Dragonlod Chapter 167: Giants and Islands P1

Avalon’s bells tolled across the courtyard at first light, as soldiers and supplies bound for the Wall took the Mountain road. A slew of volunteers who want to take the Black also joined the long caravan bound for the Wall. With the Wall regaining its reputation as an old order sworn to protect the North, the number of recruits had increased even in a bustling city like Avalon. Avalonian ships bound for the Westwatch-by-the-sea were also bustling with activity as the ships got loaded with weapons and food supplies for the Night’s Watch.

While the caravan bound for the Wall moved out of the city gates, another smaller group was moving into the castle proper.

From the outer gates rode in a procession of master builders, architects, masons, carpenters, and sculptors—men with chests of tools, rolls of parchment strapped behind saddles, and eyes bright with the prospect of another massive project.

For why else would the lord of Avalon summon the Builders’ Guild?

They entered the great hall beneath banners of the black wolf.

Some were Northerners, broad-shouldered men with hands thick as oak roots, who knew the weight of stone and snow in the North. Others came from Lys, artisans with quick fingers and sharp eyes, accustomed to sunlit courtyards and delicate arches. A few hailed from the Riverlands and settled in the North seeking greater fortune, grey-haired master-masons whose families had raised septs, bridges and castles for centuries.

At the golden throne of the great hall of Avalon sat Harry in full regalia. A row of banners hung from the pillars in the hall. The guild members were escorted into the hall by guards until they stood before the throne.

Beside Harry’s seat, there was another ornate chair plated with gold and silver. That seat was occupied by Princess Arianne Martell, the current Lady of Avalon.

Beside the lord and lady of Avalon stood Maester Marwyn holding on to his wooden staff.

One by one, the guild members bowed before their lord and lady.

“You have been called here for a construction project that is personally important to me. I seek a temple to be built in honour of an eastern deity known as the Maiden-made-of-Light. The temple must be grand, for it will also be a place of healing in Avalon. Therefore, I will need all of your expertise in this project.”

A ripple of murmur passed through the gathered members in the hall. Some of the Lyseni builders were familiar with the goddess he spoke of, while the others were utterly ignorant.

“I will need seven towers constructed around the temple and their cornerstones connected to a secret chamber beneath the main structure.” Harry added, thinking about installing the crown of the Maiden in that chamber.

The natural power of the goddess would serve as a bulwark against any dark forces stirring beyond the Wall.

Besides, he planned to turn the temple into a healing house. The natural energy exuded by the crown would serve as a focal point to enhance all medicines in the temple. This would be the final act in uprooting the faith-based powers in the south and shifting that focal point to the North.

It was akin to reigniting a new ley line in the North, opening up a new vein of the world’s magic, and disseminating the power across the North. Already, his actions of reigniting the dormant ley lines had increased the birthrate of magical children. The Sea Dragon school already boasted a modest number of students with magical potential in its halls.

Going forward, Harry expected those numbers to rise.  

Focusing back on the builders, he found them engaged in quiet conversations amongst themselves.

“My prince, do you seek the entire guild to present you with a design and work on this project?” one of the builders asked.

“No. You may choose to present individual designs or form partnerships amongst yourselves to present a design. I’ll select the most apt design and award the contract to that builder among you.” Harry explained, setting off excited murmurs among the guild members.

“My husband and I shall be most grateful if you could present your designs within a month’s time.” Arianne added with a bright smile.       

“We shall do our best, Princess.”

“My prince.”

Harry waved them away.

The builders bowed eagerly before Harry and Arianne, promising to return with their designs at the earliest before taking their leave.

“So, you’ve decided to place that magical crown of yours in this new temple?” Arianne asked, raising a delicate eyebrow once the doors of the hall sealed shut.

“It’s not a magical crown and it’s not mine. But essentially yes.” Harry said, sighing as if he was saying this for the umpteenth time.

“It’s a better explanation than the crown of an old goddess who happened to be worshipped as the Seven in Westeros.” Arianne said with a roll of her eyes.

“You believe in magic but not in a goddess.” Harry said with a snort.

“I can see your magic, I can feel it. I can’t see or feel a goddess now, can I?” Arianne said with a laugh that was music to his ears. “Unless, of course, I look at myself in a mirror. Then I can see a goddess.”

Harry’s lips twitched ever so slightly. His people had started the age-old tradition of lip service by spreading the word that Arianne was sculpted in the image of a goddess. There have been gifts and well-wishes streaming into the castle from across the city and even from beyond. The merchants and guilds of Avalon gifted his wife with jewellery and silk in the hopes of earning her favour and his, to some extent.

Even the Iron Bank sent a representative to express their well wishes, and they were now the proud recipients of a Keyholder with the Iron Bank.

Harry had to admit that the move from the Iron Bank was not something he expected, given that he had built a bank of his own in the North. The fact that he had no plans to expand the operation of the Northern Bank beyond its borders notwithstanding, it was inevitable for the bank to expand someday.

After all, the future was ever unpredictable.

But despite that, the Iron Bank was willing to hedge its bets by giving him the status of a keyholder. It showed their keen insight into guessing his plans for the Sunset Sea. They want to remain in the good books of the North and gain access to the trade empire I’m building in the Sunset Sea.

