet had actually begun to feel warm, a sure sign that he might lose them if he didn't get out of the water soon. All that was left was to choose which ship to flee to; Jason's first instinct told him to seek the safety of his own war galley, a place where he could recuperate and regain his strength among his own men, but at the same time he was all too aware that such an act might be taken as a sign for retreat. If I am to return from the dead, let it be amid blood and battle. And so it was decided; the moment he came close enough to Brightroar's hull, he reached down with shivering, purple hands, pulled his sword from its scabbard, and plunged the Valyrian steel blade deep into the wood of the hull above, pressing it further and further inward until it was secure enough for him to use it to pull his body up and out of the water.

Still shivering uncontrollably from the cold, he desperately sought purchase on the slick wood with his waterlogged woolen socks, his every muscle straining to hold himself in place as he plucked the dagger from between his jaws and swung it hard and fast into the wood; it didn't cut as easily or as deep as Reaver's End, but it bit into the dromond's hull all the same, and he had his handhold. He wrenched himself upward, returned his sword to its scabbard, and scrambled onto the frame of an aftcastle window, panting and drained. After a quick glance through the salt-stained glass to ensure that the room wasn't currently occupied, he shattered the portal with the dagger's hilt, cleaned away the shards, and squeezed himself through, sighing in sheer bliss when he felt the warmth of a brazier on his body. The chamber was well-kempt to be sure, with lion-embroidered crimson tapestries on the walls, an ornately carved desk in the center, and a full set of wardrobes alongside the bed. It only took Jason a moment to realize that he was like as not standing in the personal quarters of Ser Daven Lannister, but the revelation mattered little- he wasted no time stripping himself of his soaked clothes and changing into some of Daven's own, though he was sure to avoid anything in the Lannister colors, lest his own men mistake him for the enemy and cut him down. After he'd selected a simple grey woolen doublet, along with plain mail and a long white cloak, he slid on blackened steel vambraces and greaves- thankfully, he and Daven seemed to be the same size- grabbed an unadorned buckler from the corner, and threw open the doors, prepared for whatever might await him.

The scene beyond the doors to Daven's quarters was beyond even Jason's expectations, though; in his brief absence, the battle atop Brightroar had turned to madness and chaos, with the bodies piled up by the twos and threes at some places on the deck. The Banefort and Wull reinforcements had replenished either side's numbers after Jason's fall, and now the fur-clad northern clansmen and orange-cloaked westermen ruled the battlefield, dealing death and dismay across the decks of both the Lannister dromond and Silver Hammer alike. It seemed that the Mallisters had initially been beaten back to their own vessel after his fall, only for the Wulls to mount a counterattack; now there was fighting on both ships, and for the blood and carnage that covered most combatants, Jason could hardly discern who was friend and who was foe. Try as he might with a brief, cursory glance about the battlefield, he could find no sign of Patrek, but quickly spotted Daven by his golden beard, at the fore of a group of Lannister and Banefort men trying their best to throw back the Wulls. The western knight stood at nearly the opposite end of the deck, but Jason knew with grim certainty what he was honor-bound to do.

And so, with Reaver's End in his hand and fury in his eyes, the Lord of Seagard launched himself headlong into the fray and began to carve a bloody path towards Daven Lannister, gutting or impaling half a dozen surprised soldiers within the span of a minute as he fell upon their ranks from behind. He was far from alone, though; Ollo Wull and a group of his clansmen were more than eager to join them when they recognized his face, and when the Wulls' axe-wielding leader saw Jason's still-dripping hair, he let out a hearty laugh above the sounds of ringing steel and dying men.

"Back from the dead so soon, Lord Eagles? When they told me you took a dip into the sea, I thought you were fishfood for certain! Guess you have a bit more fight in you yet!" Slapping Jason's back with one huge hand, he grinned though his thick beard, then tore the fur cloak from his back and slung it around Lord Mallister's shoulders. "You still look like a bloody drowned rat, though! Wouldn't want you to catch your death again so soon after you gave it the slip, would we?"

He launched himself back into the fight with vigor before Jason could even begin to thank him, braining a charging Banefort spearman who'd tried to take them unawares as they spoke with one massive swipe that sent the man's brains splattering across the deck. With a sigh of relief, Jason quietly thanked the Seven that the Wulls were on their side, than joined the clansman and continued his advance, slowly gathering more and more men around them as the word spread across the battlefield that Jason had risen from the sea, and cries of elation rose up from the surviving Mallisters.