‘Someone in the Iron Bank has a good eye for statecraft.’ Harry mused, palming the gold-plated key hanging from his neck.

“Harrion!”

His musings were cut short as he refocused on Arianne, who looked none too pleased to see his mind had wandered.

“Sorry. My mind led me astray for a moment.” Harry smiled apologetically at his wife. “What were you saying, Arianne?”

Arianne turned her nose up and huffed at being ignored.

“I was asking whether you found out what became of that Tyroshi woman of yours.”

“Oh! Alaenera has gone to the Sea Dragon’s Academy. I have sent word for her to come back.”    

“You don’t think she went away because of my presence, do you? After all, she doesn’t know that I’ve got no problems if you take a paramour.” Arianne said, looking a tad concerned.

Harry was about to dismiss her concerns, but he paused as a thoughtful expression overcame him.

Though he had promised Alaenera that she would always have his protection, he had not told her that Arianne was willing to let their relationship stand even after his marriage. He had thought it’d be better for Alaenera to hear from Arianne’s own mouth to allay any fears she harboured.

‘Did she misinterpret something I said and send herself away from Avalon for that reason?’ Harry wondered with a troubled look.

If that was the case, then there needed to be an honest talk to clear the air. He had promised Alaenera a dignified life in the North, and he intended to keep that promise.

******

The war galleys and cogs of Avalon rode the swells of the Westerland seas with practised ease, their sails emblazoned with the snarling direwolf of House Stark. At the prow of the flagship Sea Fang, Captain Nimpton stood with his dark cloak whipping in the wind, eyes fixed upon the horizon.

Fair Isle loomed ahead, green and jagged in the light of dawn. The castles of the bannermen of House Farman crowned its eastern cliffs, while villages dotted the shores below. Smoke from hearthfires spiralled into the sky, unaware that war was already upon them.

“Signal the horns,” Nimpton ordered. “We break into wings. Landings at three points—the northern coves, the southern strand, and the fishing villages near the east.”

His men lifted the long horn and let out a bellowing call. The signal was taken up by the other ships in the fleet.

The fleet shifted like a hunting wolf pack, sails tilting as squadrons veered off toward their chosen shores. Men tightened their grips on shields and spears, bows strung and ready.

‘The Farmans will see us come and hopefully they’ll do the smart thing and surrender.’ Nimpton mused as he clutched the railing of his ship and stared ahead.

The first ships scraped into the northern coves. Ramps splashed down into the beachhead, and armoured Northerners strode ashore with axes in hand. Bannermen of the Farmans—poorly armed fishers and levy spearmen in truth—stood in trembling ranks upon the beach. If they were warriors, they didn’t look the part. They looked like they were ready to keel over and die at any moment.

The Northerners, overzealous and eager for a good fight, started the campaign with a war cry that brought shivers to the Westerlanders.

At the southern strand, much the same unfolded. Northern army stormed through the tides, their war cries carrying over the crash of waves. The Farman men tried to hold a shallow post, but a volley of Northern bows shattered their ranks. Those who lived cast aside their shields and bent their knees.

The eastern fishing villages fell without a single blade drawn. When the Northern war galleys pulled into the harbours, the villagers raised white cloths atop their huts. Doors opened, and the smallfolk carried baskets of bread and fish to the conquerors, hoping mercy would spare their kin. Though some Northmen grumbled about not having a good fight, many were just relieved to accept the surrender.

By nightfall, three Northern footholds had been secured. The banners of House Farman, silver ships upon a blue field, had been hauled down in half a dozen villages and replaced with the black direwolf of Avalon.

*****

At Faircastle, the seat of House Farman, Lord Sebaston Farman stood upon the battlements, watching the white sails of the Northern fleet spread across his shores. A nervous steward at his side stammered reports of rout and surrender.

“My lord, the men at Covehaven have yielded. At Greycliff, too. Even the fishermen of the east have surrendered their villages without a fight, and they were spared from any bloodshed.”

“Our banners fall without a fight.” Sebaston muttered.

He knew why. His people were tired of war. When the Lannisters rebelled, it was his people who suffered under the Dornish assault before their ire was turned on Lannisport.

Sebaston’s jaw tightened. He was no coward, yet neither was he a fool. His house was ancient, its isle rich, but his men were few. The North had come with a fleet greater than any he had seen in a generation, and already his vassals crumbled before them. His sworn knights were missing when they were needed.

To resist was to see Faircastle burned, his people slaughtered. To yield was bitter, yet perhaps it would save his house from a worse fate. The Lannisters were already getting trounced in the mainland, so he was not expecting any form of help from them.

‘Besides, what kind of help can a drunk dwarf assemble before the might of the North?’ Sebaston thought with a derisive snort.

He turned away from the sea, cloak swirling about his shoulders.

“Summon my council. We will not throw lives away for pride. If the North means conquest, let them find us willing to bend rather than break.”

*****

Two days later, Captain Nimpton himself rode to the gates of Faircastle, flanked by Northern captains and a column of soldiers. The port below swarmed with Northern warships, their decks bristling with men-at-arms. At his side rode Lord Leobald Tallhart, the commander of the armies invading Fair Isle.

Drums thundered as they approached the gates. The guards along the castle’s ramparts were lacking any weapons as promised. Lord Farman had sent envoys with the message of his intention to surrender.

Nimpton and Lord Leobald were here to receive the formal surrender from Lord Sebaston.

“The surrender of Fair Isle in three days. Songs will be written of us in the North.” Lord Leobald said with a chuckle.

“Shame we didn’t have any dramatic battles to polish the tales of our might.” Nimpton said with a crooked grin.

“Aye. I’ll have the bards come up with some ridiculous feat nonetheless.” Lord Leobald said with a hearty laugh that was akin to rolling thunder in a storm.

The great gates of the castle creaked open, and Lord Sebaston himself stepped forth. He was clad in a green doublet embroidered with silver ships, his beard streaked with grey, but his posture proud. Behind him trailed a dozen knights, though none bore drawn steel.

“I am Lord Sebaston,” he said, his voice clear though weary. “I see the wolves of the North have come to my shores. You need not batter my gates, Captain. I will not see my people butchered in a futile stand.”

Nimpton inclined his head.

“Then you yield?” Lord Leobald asked.

Sebaston’s lips thinned before nodding jerkily.

“Aye. I yield Fair Isle to the Lord of Avalon, Harrion Stark. My banners shall be lowered, my men disarmed. I ask only that my folk be spared the ravages of war.”

Lord Leobald’s gaze softened, if only slightly.

“Mercy is Lord Harrion’s word, not mine. But he does not hunger for the slaughter of peoples Lord Harrion hopes to be one with the North. Bend the knee to Avalon, and your isle will remain intact as will your lordship. Swear yourself to the throne of Winter and King Eddard.”

Slowly, Sebaston went to one knee upon the stones before his gates. His knights followed, though grudgingly.

“Then here, before gods and men, I bend the knee to Harrion Stark, Lord of Avalon. House Farman accepts the peace and protection of King Eddard. May the gods, Old and New, guard my isle and long live King Eddard Stark.”

“Long live King Eddard!”

The Northemen took up the cheer as House Farman bent the knee.

Nimpton’s men raised the direwolf banner upon Faircastle’s ramparts as a symbolic assimilation of the island into the North’s domain. With this, Fair Isle fell to the North.

That evening, the hall of Faircastle rang with new voices. Northern captains sat at Farman’s tables, their laughter echoing against the high beams. Ale and wine flowed throughout the night as Lord Sebaston Farman threw a feast to celebrate Fair Isle’s admittance into the Northern territories.

******

Benjen kept watch on the frozen shore by the Westwatch, his keen eyes tracking the ice blocks floating by the Gorge. Even in deep winter, the river did not wholly freeze. It ran swift and cruel, a cleaver cutting the land asunder, with dark mist shielding much of its waters.

He stood cloaked in black, his breath pluming white in the torchlight. Beside him, a dozen rangers waited with bows, axes, and swords at the ready.

A horn’s low note rolled from the west tower, which immediately took up his attention.

“The spotter has seen something moving.” Benjen said loud enough for his fellow brothers of the black to hear despite the howling cold winds. “Archers, be on your guard.”

As the men under his command stood on alert, Benjen marvelled at the clear sight offered by the glass spotters his nephew installed in the watch towers along the Wall. The magic his nephew imbued in those glasses could somehow peer through the mists and darkness amassed beyond the Wall.

Below, shadowy figures crept across the river. There was even a faint sound in the wind if he sharpened his ears to listen beyond the whistling of the icy winds from beyond the Wall.

“They’re Giants!” one of the men shouted from the watchtower.

“Giants?” Benjen whispered with a frown. “What’re they doing this far?”

He signalled the scorpions to be armed and be ready, but he didn’t give the order to release the bolts. He held back the scorpion bolts to see what the Giants were doing in the Gorge. To that end, he decided to occupy a watchtower and see what was going on.

He swivelled the larger telescope in the watchtower and took a peek at the Gorge where the spotters saw movement. His eyes widened when he saw a large group of Giants wading through the Gorge towards the sea where the river met.

But his instinct to warn his men dimmed when he saw the Children of the Forest standing on the shoulders of the Giants. That alone made him pause to take any hasty action.

‘I’m so not ready to make a decision.’ Benjen thought with his jaw dropping open at the sight before him.

“Shall we attack the Giants?” one of his fellow rangers asked.

He could see his fellow rangers were trembling with fear, seeing so many Giants gathered in one place. They were also well aware that the Giants were not here to swim in the Gorge for fun but to cross it and go around the Wall. With the wildlings gathered behind Mance Rayder, the prospect of a whole bunch of Giants squatting behind the Wall sends shivers down everyone’s spine.

“No.” Benjen shook his head. “There are the Children of the Forest with these Giants. I’ll just send a raven to Winterfell and have Ned handle this problem.”

Despite the apparent danger of having a bunch of Giants crossing the Wall, he was not willing to jeopardise the alliance they struck with the Children.