"THE EAGLE STILL FLIES!" Bellowed Benjicot Keath, his voice audible even from the Hammer's deck as he pointed in Jason's direction with a bloodied dirk, his surcoat torn and his mail stained scarlet. "OUR LORD HAS RETURNED TO US!"

A loud yell of joy went up at at that, and all across the width of the battlefield the drained and disheartened Mallister troops surged back to life, pushing the western boarders back onto Brightroar as Jason himself drew nearer and nearer to his goal. The Lannister troops tried their best to form a defensive line to halt him in his path, but the glut of corpses clogging the deck made the task nearly impossible, and Ollo Wull was able to cleave a bloody hole through their ranks in a matter of moments.

"SER DAVEN!" Jason finally roared when he was but a dozen paces away, his breath leaving him in a ragged pant as he strode forward towards his foe; there were no enemies left between them to stand in his path, and his own men eagerly parted ranks to allow him through. "I'VE COME BACK TO FINISH OUR DUEL, SER DAVEN. YOU WILL STILL FACE ME, WON'T YOU?!"

Between the patchwork streaks of Mallister blood that crossed his cheeks, Daven Lannister went as pale as a sheet, his eyes bulging white and wide.

"Seven hells…" he whispered quietly, though to his credit he never shrank back so much as an inch, standing his ground with his gore-spattered axe gripped tightly in hand. A dark-whiskered Banefort knight garbed in a flowing orange cloak and mail as black as midnight stepped between the two before Daven could muster anything else by way of a response, and planted his onyx-hilted bastard sword in the bloodstained wood.

"I know not which foul sorcery you employed to cheat death, traitor, but I will not allow you to bring harm to my liege Ser Daven. You already had your chance to strike him down and failed- now I shall be your opponent. Your traitor king holds my lord brother Quenten as his prisoner, and in his name, I shall-"

The Banefort never had a chance to finish his sentence. His patience at an end, Jason surged forward with Reaver's End in hand and opened the knight's mail from hip to shoulder in a wide, diagonal slash, all before he could pry his sword from the deck and bring it to bear.

"A fortunate thing indeed that it was not your brother I faced today," Jason remarked dryly, as the man slumped to the floor with shock plain on his face. "Lord Quenten is a brilliant tactician, and a skilled fighter. He would never have left himself defenseless before an enemy." Then he stepped over the dying knight's body and came face to face once more with Ser Daven, his mouth set in a grimace.

"Do send my condolences to Lord Quenten, once you join him in chains. His brother's honor compelled him to confront me, just as mine own obliged me to seek retribution against the man who so disgracefully interrupted our duel. Shall we continue, then?"

Daven did not answer Jason's challenge with words, merely a bellowed war cry as he rushed forward with his axe poised to strike. Some of the fire had gone from his eyes, though- perhaps it was mere exhaustion, Jason wondered as their blades clashed, or perhaps he knew he was beaten. Regardless, their second duel was much briefer than the first. Still a formidable foe to say the least, Daven came close to striking off Jason's toes on one particularly savage downward strike, and Lord Mallister's buckler was shattered and torn from his arm by another reckless blow, but Daven's attacks were the last throes of a cornered animal, and the end was near. It only took Jason nigh on a minute to find the proper opening to slip in close and cleave the greataxe in two at the haft, claiming three of Daven's fingers' in the same stroke. As the knight cried out in shock and pain, Jason struck him hard across the face with his mailed fist, then drove Reaver's End deep into the gap in the armor at Daven's knee, until his leg was skewered like a shank of mutton.

Ser Daven's howl of pain and defeat was load, as was the crash of his armor as he fell to the deck. But Jason was louder still, as he bellowed out a simple choice for all to hear, the tip of his sword placed firmly against the eye-slit of the knight's golden lion helm.

"YIELD OR DIE."

Silence hung about the air for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity. Both ranks of soldiers stood on the edges of their toes, their grips tight about their weapons. The battle at large still continued on the sea all around them, with half a dozen ships of either faction either burned or sinking, but every man left on Brightroar had his gaze fixed on the cowed lion, and triumphant eagle, regardless of his allegiance. Finally, Ser Daven Lannister opened his mouth.

"I yield," he whimpered, and Jason smiled, for the battle was won.

And we're back again! Hope you all enjoyed some solid naval warfare scenes with Jason and the rest of the Mallister gang. Watching the travesty that was the final season definitely gave me some heavy inspiration to return to this story- whether you like or dislike how things are going, please leave a review letting me know, I can't overstate how helpful they are, not only in helping me think about ways to improve the story but also in motivating me to write more often. Next chapter will most likely be from Addam Marbrand's perspective. Let me know what developments you want to see next!